Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun was ruthless.

A molten crown suspended high above, bleaching the track in gold and glare, and Steve ran beneath it as though it might melt him, body and will, down to nothing.

The air around him shimmered with heat, heavy with the rank perfume of sweat, cheap cologne, and fraternity bravado, thick enough to choke on.

The ground trembled slightly beneath his every footfall. Not from his weight, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. The egg-slick tar, the rancid ketchup, the trailing feathers. All of it conspired to unmake him.

The other boys lined the track like ancient Roman spectators. Except these ones wore Wayfarers and held slushies, bags of flour, condiments.

Their joy was spiteful and brimming with the smugness only youth and too much time could afford. They threw with zeal, as though baptizing him into something sacred and idiotic at once.

"Let's go, Pledges! Move those weak ass legs!" One shouted through a megaphone, his voice distorted, metallic, almost inhuman.

"This isn't fucking Gilmore Girls! This is Greek life, baby!"

Steve kept running. Or maybe his body did while his mind drifted elsewhere. Somewhere clean.

His chest was burning, lungs clawing for oxygen, heart hammering like a fist on locked doors. The world narrowed to breath, effort, and ridicule.

"Come on, Harrington!" A voice, louder than the rest, pierced through.

"You think your daddy's legacy buys you stamina? Move, move, move!"

The sticky syrup trickled down his neck, slow as shame. Bits of cereal clung to his hair like a deranged flower crown.

"Harrington! You running or auditioning for Swan Lake with all those feathers, pretty boy?"

Steve didn't miss a beat.
"Tell your mom thanks for the tutu," he snapped, his voice gravelled and dry, almost bitter.

"That mouth's gonna get you double laps."

"Incoming legacy boy! You like protein, right?" Another jeered, launching a raw egg that burst against Steve's cheek like a small, cruel explosion.

***

The grass was cool but unforgiving beneath him. Its blades needling his back, sticking to the filth on his skin. Steve lay there, the world above him swaying softly, like a boat drifting out of harbor.

His limbs buzzed with exhaustion, coated in food, sweat, and whatever else they'd found to humiliate him. Bits of mayonnaise clung to his forearm like some grotesque badge. He could feel something congealing behind his left knee.

"You good, man?" A voice broke through, small, a little awed.

"Yeah. Fine." The lie tasted flat on his tongue.

He stared at the sky and tried to imagine being anywhere else and reckoned with the cold hard truth of his life right now.
The truth that if he wasn't so obsessed with impressing his dad he could have gone to any college. Stanford, Princeton, Columbia.

But no. He's here. And nothing says stability like letting frat boys named Tanner break your psyche for sport.

Some gods asked for blood; these ones asked for Gatorade, sweat, and blind allegiance.

"Nice one, Harrington," came another voice, deeper, cocky. A hand reached down to him, tanned and confident, but before he could take it, it was pulled away.

"Now just see to it that you don't spew your guts up in the next 30 minutes and you might be a shoe-in."

"Great," Steve muttered, not to him, not really to anyone.

***

The showers hissed with a low, steady hum.
The steam rose slowly, curling and unfurling in the stale fluorescent light, softening the edges of the tiled walls, the bench, the grimy drain below.

Everything felt distant here. Suspended. Like time had thinned itself out, leaving only the warmth of water slipping over skin and the echo of droplets against ceramic.

Steve stood motionless under the stream. The heat scalded at first, then lulled him into a kind of stupor.

He didn't scrub, didn't move, barely blinked. It just poured over him, running down the trails of dried egg, sweat, flour, something sweet that still clung to the crook of his elbow.

He watched it all collect at his feet. Filth becoming water, indignity becoming foam, something unbearable becoming bearable, if only for a second.

Eventually, he turned the knob and stepped out into the locker room, air cool and indifferent against his skin. The overhead lights buzzed, casting everything in that sterile gymnasium blue, like a place halfway between a hospital and a crime scene.

His feet made quiet slapping sounds against the tiles as he walked to the bench, not looking up. Just movement. Just muscle memory.

His towel clung loosely to his hips, water dripping from his hair, forming small, soundless puddles near the bench.

That's when he noticed it.

His clothes were gone.

Gone.

"What the fuck?" he muttered, opening one locker, then another, flinging each metal door open with increasing desperation. The clang of them reverberated, loud in the emptiness.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." He slammed his fist against one of the locker doors. It sounded sharp and hollow. Petty vengeance.

"You too?" a voice cut in, sudden and casual, like someone commenting on the weather.

Steve spun around. A guy stood there. Lean, damp, barely covered by a white towel slung low around his waist. He looked like he belonged in a cigarette ad from the seventies. Posture easy, mouth half-curled into something between sympathy and amusement.

"Jesus," Steve gasped.

"Sorry," the guy said, holding up a hand. "Thought I was the only one who got hit with the 'find your clothes or die trying' routine."

"Routine?" Steve repeated, as if the word itself offended him.

"Third wave of pledges this week," the guy explained, leaning casually against the cool tile. "Some guy yesterday had to walk across campus in a jockstrap and a Viking helmet."

Steve rubbed his face. He felt raw. Humiliated, yes, but more than that: tired of pretending not to care.

"God I fucking hate this school."

The guy just nodded, like he'd heard it before, maybe even said it himself.

"So—what do we do?" he asked after a pause.

Steve didn't answer. He just stared. Not at the guy exactly, but past him. Through him. At something only he could see: a version of himself who hadn't signed up for this.

***

The sun had the kind of cruel clarity that made everything feel sharper, more vivid. Like a dream so lucid it bordered on the grotesque.

The quad was thick with bodies and laughter. The ground was hot beneath their bare feet, the sidewalk coarse, every step a reminder that they were too exposed, too visible.

"Just—be cool. Casual," Steve said, his voice tight, eyes darting from face to face as he and the other guy speed-walked across the lawn like two men pretending they hadn't just emerged half-naked from a locker room with no real plan.

"Nothing about this is casual. We're basically just dicks in the wind," the guy muttered, but he picked up the pace, towel clenched in one hand, the other struggling to keep it from slipping altogether.

"Do not run. That's only gonna make it more real," Steve hissed, resisting the primal urge to bolt.

"My towel is slipping. It's about to get very real very fast."

That was when Steve heard it. Wheels, the unmistakable roll and click of a skateboard slicing through the crowd. And then the voice, sing-song and laced with cruelty.

"Let me help you with that, legacy!"

Before Steve could even turn, the towel was gone. Snatched like a magician's flourish, leaving nothing but sun on bare skin and a brief, blinding second where time forgot to move.

He hadn't processed it yet. His hands moved before his mind did, cupping, shielding, trying and failing to salvage modesty.

"Oh my God!" the guy cackled, leaping off his skateboard and holding the towel aloft like a trophy.

Laughter broke around them like a sudden downpour. Phones were already out, recording, snapping, cataloging the moment before it could escape memory. It was happening too fast, too loudly, and all Steve could do was stand there, frozen.

"Holy shit."

Somewhere far off, someone whistled. Somewhere closer, a girl giggled. All of it blurred together in a low, hot roar.

"Yo! Harrington's got a horse cock!"

"It's horse cock Harrington!"

"Put that thing on a leash."

Steve felt the heat crawl up his chest, his ears, the back of his neck. Shame. Not as an emotion, but a physical state, a change in climate. He couldn't breathe, but he kept standing.

"Well. At least now they'll stop calling you legacy," the guy beside him said, clapping a damp hand on Steve's back before walking off, as if the moment could be shrugged away like water from the skin.

Steve didn't speak. Didn't look back. He just walked. Naked except for his hands, cutting a path through laughter, through stares, through cell phones held up like weapons. The courtyard was endless. The embarrassment, more so.

***

The dorm room was dim, lit only by the wash of blue from Steve's laptop screen and the faint, apologetic glow of his desk lamp, which seemed to want to disappear with him into the folds of his unmade bed.

He was sprawled out like a man washed ashore, hair damp, skin still faintly tacky from the thousand humiliations of the day, towel long since abandoned for a pair of wrinkled boxers.

He thumbed the screen to life and waited, slack-jawed, heavy-eyed, as the FaceTime tone rang out like a lifeline cast into deep water.

Robin's face blinked into view, framed by fairy lights and peeling posters. She grinned before saying anything.

"Oh hi there, Horse Cock Harrington."

Steve groaned, sitting up slightly, as if better posture might help him reclaim some shred of dignity.
"You heard?"

"Steve, everyone with internet access has heard. Not only have they heard, but it's literally on the Carnegie-Westlake Snapchat location story."

He dropped his head back against the wall. "Jesus Christ."

"You're a campus legend now. Some guy in the canteen said, and I quote, 'it cast a shadow.'"

"I hate my life. I hate my stupid life." Steve grumbled.

Robin chuckled, then softened, the way she always did when she'd pushed the joke as far as it could go.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll stop." She said, tilting her head to the side.
"You okay?"

"No." Steve said immediately like a knee jerk reaction before sighing.
"I mean—yeah. I'm just fuckin' exhausted. They've had us up at 5 a.m. every single day for the last two weeks doing burpees in the water fountain. We had to run drills wearing adult diapers and I'm fairly confident it gave me some kind of groin-related rash."

"Ew." Robin grimaced.

"I've been covered in ketchup, feathers, Jell-O, and some kind of—meat paste."

"Meat paste?" She echoed.

"I don't know. I don't wanna talk about it." Steve huffed, raking a hand through his hair.
"And for what? Some top-secret rich-boy frat my dad was in. I don't even want this. I don't even like these guys."

"Then why are you doing it?"

Steve exhaled, the air catching somewhere in his throat.
"Because he did. Because if I don't, he'll say I quit. Because I thought maybe if I made it in, I'd finally feel like I belong somewhere and he'd stop riding my ass about it."

"Steve. You don't have to light yourself on fire to keep the Harrington name warm. Or rather—strip naked in the middle of the quad." Robin said frankly.

"Yeah. Well. Hard to hear that when you're butt-naked and some sophomore yells 'swing low, sweet chariot' at your dick."

Robin burst out laughing, covering her mouth but failing miserably. The sound filled his room, warm and sharp, like the first cold soda after a hangover.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's not funny." She said, forcing herself to maintain some semblance of calm.
"But seriously. Screw those guys. You deserve better than to be subjected to some frat boy fight club just because your grandpa donated a wing or some shit a million years ago."

"Tell that to my lower back. And my pride. And the forty-six group texts I'm currently muting."

There was a pause. Then she leaned closer to her camera.
"Why don't you drive up here this weekend? A bunch of people are going to this thing, apparently. It's gonna be super lowkey, super fun. Just to get you out of that Hell hole for a while."

Steve nodded, eyes half-lidded, like the offer alone had peeled something heavy off his chest. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

"Okay, cool. I'll text you the deets. I gotta go because my insane roommate is gonna be back any second and if it's not completely dark and silent in here she's gonna lose it."

"Okay, cool. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Robin smirked, fingers already moving to end the call.
"Goodnight, horse cock."

Steve rolled his eyes, face deadpan.
"Good night, Robin."

***

It started with the sound.

A long, unbroken growl swelling into a feral roar, then vanishing into the night like some mechanical specter chasing its own tail. And then another. Closer. Louder. More violent. The kind of sound that didn't just reach you but crawled inside your ribs and made a home there.

Steve stepped out of his BMW, the door thunking shut with a finality that felt absurd in this place. The car, sleek and too clean for the environment, looked like a dentist at a mosh pit.

Wrong, and slightly embarrassing. The gravel crunched beneath his sneakers, which were pristine and white and clearly not made for this.

The night pulsed with music. Heavy bass, something aggressive and unrecognisable, wrapping itself around the alleyway-turned-circuit like a velvet rope of chaos.

Light came in odd patches: the sick yellow of street lamps overhead, a lattice of LEDs strung between metal poles, a few headlights pointed nowhere in particular.

Shadows of bodies. Shirtless, tattooed, hungry and spilled across every surface. Packed in and moving with the hypnotic tension of people waiting for something to blow.

Steve's nose wrinkled. The air was thick with the acrid mix of gasoline, weed, cheap beer, burnt rubber, and something vaguely edible that shouldn't be.

Robin, by contrast, seemed to come alive.
She was already grinning, already moving, practically vibrating.

"Okay, what the hell is this?" Steve said, eyes darting as if expecting a flaming tire to roll toward him at any second.

"Underground drag racing, obviously," Robin said with delight.

"That's not a thing. That's a Fast & Furious plotline." Steve grimaced.

"Wrong. It's a lifestyle."

A guttural shriek split the air as a car, a blur of rust and tail lights, rocketed down the makeshift strip. The crowd roared. Steve flinched like it had gone straight through him.

"Okay—I hate this."

"What's to hate? Victory. Shame. Testosterone. I dunno, some guy named Roach just won twenty bucks and half a vape pen. This is fun."

"You said this was gonna be lowkey! Why are there so many shirtless guys with chain wallets?"

"Because this is America, Steve."

Behind him, a motorcycle revved. Sharp, violent, gleefully intrusive. Steve physically jumped.

"Jesus Christ! That's not street legal. None of this is street legal!"

"Will you just relax?" Robin sighed, grabbing his shoulders and jostling him around.

"I feel like I just stepped into an episode of Jackass. Do people die doing this?"

Robin shot him a look.
"You said you wanted to get out of your comfort zone."

"I didn't mean out of the grid entirely!"

The crowd began to part, like a tide sensing something bigger approaching.

The air changed, anticipatory.

Engines grumbled like beasts under control but not tamed. Somewhere ahead, someone yelled, "Line 'em up!" and Steve's stomach dropped as if he'd been tricked into boarding a rollercoaster he hadn't consented to ride.

They were swept forward, caught in the undertow of the crowd, toward a warped wooden stand that looked like it had once been a lemonade table in a better life. Now it held two kegs, one of them actively leaking, a pyramid of Solo cups, and a man with a mullet and cutoff tank top doling out foamy beers with the expressionless determination of a field medic.

"I don't think this is for me," Steve said, casting an anxious glance at a nearby man body-slamming a traffic cone for no discernible reason.

"You always say that."

"Yeah. And the last time I said that, I ended up throwing up in a canoe. Proving me absolutely right."

Someone staggered into Steve's shoulder with the full weight of beer and momentum. Liquid sloshed. No apology came. The offender was already shouting at someone else, the moment forgotten.

At last they reached the stand. The beer guy pulled two long pours with the elegance of a man who had never once been in a hurry and slid them across the splintered wood.

The foam sat fat and warm at the top of the cups.

The beer guy looked them both over with a casual laziness.

"That's five each, or one kiss from your hot friend."

Steve blinked, a beat too slow, the words catching in his mind like leaves in a gutter. Robin didn't miss a thing. She was already handing over a ten.

"Keep the change, Romeo."

They grabbed their cups just as two guys stormed past, shoulder-checking them in their wake, arguing about nitrous tanks or something.

Steve's drink tipped precariously, some of it splashing out over his fingers. It was warm. Of course it was warm.

He stared down into it, brows furrowed.
"Is this even beer?"

"Just drink it. You'll feel better. Or at least more numb." Robin said, patting him on the shoulder.

They stepped aside, the crowd pulsing around them in unpredictable tides, and Steve leaned against a rust-ravaged shipping container.

It was warm to the touch, the way metal got after soaking in heat all day.

"So just to recap: I left the safety of my dorm. I came to the middle of a parking lot. I paid ten dollars for hot foam. And I think I just got pickpocketed by a guy wearing ski goggles."

"Yeah. That just about covers it." Robin nods casually.

A car shrieked past, too close, too fast. Its headlights painting a brief, white scar across the scene. Steve jerked sideways instinctively.

"Nope. I'm gonna die here."

And then, suddenly, the music died. As if the very oxygen in the lot had been sucked into a speaker and then held hostage.
In its place came a voice. Distorted, crackling, as if pulled from the throat of a dying intercom and dragged across gravel.

"—next up, we got the Freakshow Special. You know him. You hate him. You can't beat him. Helmet on, mouth shut—let's fuckin' go."

The crowd didn't respond so much as erupt. A surge of noise and movement and muscle memory.
People climbed whatever they could. Onto the hoods of cars, onto each other's shoulders, even onto crates that looked ready to splinter under them.

"What the hell is happening?" Steve shouted, half-panicked, as the crowd surged like a sea in heat.

Robin gleamed, turning to him. Not hearing.
"What?"

"I said what is happening?"

Robin didn't answer. Every eye had turned, every breath held, every ounce of attention offered up like tribute to the car now crawling into position at the head of the lot.

It was low, black, vaguely feline in the way it moved, menace curled in its corners. The driver yanked a helmet down over his head, and Steve saw it. The painted grin, manic and crooked and just this side of deranged, stretching across the glossy black surface.

The engine roared. Not a sound but a threat.

Another car slid in beside him, flashier, gaudier, a mirror image in chrome and noise. The two engines snarled at each other like wolves meeting at the edge of contested land.

The crowd was vibrating, a collective body barely keeping itself from combustion. Someone started banging a pipe against a metal barrel. Once, twice, and then another joined in. Then another. It became rhythm. Ritual. War drum.

Steve turned to Robin, stunned.
"Is this legal? Is any of this legal?"

"I don't think so!" She laughed.

But the flare guy had already stepped between the cars, a thin figure backlit by the white fog of smoke and anticipation. One arm raised.

Time felt like it paused.

Then the flare dropped.

A brief flash of orange on asphalt, and then the cars launched.

The sound that followed wasn't just noise. It was teeth-rattling, soul-hollowing fury. Tires screamed like things being exorcised. The crowd convulsed in ecstasy. Screaming, leaping, bodies pushed skyward like they couldn't bear to be stuck to the earth while this was happening.

Steve couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He just stared, beer forgotten, heart somewhere up near his throat.

The black car, Helmet Guy, pulled ahead with terrifying ease. Then, without warning, he yanked the e-brake. The car spun, smoke churning in a savage halo.
It twisted into a perfect arc, a ballet of rage and physics, until he faced the crowd again. And then, because the point was never just to win but to devour, he gunned it backward, a reverse burnout up the line, screaming victory in rubber and velocity.

The crowd lost their minds.

They were chanting now. Loud. Ecstatic. Like worship. And then that voice from the intercom appeared again.

" HOLY SHIT!! HOLY SHIT!! FREAKSHOW!! FREAKSHOW!! FREAKSHOW!! "

And all Steve could do was watch. Heartbeat in his ears, lungs full of smoke and awe.

Steve was still stood firmly in place against metal, like his body wanted to fold in on itself like a vacuum sealed bag. Heart racing like it meant to jump the fence of his ribs.

Robin beside him was electric. Arms thrown in the air, bouncing with all the giddy awe of someone who'd just witnessed a miracle and needed the world to know it. It was the contrast that made it worse: the absolute unreasonableness of her joy beside his stunned stillness.

The car; black, low, humming with leftover violence, slid into a flawless arc and stopped as if it had always known where to land. For a moment, all was smoke and light, the silhouette of the machine still growling from deep within. Then the door opened.

He stepped out like someone pulling back a curtain on himself. Not in a hurry, not chasing anything. Just walking the way you'd walk into your own dream. Casual, inevitable.

He dragged the helmet off in one smooth motion, and Steve caught the first glint of him. Wild curls crushed slightly to one side, skin damp, a grin curled at one corner like he'd just robbed God and gotten away with it.

FREAKSHOW! FREAKSHOW! FREAKSHOW!
The chant came not in unison, but in hungry, crashing waves. Raw and childlike and reverent.

He moved through the crowd like he didn't need to part it, they did it for him. People slapped his hand, clapped his shoulder, shouted things with a kind of sacred vulgarity.
One guy handed him a beer and called him a "freaky motherfucker" like it was a benediction. He accepted it all with that lazy confidence, like this wasn't attention, it was currency, and he was the bank.

Steve watched, dazed. Not blinking, not breathing, barely holding the weight of the moment upright.

Around him the world continued its frenzy. Robin yelling something at someone, the bass from a half-broken speaker vibrating underfoot, the sweat of strangers clinging to the air like perfume. But Steve felt as though everything had shrunk to one, single thing.

Robin was laughing beside him, shoulders up to her ears in disbelief. Steve wasn't laughing. He looked punched.

"Okay, that was objectively badass."

Steve couldn't look away.
"Oh my god."

Robin, turned to him. Already knowing.
"Seriously?"

"He's hot." Steve said.

"Oh no." She sighed.

The guy; Freakshow, apparently, tossed his helmet back into the car. Someone threw him a second beer. He caught it like he'd expected it, cracked it, drank it mid-laugh, half his shirt open to the night. Tattoos coiled across his chest and down his arms, flashes of black ink dancing with silver rings on his fingers.

He turned, high-fived someone else. His gaze flicked briefly across the crowd, brushing over Steve without stopping.

It hit like a train.

"Are you gonna just stand there and stare at him?" Robin's voice broke through the static.

"I don't know," Steve said, sounding drunk on something that wasn't beer.
"I think I blacked out. Did he look over here? Did he see me?"

Robin rolled her eyes so hard it practically echoed.
"Pretty sure he's too busy being a local legend and probable felon."

Steve turned his face just enough to look at her. "That's the hottest sentence you've ever said."

"And also—probably, definitely straight." She said firmly, as though it were obvious.

They stood together in the chaos. Robin relaxed, casual, sipping beer like this was any other night at any other off-the-grid thing. Steve, meanwhile, looked like he'd had a religious experience and wasn't sure if he'd been saved or damned.

Steve didn't know his name yet, didn't know anything except the shape of him. But he was now burned somewhere behind his eyes.

He disappeared behind a huddle of laughing guys, the sound of his voice still teasing the air. Steve watched him go like someone watching a star fall. Too far, too fast, too bright, and somehow personal.

"What. He's straight because—he drinks beer and drives fast cars? Stereotypes, Robin." He said, clicking his tongue.

Robin didn't even look at him this time. Just took another sip and said flatly;
"You're such a cliché. It's painful."

***

The racing was over now, but the energy hadn't gone anywhere, it had just changed key. Fire danced in dented oil drums like some godless offering, and everything glowed in a palette of sodium orange and shadow.

Sunglasses were still inexplicably glued to faces, as if the dark didn't apply to people this manic, this alive. The music was loud. The air was thick with smoke, heat, and the kind of laughter that dared the night to end.

Steve was watching a guy spin himself sick in a shopping cart, each tight turn sloppier than the last, wheels screeching in protest as gravel kicked up around him like sparks. He pointed, amused.

"He's gonna eat shit. I give him two more spins and it's over."

Robin was leaned back beside him, plastic cup in one hand, eyebrows raised in that sharp way she had when the world was being ridiculous.

"He peaked like—ten minutes ago. It's only downhill from here. Now it's just sad." Steve acknowledged.

"You peaked five minutes ago, when you said 'I could drive that car if I wanted to' and then tripped over air. You're no better than him." She scoffed out a laugh.

Steve rolled his eyes.
"I'm going to get us more beers and you're going to forget that happened."

He peeled off toward the beer shack, still smiling. Just enough buzz in his limbs to make the gravel feel trickier than it was.

He leaned against the counter with too much casualness, like he was trying to pass for relaxed in a place where no one was actually watching.

"Two beers, please," he said, squinting at the bartender.
"And make them the cold kind, not the piss kind."

He turned slightly, maybe to find Robin in the crowd, maybe just to keep from looking like he was waiting too hard. Then he looked back.

That's when he noticed him. Standing right there, elbow almost brushing his. Leather jacket. A tangle of wild, dark curls. Rings that flashed even under the dull lights. Laughing low at something the bartender had said, head tilted, mouth open in a way that should've been illegal.

It was him. Helmet guy. Freakshow.

Him. Whatever the fuck they called him.

Steve went still. There wasn't enough beer in the world for this.

He hadn't seen Steve yet. Just leaned back, cool and loose and not trying to be any of it. Then he turned slightly, beer at his lips, eyes flicking sideways, landing on Steve like it wasn't even an effort.

And Steve was already staring way too hard. Eyes glassy and vacant.

"You good?" He asked.

Steve opened his mouth. His brain threw a fuse. "No." Steve said abruptly as the guy's brows knitted together in mild confusion.
"Yeah. I mean—yes. I'm good. Totally good. Just—beer. Getting it. For me. And my friend. Not just for me. That would be sad. I'm not sad."

A single brow lifted. The guy didn't laugh, but his mouth twitched like he wanted to.
"Good. I'm glad."

Steve laughed. Too loud, too fast, like it slipped out of him sideways.
"Ha. That rhymes." His face falls when he realises it didn't evoke the reaction he had anticipated. And now he was just looking at him like he was crazy.
"So—you were the one in the—uh, the helmet." Steve acknowledged, pointing to his own head as though he would have never figured it out otherwise.

"That's me." He said, giving him a thin lipped smile.

"That's, like—cool. Very—safe. Safety first. You know?" Steve said, trying for casual but missing it entirely.

"Sure, man."

He took a sip, and Steve could see the rings flash again, catch the condensation as his fingers curled around the bottle.
There was something obscene about how effortless it all looked.

"Sorry," Steve said, breathless.
"I'm drunk."

"Yeah, I got that." He said, raising his brows just the once.

The bartender slid the beers over. Steve fumbled, caught one mid-drop, and held both like they were proof of something.
"Look. Success. Coordination. Still got it."

The guy gave him the kind of once-over that didn't linger but still left fingerprints.
"Good for you, pretty boy."

It landed in Steve's chest like a car wreck.

The guy pushed off the counter, turned like he was already somewhere else. Walked a few steps. Then, just before the crowd swallowed him again, Steve called out.
"What—uh—what's your name?"

He glanced back. The smile came slow and sharp, like the blade of something you wanted and shouldn't touch.
"Guess."

And then he was gone, folded into the noise and bodies and smoke, like he'd never been there at all.

Steve stood there, pulse crashing, beers sloshing dangerously in both hands.

He made his way back to Robin like he was navigating post-trauma, legs moving but mind somewhere else entirely.

She didn't even look at him as he arrived. Just sipped her beer with that deadpan precision. "You embarrass yourself?"

He passed her a cup and sighed, full-bodied.
"So much. So fast."

***

The night had gone soft around the edges, the way it only ever does when you're just drunk enough to stop noticing where your skin ends and the world begins.

Smoke and music hung over the lot like a low fever. Fires in barrels crackled like static between songs, and everything stank of warm beer and gasoline and sweat from strangers who weren't supposed to matter but suddenly felt more real than anyone at home.

Steve had one eye open. Because two was too much, and one beer left, cradled like it might hold him upright. He was singing half the lyrics to a song no one was playing, off-key, lost in some imagined melody that only existed inside his head.

The beer sloshed with each step, but he didn't spill it. Miraculously. For now.

He stumbled past a line of grim-looking porta potties, just in time to collide with someone stepping out. Shoulders knocked.

"Shit—sorry—"

And then he froze, caught mid-apology.

It was him again. Helmet Guy. Freakshow. The guy.

He looked looser now, sweatier, like whatever was burning inside him earlier had finally cooled just enough to laugh. His eyes dragged over Steve again, a spark of recognition lighting up like kindling.

"Well, hey there, Coordination."

"Ha. Yeah. That's me. Still coordinated."
Steve laughed. Winced.
"Or not—because I just—bumped into you so that doesn't count, but otherwise—"

He stopped himself before he could make it worse. Or tried.

Eddie smirked. The same lazy, slow, dangerous thing he'd done earlier. And then:

From across the lot, a voice pierced the dark.

"Yo! Is that Horse Cock Harrington?!"

Steve closed his eyes. Prayed for spontaneous combustion.

It didn't come.

Another voice joined, louder this time.

"It is him! Dick slingin' Stevie! I told you he was real!"

Eddie turned slowly toward the voices, then back to Steve, wide-eyed with delighted disbelief. He looked like someone had handed him front-row tickets to the circus and told him the lion was drunk.

"Horse cock Harrington?" He repeated, lips teasing a grin.

Steve groaned, the kind of groan that lived in the bones. He exhaled like he was trying to evict his entire soul through his lungs.
"It's not—it's not a thing."

He tilted his head, amused.
"Sounds like it's a thing."

"It's from this hazing thing. At the frat." Steve said, waving his hand around like it might rid the night of this conversation entirely.

"Ah." Helmet guy made a vague gesture toward Steve, as if that explained everything.
"You're in a frat. Now this—makes sense."

"Well, no. I'm not in it yet. My dad was. He wants me to be in it. Legacy stuff. Total bullshit."

There was a moment, small but full, where helmet guy just watched him. Drank from his bottle. Said nothing, but let his gaze do the talking.
"And part of that bullshit is, what? Showing your dick to campus?"

"I didn't show it, okay, I—look. They made us run laps in these tiny shorts. And then they stole my clothes while I was showering. So I had to run across the quad in just a towel. Which—did not stay on."

Helmet guy choked on a laugh. Steve took a long drink of his beer and tried to crawl inside it.

"And someone looked and just went, 'That guy's hung like a horse'?"

"No! I mean—I don't think so. It's not like that."

Helmet guy raised a brow, grinning now in a way that felt reckless.

"It's not, like, a situation," Steve rambled, desperate.
"Not like—people exaggerate. You know how people are, they see a shadow on the sidewalk and suddenly it's folklore."

"So you're saying your dick isn't big?"

"I'm saying it's normal. Like, respectable. Confident. It does its job. I'm not walking around knocking over furniture, if that's what you're imagining."

Helmet Guy's grin was pure trouble now.
"I wasn't, but I definitely am now."

Steve just stared at him, feeling something fizz uncomfortably in his chest. Something halfway between dread and desire and wanting to bury himself six feet under just to stop blushing.

"You're making fun of me. Cool. Love that."
He said it with a forced chuckle, the kind that strained just a little at the corners.

Helmet Guy looked at him, that lazy sort of half-amused gaze, like he was deciding whether to keep playing or finally let the toy break.

"Little bit, yeah."
He didn't even pretend to deny it.
"In my defense, you are making it pretty easy. Wannabe frat boy at an underground drag race wearing a cute little polo shirt. S'not something you see everyday."

Steve opened his mouth, tried to rally, tried to say something clever or at least coherent. Nothing came. Not even a word. Just a sound. Something between a laugh and a sigh and a mental reboot.

"You're really drunk, huh?" He asked softly, amusement folding gently into his tone, like he wasn't sure whether to help or just watch him drown.

"Yeah. But also, you're hot. So I feel like I'm losing twice."

The words came out small. Honest. Too honest. Steve blinked, realizing only after the fact how much of himself he'd put into them.

He laughed, this time genuinely. He leaned back, beer in hand, not unkind but still untouchably cool.

"Oh, I stand corrected. Wannabe frat boy at an underground drag race wearing a cute little polo shirt who's also trying to hit on me."

Trying.

"Ha. Yeah. Right."
Steve deflated. It didn't land. He could feel it slide right past both of them, the weight of it dangling in the empty space like a balloon losing air.

A guy passed by just then, clapping Steve so hard on the back it sloshed his beer.

"Horse Cock, baby! Let's gooo!"

Steve groaned, his soul briefly leaving his body.

Helmet Guy didn't move, just sipped his beer and leaned against the porta-potty like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week.

"This is the worst day of my life."

"Doesn't have to be," he said with a shrug.
"Could just lean into it."

"You mean just—walk around like, 'Hey, what's up, I'm Steve, I've got a medium-to-large dick and a frat complex?'"

"Exactly." He nodded, carelessly.

Steve felt the lull in conversation like a freight train.

"Okay, cool. Well—I think I've embarrassed myself enough here this evening, so—I'm just gonna get out of your way."

"Nah, come on. I'm just messing with you. Chill."
Helmet Guy stepped off the wall, still relaxed. "Who'd you come here with anyway?"

"Oh. My friend Robin."
Steve glanced toward the firelight.
"I should actually, probably go back to her before she thinks I'm like, dead—or something."

"Okay, cool." He nods.

"Right. Yeah. Okay." Steve says, looking around, not knowing where the hell he even came from.

"You need help finding her?" Helmet Guy asks, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Uh—I think I got it." Steve says, voice trailing off as the world around him starts to blur."
"She's—definitely somewhere."

"Come on." Helmet Guy scoffs out a laugh, grabbing Steve by the arm and swerving him through the throngs of people like he was a hockey puck.

They walked the few yards back toward the crowd, where Robin had posted up near a barrel fire with two beers and zero concern. She clocked Steve approaching, still in orbit, and raised an eyebrow at the guy walking beside him.

"You have got to stop getting picked up by strangers when you're drunk. This is how cult documentaries start."

"He's not a stranger. He's—"
Steve stopped. Realized. Looked over at Helmet Guy with sheepish dread.

"Eddie." He clarified with a nod.

Robin blinked. Then sipped her beer.

"See. Eddie." Steve said, gesturing to him.

She turned to him, deadpan, all-knowing.
"Steve thinks you're hot."

"Robin!"

"I'm just helping! Honesty is important in new relationships."

Eddie laughed. Head back, totally unbothered. He looked like he could live off their awkwardness for days.
"Wow. Okay. You guys always this forward?"

"Only when he's hopelessly in lust with a mysterious outlaw."

"I'm not in lust." Steve shot back. He turns to Eddie, repeating like he might not have heard.
"I'm not in lust. I'm just—impressed! Like, respectfully!"

Robin raised her cup in mock salute.
"Sure. Respectfully impressed by his whole thing. Got it."

Steve groaned into his hands. Somewhere beneath his ribs, his heartbeat had fully betrayed him.

Eddie grinned at them like they were his favorite soap opera.
"Well. This has been very informative."

He gave Robin a lazy two-finger salute. Turned back to Steve.

"I'll see you around, Horse Cock."

"Great. Thanks. Super appreciate—everything." Steve said flatly, shoulders sagging.

Steve turned back toward Robin, blinking slowly. "So—wanna make out with a traffic cone and complete the humiliation circuit?" She grinned.

"I hate you." Steve said.

"You're welcome."

Steve was already half-turned when he paused at the sound of Eddie's voice.

"Oh, hey."

Steve turned, watching as he walked back with the same unruly easiness.
"If you remember this conversation when you wake up tomorrow, you should come back next week."

Steve's face fell as he physically felt his body flush.
"Uh—"

"Unless you have important frat-related plans, obviously."

"Nope. No plans." Steve says quickly, maniacally shaking his head.

Robin, without missing a beat, adds:
"He never has plans."

"Never. Never had—a plan. What's a plan? I don't know—them." He laughed pathetically.

Steve was rambling again. Eddie was just watching him now, a crooked smile in place, beer dangling from his hand, like the boy in front of him was part car crash, part comedy.

"I mean—obviously sometimes I do. I have friends. But not next weekend. I mean, I'll still have friends next weekend, I just won't be with them. Next weekend I am—wide open. For you."

He heard it too late. Froze. Blinked.

"Like—metaphorically. As in I'm free. Not—not wide open, like—"

"I got it," Eddie said, voice light but clipped, like he was already halfway gone. A nod. A tight smile that might've meant everything, or nothing.

Then he turned, just turned, and walked away. Easy and unbothered, like he hadn't just carved Steve open with a couple of sentences and a grin.

Steve blinked. Nodded too quickly.

"Okay. Cool."

The words left his mouth like he was throwing them after Eddie's retreating back, like maybe if he said them fast enough, they'd matter. But they didn't. They hung in the air, awkward and empty, and then were gone.

He turned, almost knocking his knee into the corner of the folding table, and slammed both hands down flat against it like he was anchoring himself to the earth.

"We need to leave the vicinity immediately. With haste," he hissed, face too hot, voice pitched like a secret told too loudly in church.

Across from him, Robin didn't even blink. She took a long sip from her beer through a limp, dissolving paper straw, calm as a saint at confession.

"Uh-huh," she said.

hang out with me on tumblr

Chapter Text

The morning was cruel in the way only cheap beer hangovers could be. Steve woke slowly, his mouth dry and sour, his body folded weirdly around a couch cushion that clearly wasn't meant to substitute for a mattress.

The thin dorm-issue blanket had slipped down to his knees in the night, and his entire right arm was dead from sleeping on it wrong.

He groaned, full-bodied and dramatic, and tried to sit up—but the motion made his brain slosh like curdled milk. His head pounded. His throat burned. His everything ached.

And then.

The cereal crunch.

He blinked through one eye, vision still swimming, and found himself face-to-face with a stranger.

Or not quite a stranger. Just Robin's deeply unsettling, possibly nocturnal roommate. She was perched like a vulture on the edge of the twin XL bed, legs crossed beneath her, eating dry Cheerios out of a cracked bowl.

Staring. Utterly, silently. Unblinking.

Steve let out a sharp, startled yell.

Robin bolted upright in bed, hair tangled, eyes wide with sleep.
"Jesus Christ, what?! What—what happened?!"

"Why is there a person just watching me?" Steve shouted, jabbing a finger at the roommate like he'd spotted a cryptid.
"Is she real? Am I hallucinating? Am I still drunk?"

The roommate didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. She just calmly brought another spoonful of dry cereal to her mouth and crunched, gaze still pinned to Steve like he was part of a wildlife documentary. Possibly prey.

Robin groaned and flopped back onto her pillow. "Oh my god. It's just Sam."

"That's not just Sam. That's a demon."

"She lives here, Steve." Robin grumbled.

"She lives in shadows." Steve hissed, legs drawn up to his chest as he and Sam stared at each other.

"I can't deal with this right now." Robin whines, reaching blindly for the bottle of Advil on her nightstand.

Steve curled into himself, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak.
"I want to die."

Sam continued chewing.
"You said that in your sleep too," she said calmly.

"Sam, can you do us a solid and just—let us wake up? In peace?" Robin asks with a sigh.

"Sure." Sam nods before getting up.

As the final echo of Sam's cereal crunch faded into the strange silence that followed her out the door, Steve slumped sideways onto the floor like his soul had left his body mid-exit.

The moment the door clicked shut, he let out a sigh so guttural it sounded like an ancient curse being lifted.

Robin sat up properly now, duvet bunched around her waist. She stretched once, then looked at Steve, grinning like she'd been waiting all morning for this exact moment.

Steve groaned again, softer this time.
"My head is spinning."

"Yeah," Robin said, lips smacking against the dry of her mouth.
"That's called a hangover. Caused by drinking god-knows-what out of a plastic novelty cup and getting emotionally wrecked by a boy in a helmet."

He flopped back onto the floor, face-up, arms sprawled like he'd just been struck down by the weight of her accuracy.
"Don't."

"Oh, I'm going to." She leaned over the edge of her bed, peering at him like a scientist studying a very stupid specimen.
"Let's see. You—willingly—left the dorm. You paid ten dollars for hot beer. Then tried to hit on an actual criminal—"

"He's not a criminal."

"No. He is a criminal. What he does is literally illegal." Robin says, deadpan.

"So why did we go!" Steve shoots back, voice raised as he immediately grimaces at the shooting pain in his temples.

"Because it's fun! Plus we were innocent bystanders. We weren't partaking." Robin huffs, sitting up against the headboard.
"And now you've got, like, a crush or something? You wanna hold his hand and get matching leather jackets?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't," she singsonged, fully delighted now.
"You love me. I'm your best friend. And I will be the maid of honor at your drag-racer wedding."

Steve covered his face with a pillow.
"I want to rewind time. I want to erase myself from history."

"Too late. You're in too deep. You've got that look."

Steve lowered the pillow, squinting up at her.
"What look."

"The look of a man who's trying to pretend he's not obsessing over whether a guy with a flaming skull tattoo thinks he's cute."

"I'm not obsessing. I'm just—trying to remember what the fuck happened. My brain feels like a deflated balloon. A sexy, humiliating balloon."

Robin raised an eyebrow.
"So you do think he's sexy."

"I said the balloon was sexy. Not him." Steve bit back.

"Uh-huh. And yet you nearly blacked out the moment he looked at you."

Steve groaned into the pillow again.
"I'm never going outside again."

"Sure you are," she said, reaching for her phone and grinning wickedly.
"Especially next weekend. Because he invited you back."

Steve stared up at the ceiling like it might collapse and spare him.
"Oh my god. I forgot."

Robin raised her eyebrows.
"Guess you better figure out what kind of lie you're gonna tell your frat bros when you're too busy making out with a delinquent street racer to attend the totally gnarly kegger."

"I'm gonna die," Steve whispered.

"I'm gonna order breakfast," Robin replied.

***

The haze of the Horse Cock incident had not, as Steve hoped, passed quietly into myth. It had calcified into legend.

And legend, as it turned out, came with drills.

He still woke up every morning to pounding fists on the door, the mechanical bellow of upperclassmen barking out instructions like they were training soldiers, not pledging a fraternity with a keg in its basement and a taxidermied raccoon in its entryway.

He still did push-ups until his arms shook and ran laps around the quad while hungover, the sun glancing off his sweat-soaked collarbones like even nature was in on the joke.

But it wasn't the drills that got to him.

Not really.

It was the girls.

The way they looked at him now.

Not just looked. Watched.

From across campus lawns and dining hall tables and sorority stoops, eyes following him like he was something newly invented.

They smiled too easily. They giggled before he even said anything. One of them, he swore, licked her lips in the middle of a sentence. It was surreal. Like walking through someone else's dream.

And the notes. Always the notes.

Tucked under his door, folded into his textbooks, slipped with military precision into the front pocket of his hoodie when he wasn't looking. Names and numbers and lipstick kisses.

Call me ;) written in every colour pen imaginable.

He didn't know where they came from. Half the time, he didn't even recognize the names. One had drawn a little horse.

The worst part was he could hear them, sometimes. The brothers. Whispering about him like they'd unearthed some ancient fertility god.

"Bro, Harrington's packing."

"Heard he made some girl cry with it. Like, tears."

He didn't even have a response for that. He just nodded politely and went about his day with the exhausted air of someone who had been miscast in the lead role of a play he never auditioned for.

And still, Eddie.

Steve hadn't seen him since that night.

Not unless you counted the dreams. Or the daydreams. Or the moments he caught himself staring out of windows, jaw slack, thinking about the way Eddie had said pretty boy like it was a joke, like it was an invitation.

Didn't know his last name. He didn't even have his number. But he was going back that weekend. Of course he was. What else was he going to do?

Be normal?

***

Steve didn't want to be at this party.

Everyone was glossy with sweat and expensive aftershave and the false confidence of red Solo cups raised in unison.

Steve stood near the kegerator, one hand wrapped lazily around a drink he hadn't tasted in twenty minutes.

He wasn't sure whose house this was, technically his own, he guessed. By pledge affiliation, anyway. But everything felt vaguely rented, even the air.

That's when Jacob; business major, sideburns too committed for someone his age, sidled up beside him. Grinning like he'd just uncovered state secrets.

"Dude," he said.
"You know Becca Cartwright? Delta Sig, brunette, legs for days, kind of scary-hot?"

Steve blinked.
"Uh—yeah. Sure. Think so."

"She's obsessed with you. Told Micah she saw you at that dumb chili cook-off thing and hasn't shut up about it since. She could have anyone, man. Anyone. But she's got it bad for you." He said, leaning into Steve and pressing a firm index finger against his chest.

Steve gave a laugh that came out too round, too practiced.
"Wow. That's—flattering."

Jacob slapped his back hard enough to make him stumble a little.
"Dude. You could totally hit that. Like, she's into you. You're in."

Steve nodded. Smiled. Just made a vague sound of agreement, the kind that made people feel affirmed without actually agreeing to anything.

He felt like a mirror tonight. He reflected what they wanted to see and hoped nobody noticed that he had no real image of his own behind the glass.

Because Becca Cartwright might've been beautiful. She might've even looked at him. But Steve had no room in him tonight for Becca or her sorority games or the boys who wanted to watch him win her just to say he could.

All he could think of was a different mouth, curled around a beer bottle. The grin that came after. The way Eddie had leaned against that wall like he didn't care if the world fell down around him as long as it fell in rhythm.

And suddenly, the party felt like a soundstage. The cups were props. The people were extras. And he was trapped in a scene written for someone else.

He couldn't breathe in it.

Not really.

Jacob leaned in again, beer in hand, breath warm and yeasty, like everything he'd ever said was filtered through three cans and a dare.

"You should totally bring her to that alumni formal thing. Whole alumni board's gonna be there, rich donors, all the golden boys."

Steve nodded, a reflex now. Smile. Nod. Be agreeable. Be affable. Be the son your father said people liked before they even heard you speak.

Jacob grinned, emboldened.
"And Becca'd look insane. I swear to God, dude, I saw a picture of her at her sister's wedding? Chick's built like—Jesus. I don't even know what. She has an ass for miles. You bring her to that party, you walk in and everyone knows you're the man. No questions."

He laughed. Loud. It echoed too much inside Steve's skull.

"Man, I'd let her ruin my life."

Steve let out a thin laugh. It sounded more like a cough.

"Yeah," he managed, picking at the label on his beer.
"No, I mean—yeah, she's—something."

Jacob nudged him, grinning like they were in on the same joke.
"Something, he says. Jesus, Steve. If I looked like you, I'd be buried in sorority pussy."

Steve laughed again. Too fast. It scraped.

"Yeah," he said.
"Well. Gotta keep my GPA up somehow."

It was a line. It should have landed. But it didn't. Not really.

"Do not fumble this man." Jacob hissed.

"No. I won't." Steve said hurriedly.
"I'll ask her. Y'know. If she's into it."

"Oh trust me. She's into it. You gotta cash that." Jacob said, slapping him on the shoulder once more before disappearing into the crowd.

Steve didn't get it. He didn't feel it. Not the way they wanted him to. Not the way they did.

It was like trying to sing along to a song he didn't know the words to, didn't even like. But kept humming anyway, hoping that faking it was close enough.

And the worst part wasn't that he didn't belong.

The worst part was how desperately he still wanted to.

***

The air was loud in that restless, expectant way that belonged to nights like this. Nights that seemed to roll over themselves, chasing their own chaos.

The music was heavy, bassy, sticky with sweat and engine grease. Someone was revving too loud on the far side of the lot. A girl in denim shorts screamed in laughter over the noise. Firelight danced in oil drums, stuttering shadows up the wall of a warehouse that hadn't had windows in years.

Steve stood just on the edge of it all, not quite part of the crowd, not quite apart from it.

He looked like someone waiting to be asked to be a part of it. He settled on jeans and a hoodie after changing his outfit five times. Arms crossed tight across his chest like they could somehow hold in the indecision burning through him.

He wasn't drinking. He wasn't smiling. He was watching.

A car hit its finish with a scream of tires, the kind of slide that begged for applause and worship.

The crowd lost their minds, surging forward. Somewhere beneath the noise, the air shifted. Eddie stepped out of the driver's side like the night had been waiting for him.

Helmet under one arm, curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. He was laughing already, all teeth and swagger, walking through smoke like he owned it. Someone handed him a cigarette. Someone else handed him a beer. Everyone wanted a piece.

He didn't take either.

Instead, he looked up and found Steve.

Just a tilt of his head, the tug of a grin, like there you are wasn't something he said out loud but carried in the weight of his gaze.

Steve felt it hit him, right under the ribs.

Eddie said something quick to a guy next to him. Probably some casual excuse that no one would question, and peeled off from the noise, his boots crunching gravel in the space between the race and everything else.

He stopped just close enough to smell like gasoline and heat and whatever deodorant he probably stole from someone. His grin widened as he looked at Steve, unbothered, unreadable.

"Well, well, well. You remembered. Impressive."

Steve tried not to smile, and failed. He walked over before he could tell himself not to.

"Hey," he said, like he hadn't spent the last six days thinking about this exact moment.
"So, you—uh—you race every week?"

Eddie's mouth curved. Not a smile, not really. Something smaller. Sharper.
"Wow. Starting strong, I see."

Steve flushed.
"Sorry. That sounded like—"

"Like you're trying to make small talk with someone you maybe shouldn't have flirted with while drunk out of your skull last week?"

Steve looked down.
"I wasn't that drunk."

"Mm. I don't know about that." Eddie smirked.

"Okay, I was medium drunk." Steve settled with a small smile.

Eddie made a soft sound. Half amusement, half something harder to pin down.
"Nah, s'good to see Horse Cock Harrington in all his glory again. Even if he's not as flirty and flustered as he was last time. But I reckon we can drag that out of you again."

Steve scoffed out a laugh.
"You make fun of all the guys who hit on you, or am I just special?"

Eddie tipped his beer toward him, slow and almost lazy.
"You're not, not special."

He didn't say it like it mattered. That was the worst part. He said it like none of this did. Like Steve could vanish tomorrow and the story would stay exactly the same.

Like he didn't care, and maybe he didn't. Or maybe he was just good at pretending.

Steve shifted.
"Well. Glad I could be entertaining."

Eddie raised an eyebrow, that same half-smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
"Don't pout. You're too pretty for that."

"I'm not pouting," Steve muttered. But he was. Probably.

Eddie leaned in slightly, just enough to drop his voice.
"So. Are you gonna keep hovering, or are you gonna ask what you actually want to know?"

Steve looked at him, blinking.
"What do I want to know, exactly?"

"Why I invited you back given you're clearly worried about what an awful first impression you made."

There was a pause.
"Okay, then. Why?"

Eddie didn't say anything for a moment. Just smiled this unnerving smile that made Steve feel like he didn't know what the Hell he'd gotten himself into.
"Come on." Eddie says, tilting his head toward the lot.

"To—where?" Steve asked, bungling out an awkward laugh.

But Eddie just walked away without him.
"Don't worry! I'll try and keep the frat jokes to a minimum!"

***

They were flying.

Or maybe it only felt that way because Steve couldn't seem to breathe right, couldn't feel the edges of his own body.

Everything was motion. The car, the road, the blur of trees lit briefly by headlights and then swallowed again. Music bled from the speakers, something loud and fast and electric, something Eddie had turned up too high the moment they'd pulled onto the highway.

Steve had no idea where they were going.

He had no idea if Eddie did either.

The windows were cracked just enough for the wind to claw at his hair, cold and stinging. His knuckles were white on the door handle, his other hand gripping the seat like it might save him.

The engine roared in his ears and Eddie, impossibly, looked like he'd never been more relaxed in his life. One hand loose on the wheel, the other draped over the gearshift like it was an old friend.

"You're gonna kill us," Steve said, too loud, over the music and the wind, trying for casual but coming out cracked and raw.
"I'm serious. I'm gonna throw up. And it's gonna be graphic."

Eddie laughed. Laughed like this was all a joke, like he hadn't just taken a turn fast enough to make the tires scream.

"Relax, Coordination," he said, eyes still on the road but smiling like Steve's panic was the best part of the night.
"You're not gonna die."

"Says the guy going ninety-seven miles an hour in a car held together by duct tape."

"It's not duct tape. It's zip ties. Show some respect." Eddie cackled, tongue between his teeth.

Steve made a noise that wasn't a laugh but wasn't not one, either. His stomach flipped. He closed his eyes, opened them again.
Eddie shifted gears, and the car surged forward, hungry for more road.

"You're gonna make me puke in your car," Steve said, louder this time, because talking made it feel like he still had control over something.
"And then you're gonna be mad, and I'll be mad that you're mad, and it'll be this whole thing—so if you could just not kill us for five minutes—"

"God," Eddie grinned, glancing sideways at him for half a second too long.
"You really do talk a lot when you're nervous."

"I'm not—" Steve's voice pitched embarrassingly high.
"Okay, fine, I am. Because I like living, and I'd like to keep doing it."

Eddie didn't answer. Just turned up the volume and grinned wider, like he liked being the cause of the chaos Steve couldn't control. Like the whole point was to keep him flustered, off-balance, wide-eyed with adrenaline and whatever else this was.

Steve stared at him for a second. At the way his curls whipped in the wind, at the vein in his neck, at the way he looked like the night itself, messy and magnetic and absolutely uncatchable.

He hated him.

He hated him so much.

And he was never more certain that he'd follow him anywhere.

The car finally lurched into a slower rhythm, not a full stop yet, but enough for Steve to feel his lungs start working again.

Eddie coasted them into a nearly empty parking lot behind what looked like a closed diner, gravel crunching under the tires as the car idled to a halt.

The silence that followed was almost more disorienting than the motion, just the hum of the engine and the residual echo of whatever brutal, beat-heavy track Eddie had been playing.

Steve shoved the door open before Eddie had even killed the ignition, staggered out like the car was still moving. He bent forward, hands on his knees, gulping air like he'd never tasted it before.

"Jesus," he gasped.
"Jesus Christ."

Eddie leaned his arm casually over the steering wheel, watching him with obvious amusement, still grinning like this was the most fun he'd had in weeks.

"You good?" he asked, like Steve hadn't just spent the last ten minutes white-knuckling his own mortality.

"No," Steve wheezed, standing upright, his face flushed and hair wild from the wind.
"No, I'm not good."

Eddie raised a brow.
"Is this where you barf? 'Cause I'd like a heads-up if I need to hold your hair back, princess."

"Ha-ha," Steve snapped, still breathless, gesturing wildly at the empty lot, the car, the general absurdity of the evening.
"Is that supposed to impress people?"

Eddie shrugged, slouching further into the seat. "Are you not impressed?"

"No," Steve said too quickly, then paused.
"I mean—it's reckless. And you're gonna get yourself killed. And also me. And that's not really my idea of a good time."

Eddie lit a cigarette with one hand, shielding the flame from the wind, and smiled around it like Steve was adorable.
"You sound impressed."

"I sound traumatized." Steve bartered.

"You sound like someone who needs to loosen up."

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, still trying to look like he had some kind of control, like his heart wasn't thudding against his ribs like a riot. "You drive like you've got a death wish."

"Nah," Eddie exhaled, eyes half-lidded as he looked at him.
"I just know I'm good at it."

Steve snorted, frustrated at how charming that sounded.
"You're so full of yourself."

"And yet"— Eddie said, taking a drag.
"You're here."

Steve blinked. Felt that flicker of heat crawl up his neck, involuntary and impossible to hide. He hated that Eddie noticed. Hated more how much Eddie liked noticing. His grin grew sharper.

"You could've stayed home, Polo Boy. Could've avoided the speeding death trap entirely. Could've gone to a mixer and pretended to care about hedge funds."

"Could've," Steve muttered, glaring at the pavement.

"But you didn't."

He looked up. Eddie was watching him too closely, like he was reading something right under the surface and daring Steve to admit it first. The grin softened, just slightly, into something else. Still cocky. But quieter.

"So," Eddie said, voice low now, smoke curling around them.
"You just gonna stand there the whole night?"

Steve laughed, sharp and startled and entirely against his will.
"I hate you," he said.

Eddie smiled like he'd won something.
"Yeah. I know."

Steve slid back into the car with the air of someone reluctantly accepting his fate. The seat was still warm. The door thunked shut beside him, sealing them in again.

Eddie was still slouched into the driver's seat like gravity didn't apply to him. He flicked the volume dial down just enough so the bass wasn't rattling Steve's organs anymore.
The track was still there, pulsing in the background like a second heartbeat.

Steve leaned back, chest still heaving a little, pressing his head against the headrest, eyes closed like he was asking for divine intervention or at least a moment of stillness.

"Better?" Eddie asked, one hand on the wheel, the other tossing his cigarette out the cracked window.

"No," Steve said without opening his eyes.
"But I'm not puking. So that's a win."

Eddie turned slightly, arm hooked over the steering wheel, eyes drifting toward Steve's profile.

"So," he said, voice casual but laced with something sharper underneath.
"I'm intrigued to know what being a part of a frat entails."

Steve cracked one eye open.
"What, like, the mechanics?"

"No, genius." Eddie scoffs out a laugh.
"The appeal. The whole—pledge-your-soul-to-some-douche-in-boat-shoes vibe. What do you get in return? Matching pastel shirts?"

Steve snorted, dragging a hand down his face. "Honestly? I don't know anymore."

Eddie smiled, slow and knowing.
"That's not a great sales pitch."

Steve turned his head, looked at him properly. "It's not supposed to be a sales pitch."

"Could've fooled me," Eddie said, tapping the steering wheel lightly.
"You're the one walking around like you're trying to convince yourself you actually give a shit about any of it."

Steve didn't answer right away. He looked out the windshield, stared at the flickering neon of the diner sign across the lot. It buzzed like it was sick of being alive.

"Everyone expects me to care," he said eventually.
"My dad, my roommates, the guys I've known since I was twelve who are now suddenly calling me Horse Cock."

Eddie laughed.
"Still can't believe that's a real thing."

"Yeah, well," Steve muttered.
"I don't get a say in what sticks."

"You do," Eddie said.
"You're just too busy being whatever version of yourself they like best to notice."

That hit harder than Steve wanted it to. He looked at Eddie again. He was still half-smiling, still cool, still annoyingly beautiful in that untouchable, careless way.

But something about his gaze was too clear, too cutting. Steve felt seen, which would've been fine except Eddie never looked away to give him room to breathe.

"So?" Eddie said again, quieter this time.
"Is this what you want? The frat? The legacy? The—pretty girl on your arm."

Steve swallowed. Thought about the girls. The suits. The country club future everyone had already written for him in ballpoint pen.

"I don't know what I want," he admitted.

Eddie leaned back, like that confirmed something he already suspected.
"Then why are you here?"

Steve blinked.
"What?"

"Why are you here? In this car. With me."

He didn't answer. Didn't know how to. Not in a way that wouldn't sound pathetic.

Eddie tilted his head, gaze slipping sideways again.
"That's what I thought."

Steve let his head fall back against the seat again, exhaling through his nose like maybe that would steady him. It didn't. His hands were still clammy. His heart was still doing its best impression of a jackhammer.

"My dad went to this school," he said finally, like that explained something.

Eddie glanced over but didn't say anything. Just waited.

"And his dad. And his dad's dad. And my uncle. And my cousin"—Steve shrugged, voice trailing off like a car sputtering out on the shoulder. "Whatever. Point is, it was just—assumed. That I'd come here. That I'd join the same frat. That I'd—"

He paused.

That I'd turn out straight. That I'd marry a girl named Caroline and drive an Audi and yell at my kids in the backyard while grilling burgers.

He didn't say that part out loud. He didn't need to.

Eddie shifted, elbow propped against the door, fingers tapping near the handle. He didn't look at Steve when he spoke.

"That's super fucking lame," he said.

Steve barked a laugh.
"Wow. Thanks, man."

"I mean it," Eddie went on, finally glancing over. "That's like, Hallmark Movie levels of depressing. 'I only go here because my daddy did and now I'm stuck in khakis and shame.'"

Steve frowned.
"I'm not wearing khakis."

"Give it time."

Steve turned toward the window, biting back a smile he didn't want to admit was there.

"You don't get it," he muttered.

"I get it fine," Eddie said.
"You just think your flavor of misery is special."

That should've pissed him off. Maybe it did. But Eddie's voice was too calm. Not mocking. Just honest.
Like he'd already done the math on Steve and found him mostly tolerable, in a vaguely tragic sort of way.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if it was up to you?" Eddie asked.
"Like—if no one expected anything. What you'd actually want?"

Steve hesitated.
"You mean like—a dream?"

Eddie smirked.
"Sure. Or even just an impulse. Something stupid. Something that wouldn't make your dad proud."

Steve thought about it. Let the silence stretch between them like fabric pulled tight.
"I think I already am just by existing. He just—doesn't know it."

Eddie was watching him now. Really watching.

"What about you?" Steve said, voice hoarse with leftover adrenaline.
"You're just—out here racing, smoking, terrifying everyone?"

"I'm not terrifying," Eddie shot back, mouth tugging into a smile like it knew secrets.
"I'm misunderstood."

Steve snorted, something brief and incredulous. Eddie glanced sideways, amused, eyes bright in the dark like they thrived in it.

"I dropped out. Or flunked out. Or both," Eddie said, tossing it out like it wasn't meant to hurt. "Community college was a joke, so I said fuck it. This? It's dumb, yeah. But at least it's mine."

"I don't think it's dumb," Steve said finally, and something about the way he said it made Eddie look over. Not teasing, not smug. Just looking.

"Yeah, you do," he said eventually, not mean, just matter-of-fact.

"I mean"—Steve hesitated.
"I don't get it. But it's—kinda cool. You're just doing your own thing."

Eddie let that sit. Then leaned in slightly, voice softer but stripped of anything performative.

"You don't have to impress me, Steve." He laughs.
"I know what I am. And I like it. We aren't the same."

Steve blinked. Something inside him tensed, like a wire pulled taut.

"That whole frat-boy, legacy, dad-thing?" Eddie added.
"That's not your personality. That's just noise."

Steve swallowed, the words like salt in his mouth. He looked down at his shoes, like maybe he'd find himself in the scuffs there.

"Yeah," he said.
"I'm starting to figure that out."

Eddie nudged his shoulder, light, companionable.

"Takes some people way longer," he said.
"You're ahead of the curve, Horse Cock."

Steve groaned, dropped his head against the headrest with a pitiful noise.
"I swear to god—"

But Eddie just grinned, watching him for a moment.

"Wanna see something cool?" He asks after a while.

Steve narrowed his eyes.
"Is it gonna make me scream?"

"God, I hope so." Eddie cackles.

And then they were moving again. No, flying.

Eddie slammed the gas, the car lurching into motion like a beast woken too suddenly. The tires shrieked.
Steve's body snapped back against the seat, his hand grappling for stability as the vehicle took a curve sharp enough to feel biblical.

"Oh my god—what are you doing?!"

"A little light physics demonstration!" Eddie yelled over the sound of screeching tires.

The car spun, gravity tilting. Steve screamed, somewhere between terror and thrill, the sound cracking into laughter he couldn't contain.

"You're insane! This is insane!"

Eddie was laughing too, effortless and wild. "You're smiling though!"

Another spin. Tighter, smoother. Dust storming in a halo around them. Steve's hair was in his face. His breath was torn into pieces.

"I swear to god if you flip us—"

"Noted! No flipping!"

One last arc, then Eddie let off the gas, and the car wound down to a gentle stop.

Everything went hushed again, like even the night was catching its breath. The engine ticked softly. The air inside was thick with heat, laughter, and something that felt too new to name.

Steve leaned his head back against the seat, panting, trying for calm. His smile was still fighting its way out.

"You're such an asshole."

"But you liked it."

Steve gave a token scoff, tried to look unmoved. Failed entirely.
"You have a really twisted sense of what people enjoy in this world."

Eddie turned, mock-serious.
"Admit it. I'm the best, worst influence you've ever had."

Steve looked at him. Really looked. Still flushed, still breathing too hard, still uncertain about everything except this moment.

"Yeah," he said, a little breathless.
"You kinda are."

They sat in that fragile quiet, charged and shifting like the end of a storm. Then Eddie tilted his head, playful again, eyes dancing.
"Next time I teach you how to do it." He said, placing a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it before flicking the lighter closed again.

Steve straightened in his seat, alarmed. "Absolutely not."

Eddie's laugh reverberated around him. It felt like a reward.

He glanced sideways, mouth dry. His voice came out too casual to be casual.
"So—how many guys do you do this with?"

Eddie, reclined slightly in his seat, arms slack, looked over without surprise. The question didn't seem to startle him. If anything, it made him grin just a little.

"Honestly?" he said, exhaling smoke through the cracked window.
"A lot."

The words landed like a crack in glass. Subtle, spreading. Steve blinked, like he'd misheard. He hadn't.
"Oh."

Just that.

Oh.

And it was so thin it barely counted as a word.

He didn't know what he'd expected. A shrug. A joke. Denial, maybe. But not honesty. Not like that.

Eddie flicked ash out the window and didn't elaborate. Didn't apologize for it, either. He was watching Steve now, not cruel, not cocky. Just observant. Like he wanted to see what Steve would do with the answer.

He felt foolish for asking. For hoping there'd be something exceptional in the way Eddie looked at him. Something singular.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The silence said it for him.

He laughed, sort of. Forced, clumsy.
"Right. Of course. What am I saying—who wouldn't want to be nearly killed in a car by a guy with a cigarette and a death wish?"

Eddie finally turned toward him, just a glance, eyes sharp and unreadable in the dark.
"That supposed to be a dig?"

"No," Steve said quickly.
Then, "Maybe. I don't know." He tried to chuckle again, but it fell flat.
"I'm just saying, like—cool. That's cool. No big deal."

"You asked." Eddie shrugged.

"I did."

"And I told you."

"Yeah. No, I get it. It's—whatever." Steve said.

Eddie tilted his head, studied him for a beat, like trying to figure out what game he was playing and whether or not it was worth joining.
"You thought you were the only one?"

"No," Steve said, and meant it.

Eddie let out a breath, less a sigh than a puff of thought.
"You barely know me."

"I know." Steve pressed, as though it was obvious.

They sat there a moment, the air between them pulled tight, like a thread just starting to fray. Then Eddie leaned back, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

"You're sweet," he said, and it didn't sound like a compliment.

Steve looked away, jaw tight.
"Yeah. I've been told."

"Doesn't mean I didn't want to see you again."

Steve blinked.
"No?"

Eddie gave a small shake of his head.
"Means I'm not pretending this is something it's not. You want that, you should go."

Steve swallowed.
"And if I don't?"

Eddie smiled then. Crooked, tired. Like he's had this exact conversation a thousand times. Probably has.
"Then you stay. But don't act surprised when I don't turn into the guy you want me to be."

Because that was the problem, wasn't it?

He wasn't sure yet who he wanted Eddie to be. Only that, when Eddie looked at him like that, like he knew something Steve didn't, he didn't want to leave.

The glow of his cigarette caught in his cheekbones, made his expression look softer than it was.

"I like flirting," he said simply, between exhales. "I like sleeping with people. It's fun. Doesn't have to be world-ending every time."

Steve blinked, thrown by how casually he said it. How unapologetic. Like it wasn't something Steve had spent years trying to untangle or avoid or bury under other people's expectations.

"Oh," Steve said, because that was all he had.

"I'm not trying to be an asshole," Eddie added, glancing over.
"But not everything has to mean something. Sometimes it's just good. And that's enough."

Steve nodded slowly, eyes on the dashboard, on the glowing dials, on anything but Eddie's mouth or hands or the way his leg bounced restlessly, like even now, he might vanish if Steve asked the wrong thing.

"I think I forget people can live like that," Steve murmured.
"Like, not in panic mode all the time."

Eddie's voice was gentler now.
"Well. You're allowed to want more, Harrington. Just don't ask it from someone who doesn't have it to give."

That stung, though there was no malice in it.

Steve swallowed and nodded again. He felt weirdly young, like a kid caught with his heart showing.

He tried for a smile. It didn't quite make it.
"Noted."

Eddie stretched out his legs, one arm draped over the steering wheel like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove, and yet everything about him buzzed with something just shy of reckless.
"Doesn't mean I'm not into you. Because I am."

Steve looked over, startled, unsure if he'd misheard. Eddie's expression didn't change.

"I think you're cute," Eddie added, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

And Steve, suddenly very aware of his own posture. Too rigid, too rehearsed, looked at him blankly.
"Oh."

Eddie gave a small, amused huff, eyes flicking back to the parking lot like he hadn't just cracked something open and set it down between them.
"You say that a lot," he said.

Steve laughed under his breath, cheeks flushed. "I'm not used to people saying stuff like that."

"Well, get used to it." Eddie smirked.
"You blush like it's your job."

Steve lowered his head, trying to conceal his smile with the hair that fell in front of his face like a mask.

"You wanna kiss me, don't you?"

Eddie said it like it was nothing. Like it was air. Like it was gravity, not a question at all but a fact that had simply dropped between them.

Steve blinked.
"W-what?"

"It's fine. Happens a lot." Eddie sighed, flicking his cigarette out of the window as the embers bounced on the tarmac.
"Most people just wanna kiss me because they wanna see what it's like to kiss me. I give off that kinda—vibe, I guess."

Steve huffed.
"Wow. You certainly think very highly of yourself."

"Why wouldn't I? I'm a pretty cool guy." Eddie smiles.

"Sure. I guess."

Eddie's voice was all shrug.
"Plus what's the point in me thinking little of myself? There's enough people in the world who will do that for me."

Steve looked away, mouth twitching. Shrinking into himself.

"Chill. I'm just fucking with you." Eddie laughed, placing a hand on Steve's shoulder as he shoved him lightly.

But Steve sat up straight like it had burst out of him from somewhere too deep to catch in time.
"I do wanna kiss you."

Eddie froze. Just a beat. Then, like heat catching in a dry room, that slow, amused grin curled his mouth.
"Well, shit. Finally some honesty."

"But I also don't even know if I can handle—this," Steve rushed out, gesturing to Eddie and all of his muchness.

"Handle what?" Eddie asked, brows furrowed as he leaned forward toward Steve.

Steve's eyes stayed on the dashboard.
"Just—this. You. The whole thing. Being one of, like, ten guys you've picked up in parking lots or whatever."

"Wow," Eddie said, dramatically offended.
"Only ten? I'm hurt."

Steve shot him a glare, flustered and pink around the ears.
"See, this is what I mean."

But Eddie just laughed.
"C'mon, Harrington. I'm not out here handing out commemorative patches. It's not a conquest board." He groaned, rolling his head against his shoulders.
"Look, yeah—I flirt. I'm shameless. But if I didn't actually give a shit? I wouldn't've taught you the word 'donut.' I wouldn't've noticed the way you white-knuckled the door but still smiled the whole time. I wouldn't be sitting here letting you psychoanalyse my sex life like it's a thesis project."

Steve didn't answer at first. Just blinked, slow, a hand coming to rest near his mouth like he didn't quite trust it not to give him away.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," he said finally, quietly.
"I just—don't wanna be a joke. I've got enough of that in my life right now."

Eddie's expression shifted, just slightly. A muscle in his jaw tensed, but when he spoke again, his voice was lower. Calmer. Less armour.
"I don't see anyone laughing. Do you?"

Their eyes met. Held. Something flickered between them, and for a moment the air seemed thick with everything neither of them had managed to say.

Then Eddie, of course, broke it. Leaned in, one brow raised, the grin creeping back onto his face like it had simply been waiting for permission.

"So—you still wanna kiss me?"

Steve rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him.
"Yeah. Unfortunately."

Eddie gave a devilish grin, the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was serious or moments from chaos.
"Then shut up and do it. I'm not gonna do it for you."

Steve's chest rose and fell too fast. His breath caught somewhere between panic and hunger.

And Eddie, unbothered, unreadable. Just sat there, looking at him like he'd already unraveled the whole map of his body and was now waiting for Steve to realize it.

"You're kind of a dick, you know that?" Steve said, voice rough, low.

"Yeah," Eddie replied, cocky and unhurried. His grin like a match dragged across dry stone.
"Still waiting."

And that was all it took. Something cracked open in Steve then. A sharp breath out, a kind of surrender masked as defiance.

His hands moved fast, rough. He leaned over the console and grabbed Eddie by the collar, dragged him in, and kissed him like he didn't know how to do it gently, like his mouth was just another secret burning to get out.

Their teeth knocked. Eddie let out a half-surprised grunt that tipped into a laugh against Steve's lips.

"There you go," Eddie murmured, lips still grazing Steve's, half-kissed into the words.

"Shut up," Steve said, breathless, flushed, retreating an inch like he was afraid he might stay there if he didn't.

Eddie's grin widened, slow and satisfied, like he'd just won a game he barely had to play. He kissed Steve back, firmer now, surer.

His hand found the back of Steve's neck and held there, warm and steady, fingers threaded through hair. The car rocked faintly as they shifted into each other. Steve braced himself against the passenger-side window, knees awkward, hoodie bunched around his waist. The gearshift dug into someone's thigh but neither of them moved to fix it.

All of it felt too immediate, too much.

Something settled beneath the sharpness, something that lived deeper than adrenaline. It lingered. The kind of kiss that didn't end so much as taper, breath catching on breath. When Steve's thumb brushed gently along Eddie's jaw, it felt accidental and utterly telling.

And then, Eddie moved.

He shifted with a kind of purpose that made the whole car feel smaller. In one motion, he tugged Steve into his lap, arms bracketing him, and suddenly they were closer than before. Tangled at the centre of the storm.

Steve gasped. Half wondering how the fuck he just did that, half-laughing, half-panicked. Trying and failing to plant his feet.

"Okay, okay, maybe this is—"

His elbow knocked against the steering wheel. A sharp, blaring HONK shattered the quiet.

They both burst into laughter, doubled over and breathless, their foreheads pressed together in a haze of hysteria and heat.

"Well," Eddie said, still laughing.
"That's one way to announce yourself."

"This is so stupid," Steve panted, shaking his head.

"Stupid's my specialty," Eddie replied, mock-serious, grinning like a man who always got what he wanted. Eventually.

And just as their mouths found each other again, hungrier now, laughter barely faded from their lips, Eddie pulled back slightly, lips dragging along Steve's throat as he murmured:
"I wonder what your little frat buddies would think if they knew this is what you did at the weekends."

Steve went still.

But Eddie didn't. He was already tugging at Steve's belt buckle, fingers sure, eyes glinting with something between mischief and something else darker. More impatient.

"What—what are you doing?" Steve asked, voice shooting into panic.

"Oh. Okay. Not a car sex person. Noted." Eddie leaned back, hands up, amused.
"You wanna come back to mine instead?"

"Uh—no. I mean, I can't. I mean—I should probably—uh, call Robin. I said I'd check in with her. She's probably worried or something."

Eddie's brow quirked, an entire accusation hidden in one look.
"Robin, huh? Sounds like a great excuse."

"It is!" Steve insisted, trying to smile.
"I mean, not an excuse. She's not an excuse."

"You're terrible at this."

"Maybe I don't wanna come back to yours," Steve shot back weakly, trying to sound casual, trying not to look as flushed and breathless as he felt.

"You sure about that?"

Steve opened his mouth. No words came. Just more color flooding his face. He felt the nausea coating the back of his throat.

Eddie leaned in, the weight of his body pressing into Steve's like a question and an answer both.
“You're already in my lap. You might as well be in my bed."

Steve blinked. His gaze darted away.
"Y-your bed. Right." He was barely breathing, like the air had narrowed to a thread inside him.

"It's just—" Eddie's mouth was on him again, kissing slow along his neck, heat blooming there.

"Um—I'm not—gay." Steve said abruptly, slamming his eyes shut as his face screwed.

Eddie froze, then laughed, full and bright and disarming.
"What?"

"I mean—I am. I am gay. In theory. Mostly. But also not really. Just—yeah." Steve's words tumbled out. Uneven, frantic, spilling like a river breaking its banks.

Eddie's eyes narrowed, the faintest crease of confusion knitting his brow.
"Okay. I'm lost."

"I should go, right?" Steve announced, breathlessly. Less of a question, more that he was goading himself into doing it.

"Yeah. I'm gonna go."
Steve didn't wait for anything else. He shoved the driver side door open, the car's interior spilling into the cold air.

He climbed out, clumsy, graceless. Apologising under his breath as he scrambled off of Eddie's lap.
"Sorry, 'scuse me."

"Wait, Steve—" Eddie started, but Steve was already moving. Almost falling palms first onto the tarmac.

"Okay. Cool. Well—bye. Thanks for the, uh—donut. Good to see you." His words tumbling out like a breathless chant.

The door slammed hard behind him, the sound final, like a verdict.

Steve didn't look back. His chest tightened, breath hitching in his throat as the walls of panic closed in.

His heart hammered. Wild, untamed, as he raced away from the car. From Eddie, from the sharpness of the feeling that had no name yet but swallowed him whole anyway.

hang out with me on tumblr

Chapter Text

The morning light in Robin's dorm spilled in pale and indifferent through the half-closed blinds, casting lines across the floor like prison bars.

Steve paced them like a man on trial. Back and forth. Back and forth. His hoodie was halfway unzipped, one sock inside out, hair a mess from the night before or maybe just from his own hands raking through it repeatedly.

Robin sat cross-legged on her bed, completely still, a bowl of cereal perched in her lap like she was watching a slow-moving train wreck that she had absolutely no intention of stopping.

"I literally climbed over him, Robin," Steve said, gesturing wildly as he paced.
"Like—knee in the crotch, hand in his face. I might've kicked him. I don't know. And then I said thank you for the donut. The donut!"

Her spoon clinked softly against the bowl.

"I panicked! I panicked and I said goodbye like we bumped into each other at the mall and not, y'know, post–almost-sex in a parking-lot."

Robin chewed slowly, expressionless.

"And then I ran. Like, literally sprinted. Full track meet. Didn't even look back." Steve exhaled, standing still and looking up at the ceiling like it might offer him some semblance of peace.

Or collapse on him.

"He probably thinks I'm deranged. Or twelve."

"You are deranged," Robin said flatly.
"And you do have the emotional capacity of a middle schooler. So it's not a reach."

Steve stopped, turned to her with wide eyes. "You're not helping."

Robin shrugged.
"You're not asking for help. You're confessing. I'm just the priest. Keep going, my child." Robin said, flippantly waving him on.

Steve groaned, collapsed onto the floor, and dropped his head into his hands.
"I don't know what's wrong with me. Like—I was doing fine. I kissed him. He kissed me. It was good. Like, really good. And then he just—spoke words. And I just—short-circuited. Brain gone. Whole personality left the building."

Robin reached for another spoonful. Not saying anything.

Steve flopped backward on the carpet.
"It's just—I don't know how to be this person. I don't know what he sees when he looks at me. I don't even know what I see when I look at me. And I haven't had sex since the beginning of senior year so I'm probably all—hermetically sealed up down there."

"Dude. Seriously?" Robin says through the crunch of cereal.

"Don't say that was TMI. I've sent you photos of my literal shits before after I had stress induced constipation." Steve says lulling his head against the carpet.

"No. I don't care about your asshole." Robin scoffs.
"Why do you care so much what he thinks? You should be thinking about what you see when you look at him. The dude drives round in circles and shotguns beer for a living. He's basically one step up from a toddler on a tricycle. You gotta take him down from this pedestal, like—yesterday."

Steve groaned again, face in his hands.
"But he's so hot."

Robin leaned over the bed, peering down at him. "Or—and hear me out—he's not."

Steve blinked up at her, like she'd committed an act of treason.
"Are you fucking kidding me? I know that you're hardcore committed to the clit but it doesn't prevent you from being able to appropriately recognise a hot guy when you see one."

"Look—I'm super here for your Britney Spears, mama I'm in love with a criminal, era"—

"Please stop calling him a criminal. It gives me so much anxiety." Steve whined petulantly, kicking his legs.

"I will when he stops being one." She said frankly.
"I'm saying, he's only hot in that—he's dangerous, kinda way. Y'know with the hair, and the tattoos, and the live fast die young thing. It's about, like—how he makes you feel like you're someone else. Someone who doesn't spend every second worrying about what his dad thinks or how many keg stands he has to do to be initiated."

Steve says nothing. He just stares.

Robin shrugs.
"You like him because he doesn't fit into your life. Because he can't. And you think that makes him more interesting. Or safer."

"Safer?" Steve echoes, stunned.
"You just spent the last minute talking about how dangerous he is."

"Emotionally safer." She says, like it's obvious.
"Like if it's doomed from the start, it's not gonna hurt so bad when it eventually implodes."

Steve pursed his lips in thought, rolling onto his front. Hands clasped in front of him as he rested on his elbows.
"No. I think I just wanna fuck him."

"My god. You're hopeless." Robin exhaled.

"Well it's not exactly like it's gonna happen now, is it? So what does it matter." Steve grumbled.

Robin set the now-empty cereal bowl on her nightstand with a soft clink, stretched her legs out on the bed, and regarded Steve. Lying on the floor like someone recently ejected from the stratosphere.

"Maybe," she said, tone maddeningly rational, "this was actually for the best."

Steve cracked one eye open, clearly suspicious. "What?"

"I'm just saying. Maybe this was the universe's way of giving you a graceful exit. Or, okay, not graceful, but—decisive. You did your weird little panic dance, you embarrassed yourself beyond recovery, and now you can forget all about him."

Steve made a sound like a dying animal.

"No, seriously," Robin went on.
"You could just—let this be the end. A weird, slightly tragic, incredibly gay interlude in the grand saga of Steve Harrington's heterosexual performance art."

Steve groaned into his palms. Knowing she was probably right, but not wanting to admit it.

"I'm trying to help," she said, clearly not trying that hard.

Steve's phone, forgotten on Robin's carpet, lit up like a warning flare.

Dad, FaceTime.

"Jesus Christ."

And began its cheerful, imperious trill.

His pulse stuttered. He lunged for the device as though it might detonate.
"Shut up. Stop talking."

Robin, still lounging above him, raised both brows.
"Literally didn't speak."

"Just—be quiet," he hissed, swiping to answer. He stands, ramrod straight. In the same breath he raked a hand through his hair, tugging it into something almost presentable.

His father's face flooded the screen: tanned, backlit by the sun‑white patio of the Harrington house, collar of a fresh golf polo turned just so.

Somewhere behind him, blue water winked and a gardener's hose hissed, the whole scene humming with expensive ease.

"Stevie! There he is!" The voice came bright, expansive, as though the phone couldn't contain it.
"How's my boy doing? Big week, huh? I've been telling everyone at the club my kid's crushing pledge season."

Steve's smile snapped into place. Achey, obliging. "Yeah, it's, uh, great. Super busy."

"That's the spirit! So—classes fine? Econ professor still as sharp as they say? And the fraternity—how's that going? Meeting the right people? Networking? Remember, it's not just social, son, it's opportunity."

Steve glanced sideways; Robin answered with a silent, exaggerated eye‑roll.
He swallowed.
"Yeah, Dad. They're all—great. Learned a lot already."

His father beamed, the phone tilting to reveal a slice of infinity pool.
"Knew you would. Harrington men thrive there—tradition, discipline, a little healthy competition. Have they told you about the alumni dinner? I'm planning on flying in. We can shake some hands, talk internships."

"Right—yeah. They mentioned it." His voice wobbled, then steadied into the practiced cadences of filial enthusiasm.
"Looking forward to it."

"That's my boy." A beat of satisfied silence followed.
Steve could almost see his father mentally monogramming the moment. Then, briskly: "Well, I just wanted to check in—keep up the good work, Stevie. Make the name shine. Love you, pal."

"Love you too, Dad." He managed a wave. Just as Steve was about to hit the end call button like it was scorching his palm, his dad's voice cut back in, too cheerful, too curious.

"Wait—hold on. Where are you? That doesn't look like your dorm room."

Steve froze, already halfway toward freedom.
"Uh—Robin's," he said, like it was a sneeze.
"I'm at Robin's."

He angled the phone away from his own face, toward where Robin was curled cross-legged in a pair of hideous plaid pajama pants, a spoon hanging lazily from her mouth that she was just nibbling on out of habit.

Robin, without missing a beat, pulled the spoon free and offered a cheery little wave.
"Hi, Mr. Harrington," she said, voice smooth, practiced.
"Still slicing two strokes off that backswing?"

His father's eyes lit up like the Fourth of July. "Robin! Always a pleasure. How's the dorm treating you? That girl down the hall still blasting music at 3 a.m.?"

Robin grinned. Pained.
"Always."

Steve sank onto the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched. His dad was thrilled. Enthusiastic. Entirely unhurried.

"You know," Mr. Harrington continued, "Steve always did well when he had a smart woman around to keep him grounded. Fourth grade science fair? Wouldn't have gotten that blue ribbon if it weren't for you two and your vinegar volcano."

"That was fifth grade," Robin said, pointing with her spoon.

"Even better!" His dad beamed.
"Listen, I've been saying for years—the two of you ought to go into business together."

"Dad," Steve muttered, cradling his forehead.

"What? I'm just saying—"

"Dad, I gotta go." Steve said firmly.

"But—"

"I've got, uh, class. A quiz to study for. Super busy."

Mr. Harrington looked wounded, like he'd been asked to leave a party early.
"Well, alright. Go hit the books, champ. But don't forget about that alumni dinner. I'm booking the hotel this week."

"Right. Love you."

"Love you too, son. And Robin—keep him in line, will you?"

She gave a crisp salute.
"Sir, yes sir."

The call ended. The phone dropped to the floor. Steve lay back flat on the bed like he'd just survived a near-death experience.

"Hate it when he calls me champ." Steve grimaced.

Robin looked down at him, unimpressed.
"You're lucky he's not worse."

"He's not"—Steve muttered into the ceiling.
"He's just—enthusiastic. About the wrong things. Like me."

***

Another mixer.

Another fucking mixer.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind Steve, and he exhales into the coolness of the corridor, the kind of manufactured chill that never quite cuts through the heat rising in his neck.

He's barely two steps out before Jacob materializes, all oversized grin and boyish fervor, like a Labrador in a backward baseball cap.

"Dude," Jacob says, practically grabbing his arm. "Becca's here."

Steve blinks, still trying to reenter the noise of the evening.
"Becca?"

Jacob's face falls.
"Becca, bro. Becca. The Becca. Won't shut up about wanting to fuck you, Becca. She's here." He shakes Steve's shoulder like this is urgent intel from the Pentagon.
"You have to ask her to the dinner."

Steve opens his mouth, closes it.

He'd almost forgotten.

Almost.

Black tie. Champagne in plastic flutes. Dads who still call it "networking." And now, Becca.

Steve gives him a weak smile, something tight and uncertain.
"Yeah. Uh. Cool."

"You should go talk to her before someone else does," Jacob says, already nudging him forward like a manager into the ring.
"Just be casual. Make the move. Lock it in."

"I don't know, man." Steve winces.

Jacob laughs. Too loud, too sharp. He slaps Steve's shoulder like he's just said the funniest thing all night.

"Dude, what are you even talking about?" he says, leaning in like they're sharing a joke.
"She's dying for you to ask. She's been eye-fucking you for like—weeks now. Don't act stupid."

Steve shifts his weight, trying to edge subtly toward the door, but Jacob crowds him again. Grinning, stinking faintly of citrus vodka and confidence built entirely on tradition.

"I just think maybe she's not really my type," Steve mumbles, scratching behind his ear, eyes darting toward the noise.
"Like, I don't even really know her."

Jacob scoffs.
"Who fucking cares? Since when do you need to know someone to take them to a dinner, bro? It's the alumni dinner."—

If one more person said those words to Steve he was going to spontaneously combust.

"—It's not a marriage proposal. You take her. You fuck her. You win."

"I'm just saying maybe someone else should ask her." Steve says.

"Oh my god, Harrington." Jacob steps back, holds his arms out in theatrical disbelief.
"You're gonna pass on Becca? Becca? Do you know how many guys in this house would kill to be in your position? You're not passing on her. It's not happening."

Steve shrugs, helpless, caught in that horrible in-between where saying no feels like drowning and saying yes feels even worse.

"I just"—

"What? Are you fucking gay or something?" Jacob cackles, shoving him.

Steve feels the panic bloom in his chest. His fists clench, face falls.
"N—no. No I'm not gay. What the fuck?" He forces a laugh.

"Then quit being a pussy, bro. Just ask her. It's one night. It's a win. And trust me—you could use one."

Steve flinches. Just a flicker. But it's enough to make something settle, cold and sharp, beneath his skin.

He nods. Or maybe just lowers his chin.

"Yeah. Okay."

Jacob claps him on the back again, like the deal's been sealed.
"Atta boy."

Jacob doesn't drag Steve over so much as he steers him like a malfunctioning shopping cart. Hand clamped to his shoulder, grinning like a man with a mission, practically shoving him through the crowd.

"There she is," Jacob says, zeroing in on Becca like she's a prize behind glass.
"Looking good, Becca," he calls out, loud enough to make a few heads turn.

She laughs, glossy and practiced, and when she spots Steve behind him, her smile sharpens like it's been waiting.

Steve's stomach turns over.

"Steve here was just telling me how desperate he is to ask you to the alumni dinner," Jacob says
with mock sincerity, already peeling off.
"You two have fun!"

And then he's gone. Disappeared into the thrum of music and keg stench, leaving Steve alone with Becca, who's stepped closer like she already owns the air between them.

"Desperate, huh?" she says, tilting her head, drink sloshing gently in her cup.
"Didn't know you cared so much about that kinda thing."

Steve fumbles for something that isn't his own heartbeat.
"I, uh—well, I mean—Jacob, you know, he kind of—uh—"

Becca raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"I just meant—I thought maybe it could be, like, fun. Not fun. Not, not fun. Just—the dinner. Together. If you wanted."

She watches him like he's a mildly entertaining wildlife documentary.
"You're cute when you're nervous."

Steve smiles, pained.
"I'm not nervous."

"You're literally sweating," she says, casually reaching forward to fix a fold in his collar, her hand lingering on his chest for just a second too long.
"But yeah. Sure. I'll go."

Steve blinks.

Over her shoulder, Jacob is lurking with both thumbs up and the smuggest look Steve has ever seen on a human face.

Steve wants to crawl into a hole. Or just scream into a pillow for five consecutive years.

Instead, he says, "Cool," voice cracking on the vowel.

Becca just grins wider.
"Cool."

Becca takes a sip from her red cup, eyeing Steve over the rim like she knows exactly where his mind is and enjoys watching him squirm in it.

She absolutely doesn't. In fact, it's far worse than she could ever comprehend.

"So," she says, tone lazy, amused.
"How are you holding up with your newfound fame?"

Steve's laugh is brittle, half-choked.
"Oh, y'know—just trying not to die of shame."

Becca leans in, her perfume a little too sweet, a little too strong. Not like Eddie's cologne. Musky and subtle. Like it was already old even after buying it brand new.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, all the girls in the sorority can't stop talking about it. Y'know, if it's like—true."  She quirks an eyebrow, the smile on her lips just shy of indecent.

Steve coughs, chokes on air.
"I—I really don't think it's fair for me to pass judgement on it. Like—it's fine. I guess."

"Oh, c'mon," she purrs, still very much enjoying herself.
"Take the compliment. Campus hasn't shut up about it since it happened. Horse Cock Harrington."

She said it like it was a threat.

Steve ground his molars, forcing a smile.
"God. I really, really wish people would stop saying that."

Becca just laughs.
"Why? You hate the attention that much?"

"It's not—it's not real," Steve mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
"It was a stupid hazing thing that got out of hand. I don't even know how it started."

"Yeah, but you didn't exactly deny it either," she teases, and then there's that look again, head tilted, lashes low, something speculative in her smile.
"You know, if you ever wanted me to—test the theory. This mixers kinda lame. We could always go."

Steve's brain static-crashes. His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

Across the room, Jacob is watching like it's his favorite movie.

And Steve can barely think through the heat creeping up his neck and the bile of panic rising in his throat.

"Maybe we can—save it. Y'know. For the dinner." Steve said hurriedly, desperately seeking an out.
"Probably gonna be boring as fuck. So—can—sneak off early. Or whatever." He laughs, pathetically.

"Okay." She smiles, the glitter in her lip gloss and across her eyelids catching the light.
"I look forward to it."

And then she's gone.

Steve lets out a ragged breath. Feet planted to the floor like they were engulfed in concrete.

Jacob bounds over to him like an excitable dog, grabbing at the fabric of his shirt and jostling him around.

Steve was going to vomit the second he leaves this house.

***

He's barely closed the door behind him before he's tossing his keys somewhere vague and falling backwards onto his bed, phone already in hand.

Eddie.

Just Eddie.

He opens Instagram.

Types in Eddie drag race. The feed fills with contour and glitter and wigs as tall as buildings. Not unappealing, but definitely not what he's looking for.

He sighs, backspaces, tries Eddie drag racer.

Still nothing. Mostly middle-aged men with moustaches and souped-up cars. No scuffed rings, no wild curls, no leather jackets with cigarette burns.

He opens Facebook. Desperate times.

Still doesn't have a last name so just searches by location and hopes for the best.

Eddie racer? No. Eddie car? Eddie criminal?

He scrolls until the names blur together, until everyone starts to look like him in small, disappointing ways. Too many dads. Too many people who wear polos unironically.

Eventually, because he hates himself, he types in freakshow drag racer.

Still nothing.

Steve drops the phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling, jaw tense.

There's something unsettling about the absence. Like Eddie doesn't exist outside those parking lots. Like he evaporates by daylight, or maybe just never needed the internet like the rest of them.

No digital trace. No mutual friends. Just the echo of that last grin, that cigarette behind his ear, the way he said shut up and do it like Steve wasn't going to be thinking about it every second for the rest of the damn week.

Or his life.

He drags a hand down his face and rolls over onto his stomach, muffling a frustrated groan into his pillow.

Sleep is still clinging to the corners of Robin's eyes when her face flickers onto Steve's screen.

She's propped up on one elbow, hair a riot of flattened curls and static, one cheek creased from her pillow.

"Are you fucking serious?" She mumbles, voice shredded with sleep.
"Do you know what time it is?"

Steve doesn't bother with preamble. He's pacing his own room in restless circuits.
"You can find anyone on socials, right? Like—anyone. You're good at that."

Robin blinks, squints, then jams her glasses onto her nose.
"Why?"

Steve hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip.
"I just—need to check something."

Robin drops her head back, a silent scream into the void.
"Steve. No."

"Please," he says, tone tipping into desperate.
"I've tried everything—Facebook searches, Insta hashtags, Google deep dives. It's like he's a ghost."

"That's because he is a ghost. He materializes in a cloud of smoke, wrecks your blood pressure, and vanishes before dawn." She sits up, shoving fatigue out of her voice.
"I am not becoming your digital bloodhound so you can spiral deeper into your stupid crush on this stupid man."

Steve drags a hand through his hair.
"It's nothing to do with the crush. I just—want to message him and apologise so he knows I'm not a total fucking loser."

"Uh‑huh. And I just want eight hours of sleep. Guess we both lose." She flops back onto her pillow, the phone tilting so he sees only a slice of ceiling.
"Get over it, dingus. Go dream about him if you must, but I'm off the clock."

"Rob—"

"Goodnight, Steve."

The call ends. The screen goes dark.

Steve stands alone in the hush of his room, phone gone slack in his hand.

***

It was a secret and a story Steve didn't tell. Not even to Robin in all of its gory detail.

Just the basics.

Senior year, just once. In the backseat of a car that wasn't his, with a guy whose name he barely remembered, whose hands were clammy and whose breath smelled like cheap gum.

It happened fast. Too fast. Not in the way people mean when they talk about chemistry or sparks or impulsive need. But in the way that means "let's just get it over with before either of us loses our nerve."

It had started as kissing, clumsy and mechanical, both of them too eager to pretend they knew what they were doing.
There was no music playing. Just the wet sound of mouths and the ambient anxiety of two boys too scared to look each other in the eye.

It was supposed to be thrilling. It was supposed to feel like something. Instead, it felt like a dare.

The sex, if you could even call it that, was fumbled. Barely planned, and so achingly vanilla it made Steve wince to remember it. Clothes half-on, zippers biting into skin, a condom that wouldn't open properly, and then too much silence.

There was no rhythm, no push and pull. Just movement. Just noise. Just trying to finish so it would be done.

No one said anything after.

They just sat there, not touching, until the guy muttered something about curfew and Steve nodded and pulled his jeans back on.

It didn't feel shameful, exactly. It just felt like nothing. Like checking a box. Like getting the worst part over with.

And for months after, he told himself that's what it was. A trial run. A one-off. A freak occurrence.

He wasn't into guys. He was into that guy, maybe. For a moment, at least. Or just curious. He was good at building the walls around it, sealing the memory off like it was a house no one lived in.

He hoped he was happy. Hoped that he finally found a way out. Hoped he didn't carry that silence with him.

Now he was trying to rewrite the map without a compass. But the only landmark he had was that one godawful night, and the unspoken fear that maybe that was all he had to offer.

Awkward, clumsy, vanilla, barely memorable sex.

And Eddie? Eddie was everything but that. Everything messy and bold and real. And Steve didn't know if he could measure up. Or if he was even allowed to try.

So Steve becomes a scholar of the thing he doesn't know how to name without blushing.

Between classes, between drills, between forced conversations with frat brothers who still slap his back like he's the campus clown mascot. He's researching.

Not casually. Not idly. With intensity. With purpose. The way some people cram for the LSAT or obsess over fantasy football lineups, Steve studies gay sex.

Because he doesn't know. Not really. And it's humiliating to admit. He knows the idea of it. He knows the mechanics in theory, from the handful of porn he's seen. Always with the volume turned way down, always on incognito, always while gripping the laptop like it might explode in his lap.

But theory and practice are different animals.

So now he's in the deep end. NSFW Reddit forums that are half instructional, half horrifying.

Threads that spiral into philosophical arguments about top vs. bottom dynamics and whether or not you really need a douche. He almost passes out reading the more detailed comments. The language alone gives him a nosebleed.

He watches everything. Every genre. Every variation. He does this locked in a stall in the communal bathrooms with his AirPods in, trying to be casual, like he's just scrolling through TikTok.

He does it late at night, curled into the space against the wall on his bed. Laptop pressed to his chest. Sometimes he uses his phone and hides in stairwells like he's a teenager sneaking cigarettes.

He's Googled things that would make his high school self cry.

"Is poppers mandatory."
"How much prep is too much prep."
"What is a rimjob actually."

There's no filter. No pride left. Just questions and the desire to be prepared. Not because he's planning anything specific, but because he might, and he doesn't want to look like an idiot when it happens.

If it happens.

When.

Maybe.

He's never studied anything harder in his life. Not even for the SATs.

And still, at the end of each frantic search spiral, he's left with more questions than answers.

Not just about logistics. But about himself. About why the idea of Eddie saying something; not even filthy, just fact, directly into his ear made his stomach drop and his chest tighten all at once even though he wanted it so badly.

Because it was a valid question.

What would they do if they knew that was how Steve was spending his weekends. Getting felt up in the drivers seat of a V8 in the middle of a random parking lot. By a guy.

Steve already knew. Didn't need to think about it too hard. Because he was inexperienced, but he wasn't stupid.

So he just had to deal with the aftermath of why he wants it and fears it. But still thinks about it more often than he thinks about food or sleep.

***

It took Steve the entire day to psych himself up.

He hadn't eaten. He couldn't eat. His stomach was a hot twist of nerves that felt like it had been through a blender.

He sat outside his dorm for nearly twenty minutes just staring at the key in his ignition before he even started the drive. And the whole way there, he thought about turning back. Twice he took the wrong exit. Once he nearly did a full U-turn on the shoulder. But now he was here, parked at the edge of the lot again, and it felt like walking into the lion's den.

Everything was louder this time. The music, the engines, the voices. It was like being dropped in the middle of a war zone where the enemy was apathy.

Nobody looked at him. People shoved past like he was furniture. He murmured sorry every time someone bumped his shoulder, even when he was the one being knocked into. Even when he had no reason to.

He scanned the crowd for too long before he saw him.

Eddie was draped in a folding camping chair like he owned the whole fucking lot. A bottle of beer hung lazily between his knees, label half-peeled by restless fingers.

He was mid-laugh. Loud and obnoxious and careless. Two other guys leaned in close, trading some joke that had them howling.

He walked up. Every step felt like sinking deeper into something he wasn't sure he could climb out of.

"Hey." He said, small and useless.

The effect was immediate. The guys turned toward him like he'd just ruined their favorite joke. Their expressions slid from amused to mildly irritated

One of the guys; sharper jaw, bleached buzzcut, looked him up and down. Clearly unimpressed. The other just raised his eyebrows.

Eddie didn't move. Didn't say anything. Just leaned back in his chair, stretched one leg out like he was at home, and smiled that slow, serpentine grin that made Steve feel like he'd walked directly into a trap. Like he'd never known an ounce of discomfort in his life.

Steve hovered for a moment. He could have turned around. Should have. But the pull was already in motion, too strong to fight. He stepped forward and opened his mouth before he was ready.

"Oh, look. It's the Prince of Gamma Zeta or whatever the fuck." Eddie said with a wry smile.

The other guys cracked up. Steve wanted to evaporate.

Eddie laughed too, though something in his tone was softer, less sharp, like he was just playing along for show.

He stretched his legs out with a grunt, handed his beer off, and pushed to his feet.
"One sec," he said, already peeling away from the group, walking toward Steve with his hands in his back pockets and that same maddening ease.

Up close, Eddie smelled like cigarette smoke and beer and the faint echo of cologne.

Steve swallowed. His chest was tight.

"Sorry for—interrupting," he said, gesturing vaguely toward where Eddie came from, like it could help clarify what the hell he meant.

Eddie gave a small nod.
"S'fine."

Steve inhaled sharply, barely able to summon the strength look directly at him.
"Look, I'm sorry—"

"You don't need to apologize. Seriously. I don't care." Eddie said.

"No, I know. But I care." The words rushed out of him now, unchecked, helpless.
"I shouldn't have left like that. I freaked out. Completely and utterly. And it had nothing to do with you—"

"I know it didn't." Eddie said flatly.

"Okay. Well—good. That's good. It's good that you know that." Steve winced at himself, raked a hand through his hair, kept fumbling.
"It's just—nobody knows. That I'm like—gay. Robin's literally the only one in my life who does. So—it makes stuff like this—really fucking hard. Because of course I wanted to go back to yours. If it wasn't already painfully obvious, I think you're really hot."

Eddie tilted his head slightly, considering, watching him with a kind of practiced neutrality.
"Yeah. Sort of figured that one out for myself."

Steve flushed, teeth biting into the inside of his cheek. His voice faltered, then steadied.
"But—I don't know. I just got in my own head about stuff and I got scared someone would see me and, yeah. I just—spiraled, I guess. So—I'm sorry."

Eddie's expression didn't shift much. He rocked back on his heels and glanced off toward the lot before fixing his gaze on Steve again.

"Look, Steve," he said, voice even but edged now. "I appreciate you coming all the way out here to tell me that. It's really nice of you, or whatever. You can give yourself Brownie points if it'll make you feel better. But I'm not mad. I don't do mad. I literally don't care."

Steve blinked.
"I didn't mean to make it weird."

"You didn't." Eddie shrugged.
"It was already weird. You just made it more dramatic."

Steve looked down at his shoes.
"Yeah. I guess."

Eddie shifted his weight, glanced over his shoulder.
"Is that all?"

Steve looked up.
"Is that—all?"

"Yeah, I mean—thanks for the emotional update, man. But I'm not really in the market for someone else's identity crisis. I've got my own shit to deal with. I don't need to babysit yours."

The words hit like a slap. Steve nodded quickly, eyes hot, throat tight.
"Right."

Eddie turned half-away, ready to walk back—but Steve's voice caught him mid-step.

"So that's it?"

Eddie paused, barely glancing back.
"Not if you don't want it to be."

Steve's heart jerked in his chest.

"What?" he asked, voice breathless, too soft.

Eddie didn't repeat himself. Just watched him. Quiet now. Waiting.

Steve stood there, arms hanging awkward at his sides, fists flexing and unflexing like he didn't know what to do with them.

Because he didn't.

His shirt clung to the back of his neck with sweat, and the night air did nothing to cool him. The sounds of the lot blurred again. Engines, voices, distant music bleeding through muffled speakers.

But everything that mattered had narrowed to Eddie, to the way he stood just a little too close, eyes steady, unreadable. Unshaken.

"You wanna hook up, fool around, kill time for a couple hours. Fine. I'm game. But I'm not gonna hold your hand while you figure yourself out."

Eddie's tone was easy, effortless, like he was reciting a script. No venom. No sweetness either. Just fact.

"It's not a big deal. Unless you make it one."

Steve blinked. His heart thudded wildly against his ribs, like it was trying to warn him of something he already knew.

"I literally have no idea what I'm supposed to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything." Eddie shrugged. His voice remained maddeningly calm. "I mean, you came all the way here to apologise for something that didn't warrant an apology. That says enough."

Steve's brow furrowed.
"Does it?"

Eddie lifted one shoulder lazily, the faintest trace of a grin teasing the edge of his mouth.
"Means you're either sorry, horny, or confused. Or maybe all three."

Steve stared, mouth slightly parted, too caught off guard to hide the sting.
"Oh, okay. So this is funny to you. Got it."

"No." Eddie's smile shifted, a meaner kind of affection in it now.
"I think it's pathetic. But kinda charming too. Like a wet dog that followed me home."

Steve recoiled, half in disbelief.
"Well, you're officially the worst."

"Probably." Eddie didn't even try to deny it. "You're cute when you're spiralling though."

Steve ran a hand over his face, groaning.
"And now you're flirting with me, again. Jesus Christ. You're impossible."

"You make it too easy."

His laugh was barely a sound, more like a push of breath meant to mock and entice at once. Steve wasn't sure if he wanted to hit him or kiss him.

"You just told me you didn't wanna deal with my shit."

"I don't," Eddie said, matter-of-fact. Then, more softly.
"Doesn't mean I don't want you."

There was something about the way he said it, like desire and exhaustion lived in the same breath. No drama, no seduction. Just plain truth.

Eddie's eyes held Steve's then, steady, grounded. A tether if Steve wanted it.

Steve's voice, when it came, was quiet. Careful. "Okay. So what now?"

"Now—" Eddie stepped back just enough to gesture over his shoulder.
"You're gonna get in the car. We're gonna go back to mine. You're gonna kiss me without freaking out this time. We're gonna fuck. Pretty standard stuff."

Steve's eyebrows lifted.
"That's—direct."

"I'm not interested in this whole—back and forth thing," Eddie said, the grin sliding from his face like he was finally done pretending.
"I'm not your boyfriend. You wanna be here, be here. Don't make me do all the work."

"And if I say no?"

Eddie's expression didn't flicker.
"Then you go home. And I forget we ever had this conversation and I'll find someone who will."

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. A hundred thoughts collided in his chest and none of them made it to his tongue.

"I'm not good at this," he said finally.

"No." Eddie smiled, smaller this time.
"But you could be."

Steve looked down at his shoes again. He felt like the pavement had been shifting the entire time and he was just now noticing.
"You really don't care do you."

Eddie reached out, lightly touched Steve's wrist. Barely there, but real.
"I care enough."

Then, simply, "so are you coming, or what?"

"Oh." Steve said abruptly, as though he'd just been pulled back down from the sky.
"M-my car. I parked over there."

"Oh, yeah. I mean—there's like a sixty percent chance it probably won't be there tomorrow." Eddie shrugs.

"Okay." Steve nods.

***

The hallway stank of old varnish and music thumped two doors down, bass vibrating the scuffed skirting boards.

Steve trailed a step behind Eddie, heart chattering against his ribs as Eddie jiggled a tarnished key in the lock. The door groaned open, and the first thing Steve noticed was the hush. A pocket of stillness scooped out of the noise.

The apartment was almost bare. Beige landlord walls, a skinnier shade of beige carpeting that had seen better decades, a faded leather thrift‑store couch squared to a TV.

Everything aligned at right angles, neat to the point of eerie. A tan refrigerator hummed like a sleepy animal, its door pinned with exactly four magnets. One from Texas, a brown cowboy hat. Another that just said Indiana in bold lettering. A crooked bottle‑opener, a cartoon cat. Garfield, probably.

Beige drapes framed a living‑room window. Beyond the glass, the fire‑escape ladder hung like a rusted spine.

Everything was so neat. It didn't make any sense.

"You live here?" Steve asked as Eddie shut the door with his hip.

"Yeah?" Eddie laughed, sliding past him.
"What? Did you think I lived under a fucking bridge or something?" The leather jacket slithered from his shoulders and landed over the couch‑back in one practiced toss.

"No." Steve's voice came out stiff, too formal for the room.
"S'nice. It's like—minimalist."

"Okay. Whatever the fuck that means." Eddie's laugh snagged on a breath.

He crossed to the kitchenette, unscrewed a half‑empty bottle of vodka, and tipped a swallow straight from the neck.

Steve hovered by the couch, arms folded as though bracing against draft.
"Oh, y'know," he said, gesturing vaguely at the pared‑back space.
"Dark. Empty. Vacant. Unsettling."

"And you were worried you'd be bad at this. You're already turning me on." Eddie struck a match, a tiny blue flare kissing the cigarette between his lips.

"So, do you like—make money? From what you do?" Steve's eyes followed the line of Eddie's arm, the cigarette glow illuminating his face.

"Course I do. I wouldn't be doing it, otherwise." Eddie leaned on the counter, a gulf of linoleum and lamplight yawning between them.

"Wow. It really is like Fast & Furious."

"Sure. If Fast & Furious was full of broke‑ass twenty‑somethings racing half‑legal shitboxes for five hundred bucks a pop in parking lots that smell like piss and gasoline." Eddie snorted.

"So—how much do you make?"

"Depends who's betting." He says casually, taking a drag. Not caring for the ash that fell against the kitchen counter.
"I've made a couple grand in a night before. Burned most of it by morning, but still. Pays for what I need."

"Woah." Steve exhales.

"It's not bad. Keeps me sharp. Keeps the car running. And it's a rush." Eddie cracks his neck along his shoulders as he exhaled a ribbon of smoke.
"You ever sit behind the wheel knowing that you could lose everything if you twitch wrong—and then fucking floor it anyway?"

"Can't say I have." Steve winced.

"Well, then you haven't really lived." Eddie grins.

"So—that's it. Everything you have is just dependent on you winning?"

"Not much different to any other job out there. Whether or not people make money is dependent on them showing up to the office, right?" He shrugs.
"Plus sometimes I sell parts. Sometimes I fix shit for people who don't ask too many questions. But yeah. Mostly, I drive fast and try not to die."

"That's insane."

"Maybe." Eddie's voice dipped, softer, almost tender.
"But I like it. And I'm good at it. World doesn't give guys like me a lot of stuff to be good at, you know?"

"But what if you lose?" Steve asks.

"I don't." Eddie says, as though it were obvious.

"Do your family know this is what you do?"

Eddie sighed, stubbing the cigarette in a chipped saucer in the sink, then stalked across the living room.

He caught Steve's belt buckle between two fingers and tugged him forward. Up close Steve could smell the vodka on his breath, the faint metal tang of a lit match. Steve had half an inch on him but felt suddenly, stupidly small.

"Too much talking." Eddie's mouth crashed onto his, a kiss fierce and anchoring, breath flooding in warm.

"Sorry," Steve mumbled against that mouth, dizzy with relief and want.

It wasn't delicate. Firm, certain, stretching out until Steve's knees trembled, the refrigerator's hum the only witness.
Eddie's hands found the back of his neck, then slid lower, thumbs riding his hipbones as though they'd been mapped for this.

He broke away just long enough to steer Steve down the dim hall, their shoes whispering over carpet that smelled faintly of dust and old detergent.

"Also," Steve gasped, half‑laughing, half‑panicked as Eddie backed him toward a door.
"Sorry if I'm like—sweaty. I run hot. And—I sweat when I'm nervous."

Eddie's answering grin flashed in the half‑dark, feral and fond all at once, before he pulled Steve the final step inside.

The room was quiet, dim, the kind of quiet that happens when you're trying too hard not to breathe.

One lone lamp sitting atop the bedside table lit up the far corner. Yellow and syrupy, casting long shadows against the beige walls, turning everything the color of honey and old bones.

The double bed sat flush against the wall. Two pillows on either side completely flattened as though they had been in use for years.

"Want me to crack a window?" Eddie asked, already crossing the room.

"Yeah. Okay." Steve nods.

The window gave way with a stiff creak. Outside, shouting, a car peeling off down the block, the softest trace of wind squeezing between rusted hinges. The air shifted. Cooler now. Steve stood still, as if unsure what to do with his hands or his mouth or the moment.

Eddie didn't wait for him to make sense of it. Just came back and kissed him, full and deliberate.

It should've grounded him. It didn't. Steve's thoughts cartwheeled in seventeen directions, each one louder than the last.

Eddie kissed like he drove. Confident, a little reckless, like he already knew the rules and chose to break them anyway. His hands were warm, steady. One landed low on Steve's waist, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off in one smooth move that made Steve shiver.

His shirt hit the floor. Then his belt. Like he knew where to tug, where to pull without looking.
Steve's breath was thin, his body cooperative, but inside he was panicking.

He let himself be walked backwards, guided by Eddie's palm on his shoulder, lowered gently to the edge of the bed like a reluctant actor placed onstage. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight, creaking once before settling.

Eddie undressed like he'd done this a hundred times before and didn't care if Steve watched or not. Shirt over his head, revealing tattoos that coiled and vanished beneath a silver chain. His belt came next, yanked free in a single fluid motion before he straddled Steve, all presence and heat and limbs.

Steve's jeans were undone by someone else's hands. He wasn't even looking, Eddie had eyes elsewhere, like unfastening Steve was just background noise. And Steve just sat there, barely breathing, hands at his sides, pupils blown wide.

"I just want to say," he murmured against Eddie's mouth, lips grazing, breaking the rhythm, "if you—like—wanna spit in my mouth or something, that's totally fine. I'd just appreciate, like, a heads-up."

Eddie froze.

An inch between them now, just enough to look him in the face. He blinked once. The kind of blink people did when their brain stubbed a toe.

"I'm sorry," he said, deadpan.
"What?"

Steve flushed so red it reached the tips of his ears. His breath came out in staggered half-laughs, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. He'd opened the gate and everything behind it was spilling out, graceless and hot.

"I'm just saying. Like—if you're into that. Or, like, I don't know, handcuffs. Or blindfolds. I'm open-minded, I'm a try-anything-once guy. In theory. So if you're into—whatever—just—flag it. In advance. Preferably."

Eddie stared. No movement. No sound. Just a moment stretched tight with disbelief.

"Y'know what, thank you for being so considerate. I was actually thinking about setting up my fog machine. Would that be alright with you?"

Steve froze, processing.

"You're being sarcastic," he said, deadpan, caught somewhere between embarrassed and defensive.

"Yeah," Eddie replied, his smile thin, just the ghost of one.

He kissed Steve again, slower this time but deeper, tongue pushing past lips like it knew the route already. His hand slipped down, inside, confident. Palming Steve through his boxers with a touch that said I know exactly what I'm doing.

But Steve's heart wasn't cooperating.

He pulled back, breath colliding with breathlessness.

"I'm not trying to, like, ruin the moment or whatever, but I feel like I should know what you're into?" His chest rose, then fell, like he couldn't inhale enough air fast enough.
"Like, are you a choking guy? Or more of a praise guy? Or—degradation? Is it feet? It's fine if it's feet. I'm not judging. But I just—y'know—need to mentally prepare."

Eddie hovered, still straddling him, frozen in time. He blinked once. Then again. The kind of slow blink that said are you serious, but with a hint of something else underneath. Exhaustion, mostly.

"Also—just to cover all bases—what are your thoughts on, like, wax play? Or those things where people wear latex? Not that I'm suggesting it. I just need to know if it's on the table. And if it is, could it maybe not be on the table tonight? Because I feel like we should start with something less"—

"Okay. No." Eddie's voice cracked the space between them like a snapped branch. He shook his head once. Sharp, final, and climbed off of Steve with a frustrated exhale.

"Nope." He stood there, hands flexing once at his sides.
"I'm not doing this."

He looked worn. Not angry, not even disappointed, exactly. Just threadbare. Stressed, the way people get when they've tried not to care too much and it still backfires.

Steve sat up, pulling his legs closer to himself, hands folded in his lap like he could physically hold himself together.
"I'm just—trying to communicate."

Eddie laughed. It was a sharp, almost bitter sound, not really laughter at all.
"No. No, you're not."
He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, pacing half a step before stopping himself.
"This is insane. You're being insane. I mean, what the fuck is this? A fire drill for your dick?"

"I'm sorry." Steve muttered.

"Just—stop apologising."
His voice had dropped in pitch now, not louder, just rougher.
"Jesus, you're always apologising."

Steve doesn't answer.

Eddie exhales hard, rubbing the back of his neck. "Christ, Steve. This is supposed to be fun."

"I know," Steve says, too quickly.
"I want it to be fun."

"Then—what the fuck, man?" Eddie asked, hands flailing.

Steve frowns, shifts on the bed.
"I just—I don't know what you want. And I don't wanna mess it up."

"It's not a job interview. You can't mess it up."

"You say that," Steve mutters, "but you also just stopped and walked to the other side of the room."

Eddie groans and runs a hand through his hair. "Because—you're being—I don't even know. You're stressing me out, man!"

"I don't know what people do!" Steve explodes, finally.
"Okay? I don't know. I'm very new to this. I don't have some secret gay manual hidden under my bed. I'm also very aware that you're not into me at all and this is just—whatever to you. So that makes it way more stressful."

"I am into you," Eddie says.
"You're a hot guy. I can't not be into you. But being into you doesn't mean I want a two hour debrief on your Pornhub history."

Steve grimaces, folding in on himself slightly.
"I just wanted to be prepared."

"For what?" Eddie laughs.
"It's my bedroom, not a sex dungeon."

"I don't know." Steve groans.
"Everything."

Eddie stares at him for a moment. Then he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, close but not quite touching.

"Okay," he says.
"Cards on the table."

Steve nods, eyes wide.

"I like sex," Eddie says.
"I like good sex. I like messing around. I like when it's easy. When it's not some tragic quest for identity or absolution or whatever the fuck you're trying to turn it into."

Steve swallows hard.
"Sorry."

Eddie shoots him a look.
"What did I just say about apologising?"

Steve gives him a tiny, helpless smile.
"Right."

Eddie watches him for a beat, something loosening behind his eyes.
"I'm attracted to you," he said finally, quietly but clearly.
"Half the job is done."

Steve blinked.

Eddie gestured loosely between them.
"Now I'd just appreciate it if I could touch you without you being afraid I'm going to tie you to the ceiling fan."

That did it.

Steve burst out laughing. Not a graceful, self-conscious chuckle. But a full, sudden, uncontrollable bark of laughter, sharp and stupid and high-pitched.

His shoulders curled in. He covered his mouth. Still laughing. A weird, breathless kind of laugh, bordering on hysterical.

Eddie just stared at him. His head tilted slightly. Brow furrowed in utter confusion.
"Are you good?"

"I—" Steve wheezed, trying to breathe.
"I'm fine. I'm sorry, I'm fine."

Eddie gave him a long, slow blink.
"You are the strangest person I have ever met."

Steve let out a little gasp between giggles.
"I mean—statistically, that can't be true."

"Strangest person I've ever wanted to fuck, then," Eddie amended.

Steve was still grinning, a little breathless now, but not panicked.

Eddie smirked.
"You done?"

"I think so." Steve nodded.

Eddie leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, watching him with a bemused softness that looked borrowed from someone else. Like it didn't belong to him, but he was trying it on anyway. Trying it on for Steve.

"I'll do all the work," he said, low, conspiratorial, like he was letting Steve in on some harmless con.
"You just lie there and look pretty. And try not to have a panic attack."

Steve rolled his eyes, but his smile gave him away.

Eddie kissed him again. Less fire this time, more heat. Thick and steady, like an August night. And slowly, they started moving together, not in the way Steve had imagined. Fluid, groundbreaking, choreographed. But messy. Hesitant.

Hands tangled. Elbows bumped. Steve got his foot stuck in his own jeans at one point and had to kick them off like he was wrestling a small animal.

And still, Eddie touched him like he meant it.

And now he was here. Further than he ever thought he'd get. Both of them stripped down to their underwear. Eddie's an unlabelled black pair that were old enough that the elastic had started to loosen. Steve's were a brand new pair of grey Calvin Klein's that his mom had gotten him for Christmas.

It all just felt absurd.

"I'm not usually like this, by the way." Steve said as Eddie mouthed at his throat.
"Nervous, I mean. I'm fine. Cool. I've had sex before. Like, real sex. Not—well, I mean, it wasn't good"—

Eddie stopped to lean over him, shooting him a look.
"Steve."

"Yeah?"

"Stop." He said with finality.

Steve froze. Then blinked.
"Right. Yeah."

"Good."

Eddie's fingers were curled just beneath the waistband of Steve's underwear, not even tugging yet, just resting there like he was giving Steve time to catch up.

The room had gone wet concrete thick. Warm air pressing down, sweat starting to bead along Steve's collarbone. He was flushed everywhere. Face, chest, ears. Like his body had misread this as a fever dream.

Then Steve's hand shot out, grabbing Eddie's wrist. Not hard, but sharp, like a red light appearing suddenly.

"Wait—wait, wait. Hold on."

Eddie froze. Not in fear, not in confusion. Just still, his dark eyes dragging up to meet Steve's like a teacher waiting for a student to finish the sentence.

Steve just laid there, breath catching in his throat, chest rising and falling with increasing urgency. His hand still firm against Eddie's wrist.

"I think I'm—Jesus—I think I'm having a heart attack," he blurted, wide-eyed and deadly serious.
"Like, actual heart attack. Like the myocardial infarction kind. The full shebang. It runs in my family my great-uncle had one last Thanksgiving."

Eddie blinked.
"You're not having a heart attack."

"No, but I might be."

"Okay, but you're not."

"But I—my chest feels weird, okay? And my hands are all—I don't know—tingly. And I think I'm gonna throw up or maybe cry or maybe both. And isn't it, like, a symptom when your arm starts going numb?"

Eddie exhaled through his nose. Then gently, very gently, peeled Steve's hand off his wrist.

"You're not having a heart attack," he repeated, firmer this time.
"You're having an anxiety attack. You've probably been having it for, like, the last twenty minutes. Or maybe since you were born."

Steve's eyes darted around the room like he was searching for the nearest defibrillator.
"Yeah. Probably.

"No. Definitely."
Eddie sat back on his heels.
"This is what happens when you watch seventeen hours of Reddit porn."

Steve groaned, burying his face in his hands as Eddie just sat there, unmoving.

Steve peeked through his fingers.
"Is this salvageable?"

Eddie eyed him for a beat. Then sighed, dramatic and long-suffering.

"Just—chill," he said.
"And just know that if we do have sex tonight, it's gonna be with the understanding that no one's having a cardiovascular emergency."

Steve nodded solemnly.
"Okay."

Eddie had one hand braced behind him on the mattress, the other resting loosely on his thigh. As if to say he wasn't going to make a move unless he was told to. His voice was quieter now, not teasing, just low and even.

"Why don't you take them off?" he said.
"You take charge of the situation. Whenever you're ready."

Steve stared at him, his face still flushed from the anxiety spiral, but now there was something else layered beneath it. Determination, maybe. Embarrassment, definitely. But he gave a little nod, anyway.

His hands went to the waistband of his underwear. The elastic was damp with sweat from nerves and the heat of the room, and his fingers fumbled once, then found the rhythm, dragging them down. He kicked his ankles out of them with as much grace as a half-naked man in a state of semi-panic could muster.

There was a beat of silence.

Eddie looked away.

Not dramatically. Not disgusted. Just looked away like he was trying very, very hard not to do something stupid with his face.

Steve narrowed his eyes instantly.
"What the fuck was that?"

Eddie shook his head, biting his lip.
"Nothing."

"No, you looked away."

"I wasn't gonna laugh—"

"You were gonna laugh!"

Eddie raised both hands now, surrendering, but the corners of his mouth were twitching.
"It's not bad. It's not bad. It's just—I thought they were exaggerating."

Steve groaned and covered himself with both hands like it was somehow his fault for being cursed with proportion.
"Oh my God."

"I mean—Jesus, you should come with a warning label," Eddie said, grinning now, unable to stop it.
"Like a traffic sign. 'Sharp curve ahead.'"

"Stop it," Steve snapped, but it lacked any real venom.
"This is literally the worst moment of my life and you're laughing."

"You're welcome to put your underwear back on, if it'll help preserve your modesty, but I gotta say—if you're gonna spiral every time someone reacts to your dick. This is gonna be a long life."

Steve wrapped his arms around his torso like it would do anything to shield him from embarrassment.
"I hate you."

"No, you don't," Eddie said, still smiling.
"You just hate being the main character."

And somehow, despite the panic, despite everything, Steve laughed again. This helpless, relieved kind of laugh that made his shoulders loosen just an inch. Eddie rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth said he didn't really mind.

There was friction, not the good kind at first. Steve winced once. Then again. And Eddie slowed down, adjusted, murmured something under his breath that might've been "sorry" or might've even been "breathe."

Steve did, eventually. Not gracefully. But he did.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even smooth. But something about the fact that it wasn't made it better. It wasn't like before. There was time. Time to get it wrong, time to worry and then come back from it. There was time for the quiet awkwardness, the sharp edges of inexperience brushing up against curiosity.

It hurt. Not in a catastrophic, undoing kind of way, but in the way new things sometimes do. Like trying on a new pair of shoes and knowing they'd blister before they softened.

Steve felt too full, too raw, too aware of every part of himself. And yet, he didn't want it to stop. He wasn't looking over his shoulder.

He wasn't good at it. Not yet. But he was there. And he wanted it. Wanted Eddie.

Eddie, who said very little once it started, but kept one hand on Steve's hip like he was anchoring him. Like he knew Steve might float off somewhere he couldn't reach if he didn't.

It was maybe the most graceless, stressful and bizarre experience of Steve's adult life. But he liked it.

Steve lay flat on his back like someone who had just survived a natural disaster. One arm flung over his eyes, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.
His whole body felt like it had been stripped down to its most basic elements. Heat, heartbeat, and the dull throb of adrenaline still retreating through his veins.

Eddie, meanwhile, lit a cigarette like it was a perfectly ordinary thing that had just happened. And to him, it probably was.

Steve stared up at the ceiling, cheeks burning. "Okay," he muttered.
"So that was—not bad."

Eddie exhaled slowly, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like it had somewhere better to be.

"Not bad?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Thanks for the glowing review."

Steve huffed out a laugh. He was sore already, and his brain wouldn't shut up.

The room was still lit in amber and shadow. The  crooked lamp in the corner casting long slants of light over Eddie's bare shoulder, the curve of his back, the glint of a ring he hadn't taken off. He looked like someone who didn't mind being looked at. Like someone used to it.

"I mean, good," Steve amended, already flustered.
"Like, obviously. Very good. Objectively. Statistically. Spiritually."

Eddie laughed. A low, lazy sound.
"You really do talk a lot."

"Yeah. It's like—a nervous thing, I guess." Steve said, scratching his bare chest.

"You weren't nervous ten minutes ago." Eddie acknowledges, taking a drag.

"No, I was. I was just being actively distracted by your mouth."

Eddie smiled with just enough of a twist to make it dangerous.
"You're bad at casual."

That made Steve lower his arm, turn to look at him.
"I'm trying."

"Trying is cute," Eddie said, leaning further against the headboard. Knees up now as the smoke curled between them.
"But just so we're clear. This isn't a big deal."

Steve hesitated.
"Right. Yeah. No. Totally."

Because what else was he supposed to say? That he felt unspooled? That his brain was already rethreading the night into something completely different entirely against his will?

Steve sat up a little too fast, hair a mess, limbs still tangled in the half-kicked sheets. The words tumbled out of him before he could pretend to be cooler than he was.
"So—okay, just so I know, and I'm not, like, misreading this or turning into the guy who gets clingy after one hookup even though statistically that only happens like fifteen percent of the time. This, what we just did, it was fun, obviously, yeah, but like, is this a one-time thing? Or a sometimes thing? Or a recurring subscription-type situation?"

Eddie didn't answer right away. Just looked at him from where he was reclined against the headboard, cigarette burning down between his fingers, like he was watching Steve spiral for sport.
"That's a lot of questions for a guy who only has one sock on."

Steve yanked the sock off without breaking eye contact.
"I'm serious."

"So am I." Eddie grinned.

Steve collapsed backward onto the bed, arms flung wide like a man defeated.
"Jesus Christ."

Eddie stubbed the cigarette out in a chipped saucer on the nightstand.
"You think too much," he said.

"And you think too little." Steve shot back.

"Probably," Eddie agreed.
"But that's why we're such a good time."

Steve blinked up at him.
"So, this isn't a one-time thing?"

Eddie gave a shrug that managed to be both maddening and vaguely promising.
"Depends if you shut up long enough to let it happen again."

"I could shut up," Steve said, hopeful.

"Prove it."

There was a pause. Then:

"Okay, but I have follow-up questions."

Eddie groaned and lightly knocked his head back against the wall.
"Unbelievable."

"So—if we were to, like—see each other again. Would it be in a 'I pencil you in' kind of way? Or are you more of a spontaneous, catch-me-if-you-can type, or—"

Eddie was laughing. Bare chest rising and falling. "Are you asking to schedule sex with me?"

"I'm asking to understand the vibe," Steve said, earnestly, stupidly, absolutely doomed.
"Like, is this a one-off? Or should I make myself available on, say, Thursdays and alternate Sundays?"

"Can't do Sundays. I have church."
Eddie tilted his head, fluttering his eyelashes.

Steve rolled his eyes.
"I'm just saying, I could clear a window."

"Stop trying to put me into your calendar like I'm some kind of dentist appointment. I don't know what's gonna happen." Eddie laughs.

Steve's elbow knocked against the wall, a dull thud in the quiet. He winced.

"Okay, well—do you have a phone?" he asked.

Eddie gave him a look, equal parts boredom and disbelief.
"Yes. I have a phone. I don't live under a rock."

"Well, I don't know," Steve said, shifting onto his side, propping his head up on one hand.
"You don't have any social media."

"You tried looking me up on social media? What are you, a stalker?" Eddie practically guffawed, jaw slack.

"I was going to message you to apologise but couldn't because you're totally off grid!" Steve exclaimed, defensively.

Eddie smirked faintly, a corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"Yeah. So I don't have to deal with people like you."

Steve paused, feigning offence.
"Okay, well—can I give you my number?"

Eddie sighed like it physically pained him.
"If you absolutely must."

He got out of bed without fanfare, still in just his boxers.
His body was all hard lines and soft bruises of shadow, lean and real and entirely unselfconscious.

He walked out into the other room, bare feet on worn carpet, came back a second later and tossed the phone down onto the bed beside Steve without ceremony.

"Here."

Steve picked it up. It lit up without a lock screen. "You don't have a password?"

"No. Why would I? I've got nothing to hide." Eddie climbed back under the blanket with a grunt, slouched against the pillows, arms behind his head.
"I only have like—four apps and I don't fuck with Apple Pay. I don't trust it."

Steve glanced down.
"Grindr, Tinder, Venmo and YouTube. I mean, yeah. That tracks."

"I'm a simple man." Eddie's mouth curled into something teasing but unreadable.

Steve tapped in his number quickly, hesitated, then typed in the contact name.

Horse Cock Harrington 🐎🍆

He turned the screen toward Eddie, cheeks flushed but proud, something in him always half-testing the limits of what he could get away with.

Eddie snorted.
"Perfect."

Steve hit call on his own number. The buzz of his phone vibrated from the pile of jeans on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Eddie asked.

"Drop calling myself so then I have your number too."

"Oh, goody." Eddie grinned, sharp-edged and lazy.

"Fuck you." Steve laughed, trying not to sound too pleased.
"So—can I text you?" He asked, handing the phone back to Eddie.

Eddie shrugged, putting it on the bedside table.
"Sure. If you say something interesting."

Steve narrowed his eyes.
"What qualifies as interesting?"

"Not another question about what this is," Eddie said flatly, already reaching to turn off the lamp.

The room dropped into a murky golden blue, streetlight light spilling in through the window. He rolled over, turning his back, a clear punctuation to the conversation.
"I'm going to sleep."

Steve lingered on his side, blinking into the dark, suddenly unsure.
"So—should I leave? Or am I allowed to stay? Like, do you have—plans?"

Eddie didn't open his eyes. His voice was low, worn, like denim after too many washes.
"Do whatever you want."

"Okay, uh—it's just. I'd prefer it if you made a decision because—I don't live here."

Eddie inhaled deeply, lazily.
"I don't have plans."

"So I can stay?"

"Well, I'm not driving you back right now, am I?" Eddie grumbled.

"Okay." Steve nodded, more to himself than anything, and slowly rolled over, mirroring Eddie's posture, facing the wall. Their backs nearly touching, but not quite.

***

The room was quiet in the way only early morning can be. Thick curtains filtering the light into something grey and soft.

Steve woke slowly, eyes crusted, tongue dry, body aching in places he hadn't even known existed before last night. His joints felt misaligned, his neck stiff from the strange angles of unfamiliar pillows and too much tension held for too long.

He sat up, moving like someone nursing a hangover made of nerves instead of alcohol. His gaze found the sprawl of clothing across the floor. His jeans folded halfway inside out, a rectangular bulge in the pocket catching the dim light.

His phone.

He crawled across the mattress carefully, dragging his sore limbs behind him like he didn't quite belong to himself. The bed creaked faintly under his shifting weight, but Eddie didn't stir.

He looked peaceful, or at least immovable. His face buried in the crook of one arm, breath deep and steady.

Steve retrieved the phone with two fingers, the denim cold and stiff beneath his touch. He slid back under the duvet just as slowly, breathing a little heavier from the minor expedition.

8:04 AM.

He blinked against the screen's glare. A dozen texts from Robin. All unhinged. All ignored.

Instead, he typed:

something happened

His thumb hovered, then he hit send.

A few seconds passed.

Then; because some foolish instinct inside him always reached for permanence, he lifted the phone again, angled it toward the sleeping form beside him, pressed the shutter.

The flash exploded.

"Shit." Steve hissed quietly, freezing like he'd set off a bomb.

From the pillow, Eddie didn't even open his eyes. Didn't move a muscle.
"Did you just take a fucking picture of me?"

Steve flinched.
"No." He said hurriedly, clutching his phone against his chest.
"It was a selfie."

Eddie groaned, deep and muffled.
"You're so weird." He shifted just slightly, nestling deeper into the sheets.
"Go back to sleep."

"I'm like—kinda awake now, so"— Steve whispered, squinting at the light bleeding through the curtain seams.
"—I think I'm gonna go."

Eddie cleared his throat, his arm burying itself under the pillow as he pulled it tighter against his cheek.
"Okay."

"Hopefully my car hasn't been sold for scrap metal in the night." Steve said, letting out a soft laugh.

"Good luck." Eddie grumbled.

Steve crawled down the length of the bed before standing on the carpet. One foot numb.

He began dressing in the dark like someone assembling a disguise. He pulled on his shirt backward, fixed it, then wrestled with his jeans. In doing so, he crashed sideways into the edge of Eddie's dresser. A metallic clatter echoed.

"Oh my God, dude." Eddie's voice rose from the sheets, pained and flat.

"Sorry," Steve whispered, mortified. He zipped himself up. Found his socks in two different corners of the room. Shoved his phone in his pocket.

He paused at the door, hand on the knob.
"Okay, well—bye. I'll see you around or whatever."

He didn't know what he was waiting for, exactly. A part of him was hoping Eddie might get out of bed and see him off with a kiss, or offer to drive him back. Or beg him to stay and fuck him again.

But instead, Eddie just rolled over, facing the wall. The muscles of his back flexing as he repositioned himself.
"Uh-huh." He mumbled.

And that was it.

The door clicked softly behind him.

In the stairwell, the world felt real again. Cold and a little too bright. He checked his phone. The battery was hanging on by a thread.

Three new messages from Robin blinked on the screen.

You are suuuuuuuch a fool

A FOOL!!! 😩😩😩

thanks ruined my day

Steve sighed, shoved the phone into his pocket, and kept walking.

hang out with me on tumblr

Chapter Text

The knock came sharp and fast. Three raps that weren't waiting for an answer.

Steve was mid-scroll on his laptop, half-listening to some washed-out indie playlist that had been echoing through his AirPods for hours. He pulled one out, glanced toward the door with a slight frown, and padded over in his socks.

He opened it.

Robin.

Hair pulled back, hoodie zipped high, expression flat and ferocious in equal measure.

"Hi?" he offered, cautious.

She didn't even blink. Just walked right past him.

"Jesus, okay," Steve muttered, shutting the door with a loose flick of his wrist.
She moved straight to his bed, sat herself down with the kind of intention that meant this wasn't a short visit, and slammed his laptop shut.

"What the fuck?"

"Don't what the fuck me. Do not what the fuck me when I'm what the fucking you." She said fiercely.

Steve blinked.
"Did you drive all the way down here for this? Are you crazy?"

"Oh we're gonna talk about crazy. And, spoiler alert, it's not me." She said through gritted teeth, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

"Look, if this is about—that"—

"No, no. I just came to ask if you think this new shirt I bought makes me look like I have three tits. Obviously it's about that." She glared.

"Okay, well we can't talk about that here," he hissed, looking toward the thin wall that separated his dorm from the next.

"There's literally nobody else here."

"These walls are like paper—Jason next door breathes through his mouth or clears his throat and I can hear it."

Robin rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the wall. Legs dangling off his single bed.
"Tell me."

Steve's jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward the door and then toward his closet like he was worried someone might tumble out of it. His whole body was tense, legs uncertain, shifting on the spot.

"Steve," she said, softly now, with a strange kind of sincerity that instantly made him more nervous.
"Please. I have had to wait almost twelve hours. I'm not built for that kind of suspense. I had to take a beta blocker."

"I"—

"I went home. I slept. Like a person. And you—you go off and sleep with someone who literally partakes in illegal street races for money? Are you joking?" She hisses, trying her hardest to keep her voice down but it all just comes out in the redness of her cheeks.

Steve's mouth opened. Closed.

"You texted me, something happened, and then sent a blurry picture of what I assume is him sleeping, looking like an actual murder suspect. And I haven't heard from you since. You ghosted me."

Steve ran a hand through his hair.
"I didn't ghost you."

"You absolutely ghosted me."

"I was—tired!"

"You were busy," she shot back.
"Busy doing the most emotionally reckless thing imaginable and you just didn't wanna respond because you knew I was gonna tell you it's a terrible idea."

"He's not that bad. And if what he does for a living is the problem here, I worked retail last summer, should we compare risks?"
Steve's shoulders sagged.
"We had sex and I stayed the night. That's it. It's literally fine. I'm fine."

"You need to get an STD test." Robin said frankly.

"Oh my god. You are so dramatic. We used a condom." Steve huffed.

"Need I remind you that I am living proof of the unreliability of condoms. My mother reminds me every birthday." She said narrowing her eyes.

Steve didn't even grace it with a response as he just glared at her.

"Did he even feed you?"

"No?"

"Did he offer you breakfast?"

"No."

Robin looked at him, long and hard, the kind of look that peeled back layers and didn't need her to speak to know what she was thinking.
"I don't want you experimenting with someone like him."

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Robin—"

"No, I'm serious. You're—you're still figuring all this out. You're not—done. And he's—he's—careless. And reckless. I don't have to know the intimate details of his life to be able to recognise that. Plus he's older. You're in completely different lanes."

Steve sat down on the bed, scooting back beside her until his back was pressed against the wall.
"I wasn't trying to make it a big deal."

"But it is a big deal," she said, softer now.
"For you, it is. Even if you don't want to admit it. And I just—I don't want you getting hurt because some guy thinks you're a novelty, or a joke, or someone he can burn through in a weekend and forget."

His jaw clenched.
"He didn't treat me like that."

Robin reached over, nudged her shoulder into his.
"I'm not trying to ruin it. I just don't want to watch you go all in on this guy when he's always gonna be halfway out the door."

Steve groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
"I'm not all in, okay? I haven't even texted him."

Robin tilted her head.
"Really?"

"Really. He told me to only text him when I have something interesting to say," Steve muttered, mimicking Eddie's voice with bitter precision.

Robin threw her hands in the air.
"See? That's insane! Who says that? Who gives someone a literal emotional homework assignment like, earn the right to talk to me?"

Steve scowled.
"It's literally not that deep. He's just—casual."

"No. He's emotionally stunted." She pointed at him.
"And you are Steve Harrington. You don't just hang around waiting for someone to decide you're interesting enough."

Steve rolled his eyes.
"I'm not waiting around."

"You will be. I know you. A couple of days will pass and you'll be sitting here staring at your phone like some little Victorian waif hoping he'll send a pigeon or whatever." She exclaimed, shifting off of the bed and planting her feet firmly on the carpeted floor with a soft thump.

He looked at her flatly.
"A pigeon."

"Yes, a pigeon, Steve! Because that's the level of emotional communication this guy is operating on.

Robin was pacing now, hands flying as she spoke, her voice pitched halfway between exasperation and rage.
"Do you seriously want to involve yourself with someone who will only text you when they want to fuck you? Is that where we are now? Is that what we're doing? I leave you alone for a day, Steve—a day!—and suddenly you're waiting for some emotionally unavailable burnout with a nicotine dependency and a superiority complex to deem you worthy of a 'you up?' text at 2 a.m.?"

Steve flinched.
"I'm not—"

"And what, you think this is going to get better somehow? That he's gonna wake up one day and be like, oh yeah, let me take this guy out for brunch and meet his friends? No! He's gonna keep dragging you through his nonsense, and you're gonna keep thinking if you're cool and chill and interesting enough, he'll give you something real back. But he won't. Because he doesn't have it. And you? You do. You always have. And I'm not gonna sit here three months down the line and watch you get all twisted up by someone who likes making people feel small just so he doesn't have to feel like a loser."

There was a shuffle of paper on the floor behind her.

"Robin," Steve said, low.

She kept going.
"You're too nice, Steve. You're too trusting, and you have this whole golden retriever energy and it attracts wolves. I mean, what the hell kind of guy tells you not to text unless it's interesting? That's sociopath language. That's"—

"Robin. Shut up."

She stopped short, blinking. Steve was staring down at the envelope that had just slid under his dorm room door.

There was a beat of silence. She followed his eyes to the floor, where the envelope sat just inches from her boot.

"Oh," she said, still breathing hard.
"What is that?"

Steve clambered off the foot of the bed, bending down slowly, picking it up like it might explode in his hands. He already knew what it was. The stupid gold seal, the elegant serif font. They didn't do subtle.

He opened it, tore the fold. Skimmed.

"Congratulations," he read dully.
"We are pleased to offer you full membership into Alpha Rho Theta. Your dedication, leadership, and spirit have not gone unnoticed."

He let the letter fall onto his desk like it had personally offended him.

Robin blinked.

Steve just sat back down, dragged a hand through his hair, muttered, "Jesus Christ."

"You got in." Robin said flatly.

"Yep."

"You got in." She said again, as though she too, was feeling what he felt by proxy.

Steve groaned again, burying his face in his hands.
"This day fucking sucks."

Robin sighed, traipsing over to Steve and raking her fingers through his hair.
"Do you think this is an interesting enough thing to text him about?" She asked.

Steve just rolled his eyes, slamming them closed as he hit his head back against the wall with a grimace.

***

The sun was too bright. It was one of those spring mornings that tried to be pleasant but just felt aggressive. Steve squinted against it, tugging his hoodie higher over the back of his neck as he crossed the quad from Econ, AirPods in, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

His shoulders ached from the weight of the textbooks in his rucksack, making a b-line straight to the sanctity of his dorm room.
He was halfway to pretending he didn't exist when he heard it:

"Yo, Harrington!"

Steve turned, slow. He already knew the voice. That practiced casual tone that always had something cold buried in the middle of it.

Owen Fisher. President of Alpha Rho Theta, with his glossy hair and clean-cut jaw, like a prep school head boy built in a lab. Dressed like he was always five minutes away from a private yacht invitation.

And now, walking toward Steve.

"Owen. Hey," Steve said, already bracing.

Owen grinned, all teeth and no warmth. He clapped Steve on the shoulder, too hard.
"Just wanted to say congrats, man. Didn't think you had it in you."

Steve gave a tight, polite smile.
"Thanks."

Owen cocked his head, studying him the way someone might study an off-brand pair of shoes. "Gotta admit, I wasn't totally sold at first. But the guys, you know—real democratic process. They were all, 'Steve's chill, Steve's fun, he's legacy, blah blah.' So." He shrugged.
"Now here we are."

Steve's smile didn't move.
"Right."

"Gotta say though," Owen continued, his voice dipping just slightly, "you've had a pretty smooth run of things, huh?"

Steve blinked.
"What do you mean?"

Owen grinned wider, all easy confidence.
"Look, I don't blame you. If I came from a family that built half the science wing, I'd be coasting too."

Steve felt something coil tight in his chest, but he said nothing. Just let the sun glare off the metal zipper of his hoodie, let Owen's words slide past him like sleet.

"It's that Harrington shine, I guess. People eat that shit up." He said, and Steve swore he could have seen him grimace.

"Yeah. Guess so." Steve nods.

"Anyway," Owen said, already stepping back. "Welcome to the brotherhood."

And just like that, he was walking away. Leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and the dull throb of something like shame.

Steve hadn't even taken a full breath before Owen turned back around like he'd just remembered something. And of course, he had.

Of course.

"Oh, and hey," Owen said, walking backwards a step with that same polished, practiced smile.
"I heard you're taking Becca to the alumni dinner?"

Steve's stomach dipped.
"Uh. Yeah."

Owen's grin twitched at the edges, not quite faltering, just sharpening.
"Interesting."

Steve shifted his weight, nodded a little too quickly.
"It's not a thing, like—we're not dating."

"No, totally." Owen tilted his head.
"Totally. Just thought it was funny."

Steve stiffened.
"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, nothing," Owen said breezily.
"Just surprised. She always struck me as the kind of girl who wants a guy who's gonna push her up against a wall, not—well, someone like you."

Steve's mouth opened and then shut again.

"Still," Owen continued.
"You land a girl like that, you better follow through. Be a real shame if you just held her hand and dropped her off at the door."

Steve's voice was thin.
"It's just dinner."

"Yeah. Sure." Owen grinned again, stepping back. "But if you hit it, man—props. Might make me actually believe you earned your spot."

He gave him one last look, somewhere between amused and condescending, and walked off like it didn't happen. Like none of it meant anything.

Steve stood there a moment too long, his pulse loud in his ears.

God, he hated him.

***

It was quiet in the halls.

Too quiet for a Friday night, but Steve had convinced himself he liked it that way. Liked the stillness, the hum of the bulb in his desk lamp. Because the silence meant no one was paying attention to him.

His laptop was open in front of him, half a paragraph into an essay he didn't care about. Econ notes were scattered around like dead leaves. He tapped his pen against the desk, glanced at the clock. 11:03 PM.

Then his phone buzzed.

take it you didn't think of anything interesting to text me

Steve stared at it.

Felt his stomach drop like he'd just missed a step on the stairs. He didn't breathe for a full second. Then he sat back, ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to act normal even though no one was watching.

He didn't save his number purely for the fact that if he attached a name to the digits it would give him more permanence than what there actually was.

He typed, erased. Typed again.

i've been busy

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then came back.

well luckily i did
you should come over

Then:
📍 [Location Dropped]

Steve just stared at the map. Thought about the drive. Thought about showing up to his apartment just because he asked.

Thought about what that would mean for him to be at the beck and call of someone as convoluted as Eddie.

His heart was doing something stupid and uneven in his chest. He wanted to say no. He also wanted to throw his laptop in the trash and run out the door barefoot.

you always text people this late?

only the ones who try to ghost me

Steve swallowed hard. Literally winced at himself before replying.

wasn't ghosting. was waiting for something interesting to say

and?

Steve hesitated.

i got nothing

Another pause.

good thing i'm not inviting your brain over then isn't it

Steve stared at the screen.

He closed his laptop without saving, stood up too fast.
"Jesus Christ." He said, to no one in particular.

Then he grabbed his keys.

***

The drive had been long.

Forty-five minutes of second-guessing, of Robin's voice inside of his head, every pause in the texts, every word Eddie had said in the half-dark of his apartment the first time.

The GPS took him through unfamiliar streets, past shuttered gas stations and bars that looked like places you'd go if you wanted to disappear.

He knocked once. Eddie opened the door without saying anything. Shirtless, naturally, a half drunk bottle of beer in one hand, phone in the other. He smirked like Steve showing up was the punchline to a joke he'd already heard.

"And here I was thinking that maybe, baby had a bedtime. Thought I'd have to find someone else to disappoint me tonight" he said, taking a swig.

Steve rolled his eyes, eyes glassy.
"It was a long drive."

"Oh no," Eddie said, stepping aside to let him in. "Did you have a tiring day at school, sweetheart?"

"You're an asshole," Steve muttered, still smiling, still walking in.

"Uh-huh." Eddie said, shutting the door behind him.
"And you're easy. I texted you once."

"You dropped a pin before I'd even agreed to come." Steve said, heart already picking up.

"And you came," Eddie shot back, already closing the space between them.
"Good boy."

Steve let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite.
"Yeah, well. I almost turned around halfway here. So be grateful I made it at all."

"Bet you were rehearsing an adorable little speech in the car. 'No, Eddie, this is a mistake. I'm an angel. I can't sway from the path of my destiny. Whatever will my parents think if they find out I'm a dirty little queer who fantasises about getting railed by a man!'" He mock-whined in falsetto.

Steve laughed despite himself.
"You are so ridiculous."

Eddie shrugged, unbothered.
"You like it. You love it. You like me being mean to you." He smiles, finishing off the beer before setting the empty bottle down atop the coffee table.

"I really don't."

"You do. Your pupils dilate." He took a step forward, then another.
"How's school? Did you raise your hand real nice today?"

"Don't act like you care about how school is." Steve shot back with a scoff.

But Eddie didn't deter, just dragged his thumb across Steve's jaw before pressing it against his lower lip, pulling down.
"Bet your professors eat you up. All those sad little nods. The 'I get it now, sir' face. Do you bat your lashes when you turn in homework?"

"I will literally leave." Steve said, voice clipped.

But he wouldn't. Eddie already knew that. Not now that he was here. Not now that he'd had a taste of freedom.

"Relax. You're here now. I win." Eddie said simply. It wasn't smug, it was just a knowing. Something solemn in his eyes as he glanced down at Steve's lips.

Then Eddie kissed him. Fingers curled in the collar of Steve's jacket, tugging him in like they'd been mid-conversation all week. He tasted like salt and smoke and beer. It was overwhelming and totally expected.

Steve kissed him back, hands pressed against Eddie's bare chest, not really knowing where they were supposed to go. He could feel Eddie smirking against his mouth, already unzipping his jacket, fingers slipping under his shirt like he owned the right to touch him.

"You really don't waste time," Steve murmured.

"Why would I?" Eddie laughed against his mouth, low and certain.
"You're already here. Already twitchy."

"I am not twitchy."

Eddie tugged at his belt.
"You're vibrating."

"The size of your ego is insane. You know that, right?" Steve said, trying to maintain a semblance of composure as Eddie's hands roam across his torso.

"And yet, you're still letting me undress you. How funny." Eddie said with a tilt of his head.

Steve swallowed hard.
"It's just easier than arguing."

"Oh? So you like being manhandled." He grins, all teeth.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't not say it."

Steve groaned, breath hitching as Eddie slid his shirt up and over his head in one swift motion. His skin prickled in the air, flushed and cold and too aware of Eddie watching him like a wolf eyeing dinner.

"You're blushing," Eddie teased, brushing his knuckles down Steve's stomach.
"That's so fucking cute."

"I hate you."

"You wish."

Steve huffed, not quite sure what part of himself he was arguing with anymore. Eddie's hands were at waistband of his sweatpants now, tugging him gently toward the bedroom, like it was inevitable.

By the time they made it to the bed, Steve was shirtless and breathless, Eddie's hands everywhere, warm and insistent.

"Christ," Steve whispered, dizzy, and Eddie just grinned.

"Welcome back, Harrington," he murmured with a smile, pushing him down onto the mattress like breath into silence.

Eddie lifts one of his legs, easily, unceremoniously. Pressing the sole of Steve's sneaker flat to the center of his chest, holding him there. Neither cruel nor tender. Just certain.

His fingers go to the laces, rough and efficient, and with a single pull they come undone. He peels the shoe off slowly, almost teasingly, then lets it drop to the floor with a hollow thud.

Then he reaches for the other leg. Repeats the ritual. Like Steve is being unwrapped.

Steve just lays there and lets him. Quiet, wide-eyed, pinned more by the atmosphere than by Eddie's hands.

His legs dangle off the edge of the bed, socked feet barely brushing the worn carpet, as if unsure whether to flee or stay planted. Eddie navigates the space loose-limbed, pausing only to roll his shoulders or scratch the back of his neck. There's a stretch of silence, heavy but not tense, and then Eddie speaks without looking.

"You still nervous?" he asks, low, amused, as he steps between Steve's legs and slides his fingers beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

Steve doesn't answer right away. Just blinks.

Eddie grins, slow and feline, dragging the fabric down inch by inch.
"What, you not talking now? Trying to be 'Mr Cool Guy?'"

Steve exhales. Half-laugh, half-sigh as his sweatpants catch at his knees.
"I'm just watching," he mutters.

"Yeah?" Eddie glances up, dark hair falling in his eyes, voice pitched halfway between teasing and fond.
"You like watching?"

Steve nods, barely. Eyes still tracking every place Eddie's fingers go.

Eddie discards Steve's sweatpants like they're nothing, like they'd always been meant to come off and were just in the way.

They hit the floor with a dull whisper of fabric, forgotten as quickly as they're removed. He stands there for a moment, still between Steve's knees, hands at his own waistband now.
The light's soft, slanting in from the crack between the curtains, dust hanging in it like lazy ghosts.

And Eddie. He's looking straight at him. Not just at him. Into him. Like he's trying to get a rise, or a confession, or both.

The clink of his belt buckle unfastening sounds absurdly loud in the stillness. A kind of punctuation. Then his fingers are slipping beneath the denim, dragging the jeans down, slow and deliberate, the way someone might unlace a gift they already know the contents of but still want to savor.
His hips roll as he does it, careless and certain, and Steve feels like he's dying. Not from fear this time. From looking. From being looked at. From the fact that Eddie never breaks eye contact. Not once.

It's too much, almost. The intimacy of it. The casual power. The way Eddie's not trying to be sexy. He just is. And Steve, half-naked and breathless, legs still hanging dumbly off the bed, can do nothing but watch and try not to show that he's coming apart just from this.

Eddie walks away without a word. Just turns, bare feet soundless against the floor, a silhouette cut loose from the heat of the moment.

Steve watches him cross to the drawer beside the bed. Watches the deliberate, unhurried way he slides it open. He pulls out a condom, a bottle of lube. No hesitation. No ceremony. Just routine. Muscle memory.

The lube lands on the bed with a soft thud near Steve's thigh, cool against the crumpled sheet. Eddie doesn't speak. Doesn't smile. Just tears the foil packet open with his teeth, slow and sharp, eyes never leaving Steve's.
That look, steady and unreadable, makes Steve feel like his skin might peel away if it keeps going. And Eddie knows it. Keeps his gaze locked there while he pushes his briefs down and off in one fluid motion.

He rolls the condom on with practiced fingers, effortless, unbothered, like this is the most normal thing in the world. It probably is to him. To Steve, it feels like something else entirely. Like being chosen and devoured in the same breath.

Then Eddie's back, stepping in again, and without a word, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of Steve's boxers, pulling them down, slow, certain.

Eddie lifts Steve's legs with ease, like shifting something fragile but already his. His to break if he wanted to.

He reaches for the lube. Opening it with an audible, soft crack before layering a good amount over himself.

There's a glint in his eye, not unkind, more amused than anything. As if this part, the pulling down, the lining up, the moment right before, is where the real intimacy lives. He smiles, subtle and half-lidded, like he knows exactly what's about to happen and exactly how Steve will unravel from it.

He moves with quiet purpose, one knee braced against the bed for balance, the other pressing the mattress down beside Steve's head. And then. without a word, he pushes in. Not rough. Not slow. Just real.

And in that instant, Steve stops thinking.

Everything loud in him, the worry, the performance, the self-conscious chatter just falls away. The room doesn't go dark, it just goes still. Like holding breath underwater. Like silence that hums. Eddie above him, steady, real, the only thing in focus. For the first time in hours, maybe days, Steve isn't anywhere else but here.

Eddie kisses him slow, wet, unhurried. Like each flick of tongue is deliberate, lazy, like he's savoring something he's had before but wants to rediscover anyway.
It's not messy, but it's close. Breath mingling, lips parting just enough. There's no rhythm, not really. Only motion, only presence. Like time could stretch forever and Eddie still wouldn't be done with him.

Steve's blunt nails dig into the soft skin at Eddie's sides. Not enough to hurt, but enough to leave the faintest reminder. A claim. A question. Something between the two.

Eddie doesn't make a sound. No gasp, no murmur, no curse whispered against Steve's throat. Just breath. Just the quiet pull and drag of his body over Steve's.

If it weren't for the weight of him, the way his hips move just enough to make Steve dizzy, he could've been a ghost. Cool to the touch, eyes half-lidded and impossible to read.

Steve can feel him. That's the only proof Eddie's even there.

Eddie's hips snap forward, sudden and sharp. A deliberate shift, deeper than before and it punches the air right out of Steve. His mouth drops open in a gasp, fingers tightening reflexively at Eddie's waist.

Eddie grins, low and amused, like he's just confirmed something for himself.
"Just checking you're still here," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, teasing without mercy. He doesn't stop moving, just slows again, fluid and easy, like the sharpness had never happened at all.

Another roll of his hips, slower this time, more deliberate, and Steve's head falls back.

"God," Steve breathes.

"Yeah," Eddie replies, biting back a laugh. "You're welcome."

He leaned over him with all the self-satisfaction of a man who'd built a monument and was now admiring his handiwork.

"Y'know," Eddie said, lips against Steve's cheek, "for someone with a mouth like yours, you're really good at just lying there."

Steve blinked.

Eddie grinned.
"It's kind of cute, honestly. Like I ordered one of those poseable mannequins but sexier and kind of sweaty."

Steve lifted his head slowly.
"Did you just compare me to a mannequin?"

"A hot one," Eddie said, pinching the back of Steve's thigh.
"The kind they'd use in, like, a high-end window display."

Steve stared at him. Eddie raised a brow.

Something shifted.

Steve rolled, flipping them. Slightly sore, slightly unsure. But it didn't stop him. He leaned over Eddie, slow, deliberate, and kissed him. Hard. One hand on his chest, pinning him. Not roughly, but firmly.

Eddie pulled back an inch, blinking.
"Oh?"

Steve didn't answer.

He kissed down Eddie's throat, sucked a bruise into the curve of his collarbone, the kind that wouldn't fade fast. Eddie's grin faltered.

Steve reached for Eddie's wrists and pinned them to the mattress, and this time there was no tremble in his hands. Just a look.

Eddie's voice went lower, playful, but not unaffected.
"Someone grew a backbone."

Steve didn't smile.
"You talk a lot."

Eddie bites down against his lower lip, laughing deep from his chest.
"Touchè."

Steve just held him there, eyes dark and focused, until Eddie stopped smiling.

"Okay then, Coordination." Eddie said.
"Show me what you've got."

Steve did.

He moves on instinct more than certainty, one hand braced at Eddie's hip, the other fumbling between them, breath shaky as he lines himself up and sinks down. Slow, cautious, the way someone does something for the first time with both reverence and panic.

Eddie exhales hard, eyes narrowing just slightly like he's refusing to give away too much. His jaw is locked, his expression unreadable in the worst way. Not blank. Too calculated for that. But tight, like he's willing himself to look bored out of sheer spite.

Steve settles, legs tense with effort, not sure if he's doing it right, but trying not to look like he's trying. His gaze is locked on Eddie's, searching for something. A flicker of pleasure, a sign he's not completely bombing.

"You can say something," Steve mutters.

Eddie shrugs, casually, even now.
"Why? You look like you're concentrating hard enough without the pressure of a review."

Steve's face flares, embarrassed, but he stays where he is, trying not to let the nerves pull him apart. Tries again. Rocks his hips forward, slow. He watches Eddie's face for a reaction and gets almost nothing. Just a steady breath out of his nose.

"Jesus," Steve mutters, annoyed.
"Do you ever just enjoy anything?"

Eddie smirks.
"Wouldn't you like to know."

Steve adjusts. Just a bit, shifts the angle, finds something that feels more sure-footed than anything he's done so far. His knees ache against the mattress, but he barely notices now. He's moving with rhythm, not perfect but earnest, and it's working. He can feel it in the tension that builds under Eddie's hands, in the sudden tightness of his grip.

Eddie's fingers press into Steve's hip, hard. Not guiding, just holding. Like he's bracing himself.

And then, finally, a sound slips out of him. A breath, sharp and audible. A quiet, involuntary thing like it caught him off guard. Steve catches it instantly and grins through his next movement, something a little cockier settling into his shoulders.

Eddie laughs, breathless, voice low like he's embarrassed he's making any sound at all. "Alright. Fuck you."

Steve leans down, panting now, grin still crooked on his face.
"I'm trying."

He wasn't practiced. Not in this. But he was certain in a way that made up for it. He touched like he was figuring it out as he went, but wanted to figure it out. Wanted to learn Eddie the same way he studied for exams he actually cared about: late at night, under pressure, and with his whole heart in it.

And Eddie let him. Just breathed through gritted teeth and arched his back and let Steve take something back from him. Not control, not power, but the smug, easy footing he always seemed to have.

Eddie was breathless and pink in the cheeks, laughing like he was wrecked and delighted.

"Alright," he said, voice low, amused.
"That's enough of that."

Steve blinked, slowed his movements.
"What?"

Eddie rolled, fast and sure, pinning Steve beneath him in one motion. Hands braced on either side of his head, eyes dancing. That glint back. The mischief. The certainty.

"You proved your point, hotshot," he murmured, grinning against Steve's jaw.
"But let's not pretend you didn't look like you were going to pass out from the sheer emotional weight of being in charge."

"I was fine," Steve said, indignant.

"You were heroic," Eddie said, mock-reverent. "My brave little soldier."

Steve let out a breath, part protest, part surrender.

Eddie kissed down his chest. Slow. Languid. Possessive in the way people get when they feel like they gave up too much too quickly and want to remind you who started this.

"You got a taste," Eddie said, teeth grazing Steve's hipbone, "but next time, when you wanna be in charge, you're gonna have to earn it."

Steve swallowed.
"Is that a challenge?"

"It's a promise."

Then Eddie kissed him again. Messy, open-mouthed, like he had all the time in the world to undo him.

And he did.

He took his time with it, all over again. Until Steve was wrecked in an entirely different way. Until he wasn't thinking anymore. Until all he could do was feel.

And maybe that was the point.

***

The room was still. Dim. The fan above them turned lazily, blades cutting soft shadows across the ceiling.
Sweat had dried on Steve's skin, but he hadn't moved. Eddie lay beside him, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting against his stomach. Eyes closed. Breathing even. Not asleep. Just existing. Content, maybe.

Steve's voice cut through the quiet.
"I got into the frat."

Eddie didn't look at him. He just laughed. Short. Derisive.

Steve rolled his head to the side.
"I hate it."

"Then why'd you say yes?" Eddie asked.

"Doesn't work like that," Steve said finally.
"They just sent the letter. I didn't have to say anything."

"Well, I'm sure these guys aren't really the kind to understand what no means anyway." Eddie grumbled.

"And if that wasn't bad enough I got pressured into asking this girl to the alumni dinner."

Eddie sighed through his nose and laid his arm over his eyes.

"I didn't even want to," Steve said.
"It's just—Jason was there, and the frat guys were there at this mixer, and then—suddenly it was a thing. Suddenly I was the—asshole if I didn't ask."

"So you asked."

"Yeah."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie muttered, shaking his head, the way someone might after hearing something so soft it made them angry.
"You're such a fucking pussy."

Steve blinked at him.
"Okay. Cool. Thanks."

Eddie turned then, propped himself up on one elbow.
"No, seriously. You talk like everything just happens to you. Like you're a fucking leaf in the breeze or something."

Steve bristled.
"It's not that easy."

"Course it is."

"No. It's not. Not for me."

"Why? 'Cause your dad wants you to wear loafers and have beers with guys named Preston?" Eddie snickers.

Steve didn't answer. He just stared at the ceiling.

Eddie leaned in, voice softer, but not gentler. "You asked if my family knows what I do."

Steve nodded once.

"They don't," Eddie said.
"Because I don't owe them shit. I'm my own person. I do what I want. I made a choice."

Steve breathed out slow.
"Yeah, well—it's easy for someone like you who's never been scared of anything ever, apparently."

Eddie sat up then, spine curved like a question mark, hair a mess, chain sticking to his collarbone.
"Look, man. You wanna go play pretend with that girl, go play. Go do your polite little dinner and talk about your dad's golf handicap or whatever. But don't come here after and act like you're not choosing."

Steve's face went still. Stung, maybe. But not angry.
"I didn't want to ask her, alright?" He faltered, hating how pathetic it sounded out loud.
"They all expect me to. It's a thing. She's a thing."

"Then make it not a thing." Eddie pressed.

"It's not that simple."

Eddie sat up, pushing a hand through his hair. His silhouette in the dark was loose, angular, a little wild.
"Everything's not that simple with you."

Steve frowned.
"I'm trying."

"No. You're trying not to piss anyone off. That's not the same." Eddie huffed.

"So, what. Now you're mad?"

Eddie shrugged.
"No. Whether you go to your little dinner with your girlfriend or not doesn't change my life. You're the one who has to live in your skin."

"Good. Because I didn't ask for your help, y'know." Steve said, rolling his eyes.

Eddie didn't look at him. Didn't even flinch.

"Well then don't tell me these things," he said, voice flat and dull like he was already bored with the whole conversation.

Steve grounded his molars, folding his arms across his chest.
"Jesus."

Eddie tilted his head lazily, looking to Steve like he was totally indifferent to his existence.
"What? You wanted me to what—tell you it's all gonna be okay? That you're doing the right thing? That you're still the good guy everyone thinks you are?"

"I didn't want anything." Steve snapped.

"Then congratulations," Eddie said.
"You got exactly that. I didn't ask to be part of your little morality play, Steve." Eddie's voice wasn't raised, but it was sharp now, close to something cutting.
"You keep talking like you're trapped, but you've got keys to every door and you're just too scared to open any of them."

Steve sat there in the dark just staring ahead of him. He wanted to argue, but he didn't know what he was defending anymore.

"I shouldn't have said anything," he muttered.

"No," Eddie said, softer now, but still unflinching.
"You shouldn't have."

Eddie flopped back down against the pillow like nothing had happened, arms crossed behind his head, eyes drifting lazily toward the ceiling.

"So anyway," he said, like he hadn't just gutted Steve with his words two minutes ago.
"I'm thinking about fitting you into my regular schedule."

Steve blinks, face screwing up in confusion.
"What?"

Eddie didn't look at him. He just smirked.
"You know. Mondays, grocery shopping. Tuesdays, yoga. Wednesdays, sex with Steve."

Steve's voice rose, caught somewhere between suspicion and surprise.
"You wanna see me weekly?"

"Woah." Eddie scoffed out a laugh, holding his hands up.
"Don't get ahead of yourself. You're more of a biweekly commitment at best," Eddie said, eyes flicking over to him with a slow, deliberate grin. "I'm easing into the idea."

Steve stared, trying not to smile. Failing a little. "You're such a dick."

"And yet," Eddie said, spreading his arms wide like he was presenting himself on a platter, "you keep coming back."

Eddie tilted his head toward the bed.
"So what do you say, Harrington? You want a spot in the rotation? I'll even let you pick a theme song."

Steve leaned back slightly, propped on one hand, looking at Eddie like he was trying to study him under strange light. Half wary, half wanting.
"Only if you tell me why you want me in the regular rotation."

"If you're waiting for me to say it's because I'm fond of you or that I enjoy your company or whatever you may as well leave now." He says with a brow raised.

A laugh erupts from Steve's chest, light and easy.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't expect that much of you."

"Maybe it's 'cause you make it weird," Eddie said. "You're like—anxious and polite and constantly on the verge of shitting your pants, but it's kinda funny."

Steve shook his head, a breath of a laugh escaping.
"So you're keeping me around for sport."

"I'm keeping you around. Take it or leave it." Eddie said, tilting toward him again, voice low.

"Fine."
Steve turned his face away before Eddie saw the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
 
"But just to be clear"— he started as Steve looked over at him.
"I'm still not your boyfriend. So don't slip up and tell me you love me or some shit."
 
Steve scoffed, immediately defensive, cheeks heating.
"Jesus, I wasn't going to."
 
"You say that now," Eddie said, folding his arms behind his head like he was lounging in the aftermath of a joke only he found funny.
"But I'm a catch."
 
Steve turned away, burying his face half into the pillow.
"You're so annoying.
 
"I'm just saying," Eddie said.
"Don't get confused. You wanna keep coming around, that's fine. Just keep your head on straight."
 
Steve nodded.
"Yeah. I get it."
 
Eddie shifts beside him, the sheets rustling as he reaches up and flicks off the lamp. The room slips into shadow, the kind of darkness where you can still see shapes, outlines, breath hanging between them like heat off skin.

"Now go to sleep," he mutters, voice low, edged in fatigue.

Steve laid there for a moment, pulling at the edges of the duvet watching the ceiling warp in the dark.
"But also, it's probably worth mentioning that Tuesday nights work better for me. I don't have classes until 12 on Wednesdays. But I'm happy to just send you a photo of my schedule and we can work around it."

"Goodnight." Eddie said with finality as Steve smiled to himself.

***

Morning clings to the windows of Eddie's apartment like steam. Opaque, half‑formed, easy to wipe away.

Steve dresses languidly, gathering his clothes the way you might roll up a map after you've already memorized the route.

Eddie lifts his head long enough to offer a gruff, still‑dreaming "later," the syllable dissolving into the pillow before Steve even reaches the door.

No kiss, no shared breath. Just the soft click of the latch behind him and a hallway that already smells of someone else's breakfast.

***

The drive back is all filtered sunlight and empty intersections, the city half‑awake, its sharper edges sanded down by the early hour. Steve keeps the radio low, one hand loose on the wheel, replaying the feel of Eddie's palm on his ribs as though that, too, were part of the music.

When he finally shoulders open the dorm‑room door, fluorescent light spills over him, sudden and flat. His roommate, Jack is stretched across his bed, phone tilted above his face, flicking through an endless scroll of something forgettable.

And there, squarely on Steve's mattress, glows a massive edible arrangement. Pineapple carved into fireworks, strawberries armored in chocolate, skewers like parade flags jutting skyward.

Gaudy, celebratory, utterly indifferent to the person who is expected to eat it.

Steve stops short.
"What the fuck."

Jack doesn't look up.
"Oh. Yeah. Came for you this morning."

Steve steps closer. The fruit smells too sweet, a bright chemical sugar that doesn't belong to any real orchard. A card is nestled among the skewers, tidy typeface shining like a plaque.

Stevie,
Congratulations on making it into the brotherhood. These men will be your friends for life. Take care of each other.
Go Bulldogs.
– Dad

The note feels heavier than the bouquet.

Steve stares at the card a second longer, like it might revise itself if he just gives it enough time. But it doesn't. The bold Go Bulldogs stares back at him like a dare. He exhales, rakes a hand through his hair.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters.

Jack, still splayed out on the bed like a Renaissance cherub armed with TikTok instead of a lute, glances over lazily.
"If you don't want it, can I have it?" He shifts just enough to gesture at the monumental display. "My blood sugar is mad low."

Steve looks at the bouquet again. At the skewers arranged with military precision, the absurd fanfare of it all.
"Yeah, man. Help yourself."

***

It happens all at once, like the sound of something breaking in a dream.

The door flies open with a bang that tears through the quiet, the kind of noise that doesn't so much wake you as rip you from sleep and toss you into some other reality entirely.

There's yelling, half-laughing, half-menacing. And then hands, too many hands, grabbing, wrestling, pulling him from the sheets while his body's still catching up to the fact that it's no longer horizontal.

Steve doesn't have time to speak, to ask, to fight. There's fabric over his head before his mouth even opens.

The world goes black and hot and close, and in that instant, he isn't in his dorm anymore. He's just a body being dragged, bare feet stumbling over linoleum, a shoulder slamming into a doorframe, arms wrenching him down a hallway he can't see. All orientation lost, sense of time shredded. He only knows he's moving, and that they're taking him, and that wherever he's going, it isn't by choice.

The bag is torn from his head with a suddenness that makes Steve flinch. Eyes blinking hard against the sting of overhead lights that feel like daylight after the dark. His breath catches, skin damp, heart still sprinting from the blind chaos of being manhandled through stairwells and hallways.

When his vision steadies, he sees he's not alone. Lined up shoulder to shoulder with a half-dozen other guys, all equally rumpled and wild-eyed. Their T-shirts twisted, pajama pants, all barefoot.

No one speaks. No one dares.

They're in a great room. A hall, windowless, cavernous with echo. At the far end, beneath an arched alcove with two tall standing lamps throwing long shadows, stands Owen.

Hooded, cloaked in red and gold like something ceremonial. Half priest, half cult leader. His fraternity brothers flanking him in perfect formation, every expression bored or smug or some calibrated mixture of both.

He's holding a wooden paddle. Raw, creaking, like it's been waiting for this moment.

He's smiling. Not kindly.

"Welcome," Owen says, his voice unnervingly calm.
"To what will be the most important night of your lives.

Steve blinks, still trying to chase the blur from his eyes.

He paces slowly in front of them, the cloak trailing. Every step clicks in the silent room. His gaze drifts over their line, landing on Steve and then gliding away like he's already ranked him against the others.

"You walked in, eyes half‑closed. And we made you walk further. To here. To this." He raises the paddle, the wood dull under the glare of the lamps.
"To this moment. And now, you'll earn your place."

He grips the paddle tighter, and the shadow it casts splits across the floor in jagged lines.

"One by one," he continues, tone heavy with ceremony.
"You will claim your right to belong. To this brotherhood. To Alpha Rho Theta. Pledge first, answer to the paddle, then you'll know what it means to carry our name."

Silence stretches. The boys shift, like they're all trying to shrink into themselves. Steve feels the air hum with it. With the foreboding of what's come. The echo of the paddle's wood, waiting.

Owen stands still now, that cruel majesty settling into his posture.

Steve can feel the pulse in his neck, loud and dumb.

Owen steps forward, cloak swaying like a curtain caught in a slow breeze, paddle swinging idly at his side as he moves.

"You think this is about pain," Owen begins again, voice smoother now, shaped like something practiced in front of a mirror.
"You think the paddle is punishment. That this room, this ritual, is meant to humiliate you."

He stops, turns to face the line directly, and then slowly lifts the paddle until it rests flat across both his hands, almost reverent now, like an offering.

"It's not," he says.
"It's about surrender."

He lets the silence punctuate the word, lets it sink into the concrete.

"This is the moment you give yourselves over. Not just to us. Not just to Alpha Rho Theta. But to something larger. A brotherhood that outlives you. A history you'll carry. A name we've built over decades, brick by brick, body by body, pledge by pledge."

He walks the line as he speaks, looking each boy in the eye, and when he gets to Steve, he lingers for a second too long. His smile curling like a secret only he understands.

"You wear this name now," Owen says, gesturing wide.
"And that means something. It means we own you. Every step you take from this night forward. Every class, every party, every fucking internship you get handed will have this name behind it. So you better be worthy."

A pause, then he stops at the center of the room, facing them square.

"But right now?" His voice lowers.
"I'm looking at a line of scared boys. Boys pretending to be men. And I don't need boys."

He slaps the paddle against his hand once.

"I need men. Brothers. Soldiers."

He raises his chin.

"So if you're going to cry, cry now. If you're going to piss your pants, do it now. Because once we start, there's no going back. You all belong to us."

The room is still. No one breathes. Steve stares straight ahead, the back of his neck slick with sweat.

Owen lets the final words settle like dust. Watching the line of boys still too stiff, still too clean. His fingers close more tightly around the paddle, lifting it just slightly as he speaks again, voice cool and unwavering.

"We will call your names," he says.
"One by one. And when you step forward, you will kneel. You will speak the oath. You will pledge yourself to this house, to this brotherhood, and to every man who came before you."

He starts to pace again, slow and deliberate.

"And then, we will mark you."

The pause is calculated. Not for drama, but for weight. The paddle swings lazily again, a pendulum of inevitability.

"Not with ink. Not with blood. But with something you'll remember. A gift," he smirks faintly.
"To carry with you every time you sit down for the rest of the week. And then you'll rise. Changed."

A couple of the boys shift, nervous laughter swallowed quickly.

"You will feel it. You will bear it. Because belonging demands a cost. And if you flinch, if you whine, if you beg. We'll know exactly what kind of man you are. Or aren't."

He stops again, directly in front of them.

"This is not a game. This is the crucible. We're burning away the softness, the privilege, the boyhood. What's left — if there's anything left — will be one of us."

Owen smiles thinly.

"Let's begin."

One by one, the boys step forward, voices trembling as they recite the pledge, their knees hitting the cold floor.

Every time the paddle cracks down, Steve flinches, the sharp sound echoing like a warning in his chest.

The line shortens, the boys swallowed up by the shadows after their turn. Steve watches them vanish, until he's the last one standing. Alone under the dim light, trembling and exposed.

Owen steps forward, his red cloak folding around him like a dark promise. His eyes lock onto Steve's with a slow, deliberate smile. One that tastes of disdain, of cold satisfaction.

"Harrington," Owen says, voice low and cutting through the silence.
"You're up."

Steve's legs feel locked at the knees, like they'll buckle if he thinks too hard about what's happening.

Steve steps forward, slowly, eyes fixed to the floor as he walks.
Then he stops just short of Owen, lifting his eyes to see him grinning without humour.

"Okay, Harrington. Give us the pledge."

Steve opens his mouth but it feels dry, his voice barely audible.
"I pledge my loyalty to Alpha Rho"—

Owen cuts him off with a dramatic sigh.
"Sorry. I can't quite hear you."

Laughter erupts from somewhere in the circle of cloaked brothers.

Steve flushes, jaw tight. He draws in a sharp breath.
"I pledge my loyalty to Alpha Rho—" he tries again, louder, trying to steady the quiver in his chest.

"I still can't fucking hear you, Harrington."

Steve clenches his fists, digs his nails into his palms, and yells it this time.
"I pledge my loyalty to Alpha Rho Theta! To uphold its honour. To stand by my brothers. To—to represent its name with dignity and strength!"

It echoes, loud and raw and weirdly shaky.

Owen's smirk sharpens.
"We wanted to do something special for you, legacy." He starts, as Steve frowns.
"Ten Harringtons walked these halls before you, made this house what it is. Ten legacies. Ten names carved into plaques and trophies."

He steps closer, paddle resting across his palms. "So, you're gonna take ten hits."

Steve swallows hard, heart rate elevating.

"Ten. And you won't cry, you won't beg me to stop, you won't do a damn thing except prove you belong here."

It was like he'd been submerged, the air thick and yellowed with breath, with sweat, with the eerie dampness of the basement walls pressing in. Everything in the room feels too alive. The faces, the flickering light overhead, the eyes fixed on him. Some pitying, most hungry. Steve can hear the blood in his own ears.

"Ten for your bloodline. Ten for the privilege."

Steve doesn't say anything. Can't. His mouth is dry, his stomach feels like it's filled with pebbles.

"Bend over," Owen says simply.

And Steve obeys. He bends over the table, stiff, trembling slightly, like he can feel every eye tracing the curve of his spine. His palms hover awkwardly until Owen snaps his fingers.

"Hold him."

Two brothers move in, wordless. They grip his arms and press them down flat to the wood, like they're restraining something wild. It's worse than being hurt, the humiliation of being pinned, of not being trusted to stay still.

Steve closes his eyes, and the cold from the table bleeds up through his skin. He wants to disappear into it.

Owen hasn't even moved yet, but Steve can feel the fear before the pain, his breath catches in his throat. Waiting, bracing.

Owen's footsteps echo softly behind him, measured, like he's walking toward an altar. There's nothing in his voice when he speaks, only performance.

"One."

The first strike cracks through the room like a gunshot. Steve gasps. His whole body jolts forward, tethered only by the arms anchoring him down.
The pain doesn't hit all at once. It blooms, cruel and slow. Heat radiating beneath his skin. The crowd shifts, a laugh somewhere, someone whistling low under their breath.

"Two."

Another, right on top of the first. Steve chokes. It's sharper now, layered over the first blow, as if pain has a memory and Owen's invoking it line by line. His eyes sting. He clenches his jaw, but it doesn't stop the noise that escapes him. Raw, unwilling.

"Three."

His whole lower body flinches. He's dizzy. His elbows try to jerk off the table but they hold him firm, harder now, gripping tighter as his breath staggers and goes thin. He thinks he might throw up. It's not dramatic. It's mechanical. Like his body is shutting down in pieces.

"Four."

His legs are shaking. His mouth is open but no sound comes. It's worse that he can hear Owen counting. Worse that he knows there are six more. Worse that he can't stop it, can't move, can't even bring himself to scream because the part of him that still wants to impress someone. Anyone. His father, Owen, God.

"Five."

The cry tears from him. Broken. He can feel heat rising in his chest, his neck, his ears. His throat is tight with it, this dense ugly thing that has no name except shame.

"Six."

The pain is layered now, cumulative. Like every nerve in his skin is begging for reprieve and none comes. He can't feel his legs. His vision pulses.

"Seven."

He sobs, and his chin hits the wood of the table.

There's no other word for it. It splits him open. Like something sacred and private has been pulled into the light.

"Eight."

The sounds he's making now are fractured things, gasping and animal. It doesn't feel like he's here anymore. He's floating somewhere behind himself, watching it happen.

"Nine."

His body's moving on its own, twitching under the weight of the blow, legs dragging slightly as if his muscles are trying to run, but he's bolted down.

"Ten."

Silence.

Or something like it. He doesn't hear Owen step back. Doesn't hear the whispers around him. All he hears is the slow throb of blood in his ears and the rattle of his own breath.

And then someone lets go of his arms.

He doesn't move. Can't yet. He stays where he is, chest heaving against the wood, mouth open, tears drying on his cheek. A dog that's been whipped into stillness.

This is legacy. This is brotherhood.

Owen circles the table slowly, deliberately, like he's surveying damage he's proud of. The room is still watching. Breathless or bored or amused, it hardly matters. Steve hasn't moved. His knuckles are white around the edges of the table, body slack in that way pain makes you. A kind of surrender that feels nothing like peace.

"Well done, Harrington," Owen says, voice light, smug with satisfaction. He leans in, close to Steve's ear, the quiet mockery of it all curled like smoke around his words.

"Guess the silver spoon didn't bruise as bad as this, huh?"

The others laugh. Not loudly, not cruelly, but with the casual ease of people who've forgotten this is happening to a real person. Owen claps Steve's shoulder, mock-affectionate.
"Welcome to the brotherhood."

***

He doesn't remember leaving the hall. Not really. Just the fluorescent flicker of light overhead, the distant sound of someone laughing as he stumbled up the stairs like his legs didn't belong to him anymore.

Everything hurts. Not in a metaphorical way. Not in a poetic way. Just pain. Real and searing and throbbing, like it's spreading underneath his skin.

He goes straight to the showers.

His hands are shaking as he peels his clothes off. Shirt first, then pyjama pants with a wince that feels like peeling away a layer of himself. Boxers last, and it's the hardest, because they cling where the skin is raw. He bites down on his own lip just to get through it, tastes iron.

He stands at the sink first. Not even looking at his face. He doesn't want to see his face. He turns slightly, slowly, trying to see behind himself in the mirror.
Twists his torso, eyes straining to take it in. His skin is livid. A bloom of red and purple bruising fanned out across the curve of him, high and hot and vicious. Raised welts, angry and uneven. The shape of something left behind.

The sob comes out of nowhere. He presses his hand to his mouth like it'll stop anything, but it doesn't. It's broken, loud, ugly. He walks into the shower stall still crying. Still shaking.

He steps into the stall, turns the water on full, cold. Only cold, and turns his back to it. The spray hits his shoulders first, then his spine, until it finds its mark. The raw, burning center of him.

His whole body jerks at the first touch of it. It's not relief. Not even close. It's agony drawn clean through ice. The kind that makes your vision flare and narrow all at once, makes your breath catch in your throat and lodge there like a sob you didn't mean to give away.

He leans forward, both hands braced flat against the tile, forehead touching the wall like if he just presses hard enough, maybe the ache will pass through it instead. The water keeps coming, sluicing over him, but it doesn't numb anything. It only sharpens it. Each welt and bruise a glowing nerve ending he didn't know he had.

And then he's biting down on his knuckles. Hard. Just to stop the sound. Not a scream, exactly. But something just beneath it. Something shameful. Animal.

He stays there, the water running down his back in sheets, until his lips are numb and his shoulders are trembling and the salt on his skin is no longer from the sweat of fear, but from the tears he never gave himself permission to shed.

Chapter Text

The days that followed passed in a kind of bruised silence.

Time lost its texture. Became a thing that happened elsewhere, to other people, in other lives.

Steve moved like a ghost. Still, slow, a breath behind his own body. Each step was a negotiation with pain. The stairs into the frat house felt like penance, like the last stage of some medieval pilgrimage.

They gave him a room.

At the very top of the house, up three flights of stairs. A box, really. Bare walls, a thin mattress with a slight dip in the centre, a desk scuffed with the marks of boys who came before.

It smelled like dust and a loneliness no one had ever named.

He didn't decorate. He didn't unpack. He sat on the edge of the bed, aching, spine curled like he could fold himself into disappearance. The bruises flared if he sat too long, screamed when he lay flat.
His body wasn't his anymore. It had been turned into something else. A record, a receipt, a cautionary tale.

The other boys tried. Smiling at him in the kitchen, clapping him too hard on the back whilst he stared into the pan of Kraft Mac N Cheese. Zoning out to the point where he hasn't realised it was sticking and burning to the bottom.

Owen passed him in the hall, gave him a nod that felt like a knife hidden in a handshake. Steve didn't speak unless he had to. Everything inside him had gone still, like a lake in the dead of winter.

Robin texted. A dozen messages over two days.

how's frat hell?
You moved in yet??? Send pics pls
steve.??
steve pls don't be dead.

He replied eventually, vague enough to be a lie, but just specific enough to pass for truth.

i'm good
just tired
talk soon

Then silence again. Not because he wanted it, but because it had grown comfortable. Because speaking meant remembering. Because remembering meant reliving it all again.

The searing heat of humiliation, the sound of Owen's voice counting out each blow like he was announcing the winning numbers at a raffle, the way his hands had trembled so hard he couldn't turn the shower knobs after.

He didn't cry again. Not because it didn't still hurt, but because even that had dulled and moved to a deeper place inside him, somewhere tears couldn't reach.

And when he finally did sleep, it was in strange fits, as though his body were unsure whether it was safe to let go. Always on his side. Always facing the wall.

***

He climbed the stairs back to the house with his usual dull ache. Backpack heavy, jaw locked, AirPods in, the world muffled but not quite silent.

He trudged to the foot of the stairs; ready to disappear into his room unnoticed, when the sound of his father's laugh—that high, rich, performative laugh—ripped through the foyer like a bad chord struck too hard.

Steve stopped short.

There he was. Wearing a sport coat that fit too well, surrounded by three of the frat guys. Ryan, Jacob, one of the others with the huge teeth. All of them laughing. All of them looking at his father like he belonged more than Steve ever had.

"Dad?" he said, half under his breath, as though maybe he'd imagined it.

His father turned, eyes lighting up with that country-club kind of affection, the kind that clapped you on the shoulder and called it love. "Stevie!" he bellowed.
"There he is, my boy!"

Steve could feel it already. The heat rising to his cheeks, the sudden itch behind his eyes, the slow-crawling panic that made him want to turn around and vanish down the stairs.

"What are you—what are you doing here?" he asked, but it came out flat, like he'd rehearsed it too many times in his head and forgotten the emotion behind it.

His dad threw an arm around him before he could move.
"What, can't a proud father come by and see how his son's getting on?" he joked, too loudly.

No. No he can't. In fact, he shouldn't.

"Met the boys, had a few drinks in the den. Great group. Hell of a group."

Steve stood stiffly, the way you do when your body's still deciding whether to flinch or freeze. The other boys grinned, all good-natured and oblivious.

"That's—cool. I'm glad." Steve exhaled, forcing a thin lipped smile.

"Didn't mean to interrupt anything. Know you probably have a lot of studying to do." His dad added, like he was still in control of the room, like the interruption was a gift.

Steve gave a nod that wasn't really a nod.
"No, it's—fine," he said.

And it was. If this was what fine looked like.

Standing there while his dad played at belonging, like he hadn't bulldozed Steve's entire life to make him belong here. Laughing with strangers like they were friends, like they weren't the same boys who'd held Steve's arms down on the table until he cried only days ago.

"So." His dad grinned, urging him with a bob of his head.

"So—what?" Steve asked, a nervous laugh escaping his lips.

"Well, aren't you gonna show me your room?" His dad bellowed out a laugh.
"Honestly, this guy." He mockingly rolled his eyes to the others. Still watching, still laughing like he was the funniest man on earth.

"Right. Yeah. Sure." Steve nodded stiffly.
"Let's—go."

He didn't say anything else. Just backed away, slow and quiet, the way you might exit a room full of sleeping animals. Half-hoping they wouldn't notice, half-hoping they would.

His father is still talking as they climb the narrow back‑stairs, one hand on the banister, the other on Steve's shoulder as if steering him rather than guiding.
Every few steps he says something bright, like—"Smells cleaner than what it did when I was here!" and Steve gives a noise that could be agreement or a cough.

The hall is low‑ceilinged, pipes exposed, decades of brothers' names scratched into the plaster. None of it slows Mr. Harrington's stride.

"My boy's home within a home," he declares, and Steve has the sudden, irrational fear that the door won't open. That the knob will stick just to humiliate him. It doesn't. The door swings inward with too little ceremony, revealing the room for what it is.

Eight feet by ten, a mattress thinner than memory, a desk scarred with cigarette burns, and a single narrow window that looks out onto a brick wall.

His father steps inside like he's crossing the threshold of Versailles.
"This is perfect," he says, eyes roving.
"Spartan. Builds character."

He taps the desk with two knuckles.
"Solid wood." It wobbles. Steve's stomach gives a small lurch.

The bruises on Steve's hips throb in time with his pulse.

Mr. Harrington opens the tiny closet. Three wire hangers, two collared shirts, nothing else. He smiles as if it's brimming.
"Efficient," he says.

Steve doesn't meet his eyes. He stands by the bed, arms crossed over his rib cage, feeling suddenly twelve years old, caught between wanting approval and wanting to disappear into the floorboards.
"Yeah," he says.
"It's fine."

His father nods, pleased, as though they have reached a mutual triumph.
"Show me the window view," he says, stepping aside.

Steve moves to the sill, lifts the shade. Nothing but the red brick flank of the neighbouring house, an arm's length away. Sunlight skims a drainpipe, dust motes floating in the shaft of it like tiny question marks.

Mr. Harrington leans in, squints, and claps Steve on the back.
"Cozy," he pronounces.
"This is where men are made, Stevie."

Steve forces a smile that feels like a paper cut.

He walks to the bed, takes a seat on the edge.
That same tight-chinned, Harrington-brand grin.
"So," he says, tone casual, almost paternal. "How've you been finding it?"

Steve stands in the middle of the room like he doesn't live there, as if the walls don't already know the shape of his silence, the weight of his limping gait, the tender, raw ache that still flares whenever he bends too far, laughs too hard, breathes too deep.

He could tell the truth. Say it's hell. That he's never felt more like a ghost inside his own body. That initiation left something inside him broken and unspoken. But instead:

"It's great," he says, nodding like that'll make it real.
"Busy, y'know. They keep us on our toes."

His father chuckles, satisfied, arms folded across his chest.
"That's what it's all about. Discipline. Brotherhood. That'll get you further than grades ever will. Well, unless you flunk out, of course."

Steve forces a laugh.
"Yeah. Wouldn't want that."

"You making friends? You like the guys?" He asks, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his legs.

Steve shrugs with one shoulder, tries not to wince when the movement pulls at the bruises on his lower back.
"Yeah. They're cool. Real—tight-knit group."

His father smirks.
"They'd have to be. I know how these houses work. Everyone's out for blood at first. Then next thing you know you're at each other's weddings."

Steve says nothing. He just glances at the floor and wishes the moment would pass. But it doesn't. Not quite.

"Proud of you," his father says, and this time, it hits like a blow. Not because of what it means, but because it doesn't mean anything at all.

Steve smiles, just barely.
"Thanks."

"Well, I'm gonna bounce." His dad said, groaning as he sat up with a stretch of his back.
"Got a doubles match to get to with some of the guys. I text to say I'd be stopping by to see you and they wrangled me in." He says with a laugh.

"Oh, cool. Have fun." Steve nods.

"What do you say," he starts, with a casualness Steve doesn't trust.
"Me and you grab dinner next weekend? Just us men. Catch up properly."

Steve blinks at his father as if the words take longer to land than they should.

"Oh," he says.
"Uh. Yeah. Sure."

There's a pause, where Steve feels something cold press against the base of his neck. Like a draft, but internal.

He knows what dinner means. It means expectations. It means his father wants to take stock. Confirm the investment's paying off. Make sure Steve's still the version of himself they signed off on.

"Great," his dad beams.
"I'll text you the details. Maybe we grab a steak or something. Somewhere nice."

"Yeah," Steve repeats, quieter this time.
"Sounds nice."

Mr. Harrington knocks the doorframe once with his knuckle like it's a farewell and an approval all in one, then disappears back down the hall. His voice rises again downstairs, joking with one of the guys. Loud, affable, easy in a way Steve never feels.

***

In the den, the television was on but no one was watching it. There were half-empty Solo cups and someone's vape charging on the coffee table.

A few of the boys were yelling over each other about last weekend, about a girl, about whether or not you could microwave eggs. Steve wasn't listening. He was half-sunk into the beanbag like it might swallow him whole if he let it.

His phone buzzed once against his thigh.

you coming over or what

Steve blinked at the message, panicking internally. The screen lighting up his face in the dim, beer-breathed room.

you said it was biweekly

Another buzz. Immediate. No punctuation.

well im horny now

Steve felt it like a pull in his stomach and a clench right beneath it, though pain cut through the reaction like a warning light. His ass still felt like someone had taken a branding iron to it. He shifted, winced.

cant
gotta study sorry

The reply came slower this time.

that's cute. didn't realise they were offering degrees in being bad at saying no to me

Steve's throat went dry. He swallowed once, twice. A laugh rose up too loud from the other side of the room. Someone had thrown a handful of popcorn and it hit the window.

i'm not saying no im saying i cant rn. i'll see you next week

who says ill want to next week?

Steve's stomach sank. His thumbs hovered over the letters as his brain scrambled for a response.

hope you have fun jerking off with the same hand you're writing notes with

He stared at the screen. Something in him hummed. Shame or need or maybe just that particular ache of wanting to be wanted for no other reason than you're you.

His thumbs still hovered. His ass still hurt. Everything still hurt.

fine

***

Eddie opens the door with that same lazy grin and a sarcastic, "you skip out on your very important flashcards for me, Harrington? I'm honoured." Even though he's barefoot and barely dressed and clearly hasn't been doing anything except waiting for Steve to show.

Steve laughs as he steps inside, dull and lifeless like a two week old helium balloon.

The pillow he'd used on the drive is still on the passenger seat, but the relief it gave him was minimal, a thin mercy. The pain had settled into something deeper now as the bruises aged. Not just sharp, but sore in a way that felt like it reached into his bones.

Eddie barely notices.
"You're such a good little student." He drawls, already crowding him, already looping an arm lazily around Steve's waist, dragging him in for a kiss that's more teeth than tongue.
"I mean—you were."

Steve laughs weakly against his mouth, but it dies there. He keeps his hands strapped to his sides. Not touching him. Not pulling him closer. Just enduring it.

Eddie pulls back, squints.
"You're quiet."

"I'm fine." Steve lies instantly. He tries to stand a little straighter. His lower back tenses in protest.

"Liar." Eddie's tone is playful, not concerned. He hooks his fingers through Steve's belt loops and tugs him forward again.
"But I think I know how to make it better."

He drags Steve toward the bedroom with a laugh.
But Steve's not moving like he usually does. He hesitates in the doorway, fingers twitching at his sides, like there's something he wants to say but doesn't know how.

Eddie stops. Turns.
"Okay. What's up with you?"

Steve opens his mouth, closes it. Shrugs.
"Just—tired."

Eddie raises an eyebrow.
"Right—so, you drove forty-five minutes to nap with me?"

Steve doesn't answer. He's standing just inside the room, the door still half-open behind him, like he might bolt at any second. His eyes flick to the bed, then away.

Eddie exhales, slow.
"Seriously. What is it?"

Steve swallows hard. His voice is quieter than usual when he finally says, "can we just—not do anything crazy tonight?"

"Crazy?" Eddie echoes with a laugh.
"I don't know about you but—we haven't exactly been doing anything crazy given you've only just started letting me touch you without freaking out."

"You know what I mean." Steve said, awkwardly.

Eddie stares at him for a moment, the silence heavy, weighing the difference in him. The stiffness, the awkwardness, the way he won't meet his eyes.
"What happened, did one of your Econ textbooks fall on you?" He asks, teasing.

Steve huffs a laugh that isn't a laugh at all. "Something like that."

And for once, Eddie doesn't push. He just nods toward the bed and says, "alright, I'll try not to break your perfect little academic body."

Steve gives him a crooked smile, more grateful than he knows how to express, and makes his way over. Slow, careful, like his own skin doesn't quite fit anymore.

Eddie's mouth is on his again, hot and easy. Hands under Steve's sweatshirt now, tugging it up, laughing into the kiss like he's already won something. Steve lifts his arms, lets it be pulled off, even helps a little by toeing off his sneakers, trying not to flinch when Eddie's knuckles skim too low on his back. The ache there still blooms raw.

They're still standing, half-undressed, jeans undone, breathing each other in like it's just another Friday night, like Steve's body isn't screaming in protest, like his legs aren't trembling for entirely the wrong reasons.

And then, as Eddie's thumbs hook in the waistband of his sweats, Steve says it.

"Can we actually—um. Can we turn the light out?"

Eddie pauses. One eyebrow quirks.
"What?"

Steve tries for casual, shrugs like it's nothing.
"I don't know. Just—kind of a vibe, right?" He tries a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Eddie narrows his eyes, like he's deciding whether or not to let it slide.
"You're being more of a weirdo than usual," he mutters, but he turns around and hits the switch anyway, leaving the room in dim half-light. Whatever filters through the blinds and the blue blink of the stereo light.

Steve exhales like he's been holding his breath, and surges forward again, kissing Eddie a little harder now, like that can make up for whatever weird note he just struck. Like eagerness will smooth it all out.

And maybe it does. Eddie grins against his mouth, hands returning to work like nothing happened.
"Okay, Harrington," he murmurs.
"You wanna play shy, I'll play along."

Steve just nods, lets it happen. Pretends this is all still fun. Pretends his heart isn't thudding for an entirely different reason. Tries to focus on the parts that feel good. Tries not to care if Eddie notices the wince. Tries, mostly, to deserve being wanted.

Eddie's hands move to the belt buckle, fumbling it open, sliding his fingers under the waistband. His jeans come down just enough before he pushes Steve gently but firmly onto the bed.

Steve lets out a sharp hiss, a breath caught somewhere between pain and surprise.

"What was that?" Eddie's voice cracks with concern, eyes wide.

"Sorry. S'nothing."
Steve swallows, tries to sound casual.
"I'm fine. It's fine. Just—I pulled a muscle at the gym the other day. It's just a little—tender, I guess."

"Okay?"
Eddie laughs, trying to shake off the tension.
"You good?"

"Yeah. Fine. It's fine. Just—carry on." Steve says, voice clipped.

"Okay. Fine." Eddie huffs.

They're tangled together. Clothes discarded to the floor, Steve beneath him, mouths messy and open, Eddie kissing like he's trying to win something.
His hands are everywhere. Rough, hungry, claiming. He shifts his weight, reaches down, fingers digging into the curve of Steve's ass, and—

Steve wails. A sharp, choked sound that doesn't belong in this room, in this moment. Like he's been stabbed. He arches away from Eddie's hand, face crumpling, breath stuttering.

Eddie stills. Pulls back fast, like he's been burned. "Okay—what the fuck."

Steve's already shaking his head, trying to sit up, failing.
"It's fine, I'm fine—"

The moment the light flicks on, it's blinding. Harsh and sudden and real. Steve shields his face, blinking fast, but he can feel the room shift.

Eddie's standing at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, breathing hard, face scrunching into something between confusion and dawning horror.

"Turn over," Eddie says, and Steve's already shaking his head, curling in a little, protective. "Steve. Turn over."

"No—"

"Turn the fuck over." There's no venom in it. Just something akin to worry, rising fast.

"No!" Steve snaps, breathing heavy.

"Why not?" Eddie firms, lips thin.

"Because"— Steve starts, eyes prickling with tears.
"Because it's nothing." He says, barely audible.

"Well I don't believe you." Eddie says sharply.

Steve's chin falls to his chest, grinding his molars. He extends his hand, indicating for Eddie to help him up, which he does with a light tug.

Steve turns, slow, eyes clamped shut as he lowers the waistband of his underwear.

He already knows what it looks like. Doesn't need to see it to know it's bad.

The bruises bloom dark across the base of his spine and down, not just purple, but black in places, deep and blotchy and unmistakable.

"What the fuck is that?" Eddie asks quietly.

"I told you," Steve says, voice paper-thin.
"I pulled something. Must have just—been worse than I thought it was."

"Don't insult me." Eddie said, voice low and cutting.

Steve swallows, stares up at the ceiling, jaw tight. The room feels too bright now, too sharp. The quiet hangs like static.

"What happened?" Eddie asked.

Steve's shoulders tense, pulling his underwear up by the waistband as he turns.

Steve's eyes flick to him, then away.
"It was a—frat thing." Steve mutters.

"What the fuck did they do? Beat you?" Eddie urges.

Steve doesn't say anything.

"Jesus," Eddie mutters, raking a hand through his hair.
"What the fuck is wrong with you rich kids?"

"It was a pledge," Steve mumbles.
"It's part of it. It's—tradition."

"Tradition?" Eddie echoes, his voice rising. "Tradition is watching the same movie every Christmas Eve, Steve. Getting the shit kicked out of you while a bunch of dudes chant in a fuckin' circle is—fuck."

Steve winces, but not from pain this time. Instead he just sits down on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around himself as if that somehow might repel Eddie's anger.

Eddie stands again, pacing now, hands on his hips.
"And you were just gonna let me—? You weren't even gonna say anything?"

"I mean—I tried telling you I couldn't come over. S'not like I jumped at the chance. I knew what would happen once I got here and I was trying to avoid it. It would have been fine next week. Probably."

"Yeah. But I thought you were just, like—playing hard to get or whatever. I thought it was a bit. I wouldn't have pushed it if you said—something. Literally anything!"

"What was I supposed to say? Sorry I can't see you I got my fucking ass beat, literally, and I haven't been able to sit down or sleep for the last four days? Yeah. Nice." Steve rolled his eyes.

"Yeah! Maybe!" Eddie exclaimed, arms flailing.

"And I just"— Steve's voice is very quiet.
"I wanted to see you."

"You wanted to see me?" Eddie's staring at him now like he's lost it.
"Steve, you screamed. That was—I thought I hurt you."

"You didn't. It was already hurting." Steve shrugs.

"Not the point."

Eddie's pacing now, one hand pushing back his hair, the other on his hip like he's trying to physically hold himself back from saying something worse.
"Jesus."

"I told you, it's—"

"Don't. Don't say it's fine again." His voice cuts like a switchblade, fast and sharp.
"You sounded like you were in agony. What did you think I was gonna do, just keep going?"

Steve's quiet. Sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but his boxers, spine curled, hands gripping the sheets like he's afraid he might fall through them.
"I thought if—I thought if I didn't come tonight you wouldn't wanna see me again."

Eddie scoffs, stepping back like the sentence offended him.

Steve closes his eyes, heat crawling up his face. Hoping if he does the moment will be over.

Eddie storms out without a word, the door swinging behind him with that barely-hinged kind of force that makes Steve flinch.
It's not even the volume. It's the finality. Steve scrambles upright, heart crawling up into his throat.

"Where are you going?" he calls out, uselessly, like that's going to fix anything. No answer. Just the sound of a drawer yanked open, something rustling.

Then Eddie's back. Holding a battered little tube in one hand, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable. He tosses it on the bed like it might explode.

"On your front."

Steve blinks.
"What?"

"On your front, Harrington," Eddie snaps, already moving toward him like he's prepared to manhandle him into place if he doesn't listen.

Steve mutters something under his breath but does it. Eases down carefully, slowly, stomach to the sheets. There's a hesitation in Eddie's hands that makes Steve tense up all over again, until Eddie yanks his waistband down to expose the worst of it. He sits on the edge of the bed by Steve's feet, the mattress sinking beneath him.

Steve's brows furrow, cheek pressed to the sheet as he listens for Eddie's movements. The sound of his breathing, the rustling of something unintelligible.

Then: cool fingers. Cream. The sudden burn of being touched where it hurts most.

Steve hisses.
"Jesus Christ—what is that?"

"Arnica," Eddie says gruffly, concentrating.

"What's Arnica?" Steve asks, wincing.

"It's for bruising. You'll live."

Steve buries himself further into the sheets "Doesn't feel like it."

"Yeah, well, I get punched in the face a lot. This shit helps. Trust me."

Steve turns his head just enough to look at him. "Can't imagine why."

Eddie snorts. Dry, humorless, but the tension breaks just slightly. He keeps working in silence, hands careful now. Still angry, maybe. But gentler, too. Like he doesn't know how to be mad and tender at the same time.

"So—are you gonna tell me what happened?"

Steve didn't lift his head from the sheet. The fabric was warm beneath his cheek. He tried to sound unaffected, but the words came out brittle.
"Are you gonna care?"

Eddie exhaled. Not a sigh, not quite. More like air leaving a body that didn't know what it wanted to say.
"Maybe," he said, "Depends."

Steve turned his head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Eddie's hair was a mess. His expression unreadable.
"Depends on what?"

Eddie shrugged.
"On if it's pathetic or not."

Steve let out a short, breathless laugh, and there was no humor in it. Just shame.
"Then yeah. Definitely pathetic."

There was a beat. Then Eddie, with just the right edge of indifference to cover something gentler.
"Well, lucky for you I've chosen this one night of the year to specialise in pathetic cases. Use it wisely."

Steve rolled his eyes, face still buried in cotton.
"Yeah. You're a real Florence Nightingale."

At that, Eddie finally looked at him. A glance sharp enough to remind Steve who held the upper hand here.
"Don't push it, Harrington."

Steve swallowed. There was a tightness in his chest that hadn't left since that night. Since the table. Since the sound of the paddle cracking through the silence.

"It was—a part of the initiation," he said, quietly, like if he spoke any louder, it would hurt more.

"Oh great. This is already pissing me off." Eddie said, hollowly.

"They drag you out of bed, put a bag over your head and take you to this—room. You basically stand in a line and wait to be called up to—pledge your allegiance to the frat or whatever. It's dumb, I know."

Eddie's hand, for once, had gone still. His thumb rested lightly against Steve's hipbone. It was a small thing, but Steve felt it like a warning.
"And where does the being beaten within an inch of your life come into it?"

"It doesn't." Steve's voice cracked.
"That part was just for me. Because I'm special."

He could feel Eddie shift behind him, not away, but enough to signal discomfort. Or maybe anticipation. Like he already knew what was coming and wasn't ready to hear it out loud.

"There's this old ass wooden paddle that's been around since the dawn of time. Once you've done your pledge, you bend over a table and they—hit you with it. To seal the deal, basically. And then—you're in. You pack up your shit and you move into the house. You're like—one of them officially."

"Right. Totally normal."

Steve let out a humorless laugh.
"Except I got ten. For ten Harringtons. Because it's somehow my fault that—every man in my family decided to go to that stupid fucking school and build a fucking greenhouse or whatever. And they all just—think it's something I want. Or even remotely care about."

Eddie's hands had stilled on the backs of his thighs, the cream still cool against burning skin.

"They held my arms down," Steve said.
"Owen counted each time he did it. He was enjoying it, obviously. Because he hates me."

Eddie's voice, when it finally came, was low. Controlled.
"Owen?"

"Yeah. Owen Fisher. He's like—the leader, basically, of the whole frat. The president. And he's also a fucking asshole who's had it in for me from the start for zero reason."

Steve could feel it, even with his back to him, something in the way he breathed had changed. Something in the way he held himself now, still and tight.

"Same spot," Steve said, not really speaking to him. Not really speaking to anyone.
"Over and over. I thought I was gonna pass out. I literally couldn't even breathe."

"And now you live with them," Eddie said, fingers still working lightly against his skin.

"Yeah," Steve answered.

"After they beat the shit out of you."

He shrugged before he could stop himself and winced immediately.
"It's tradition."

There was a sound then. Not quite a scoff, not quite disbelief. Just sharp.

"No, it's fucking abuse."

Steve turned his face away, not because he didn't agree, but because he did. And somehow, hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way it hadn't been yet. There was power in naming something, and sometimes power was the last thing he wanted to feel.

"Jesus," Eddie said, quieter this time.

"Yep. Now you know." Steve tried to keep it light, to make it sound like this was just how life worked.
"That's my life."

"Shitty life." Eddie grumbled.

"Oh, it's not all bad," he offered, and the smile came out sideways.
"At least my dad sent me a fucking edible arrangement to my dorm room because he's so proud of me."

"The fuck's an edible arrangement?" Eddie asked, utterly perplexed.
"Like pot brownies?"

Steve laughed, short and surprised.
"No. It's like—a bouquet of flowers but it's, like—made of fruit. Chocolate strawberries and shit."

"Fuckin' rich people, man." He muttered.

"Yup."

And then something cracked open in Steve. Not grief, not joy, just the absurdity of it all. Of lying here, ass destroyed, covered in some numbing cream, and talking about chocolate covered fruit.

He started laughing, quietly at first, then harder. He felt it shake through his sore back.

"Why are you laughing?" Eddie asked.

"Because," Steve said between breaths.
"I can't believe you're sitting here putting cream on my ass."

Eddie didn't even hesitate.
"Yeah, well. Not exactly the kind of cream I was hoping for tonight, but here we are."

"Shut up." Steve scoffed out a laugh.

"Talk about a boner killer." Eddie added.

Then, a pause. An intake of breath and a shift of the mattress.
"There." He said, gently peeling the fabric of his underwear back over him.
"That should help it heal a little faster."

"Thanks." Steve said, sitting up with a grunt.

"Here." Eddie handed him the tube, casual.
"You can keep it. Keep applying it."

"What if you need it?"

"I haven't been on anyone's bad side for a while. I think this pretty face is safe for a little while longer." Eddie smirked.

Steve took the tube. Their fingers didn't touch, but they almost did.
"Thank you."

Eddie stood, stretching his back.
"Now—go get some sleep or whatever. I'm off the clock from my nursing duties."

"What are you gonna do?" Steve asked with a frown.

"Gonna go play video games in the other room. In the apartment I pay for on the PlayStation I bought with the money I earn. Is that allowed?" Eddie goaded.

"Can I watch?"

There was a pause, like Eddie hadn't expected that. Then, with a theatrical groan, "You want to watch me play video games?"

"Sure." Steve shrugged.

"Fine," he said, already walking out the door. "But—be quiet. Don't be all—cutesy and annoying. I have to be in the zone."

"Okay." Steve said, calling after him.

***

The glow from the screen painted the room in flashes of blue and orange, pixel fire casting over the curve of Eddie's jaw, the bridge of his nose.

He was perched on the edge of the couch like it was the battlefield itself, legs braced wide, one shoulder hunched as he leaned forward into the fight. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he slammed buttons with the kind of manic commitment that made it hard not to laugh.

Steve was curled up at the other end of the couch in just his boxers and his sweatshirt. His knees were tucked up, chin resting lightly on them, ankles crossed.

"You're getting obliterated," he said, the grin breaking before he could stop it.

"I'm not—getting obliterated," Eddie muttered, his jaw tight, thumb jerking the joystick too hard. "I'm—strategising."

"Strategising? You just ran into a wall and then got sniped."

"That was on purpose. It's called a fakeout. You wouldn't get it."

Steve laughed again, easier this time, letting it roll out of him. It hurt a little to laugh. His body still stiff in places he hadn't named out loud. "Sure, alright. Total fakeout. Tell that to the guy who just blew your head off."

Eddie groaned, falling back against the cushions. "Jesus Christ. Can't you just sit there and be, like, hot and quiet? Isn't that your whole thing?"

Steve raised an eyebrow.
"I thought annoying was my whole thing."

Eddie glanced at him, only briefly, then looked away like it was too much.
"Yeah, well. You're excelling at it."

Steve didn't answer, but his lips twitched.

The game respawned him. He jumped back into it like it owed him money, teeth gritted, the controller clicking like mad in his hands.

Steve watched him. The way his legs bounced slightly with concentration, the way his hair kept falling in front of his eyes and he didn't bother to push it back. The way he cared about something as dumb as winning, even when the odds were clearly stacked against him.

"You're gonna lose again," Steve said softly.

Eddie didn't look at him.
"You're gonna sleep on the floor."

"Not with my ass like this I'm not."

That made Eddie glance sideways, just briefly, a flicker of something behind his eyes.
"Then shut up and let me focus."

Steve smiled. The kind of smile that stayed even when no one was looking. He pressed his chin deeper into the folded crease of his knees, watching the screen, but not really. He wasn't watching the game. He was watching Eddie.

And he wasn't thinking about the pain. Or the house. Or his father. Just this. A dim room, a boy who cared too much yet not at all, and the sound of a controller being abused like it had personally wronged him.

***

He left just after sunrise.

Steve didn't wake him. Didn't want to.

Eddie had rolled over and muttered something half-conscious and useless, one arm tossed across the empty part of the bed like he was already reaching for something that wasn't there.

Steve had smiled to himself, collected his clothes in quiet handfuls from the floor, dressed in the bathroom with the light off. It was the kind of departure he might've resented in another life.

Like nothing even happened.

But this morning, it suited him. He didn't need anything from Eddie. Not right now.

Outside, the air was sharp with the end of summer and pavement heat. He drove with the windows down, music low, that lightness still coasting beneath his ribs like something unearned.

***

Back at school, the frat house was half-awake, boys yawning in sweatpants in the kitchen or stretched out on couches like overgrown house cats.

He didn't speak to anyone. Just nodded, took the stairs two at a time, changed into clean jeans and a shirt that didn't smell like someone else's bed. His body still ached. Not as sharp now, but deep and tired, like it had lived through something. He didn't check the mirror.

In class, the lecture drifted past him in polite white noise. He tapped a pen against his notebook, doodled in the margins, stared out the window. Eventually, without thinking too hard, he pulled his phone out under the desk and typed.

thanks for looking out for me last night. I really appreciate it.

He hit send. Waited.

The reply came a minute later.

sorry, who's this?

Steve snorted. Out loud. A couple heads turned. He bit his knuckle to cover the grin that spread across his face like sun warming a windowpane.

oh dw. just some pathetic case you treated last night. you can bill my insurance.

His phone buzzed again.

oh right yeah. the guy with a plum for an ass. how could i forget

Steve bit his lip, smiling so hard it almost hurt.
The lecture went on. He didn't hear a word.

***

The tablecloth was starched to a fault, stiff as a page in an unopened book, its whiteness unnerving in the way that perfect things often are.

Each fork, each knife, each spoon gleamed with a self-conscious polish, as though they'd been laid out not to serve but to impress.

The restaurant carried that curated hush of luxury. Soft jazz spiraled down from overhead speakers, all brass and yearning, and the voices of the other diners murmured like a tide kept just below the surface. Crystal clinked with the ease of old money. Even the lighting was artful. Golden and low, as if designed to render the expensive discomfort around the table into something more tolerable.

Steve sat up too straight, as though his spine had been threaded with the same rigid stuff as the tablecloth.

He felt the room folding in around him, every inch of it too deliberate, too intentional. He didn't belong here, but he knew how to pretend he did. That had to count for something.

His father took a sip of his scotch, that unhurried kind of sip that was half appraisal, half ritual. His eyes skimmed the restaurant lazily, predatorily, the way men like him always seemed to watch a room. Measuring who mattered. Then his gaze returned to Steve, and the smile he gave was too precise, too clean-cut at the edges, like something that had been practiced in a mirror years ago and never once reevaluated.

"This is nice, huh? Good to spend some time together. Just us men."

Steve nodded, too quickly.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's—really nice." And it was. That wasn't a lie. Coldly, extravagantly beautiful, the kind of beauty that made you want to touch nothing for fear of leaving fingerprints or not sneeze for fear of owing someone money.

"The wine list's the biggest in the county," his father said, carving into his steak like it had personally wronged him.
"Guy told me the cellar's like a museum. Don't let me forget to show it to you after dinner. You'll appreciate it. You've got taste."

Steve managed a smile, but it felt borrowed. "Sure. Yeah, I'd like that."

"How's the house? Settling in alright?"

He thought of the frat house. Of the beer-drenched carpets, of the relentless thrum of bass from the basement, of boys shouting at each other in ways that made Steve feel small, not included but tolerated.

"Yeah. It's great. Kinda loud. But—that's college, right?"

"Loud's good," his father said with a smirk.
"Loud means you're doing something right."

There was no good way to explain the kind of loud Steve meant. The performative chaos, the unchecked masculinity, the way it never stopped being performative for him. He smiled too, reflexively.
"Totally. Yeah, no, everyone's really welcoming."

His father gave a nod of approval, the kind that closed the topic before Steve could say more. "Well, they should be. You've got a legacy name. You've got presence. Don't let them forget that."

Presence. That word hung over the table like steam rising off a dish you didn't order but felt obligated to eat.

Steve nodded again, quickly.
"Right. Yeah. I mean, I try."

"Trying's not enough," came the reply, clipped and smooth.
"Not if you want to get ahead. You're not there to just float by."

"I know," Steve said softly, as if the words were a kind of penance.

His father leaned in then, lowering his voice but not softening it.
"Look, I don't say this to put pressure on you. I say it because I see your potential. You're miles ahead of all these boys. You've got everything you need. You just have to know when to use it. Like a—plan of attack."

"Yeah. I know." The words felt like coins dropped into a fountain you didn't believe in.

His father's smile sharpened slightly.
"Proud of you, Stevie. Getting into the house, doing what you're supposed to. I know some of it's not fun, the hazing stuff, but that's part of it. Builds backbone."

Steve hesitated, his throat tightening around the steak he hadn't touched. Backbone. As if being beaten until you cried made him more of a man. As if holding your breath and laughing along and never flinching counted as character.
"Yeah. It's fine. Nothing I can't handle."

"That's what I like to hear."

There was a long silence then, filled only by the low jazz, the quiet hum of lives that did not intersect with his. Steve poked at his food without appetite, carving slow, pointless lines into the mashed potatoes.

There was no air in this place, only expectation dressed up as elegance. And Steve was so tired of performing.

Steve sips his water because it gives his hands something to do. And in a place like this, with its cathedral hush, its immaculate glassware, its old-world vanity trying too hard to feel effortless. Stillness feels dangerous. Stillness invites scrutiny. So he lifts the glass, lets the cool condensation press into his skin, anchors himself with the smallness of the gesture.

His father's already deep into a story he's already told a thousand times.

The tale of how he and his Uncle Tim "ran the place" in '83, a mythology polished by time and scotch and retellings too frequent to count.

Steve listens, or rather, he allows the words to pass over him. He knows every beat of it. The rhythm is muscle memory now, like prayers learned before belief.

"Your uncle Tim used to scale the side of the library after hours just to sneak into the admin office. Not to steal anything, mind you, just to say he did it."

Steve almost mouths the words along. Instead, he presses his lips to the rim of his glass again and stares past his father's shoulder, letting his gaze blur in the middle distance.

His father leans back, laughter like a relic exhumed from deep within him, and for a moment he's not a man in a tailored suit at a high-end steakhouse. He's nineteen again, a memory wearing skin.

"There was this energy back then, y'know?" his father says, eyes suddenly bright in a way Steve doesn't recognize.
"You walked the quad and it felt like you were somebody. We weren't just kids. We were kings."

Steve smiles, just barely. A flicker. The kind of smile that knows how to behave. Not wide enough to be mistaken for joy, but just enough to look like he's trying. Like he's absorbing the weight of what's being passed down to him. The glory, the swagger, the legacy.

"And the girls," his father says with a fond scoff, "Jesus. It was like a buffet. I don't mean that in a crass way, but it was different back then. You had charm, you had a good jawline, and you worked the room. That was it. You owned the night. Rick had this one girl from the art department who—"

Steve cuts in, gently, quickly.
"Yeah. You've told me this one. The girl with the motorcycle."

His father grins, pleased.
"Right. God, she was wild."

He picks the thread back up without pause, without recalibration. Keeps talking. Keeps conjuring. Keeps living in a past that doesn't require permission to return to.
Meanwhile Steve nods along, swallowing dutifully, chewing bites that feel increasingly tasteless, his body on automatic. He lets himself become the mirror. There to reflect, not to speak.

His father gestures grandly, arms carving invisible scenes in the air.
"And the frat house—that old drafty dump—God, we loved it. We made it ours. Every guy in our line knew what it meant to belong to something that big. Something that goes beyond just you. That's what it's about, Stevie. What you leave behind."

Steve's fork is resting on the edge of his plate now. He doesn't remember setting it down. It sits there, tines angled like a question he doesn't know how to ask. He looks at it for a moment as though it might give him something. A sign, a direction, an escape.

He forces another smile. The last vestige of manners, of compliance. The instinct to smooth everything over even as the edges dig in.

"Yeah. I get that", he says.

But he doesn't. Not the way his father means. Or maybe he does. So deeply, so entirely that the recognition of it aches. Because he's not just listening to a story. He's being asked to live it. Inherit it. Become it.

And all he wants is to be someone else.

Steve clears his throat. He doesn't look up.

"Actually, I—" He falters. Then tries again. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

His father glances at him, amused, but already reaching into the inner pocket of his blazer. "Before you do," he says, that old spark in his eye, "I got you something."

He places a small velvet box on the table between them. Navy. Steve stares at it like it's going to blink first.

"Go on," his dad says, nudging it forward.
"Open it."

Steve opens the box with stiff fingers. Inside: a gold signet ring, broad and bright and too heavy for what it is. The school crest is engraved on the face. Two lions flanking a shield, some Latin phrase he never bothered to translate.

"It's yours," his dad says, leaning back like he's just presented an heirloom crown.
"Every Harrington man's had one. Your grandfather gave me mine my sophomore year. I never took it off."

Steve doesn't pick it up. He just looks at it. The metal catches the light.

"I had it custom made," his dad continues, voice warm with pride.
"Got your initials inside the band." He smiles, tilts his head like he's reading Steve's silence as awe.

But Steve's stomach is knotting up. His palms are sweaty. He feels trapped inside the moment, as if the table's shrinking, and the ring. That stupid, shining ring, is taking up all the space.

He breathes in, tries again.

"Dad," he says, quietly.
"I—I don't think I can do this."

The words feel enormous once they're out, like he's dropped something fragile and loud. He doesn't clarify. Not yet.

His father's brow furrows slightly, confused. But instead of pausing, instead of letting the moment breathe, he laughs. Short and good-natured.

"Sure you can," he says, brushing it off like a smudge on a shirt cuff.
"You're doing great already. Everyone I spoke to at that house says you're settling right in. Owen thinks the world of you."

Steve flinches at the name, but his father doesn't notice.

"You're part of something now," he goes on.
"This is the beginning of everything. I had my doubts too. But once you really step into it, you'll understand. You're a Harrington."

Steve swallows. Hard. The ring is still there, gleaming up at him like a mirror. Like a sentence. He's not even sure if he's breathing properly.

"Right," he says, quietly.
"Yeah. Okay."

He closes the box.

His father smiles, drinks the last of his scotch.

His dad keeps talking.

About the firm. About how the Harrington name still carries weight on campus. About the internship already half lined up for next summer, the way alumni dinners open doors.
"You're all set, kid. You just have to stay the course."

Steve nods. Smiles.

It's easier to let his father talk, to let him fill the space with stories he's told a dozen times before. The tailgate party that got written up in the school paper. How he met Steve's mother on the quad and knew right then.
"You know, if you play your cards right, you'll have everything we did. Everything."

The ring box is still between them, like a sealed fate waiting to be slipped on his finger.

Steve stares at it for a long time. Then says, barely above a whisper, "What if—I'm not like you guys?"

His father, mid-chew, doesn't quite hear. Or maybe he does but chooses to pretend otherwise.

"What if I'm different?" Steve says again, louder this time. Still soft, but with a tremor in it now. A ripple.

There's a pause. A quiet long enough to feel unnatural in a place like this. Where glasses clink and plates are cleared and no one stops talking for anything.

His dad doesn't look angry. Not even confused. Just blank, for a second too long.

"Different how?"

Steve shrugs. It's pathetic. He knows it. He's already retreating.

"I don't know. Just—not like that. Not like you."

His father watches him for a second. And then smiles again, kindly, dismissively, the way someone humors a child saying something foolish.

"Sure you are."
A laugh.

But inside, he feels something buckle. Something small, but fundamental. Like a rung snapping off a ladder he didn't even know he was climbing.

Steve's still staring at the ring.

His voice is quiet. But not like before. This time, there's something urgent to it. Like it's trying to climb out of his chest before he can stop it.

"No, but—what if I am?" he says.
"What if I disappoint you?"

He looks up, finally meeting his father's eyes.

"What if I don't live up to it? Then what do I do?"

His father exhales, slow. Leans back in his chair. The kind of posture that says, Come on, now. Like they're about to laugh about this. Because it's dramatic, because it's a phase, because he doesn't mean it.

But Steve does mean it. And he's not laughing.

His father's voice stays calm, maybe too calm.

"You're not going to disappoint me."

"But what if I do?"
He hates how his voice cracks. Hates the way it sounds in his throat. Tight and exposed.
"You've built this whole life in your head and it's not—it's not me."

His father's smile falters then, just slightly. A crease between his brows, a pause that lasts half a second too long.
"That's fear talking, son. Not truth. We've all felt it. But you come from strong stock. You'll figure it out. You're a Harrington."

He says it like it's a fact. Like it's enough.

The candle between them flickers just slightly, catching in the crystal, and for a moment Steve watches the flame instead of his father's face.

"I'm just asking," he says, carefully, almost softly, "if you'd still love me if I didn't turn out how you were hoping I would."

And just like that, the table tilts.

Not literally. Nothing dramatic, but inside, something tips. Because the question isn't loud. It's not even confrontational. But it cuts through everything. Through the legacy stories, through the steak and the scotch and the gleaming silver, through decades of assumption.

His father blinks, once, like the words hadn't landed where he expected. He doesn't answer right away.

"What kind of question is that?" he says, light but edged. A laugh, small and mechanical, follows. "Of course I—what do you mean, 'if you didn't turn out'? You're doing fine. You're right where you're supposed to be."

Steve swallows, feeling the air pull tight around his chest. He can sense it now. The subtle redirection. A door opening just wide enough for the conversation to slip out through.

"That's not what I'm asking," Steve says, voice quieter now.

His dad waves a hand, almost dismissively, almost kindly.
"You're overthinking, champ. You're making it more complicated than it needs to be. You've got everything going for you—looks, confidence, a spot in the house, people like you. I mean, you're golden. What's the problem?"

Steve wants to say it. This is the problem. That nothing can be said plainly. That everything is a code, a reroute. That love is always tied to performance, to achievement, to fitting a mold someone else carved before he even had a chance.

His father's smiling again now, like the moment has passed, like everything's fine.

"You're just tired. Probably burnt out with all the rush stuff. It'll settle down. You'll find your rhythm."

Steve nods. Because it's easier. Because if he says anything else, it'll make it worse. Because part of him still wants to believe it'll settle, even when he knows better.

But inside, that question hangs in the air, unanswered and echoing.

Would you still love me if I wasn't who you thought I'd be?

And with that, the conversation veers again. Back to the food, the weather, the next game. The moment dissolves like sugar in coffee, and Steve lets it. He picks up his fork and nods and smiles when prompted. He says thank you when the check comes and shakes his father's hand like a man.

***

The morning came in like a whip crack, pulling Steve from sleep with a nightmare's intensity.

He bolted upright in bed at a guttural scream, raw and animal, echoing through the frat house like a signal flare. The bed's thin mattress shifted under him, and he nearly tumbled to the floor.

Down the hall, doors slammed. Footsteps pounded on the landing. Panic ricocheted through the walls. Steve scrambled after the others, heart hammering.

He hit the stairs two at a time, rounding the corner into chaos. Boys shouting frantically, grabbing keys, the heavy thunk of someone overturning furniture. He followed the tide.

At the front door, Owen was there, wild-eyed and furious. His fists pounded at the front room's coffee table, scattering coasters and denting the wood.
"My fucking car!" he roared, voice ragged.
"My car!"

The other brothers fell silent, then rushed out. Driven by instinct. Steve forced his feet forward, stepped over shoes, past a toppled plant, into the bleeding-in-dawn light outside.

He froze at the sight. What had been a sleek midnight-blue sedan only hours before was now a skeleton of white ash and unrecognizable metal.

The front fender was melted into a sinuous arc, the windows long gone. It looked less like a vehicle and more like the aftermath of a small meteor strike.

Owen, skin pale, dark circles under his eyes—collapsed to his knees beside it, shaking. He reached out, like he might crumple the shell back into shape.
"Fuckin' terrorists!" he screamed, voice cracking beyond sanity.
"My dad's gonna murder me!"

A hush fell. Someone coughed. Another whispered, "Dude—what the hell happened?"

Owen collapsed forward, forehead pressed to the ground.
"It's gone. It's fucking gone."

Steve stood silently in the cold morning light, chest tight. He looked at Owen, broken and raw, and at the husk of that car. And in that moment, he thought about how quickly a world can shift when someone decides to burn the symbols you depend on.

Owen was unraveling by the second. Shouting, pacing in crooked lines across the driveway, hair clutched in both hands like he could yank the fury out through the roots.
The car smoldered quietly behind him, the morning air thick with the scent of scorched rubber and metal. Everyone stood back, watching, stunned into stillness.

Todd stepped forward hesitantly, half-holding out his hands in that sheepish way he always did when things got tense.
"Hey, man, look—it's gonna be okay, alright? Insurance—your dad'll take care of it. It'll be fine."

Owen spun so fast Todd took a step back.
"Fuck off, Todd," he spat. His voice cracked, laced with disbelief and disgust.
"Your dad bought you a goddamn Subaru Outback. What the fuck would you know?"

Todd blinked, mouth hanging slightly open.
"It's a decent car—"

"No one gives a shit, Todd!" Owen barked, hands flying to the sky like he might just keep going and combust.
"This was a fucking M5. You know how long I waited for that car? Do you know how many weeks I interned at my dad's firm just to prove I could handle it? He's gonna fucking kill me!"

Someone near the porch snorted and quickly covered it with a cough. Steve didn't move. He just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the blackened skeleton of Owen's BMW.

Owen turned back to the wreck like he might throw himself into it.
"Whoever did this—I swear to God—they're fucking dead."

Owen's voice was hoarse from shouting, sweat pooling at the collar of his T-shirt, eyes wild like a man on the edge of something bigger than rage. Humiliation, maybe. Powerlessness. He whipped around one last time, pointing at no one and everyone.

"Fuck off," he snapped.
"Fuck all of you. Don't look at me. Don't talk to me. Fucking assholes."

Then he stormed back inside, knocking over a chair on his way, and bolted up the stairs like a furious child. Like he needed to find something else to destroy just to make it all feel fair.

Todd, ever the echo, ran after him—"Jesus, Owen, come on!"—but got nothing in return but the slamming of a door that shook the whole upstairs floor.

Steve turned on his heel, shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, and started walking. Quiet, casual, back up the stairs and down the hall. He got to his room, stepped inside, shut the door gently behind him, and then—

He lost it.

Collapsed onto his bed, head tipped back, hands over his face, laughing. Uncontrollably. Silently at first, then in gasping waves. The kind of laughter that unspools itself out of you before you can stop it.

It wasn't even funny. Not in a real way, but something about the whole thing was so stupid, so overblown.

He lay there, laughing until his stomach hurt, until his eyes watered, until it turned into something closer to relief.

Chapter Text

The gravel beneath their sneakers gave slightly with each step, the pebbles grinding softly like a sound you only noticed when everything else went quiet.

It was the tail end of late afternoon, that golden hush in the day when the sun had started its downward tilt and the whole park glowed like someone had draped it in watered-down honey.

Robin talked with her hands the way she always did when she was trying to make something sound casual even though it clearly wasn't. Her iced coffee bobbed in its plastic cup as she waved, gesturing vaguely toward the idea of a girl.
Someone she'd gone out with, someone with a fringe, or a dog, or both. Steve was nodding, making the right faces, mhmm-ing at all the proper intervals, but it was like trying to read through fogged glass. The words didn't quite stick.

He looked at the leaves instead, watched them catch the sun and show their veins, all that green almost turning gold. He wondered if it would rain tonight.

He thought about Eddie.

"So, how have things been with you?" she asked, her tone feather-light, too casual.

Steve blinked like he hadn't expected her to ask. He gave a half-smile, lips tight.
"Uh—interesting, I guess."

"Interesting?" she echoed, eyebrows raised as she took a sip.

He kicked a pebble off the path with the toe of his sneaker.

"Yeah. I mean, I now live with a bunch of monkeys who just about pass for young adult men in what is essentially a broom closet." He looked over at her, a shrug laced in bitterness. "My dad won't leave me the fuck alone. He stopped by the house when I wasn't even there and then took me out for dinner. He won't stop texting me college related memes. They're like—the most unfunny things I've ever seen. I don't even think he knows what half of them mean."

Robin snorted, the ice in her cup rattling as she took another pull from the straw.
"Incredible."

Steve's lips twitched.
"Plus I got the full initiation paddle experience and then some."

Robin made a face, but Steve was already fishing in his back pocket for his phone. He pulled it out, unlocked it with the nonchalance of someone showing a vacation photo, and turned it toward her.

"What the fuck?" Robin's voice was too loud, and a pigeon fluttered away nearby.

"Uh-huh." Steve smirked, satisfied in the way you could only be if you were detached from the actual pain.

"What the fuck did they do to you?"

"Oh, Owen just beat me ten times with a slab of wood for fun. Because that's my life now."

Robin stopped walking. She turned to face him, incredulous.
"Who the fuck is Owen?"

Steve sighed like the name itself exhausted him. "The president of the frat. I literally despise him. And he despises me even though he has literally no reason to."

Robin's eyes narrowed. Her cup was hanging by her side now, forgotten.
"Jesus, Steve! Why didn't you say anything?"

He shrugged, eyes flicking down to the path again.
"I dunno. Just—didn't wanna worry you. It's fine, it's healed now. It's barely even a thing."

"Did you have to go to the doctors?"

"No. It was fine. I mean—it was painful, yeah." He paused, hesitating before adding, "But Eddie rubbed this cream on my ass for me, which was fucking weird, and then gave me the rest of the tube. Forget what it's called. Helped it heal up a lot quicker and now I can actually sit down without crying."

Robin just stared at him. The silence between them stretched like taffy. Then she shook her head, hair swaying at her shoulders.

"What?" Steve asked, voice rising slightly.

"You told Eddie about this but you didn't tell me?"

"Well, I didn't want to tell Eddie about it. It's not like I ran to him crying and begging for help. It just happened that way."

She let out a short laugh that wasn't really a laugh.
"Unbelievable."

"What? Robin, it's not a big deal. Seriously."

"Oh, it's not? Then how does your weird fuck buddy who doesn't care if you live or die know more about your life than I do?"

Steve's brows knitted.
"That's not true."

"Isn't it? Because I've barely heard from you at all apart from your weird, vague, blunt texts." She mimicked his tone with a grimace.
"It's like talking to my dad. What's next, you're gonna start sending thumbs up emojis?"

Steve's jaw tensed, then he rolled his eyes like he could laugh it off.
"Okay, well—Eddie's not the reason for that. You can blame the weird cult my father insisted on indoctrinating me into that's slowly causing irreparable damage to my psyche and socialising abilities."

"Right." Robin's eyes narrowed as she looked ahead again, continuing down the path. Steve trailed her.

He perked up, suddenly animated again.
"Oh my God. You wanna hear something crazy?"

She glanced sideways, eyebrows arched.
"Sure."

"Someone set fire to Owen's car outside the house the other night."

She stopped.
"What?"

Steve had already pulled out his phone again, flicking to the photo with practiced ease.
"Yeah, look. I took this photo from my bedroom window."

They both leaned in over the screen, side by side.

"It was fucking hilarious. He was just—running around screaming all like, 'my dad's gonna kill me, wah' and punching holes through the dry wall. Fucking asshole."

Robin didn't laugh. She looked at the photo a moment longer, then at Steve. He was already laughing enough for both of them.

"Did he find out who did it?" Robin asked, keeping her eyes on the path ahead, as though the words weren't meant to sting.

Steve shrugged, his mouth twitching toward a smirk.
"Nah. Probably just shit luck. Or maybe another frat from another college, they do shit like that all the time to each other. S'crazy."

"Right."

Something about the tone made Steve glance sideways.

"What?"

Robin didn't look at him.
"Don't you think it's a little convenient that you spent the night with Eddie while he nursed you back to health, and then suddenly the guy who did it gets his car blown up?"

Steve blinked. "What do you mean?" His laugh was thin, disbelieving.
"You think Eddie went out of his way to set fire to Owen's car? For what?"

"I don't know. To get back at him?" she said, finally glancing at him, one eyebrow lifted.

Steve let out a scoff, shaking his head like she'd just offered the most ludicrous theory in the world.
"Why would he do that? He doesn't even know who Owen is. Plus you literally just said he doesn't care if I live or die."

"Well, maybe it's only mostly true."

"I highly doubt he would have found out who he is, find out what car he drives and then drive all the way to campus just to avenge me, or whatever." Steve ran a hand through his hair, agitated now.
"Trust me. He barely acknowledges my existence outside of when I'm lying underneath him. And even then I'm not sure."

Robin's cup crinkled in her hand as her grip tightened.
"I'm just saying. Eddie's a shady guy. If he didn't do it himself he probably knows people who would. It's not exactly a stretch."

"He's not a shady guy. You act like he's fucking Pablo Escobar." Steve groaned, throwing his arms out.

"Are you seriously telling me that you think Eddie had nothing to do with this?" Robin asked, less curious now and more clipped, edged with disbelief.

"Are you seriously telling me that you think Eddie had something to do with this?"

"Um—yeah. I am. I literally just said that."

"Well, then forget it. Because he didn't." Steve barked out a laugh.

"Alright. Then ask him." She shrugged.

Steve furrowed his brow.
"What?"

"Ask him."

"No. I'm not gonna ask him that. That's insane."

"No, the fact that you're spending so much time with this guy who you barely know, who almost definitely has multiple arrests, and acting like it's completely normal is insane."

They had stopped walking entirely now. The path behind them was empty, and ahead, a pair of ducks flapped noisily from a patch of grass into the creek.

"So much time with him? I've seen him, like—four times. Once was with you. You're acting like I spend every single day with him."

"Four times too many."

"Oh my God." Steve looked away, scanning the grass like he might find something to distract himself from the heat in his chest.

"You should have dropped it when I told you to. Because now look what's happened."

Steve's face twisted.
"Are you fucking serious? Need I remind you that you are the one who was making jokes about us getting married. You are the one who told him I think he's hot. And you are the one who was absolutely thrilled by the idea that he invited me back to see him the next weekend. Don't act like you're some perfect little angel."

Robin's mouth opened but she didn't speak at first. Her knuckles were white around her drink.

"Yeah. When I thought it was just—a thing! A funny anecdote we could look back on. Like—'oh, hey Steve. Remember that time you hit on that guy at that illegal drag race we went to that one time? Wasn't that funny!' Something I could say when I do my best man speech at your wedding to a normal, respectable human being." Her voice cracked slightly.
"And now he's like—a part of your life, and putting cream on your ass like you've been married twenty years!"

Steve looked down at his shoes, scuffing one into the gravel.
"Jesus Christ."

Robin took a sharp breath.
"That and the fact that ever since you met him you barely talk to me anymore!"

"Yes I do! I'm standing here, in front of you, talking to you!"

"Yeah, and I'm the one that had to reach out to you! Otherwise who knows how much time would have passed before you suddenly remember I exist?"

"I didn't forget you exist. And if I was going to forget you exist, it wouldn't be because of Eddie. It would be because I'm a shitty person who can't manage a schedule and has no object permanence!"

Robin stared at him, lips parted slightly.

"I literally came to this college because it was only two hours away from you."
Her voice was quieter now, cutting.
"Because you said you couldn't handle being any further away from me. So why do I feel like all of this—is only gonna get worse until eventually we aren't gonna speak anymore?"

Steve stepped back, like the air had pushed him. "Your college was already on your list, Robin. It was one of your first choices. Because you liked the fact it had an agriculture society. I didn't force you to go there."

The pause that followed was long enough for the moment to reshape itself. No longer a spat, but a crack. They both stood there, cooling drinks in their hands, cooling anger on their faces, the park suddenly too quiet again.

Steve's voice came sharper than he meant.
"Y'know what, I just think you're being a little fucking dramatic right now. You seem to think that Eddie has a much bigger part in my life than what he actually does. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that he doesn't. He's not my boyfriend."

Robin turned her head slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief, like she'd just heard a stranger use her name in passing.

"Oh, really? So how come whenever I see you or whenever you FaceTime me all we do is talk about him?"

Steve stepped forward, the ice in his coffee sloshing.
"You're the one who's talking about him!" he snapped. His voice cracked on the tail end, and he winced.
"I made one passing comment and you couldn't let it go. I just had to listen to you harp on about some shitty date you went on with some weird liberal arts girl! That's what friends do!"

Robin's mouth dropped open. She stood still, her coffee limp in her hand, her arm at her side like she'd forgotten it was there.
"Harp on?"

Steve's shoulders tensed. His mouth opened like he might say something clever, something that could put it all back in place.
"I obviously didn't mean it like that."

The words hung there, weightless and limp.

Robin blinked once, twice, then her eyes narrowed.
"Sorry that I'm so boring to you all of a sudden because I'm not having sex with you."

"Robin, I didn't mean it like that." Steve's voice dropped low, tired now, like it was sinking under the weight of everything they weren't saying.

She turned, her sneakers crunching on the gravel as she moved away from him, fast and determined.
"I'm going home."

"Robin." His arms fell to his sides in frustration.
"Seriously?"

He watched her march toward the trash can, where she tossed her cup with a motion just sharp enough to make a sound.

"Robin!" he called, louder now, his voice echoing faintly against the empty green.
But she didn't look back.

"Fuck me." he muttered to no one at all.

***

The room was a mess of scattered papers and textbooks, none of which Steve had meaningfully opened.

A highlighter had been uncapped for at least an hour, bleeding a fluorescent smear into the pages of his course reader.

From his speaker, a low, melancholic track filled the stale air, curling around the edges of the chipped desk, slipping into corners the vacuum hadn't touched in weeks.

The house creaked faintly with movement, shouts from down the hall, the muffled thump of someone dropping a dumbbell in the makeshift gym. But Steve sat still, back stiff, a deep crease etched between his brows.

He wasn't studying. He hadn't been studying.

He'd been thinking. About Robin, about Eddie, about what the hell he was even doing here. His fingers hovered over a half-written text, long since abandoned.

A sudden, heavy knock rattled the door. Sharp, impatient.

"Yeah," Steve called, already swiveling in his desk chair, expecting maybe someone normal.

Instead, it was Georgie.

He pushed the door open like he owned the place, like he could snap the hinges off if he wanted. All thick arms and tank top bravado, his jaw set like a guy about to deliver a sermon.

"Hey, what's up?" Steve asked, straightening slightly, already on edge.

"The fuck is this gay shit you're listening to?" Georgie asked, his eyes darting to the speaker on the shelf. His lip curled, like the music offended him personally.

Steve blinked.
"It's not—gay shit. It's Hozier," he said, frowning, his tone more confused than confrontational.

"Right. Whatever," Georgie muttered, waving a hand like the clarification wasn't worth processing.
"Do you even read the group chat?"

Steve hesitated.
"Uh—"

"Because you didn't thumbs up react Owen's message. He asked everyone to thumbs up react. You were the only one who didn't." His voice was flat, accusatory, like Steve had skipped a funeral.

Steve reached instinctively for his phone, unlocking it with a nervous swipe.
"Sorry. I had my phone on do not disturb."

That was a lie. He'd archived them all on WhatsApp.

"Okay, well you shouldn't. Because there's important shit happening." Georgie stepped further into the room now, like proximity would help the information stick.

"Why, what's happened?" Steve asked.

"Big rager. Next Friday."

Steve gave a slow nod, feigning interest.
"Oh. Okay."

"Not just a rager. The rager. DJs, lights, four kegs minimum, jungle juice vats. Full apocalypse vibes. S'gonna be huge."

"Oh. Cool." Steve said, trying to sound neutral, like this wasn't the absolute last thing he wanted to talk about right now.
"Why?"

Georgie barked a laugh, incredulous.
"Why? To get fucking obliterated, that's why. So we can rage so hard campus security puts us on some kind of watchlist. Why else does anyone throw a party?"

"Right. Yeah. Sorry."

Georgie tilted his head, then lowered his voice slightly, like sharing insider gossip.
"But also, between you and me I think Owen's just blowing off some steam. His dad went full beast mode on him about the car. Was crazy."
He gave a low whistle.
"Anyway, we're gonna need money. Everyone's chipping in."

"Sure. How much?"

"A hundred bucks."

"A hundred bucks? Jesus." Steve exhaled.

"Venmo's taped to the fridge."

With that, Georgie turned and walked out, the door slamming shut behind him with no regard for Steve's reply. The music kept playing, eerily unfazed.

Steve sat frozen in his chair, phone still in hand, the scent of Dior Sauvage and testosterone still lingering in the doorway. He blinked once, slowly, as if trying to recalibrate. The screen of his phone glowed uselessly back at him.

Everything felt unreasonably loud.

***

The room was dark but not heavy. Warm lamplight settled over the worn comforter, soft flannel creased beneath Steve's back as if it had grown to know the exact outline of Eddie's weight on top of him.

The scent of the room was humid and unmistakably lived-in. Old incense, laundry not quite folded, a trace of metal and engine oil that clung to Eddie like another layer of clothing. Steve tasted the same cigarettes on Eddie's tongue, bitter and biting. The only constant.

His breath stuttered as Eddie kissed him. Then paused, lips still hovering close enough to hum against his own.

"You're doing that thing again," Eddie mumbled, barely brushing Steve's mouth.

Steve blinked. He didn't have to ask what thing, not really.

"What thing?" he asked anyway, his voice low, trying not to give himself away.

"Thinking so hard I can feel it."

"Sorry."

Eddie pulled back with a sharp sigh, leaning over him like he could physically drag the thought out by its collar.
The weight of him shifted, knees pressing into the mattress, forearms bracing. It made Steve feel smaller than usual, which, strangely, was not something he minded.

"What."

Steve's eyes flicked away.
"Nothing. Honestly."

Eddie huffed again.

"Yeah, forgive me for not believing you given your idea of nothing is always definitely something."

Steve groaned and covered his face with one hand, fingers brushing against the scruff of his jaw, the faint leftover warmth of Eddie's mouth.

"What, is there a gunshot wound in your ass cheek now or something?"

"No," he muttered, voice muffled by his palm.
"Robin and I had a fight."

Eddie cocked his head. His expression didn't change much, just the smallest flicker of something that could have been concern or just curiosity. Or neither.

"What about?"

"It's—stupid. Doesn't matter." Steve sighed.

"I mean, yeah. It's obviously gonna be stupid. But what was it about?"

"Why do you care?" Steve snapped, exhaustedly.

"Because the longer you lay there thinking about it, the less fucking we're doing. So I'd rather we just get it out and move on."

Steve sighed, finally lowering his hand. The ceiling above him looked different in Eddie's room. More cracked. More honest.
"She thinks I'm like—not talking to her enough about stuff. She got mad because I didn't tell her about the—y'know. Ass emergency. And because I told you."

"Trust me. I would rather have not known at all." Eddie grumbled, eyes narrowing.

Eddie leaned in, kissed his neck absentmindedly like he was on autopilot now.

"That's pretty much what I said." Steve shrugged.

"So—what. You guys aren't speaking now?"

"Guess not."

Eddie's mouth was soft against his collarbone, voice gruff against skin.
"Just text her and say you're sorry."

Steve tensed.
"Why am I sorry?"

"I don't know. Just—be sorry. Be friends again. So I can get laid."

"I'm not saying sorry. I have nothing to be sorry for. She was being insane. She said you were the one who blew Owen's car up."

The laugh came too easily. Eddie's breath hitched with it against Steve's neck, his body shifting like the joke had physically jolted him.

"She's smart."

Steve froze.
"What."

"I said she's smart."

"Why?"

Eddie barely looked at him as he said it.
"Because it was."

"Are you"— he stammered, barely able to form the words,
Steve shoved him hard, scrambling upright, the room spinning slightly around the edges. The bed creaked with the sudden lack of weight.
"Fucking insane?"

"Here we go," Eddie muttered, eyes tracking him lazily as Steve stood at the center of the room, chest heaving.

"What is wrong with you?"

Eddie sat up and stretched lazily, elbows on his knees like he was at a fucking bus stop, not being accused of a felony.

"Guy's a dick. He deserved worse."

"Jesus, Eddie, that's arson! You could go to jail!"

"Technically, it was only supposed to be the tires. And a little bit of the undercarriage. Then the whole thing just went up mad fast. But it's not like anyone was in it. I'm not a total maniac."

"Oh, well, thank God," Steve snapped.

"You're welcome." He smiles.

"I cannot believe you. I can't believe you'd do something that—insane!" His voice cracked around the word. He could feel himself spiraling.

Eddie raised a brow.
"Really? You can't believe that?"

Steve shot him a sharp glare.

"I just don't like bullies."

"You don't like a lot of people. You don't go around blowing up their cars!"

"Don't tempt me."

Steve stared at him, at the half-smile on his lips, at the utter calm that sat on him like a second skin.
"This isn't funny. This could follow you for the rest of your life."

"Oh no, not my spotless academic record and promising future in corporate finance." Eddie sang, feigning dramacy.

Steve could feel it all welling up in his throat now. Anger, disbelief, whatever the fuck this feeling was.
"God, you're such a—goddamn—you're impossible. Now I think I am actually having a heart attack."

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing.

"Why would you do something that stupid? You don't even like me."

Eddie tilted his head just slightly.
"Exactly. Imagine what I'd do if I did."

"This isn't funny!" Steve snapped.

"What, you wanted a straight answer? From me?"

Steve stood there, skin prickling with a heat that wasn't about the temperature, every nerve in his arms lit up like a false alarm he couldn't shut off.

Eddie was on the bed, propped up on his palms, posture too casual, too untouched by the fire Steve felt rising in his chest. His shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing the soft line of his hip, and Steve hated that even now, especially now, he noticed.

"You don't get it, Eddie. You have no idea who his dad is. He's not just some pissed-off rich kid, okay? His family—they sue people for fun. They could bury you. Like, financially, legally, actually."

Eddie shrugged like Steve had asked him what time it was.
"Cool. Can't sue me if I don't have anything."

And just like that, it was like trying to hold water in his hands. Nothing stuck, nothing sank in. Steve's voice cracked under the weight of disbelief.

"Jesus Christ, that's not how it works!"

Eddie didn't flinch. He leaned back farther, grinning like this was a bit in a sitcom that only he found funny.
"Let him come. What's he gonna do—beat me with a paddle?"

Steve's hands clenched at his sides.
"You think this is funny. You always think it's a game. But he's insane, Eddie. Like, actually unhinged. He's not gonna stop until he finds out it was you. And then what? Huh? What're you gonna do then?"

Eddie lifted a brow. The confidence, or recklessness, settled over him like a coat.
"He's not going to find me. There's literally nothing and nobody connecting me to him. And if he does then I'll deal with it."

"Me!" Steve shouted, the panic clawing up his throat now, raw and immediate.
"Me! I connect you to him!" His voice cracked like glass.
"Oh my God. Oh my God I'm freaking out. I'm freaking the fuck out."

Eddie exhaled, slow and cool and maddening.
"Why do you even care? It's done. Let's move on."

Steve's heart was pounding too loud to hear himself think.
"Because funnily enough, I don't want anything bad to happen to you!"

And Eddie laughed. Like it meant nothing.
"That's new."

"Yeah, well. Welcome to the club." Steve grumbled.

He paced to the window and back, as if movement might siphon off the panic. It didn't.

"What do you want me to do, Steve? Go apologise? Bake him a fucking casserole?"

"I want you to care," Steve said. He could hear the hoarseness in his own voice, the way the words scraped on their way out.
"Like, actually care if something happens to you. I want you to stop acting like nothing matters."

Eddie's face dimmed, just slightly. The sharpness dulled for half a second.
"Maybe nothing does."

"Don't do that," Steve snapped, stepping forward before he could second-guess it.
"Don't pull the noble burnout bullshit on me right now. You do care. I know you do. You just don't want to admit it unless someone's bleeding. And even then it's not particularly reassuring!"

The corner of Eddie's mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite.
"That's rich, coming from a guy who only tells the truth when he's yelling."

Steve felt the weight of that land somewhere low in his gut. He kept pacing like he'd been hit and didn't want anyone to see how much it hurt.
"You're gonna get yourself killed one day, and you're gonna act like it was nothing. Like that's just how it was supposed to go."

"Maybe it is."

Steve stopped. Really stopped. His mind stuttered on that thought, refused to let it pass. He turned back to Eddie slowly, blinking like something had just occurred to him.

"Wait—wait. How did you even know who he was? Or what car he drove? How did any of this even happen?"

Eddie tilted his head, lazily. Like it was obvious. Like Steve was the one who'd missed something simple.
"You're not the only one who likes stalking people on social media, Steve."

Steve stared, mouth half open.
"Oh my God."

And there it was. The confirmation. The maddening, terrifying, inevitable confirmation.

It should have horrified him more than it did, everything Eddie had just said. The casual tone. The complete lack of remorse. The ease with which he described cyberstalking someone and committing arson, like he was recounting a mildly eventful afternoon.

And maybe it did horrify him. Maybe it should have. But beneath the horror, and his pacing, and the sick, twisty feeling in his gut, there was something else. Something quieter. Something that felt like it had been waiting in the wings all this time.

"Wasn't exactly hard," Eddie had said, his voice low and offhanded. He was still sitting on the bed like nothing had happened, like this whole thing was just an unfortunate mix-up at the DMV.
"I just went on the college Instagram. Typed his name in. Granted there were, like, a thousand Owens. Eventually found him. His Instagram's wide open. Plus the dude posts like a thousand photos of his car."

Steve stopped mid-step, hands planted on his hips, trying to process what he'd just heard.
"You stalked his Instagram?"

Eddie raised his eyebrows, mock offense in his voice.
"I investigated."

"Oh my God." Steve whined, dragging his hands down his face.

Eddie shrugged, like this whole thing was laughably simple.
"Also, not for nothing, but if your hazing ritual includes assault with a paddle, maybe don't take a selfie next to your small-dick-compensating car with the caption 'Alpha never kneels.' Kind of paints a target."

"You're insane," Steve muttered, but it was automatic now, more reflex than feeling. He didn't even mean it anymore. Not really.

"You said that already."

"So you what," Steve said, barely able to form words around the astonishment blooming in his chest, "just put on your leather jacket, got in your death trap of a car, and drove down to campus to play Batman? Is that it? That was your plan?"

"Hey," Eddie said, wounded now, sitting up a little straighter.
"She's not a death trap. She's got more soul than half your college combined." He paused.
"But yeah. That pretty much covers it."

The room felt like it was getting smaller. Steve turned to him fully, stopped pacing, his voice coming tighter now, narrower in the throat. "Why?" he asked.
"Why the hell would you go that far?"

Eddie looked at him, not blinking.
"I don't know. Because no one else was going to." And then after a pause, the barest trace of a smile curled into his mouth.
"And maybe I like the idea of you owing me one."

Steve scoffed because he couldn't think of what else to do. His chest was full of static. The buzzing behind his eyes wouldn't stop.

"It's not a big deal," Eddie added.
"Owen's just a name. A face. A car on fire. I'm not gonna lose any sleep over it. Neither should you."

Steve's voice barely made it out, more breath than sound.
"What do you want me to say? Thank you?"

Eddie leaned back again, eyes dimmed now, unreadable.
"Nothing. But this is who I am. Maybe you can take a leaf out of my book and start being who you actually are."

Steve exhaled sharply, bitter.
"Yeah, well. That's a little harder than torching a BMW, isn't it?"

"Not if you light the right match."

And then everything just stopped.

The room stilled, but not with calm. It was the kind of stillness that came before a storm, or after an admission so raw it changed something fundamental in the air.

Steve wasn't pacing anymore. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't even sure he was breathing. Something had cracked open, silent and deep.

Because the truth was, Eddie had done something for him. Had seen him hurt, humiliated, angry, and instead of making a joke or walking away, had done something about it.

Something stupid, sure. Something dangerous. But something deliberate. And Steve, for all his outrage, had never really known what it felt like to be looked after like that.

Not coddled. Not babysat. Chosen.

His body moved before his brain did. As if he'd been standing still his whole life and finally found the direction forward.

He crossed the room in two long strides, grabbed Eddie by the collar, dragged him up and kissed him. Hard, fast, like the pressure had finally found an outlet. Like he'd been holding this in behind his teeth for too long and couldn't anymore.

It wasn't careful. It wasn't soft. It was real. It was electric.

Eddie's mouth parted in a startled laugh, lips curling against his in that crooked, impossible grin that always made Steve want to hit him or kiss him or both. His fingers tangled in Eddie's shirt, yanked him closer. There was no choreography. No plan. Just a need that had no name.

And Eddie. Eddie kissed him back like he'd been waiting for it. Like he'd known this was coming and had just been waiting for Steve to catch up.

The bed hit the back of Eddie's knees, and Steve shoved him down into it, climbing on top of him without thinking, without anything but instinct.

But Eddie was quicker. Always quicker. He rolled them easily, reversing their positions in a single practiced movement, and suddenly Steve was on his back, breath knocked out of him. He'd stopped feeling angry about three heartbeats ago.

It had drained out of him all at once, the fury, the panic, the helpless clench of his fists. Now all that was left was this ache. A soft, keening ache that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way Eddie was looking at him like he knew. Like he'd always known. Every wall Steve had been hiding behind, every careful script he'd stuck to, every grin that felt just a little too wide to be honest. Eddie saw through them.

He hovered over him now, his breath ghosting along Steve's jaw. Close enough to taste.

"So this is it, huh?" Eddie murmured, voice like honey and smoke. A purr. A dare.
"The little golden boy's decided he actually wants something dangerous."

Steve tried to glare. He meant to glare. But the heat in his face betrayed him. His breath came quick, chest rising beneath Eddie's weight, blood drumming in his ears. His voice came out ragged.

"You blew up a car."

Eddie grinned, slow and unbothered.
"Yeah, and you like it," he said, tone wicked. "Because no one's ever done something that fucked up just for you before."

And he was right. That was the thing. Somewhere inside, beneath the guilt and anxiety and whatever sense of moral clarity Steve was supposed to have held onto, something had snapped. Someone had done something for him. Not for show, not because they had to. Because they wanted to.

Because he mattered.

Eddie's teeth grazed the skin of his throat, slow and deliberate. Like a threat. Like a promise.

"You like how exciting I am now?"

Steve couldn't think. Could barely feel anything besides Eddie's weight on top of him, the coil of heat low in his stomach, the pulse behind his eyes. His hands found Eddie's hips on instinct, gripping like they could anchor him. His voice cracked in that helpless, too-honest way it sometimes did around Eddie.

"God, shut the fuck up."

Eddie laughed, low and pleased.
"Make me."

And then their mouths collided again, teeth knocking, lips bruising. Less a kiss and more a declaration. There was no rhythm, no gentleness. Just heat and need and the way their bodies tangled like they were trying to rewrite every bad thing that had ever happened to them by sheer proximity.

Steve kissed him like Eddie was something to climb into and live inside, like this moment might be the only real thing he ever got. Like his skin was too tight and Eddie could tear it off in all the right places.

And for once, he didn't care about the consequences. He didn't care about the future. There was no script for this. No roadmap. Just Eddie, bare and grinning and messy, like a fire Steve had never dared get close to.

They stripped each other with fumbling hands, impatient mouths, clothes peeled off in pieces and forgotten wherever they landed. And Steve didn't hesitate. Not once. Not when Eddie settled between his legs like that's where he belonged. Not when there was no lube, just spit and spit-warm skin and reckless trust. Not even when there was no condom. Something about the recklessness, the sheer immediacy of it, felt right.

Eddie leaned down, never breaking the kiss, and slid inside with a slow, firm push that stole the breath from Steve's lungs. It hurt, of course it did, but even the pain felt good. In the way anything unbearably honest does. Like it stripped him down to something bare and aching and new.

And Steve, pinned beneath him, panting and wrecked and half-wild, thought, This is what it feels like to be seen. To be known. To be chosen in the most terrifying, liberating, human way.

His whole life broke open.

He could feel the stutter of his own pulse echoing somewhere in his wrists, in his throat, everywhere Eddie touched him. Or didn't. Especially where he didn't.

The ceiling above him was cracked and uneven, but Steve didn't see it. His eyes were locked on Eddie's, on the wicked slope of his grin, on the way his hands knew exactly where to go, how to hold him down without really holding him. Like he was trying to pin something deeper. The panic. The pretense. The performance.

"I'm waiting for you to admit it," Eddie said, voice almost lazy now. Feigned boredom, hiding something sharper.
"That you want to fuck me because I'm exciting."

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it again. He wanted to lie, God, he wanted to say no. To scoff, to toss it off with some biting line that would deflect, buy him time. But he didn't. His silence said more than he wanted it to.

Eddie clicked his tongue, tilting his head as though he were studying something beneath glass.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."

And then, lower, with something darker curled in the edges of his voice:
"You're not the first good boy I've met to want something they know is wrong."

Wrong. That word should have jolted Steve back to himself, should've made him flinch. But all he felt was heat. A slow, blooming ache at the base of his spine. He stared up at Eddie like he'd just been asked to confess something holy.

"I don't think I am all that good anymore," he said. It came out quiet. Raw.

Eddie smiled at that, something close to feral. "No? Then why are you still waiting for permission?"

That stopped him. Steve felt it settle deep in his chest like a truth he'd been running from. He didn't answer, just swallowed, exhaled, stared. Still and burning.

Eddie didn't move fast. He didn't need to. That was the cruelty of it, the genius. He moved like he had centuries. Like he could unravel Steve without ever breaking a sweat. The rhythm he set was deliberate and devastating. Hips rolling forward just enough to make Steve gasp, then pulling back, leaving him on the edge of something unspoken. A dance of denial.

"I think you should beg for it," Eddie murmured, voice almost gentle, like he wasn't asking something brutal.

Steve flinched. A small, involuntary jerk beneath him. It made Eddie smile, slow and certain.

"Tell me what you want," Eddie said, watching him.
"Or you can keep pretending this is still about me and not the fact that you want me so bad it's driving you fucking insane."

"You're such a dick," Steve whispered, but his voice didn't carry any fight. His hips lifted, barely, seeking more. Even if he couldn't say it yet. That was answer enough.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed, half in desperation, half in surrender.

"Wrong name, sweetheart," Eddie said, smug, dragging his palm down the length of Steve's chest, slow enough to sear.
"Try again."

And then his eyes caught on Steve's hand. On the ring, thick and gold and too polished, the kind of thing you didn't wear for style but because it meant something. Because it said something about who you were, or who you were supposed to be.

"This is new," Eddie said, his voice dipped in mock-curiosity.
"Daddy buy you this?"

Steve didn't answer right away. He didn't need to. "Yeah."

Eddie's smile turned cruel. He brought the hand to his mouth, slow, purposeful. Then, with theatrical flair, he slid the ring off with his teeth. His lips brushed Steve's knuckle, too soft to be mocking, too intimate to be casual. And then, without hesitation, he spit the ring across the room.

The sound it made when it hit the floor was small, metallic. But it echoed in Steve's bones.

"You wear shit like that like it means something," Eddie said, hand pressed flat over Steve's chest. "Like you think it protects you. But it doesn't, does it?"

Steve couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. He looked up at Eddie like a man watching the fire consume the house he built and realising he doesn't want to run.

"You're not good at saying what you want," Eddie said. Not unkind, but not letting him off the hook either. He nodded toward the door, toward the world Steve had to survive in.
"Not out there."

And then he leaned in, closer, chest against chest, the space between them gone.

"But in here?" His thumb grazed the hollow of Steve's throat, like he was feeling for the truth buried there.
"You can tell me what you really want."

"What if I don't know how?" Steve asked, voice hoarse.

Eddie's smile was cruel and kind, a paradox only he could make beautiful.
"Then I guess I'll just have to fuck it out of you."

The way he grabbed Steve's thigh
rough, assured, inevitable made Steve gasp. Not from surprise, but from the clarity of it. Like everything made sense for one aching second. Like maybe this was the answer. Not the sex, not the danger. But this. Being wanted this clearly. Being known this completely.

He arched up toward it. Chased it. Didn't care what that said about him anymore.

"What's the matter, Harrington?" Eddie whispered, voice low, dark with delight. His hips snapped once, sharp, enough to make Steve bite down on a groan.
"Don't know how to ask for what you want?"

"You're such a piece of—"

But he didn't finish. Couldn't. Because Eddie was laughing again, low and filthy and perfect, and Steve's hands were already grabbing for him like they had a mind of their own.

"Uh-uh. You don't get to act like you're better than this," Eddie breathed.
"When your thighs are shaking and your hands are grabbing at me like I'm the last thing keeping you breathing."

And Steve, burning, breaking, breathless beneath him didn't argue.

Because maybe Eddie was.

Steve's back arches when Eddie stops. Stops completely.

No warning, no explanation. Just stillness.

Like a punishment, like a test, like he wants Steve to break himself on the absence.

The silence rushes in like a tide, stealing all the air from Steve's lungs.

He makes a sound high, sharp, helpless and it startles even him. A noise dragged from some unguarded part of himself, one he'd never shown anyone. Not the girls. Not his father. Not even himself. Not until now.

And Eddie, of course, hears it all.

"Say it," he murmurs, soft and coaxing and cruel in the way only someone who knows you can be. Not cruel to wound, but to peel away the last layer.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. His hands are fisted in whatever he can grab. The sheets, Eddie's back, the illusion of control.

"Fuck you."

He says it like a threat, but it crumbles halfway through.

"Already are," Eddie says, and there's laughter in it, but not unkindness.
"Try again."

The air grows heavy. Too full, too expectant. Steve's mouth opens, closes, opens again. Every breath tastes like rust, like heat, like everything he's never let himself say. It's like pushing words through a sealed door.

"Please," he breathes, and it's not a word anymore. It's surrender.

Eddie goes still above him.

Something about it has changed. Not the position. Not the setting. Not even the weight of Eddie's hips pressed between his thighs. But everything.

Steve says it again, quieter. Stripped down to nerves and need.
"Please. Please, I—I don't know what I'm doing. I just—fuck, I need—"

You, he almost doesn't say. But Eddie hears it.

"You need me," Eddie says, voice low now, all the teasing gone, and there's something almost stunned in it. Something like reverence.

And Steve. God, Steve nods. His face cracks wide open with it. Shame flushed high on his cheeks, on his chest. His eyes shiny but unhidden.

"Yeah," he says.
"Yes."

And that's it. That's enough.

Eddie moves, and there's no hesitation now. No games. No edge of mockery or test of power. Just rhythm. Deep, steady, purposeful.

Like he knows what Steve needs better than Steve does.

And Steve lets go. All of it. The anger, the performance, the part of himself that always wants to control the ending. It spills out of him with every gasp, every sound torn from his throat. There's no room for pride here. No space for shame.

He moans without thinking. Loud. Unfiltered. Unguarded.

It's the most real he's ever felt.

His body shakes with it. Like something sacred is unraveling from the center out. And when he meets Eddie's gaze, steady, warm, transfixed. It undoes him all over again.

Because Eddie's not looking at him like he's fragile.

He's looking at him like he's seen him.

And he stays.

No one ever stays.

But Eddie doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away. Doesn't ask him to be less.

And for once, Steve doesn't try to fix it or hide from it. He just lets himself be. Trembling, broken, wanting.

***

The morning light fell in through the broken slats of the blinds like ribbons of dust and gold, catching on the floorboards, on the scattered clothes, on the sharp angles of Eddie's jaw where sleep had softened him.

Steve moved slowly, careful not to shift the bed too much, every motion rehearsed from nights like this that weren't exactly like this. Nights that ended with borrowed intimacy and mornings spent erasing it.

He gathered his jeans from where they'd been discarded by the door, his shirt from across the  room. His underwear was harder to find, tangled somewhere between the rumpled blankets and a book with a dog-eared page. He crouched, found them, stood again.

Behind him, Eddie inhaled slowly. Long, lazy, content in a way that made Steve's stomach tighten. He didn't want to turn around. But he did.

Eddie sat up, scratching absently at his chest, blinking himself into consciousness. His hair was a mess. He looked like he belonged in this kind of morning. Rumpled, unbothered, golden with sleep.

"Oh, hey," Steve said, quiet and awkward, like he hadn't just been inside him hours ago. There was something too tender in his voice, something he didn't mean to give away. It sounded like he was asking permission to leave whilst he was pulling his underwear on.

Eddie looked at him for a beat, like he was trying to place him again, the way people do when they're not used to waking up with someone still in the room.

"You wanna go somewhere?" he asked, voice rough, still deep with sleep.

"I have—class this afternoon," Steve answered, the words coming out almost as a laugh. It felt ridiculous to say it. He didn't know why.

"So skip," Eddie offered easily, like it was obvious.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because—I can't," Steve said again, shaking his head. He laughed softly, like maybe if he laughed enough, none of this would feel as dangerous as it did.

"Not a great reason," Eddie shrugged, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard, arms folding behind his head. He looked comfortable, at home in a way Steve had never been even in his own childhood home.

"It's a hard class. If I skip, I'm gonna fall behind," Steve said, pulling his t-shirt on, not looking at him.

"I'm sure you can just bat your eyelashes at the professor and get the answers to the next pop quiz." The grin was audible in Eddie's voice. That grin that made it hard to tell whether he was serious or just trying to get a reaction.

Steve rolled his eyes and turned, one hand raking through his hair.
"Where?" he asked flatly.

"I'm not saying. It's a surprise."

"I think you've given me enough surprises in the last twelve hours, don't you?" Steve said, and he tried to sound annoyed, but his voice caught somewhere between exasperation and something else entirely.

"And I recall you finding that very thrilling," Eddie shot back, grinning like he could still taste last night on his tongue.

Steve flushed. He could feel it rise in his cheeks, neck, chest. He hated that Eddie could still do that. Make him blush like he was seventeen and someone had just brushed their hand against his on purpose.

"Fine," he huffed, looking away so Eddie wouldn't see the corner of his mouth curling upward.

And maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe it was the way Eddie was watching him now. Not like a joke, not like a game, but like someone who had seen something in the dark last night that he hadn't known he was looking for.

And maybe Steve had, too.

***

The room is a mausoleum for discarded fury.

Dust floats through the air like the aftermath of something sacred. If rage could ever be sacred.

Cracked TVs are stacked in one corner like relics from another life. Dinner plates, some whole, most fractured, sit in old milk crates beside a crooked folding table. A mannequin in a sagging prom dress slumps against the wall, one plastic arm twisted upward in a grotesque parody of surrender. A baseball bat leans nearby, patient and ominous, as though it has seen things. Been things. Done things.

Steve steps in like someone entering a chapel he doesn't believe in. Everything here feels loud before anything's even happened.

"What is this?" he asks, but already the question tastes rhetorical. The mess speaks for itself.

Eddie, of course, is already pulling on gloves like he's gearing up for communion. There's mischief on his mouth, something wilder behind his eyes.

"This, my dear suburban prince, is where fun lives." He throws a pair of scratched-up goggles at Steve, who catches them clumsily, frowning as if the goggles themselves might be contagious.

"I thought rage rooms were, like—dangerous?" Steve asks, eyeing a crowbar sticking out of a crate like it's about to grow teeth.
"Don't they, like, rewire your brain to deal with stress violently?"

Eddie snorts, already wielding a bat like it belongs in his hand more than a pen ever did. "Jesus Christ, did you read that on some kind of mommy forum? Oh no, Steve, we wouldn't want to encourage feelings. Or worse—releasing them."

Steve crosses his arms, deadpan.
"I'm just saying, some people think this stuff's counterproductive."

Eddie stalks toward him, bat slung over one shoulder, a gleam in his eye that says he's never once cared what most people think.
"Yeah? Well some people also thought that microwaves scramble your DNA. So I'm gonna need you to get a life, Harrington."

Steve opens his mouth to fire back, but nothing comes. He closes it.

Eddie softens, or maybe sharpens in a different direction.
"C'mon, golden boy. You've got decades of repression to work through. I'm doing you a favour."

Steve looks at him for a long moment. Then, softly, still skeptical, "So what, we just—break stuff?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Eddie says, grinning like the devil, already mid-windup.

Eddie grabs a plate. Thick, off-white, some tacky diner reject with a faded gold rim and slams it against the concrete floor without warning.

It shatters like a gunshot, exploding into jagged white pieces that scatter across the floor like a violent snowfall. Steve jumps. Full-body flinch. It's not a sound he's used to without someone getting hurt.

Eddie doesn't stop. Another plate, another crash, this time against the wall. Ceramic becomes dust in the blink of an eye. Steve watches like he's witnessing a ritual he doesn't know the rules to.

"Your turn, Harrington. Go wild."

He takes the plate Eddie hands him like it's a live bird, fragile and frightened. He hesitates, then tosses it half-heartedly. It breaks, sort of. Cracks in half and slides down the wall like a balloon that's lost its will.

"Wow," Eddie deadpans, blinking

Steve scowls.
"What? It broke."

"Yeah, it broke its own heart from disappointment." Eddie steps closer.
"Did that feel cathartic, or did it feel like you were apologizing to the plate mid-air?"

"There's not like a technique to it," Steve mutters, folding in on himself without realizing.

"No, but there is effort. C'mon, man—your entire existence is a pressure cooker. Your spine has been clenched since the second you left the womb. You're telling me you've got nothing to let out?"

"I don't really—do angry," Steve says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't like it."

Eddie doesn't laugh this time. His voice, when it comes, is gentler, but no less sharp.
"Maybe that's your problem."

He picks up another plate and presses it into Steve's hand. Not tosses, presses. Like he's giving him something sacred, something old and breakable. Steve looks at the plate. Then at Eddie. Then at the wall.

His jaw tightens.

And this time, he throws it like he means it.

The crash is immediate and absolute. A clean, violent exhale. It splits the air. Shakes dust from the rafters. Shakes something loose inside Steve that he hadn't realized was clenched until it wasn't anymore.

He stands there, chest rising fast, eyes on the fractured ruin of the plate on the floor. His arm still half-extended, like his body hasn't caught up with what it just did.

"There you go," Eddie says, but there's no tease in it now. It's reverent. Like he's just watched something be born.

Steve stares at the mess, stunned.
"That was pretty fun."

Something shifts.

Steve bends. Picks up another. This one's already chipped, like it's been waiting for him to finish the job. He doesn't hesitate.

It explodes. Jagged edges catching light midair. A perfect, impossible bloom.

"Fuck," Steve breathes, almost laughing at himself.

"Fuck yeah, Harrington. Let's ruin some shit."

They throw in unison this time, no countdown, no ceremony. Just violence shared like a language neither of them grew up speaking but somehow always knew.

And Steve laughs. Really laughs. Loud and whole and unguarded, like the sound's been waiting his entire life to be let out.

Eddie watches him, and something in his face goes quiet. Not small, just soft. Like he's watching something beautiful happen and knows better than to interrupt.

From his back pocket, Eddie pulls out a Sharpie. Pops the cap with his teeth like it's second nature. He grabs a plate and writes on it in thick, black letters:

DAD.

And then, without a word, he hands it to Steve.

Steve swallows.

Then smashes it with both hands, teeth bared.

It's not the loudest sound in the room. But it's the most honest.

And Eddie doesn't say anything.

The first plate had felt like a betrayal. Of manners, of control, of the Harrington veneer. But now; after Dad, after glass and guilt exploded in the same breath, it feels like something inside him has finally aligned. Not neatly. Not gently. But rightly.

Eddie hasn't spoken for a while, just moving around the room like some grungy priest, presenting offerings. Cracked dishes, dead electronics, relics of domesticity and expectation. And then he swings open a crate like he's opening a reliquary, and pulls it out. A sledgehammer. Weathered, reverent, heavy like memory.

He holds it toward Steve with both hands, not quite smiling.
"For the big boys."

Steve laughs, half a scoff, already stepping back like the thing might require a license.
"Okay, I barely graduated from dinnerware. I don't think I'm emotionally—or physically—ready for medieval weaponry."

Eddie's smile crooks wider.
"Come on. You've got the shoulders for it." He tilts his head, eyes bright with challenge.
"All that pent-up varsity energy and no real outlet. You've been a sledgehammer your whole life, Steve—you just walk around pretending you're a salad fork."

The metaphor makes him laugh, short, surprised. But his eyes go back to the weapon like it might be enchanted, or cursed, or both.
"I don't even know how to use it."

"It's a hammer, not a violin," Eddie says, breezy, like he's offering a dance.
"You pick it up, you swing, and you don't stop until you feel something break. Inside or outside, doesn't really matter."

Steve doesn't respond. Not right away. His eyes flick toward the old TV perched on the cinderblock. Ugly, square, dusty. It reminds him of Sunday mornings and his father's voice. It reminds him of being told to sit still and listen. It reminds him of waiting for someone to change the channel but knowing no one ever would.

"What if I miss and, like, kill myself by accident?"

"Just do it." Eddie glares.

Steve rolls his eyes. But he steps up.

The hammer is heavier than he expects. Thick-handled. Real. It makes his wrists ache just holding it. He breathes in, then again, trying not to hear his mother saying 'you can't do that in your nice shirts, Steven.' And then he swings.

The TV doesn't just break. It erupts. Glass, light, that hollow crunch of plastic ribcage giving in. The room lurches with the sound. His body lurches with it. Something inside him lurches.

He hits it again. And again. Until it's not a TV anymore but a suggestion of one, twisted wires and warped plastic and a screen that no longer remembers what it once displayed.

He straightens slowly, chest rising and falling. His hair clings to his forehead, sweat carving lines down the back of his neck. And when he turns, Eddie is just looking at him like he's seeing something that shouldn't be visible, something private. Like watching the moon bleed.

"Okay," Eddie says, soft and stunned.

Steve laughs. Really laughs. And it startles him more than the swing did.

Eddie doesn't speak right away. He just watches, almost reverent, like Steve's glow might burn off if touched too soon. Because he is glowing. Or, at least he feels like he is. Not smiling for effect, not posing, but beaming, like the marrow in his bones just unclenched.

He holds out his hand, still breathless, flushed down to his collarbones.
"C'mon. I'm warmed up now."

Eddie, blinking out of it, grins and fetches a monitor. Places it carefully in front of him like a gift.
"Coming right up."

The second hit feels good. Not just satisfying, but natural. Like his body's remembering a movement it forgot it knew. Glass sprays. Casing folds. Steve lets out this unholy, unnamable sound, halfway between a yell and a laugh. It bursts from his chest like it's been locked up for decades.

Eddie's watching like a man possessed.
"Look at you." His voice has dropped, hushed and rough.
"You like this."

Steve, still catching his breath, shakes his head, but he's smiling.
"No, I don't like it—"

"Yeah. You do." Eddie interjects with a huff of laughter.

He lifts the sledge again. Smirking now.
"Okay, fine. Maybe I do. A little bit."

Eddie laughs, loud and delighted, and starts rummaging again like he's prepping a fireworks show. And then it just keeps going.

Plates. Radios. A busted lamp that sparks a little when it hits the floor. Steve doesn't even flinch. He's different now. Looser. His body moves like it was meant to break things, like every hit isn't just impact but memory turned physical. Like every crash is a muscle untensing somewhere in his soul.

Everything here feels like it once meant something to someone. Everything here looks like Steve.

He slams a VCR to the floor and watches it die in a flutter of springs and shattered time, and then laughs so hard his shoulders shake.

And just as his pulse is finally slowing, lungs still heaving from laughter or effort or release, Eddie checks his watch.

"Alright," he says, voice casual, business-like.
"I hate to be a stickler for rules but our hour's almost up. So I'd suggest you make sure you got it all out of your system."

Steve blinks at him. He's still holding the sledgehammer, his hands warm from where they wrapped around its grip like it might steady him. But now his fingers twitch uselessly, like they've forgotten what they were for.

Eddie catches the look. Grins.
"What?" he says, laughing like none of this is a big deal.
"All that smashing knock your braincells out?"

And that's when it happens.

Steve doesn't plan it. Doesn't even think. One second, he's looking at Eddie's grin, the crooked one, the one that tilts like it doesn't expect to be loved, and the next, he's kissing him.

Not a gentle kiss. It's messy, a little rough, the kind of kiss that trips over itself in the rush to be real. His hands don't know what they're allowed to hold, so they hover and don't settle. His mouth is open too fast, too earnest, like he's trying to climb into the moment before it disappears.

And Eddie, Eddie just lets it happen. He doesn't lean in, doesn't pull away. Just stands there.

Steve pulls back, barely. Just enough to breathe. His lips sting. His eyes are wide. Something in him wants to laugh, to run, to vanish.

Instead, he says the worst thing he could possibly say.

"I'm sorry."

Eddie blinks. Once. Then again.

His voice flattens like a pressed flower. Uncertain, uncomfortable, maybe a sense of dread.
"Okay."

And then Steve's already backing away, words tumbling out of him like he can still save this from turning into something it already is.

"I—I don't know. I just—it felt like—I know we're not, like"—He gestures vaguely between them, helpless.
"It's not a thing, I know that. You said. I just"—

Eddie steps back too, but slower. Like he's stepping over something he doesn't want to disturb. He lets out a dry chuckle. Short, sharp, joyless.

"Jesus, Harrington. You always this good at killing the moment, or is that just a me thing?"

"I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to—"

"You kissed me," Eddie says, and it isn't sharp or accusing. It's just fact.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Eddie crosses his arms. He leans back against the busted crate, the casual posture too rehearsed to be anything but armor. His eyes flick over Steve. Measuring, maybe. Or trying to read something that won't hold still.

"Look, man. I'm—"

"You're not my boyfriend. I know. Heard." Steve cuts him off, too fast, too brittle.
"I know. It doesn't mean anything. Obviously."

Steve hears how hollow it sounds. Like a punch thrown underwater. Too slow, too dull, too safe.

Eddie tilts his head, considering. His tongue runs along the edge of his teeth.
"Does it to you?"

The question halts everything. Time shrinks to the space between their bodies, to the weight of the air, to the small, sharp feeling of being completely known and not ready for it.

And Steve doesn't know. Or maybe he does and just doesn't want to say it out loud. So he answers the only way he knows how. By lying.

"No. It doesn't." His voice is steady, but only because he's carved it clean.
"It was just adrenaline. The sledgehammer. The plates. I—I got carried away."

He doesn't look at Eddie when he says it.

"Good."
Eddie doesn't flinch. Just nods once. His mouth lifts into something that might be a smile if you squinted, but it doesn't touch his eyes.
"Didn't mean anything to me either."

His tone is perfect. Not cruel. Not indifferent. Just done.

"So, we're good. Let's move on."

And Steve nods like he's in agreement. Like this was the goal all along.

But it lands in him like gravel.

Eddie turns, already walking away. Kicking shards and sharp plastic as he goes.

But Steve doesn't move.

Because his hands are still shaking.

Because his throat is still tight.

Because he knows, knows, it wasn't just adrenaline. And he's starting to think Eddie knows it too.

But that knowing stays buried, right where they leave it.

Under the glass, under the plates, under the moment they both pretended not to feel.

***

The sky is gold-laced and thinning, stretched across the horizon like something trying to hold itself together. Late afternoon has the ache of something unfinished.

Sunlight glints off the hood of the car, filters through the windshield in quiet, disinterested slants, catching in the fine hairs on Eddie's arms, on the dust motes hovering like ghosts in the heavy air between them.

The drive back is quiet. Not hostile. Not tender either. Just full. Like everything that wasn't said is sitting in the car with them now. Shoulder to shoulder, breath fogging the same window.

The silence doesn't ask anything of him, but it presses in. It has a shape. It has weight. The hum of the engine is too loud, like it's trying to fill a room that neither of them have figured out how to live in.

Steve stares out the window as the city smears past in syrupy streaks of sun. Strip malls and telephone wires, someone's laundry sagging on a balcony. Sodium gold everywhere, too beautiful for how stupid everything feels.
He folds his hands in his lap, like a kid waiting for someone to tell him he can go. But there's no one here to say that. No bell ringing. No finality. Just the ghost of a kiss he wasn't supposed to want and the feel of the sledgehammer, still reverberating in his palms like an aftershock.

Eddie finally pulls into the apartment lot, shadows lengthening like they're tired of pretending not to be what they are. The pavement's cracked in spider-leg patterns, weeds curling up from places no one asked them to grow. Everything looks like it's in the middle of giving up.

Steve doesn't move. Doesn't even reach for the handle. He just sits there, staring straight ahead at the wall of the building like if he doesn't acknowledge time, maybe it won't acknowledge him back.

He clears his throat. The sound is embarrassingly human.

"Thanks," he says.

Eddie doesn't look at him right away. One hand slack on the wheel, wrist draped over it like it might carry him somewhere else entirely.

"For what. Gas?" His voice is dry, tossed off like a cigarette.

Steve huffs. Smiles, barely. But it's real. It lives in his mouth like it belongs there.

"For today." He pauses.
"It was fun. I liked it."

The words sound too simple, too fragile. But they feel important, even if they don't go anywhere. They just hang between them like a string stretched taut, waiting for someone to tug it.

The corner of Eddie's mouth twitches, something half a smirk, half a retreat.
"Wow. That almost sounded sincere, Harrington." His fingers tap against the steering wheel, absently, like he's playing a thought he's not ready to hear out loud.
"Careful, you keep this up and people are gonna think you've got depth. Not very frat boy of you."

Steve rolls his eyes, soft and familiar. There's nothing sharp about it.

He reaches for the door. Lets his hand rest on the handle. Then stops.

"You're a dick," he says, so quiet it could almost pass for something else. A thank-you. A stay.

Eddie's grin flashes again, easy as breathing, but his eyes don't follow it.
"Takes one to know one."

Steve gets out. The door closes with a muted click, as though even the metal understands something delicate just passed through it.

He walks toward his car. The keys in his pocket feel heavier now, weighted with meaning they shouldn't have. He pulls them out, lets them jangle, too loud in the empty lot. Like he's trying to remind himself he's still here, still grounded, still playing a role he knows too well.

Golden boy. Clean break. No complications.

But then behind him, Eddie's door slams.

"I'll see you next week," Steve says, voice even, careful. It's the softest version of a life raft he can offer. Something between this happened and let's pretend it didn't.

But Eddie doesn't let it land clean. Doesn't let him wrap it in something manageable.

"Rushing off?" he calls, leaning casually against his car now, elbow resting on the roof like it was always supposed to be there. His smile reappears, not harmless. Not cruel either.
"Thought you were still riding all that adrenaline."

Steve turns. Eyebrows tugging together.
"What?"

Eddie lets it breathe. Lets the moment bloom into something heavy and ripe.
"I'm saying I got time."

And that, that, slides between them like something slick and deliberate. Not a challenge. Not a dare. Just possibility, humming under the skin, begging not to be touched.

Steve stands there, caught somewhere between confusion and inevitability. The kiss still hums in his mouth, the way something does when you've tried too hard to forget it. His fingers tighten around the keys like they might hold him up.

There's a pull. A gravity. Something in Eddie's voice that hooks under his ribs and says stay. But inside him, somewhere beneath the adrenaline and the hammer and the ache, there's something still humming too loud to be ignored.

He's not ready. Not to stay. Not to go.

But the moment sits there. Between them. Like a lit match resting on dry grass.

And neither of them makes a move to blow it out.

"Come on, coordination." Eddie rolls his eyes with a fondness and walks toward the door.

And Steve does. Because what else is he supposed to do.

hang out with me on tumblr

Chapter Text

A week passed the way late summer afternoons do. Slowly, with a kind of lazy inevitability, like time itself had stopped trying to impress anyone.

Steve kept himself busy in that particular, practiced way of people trying not to think. He replied to group texts. He showed up to chapter meetings. He lifted weights until his muscles ached in that comforting, clean kind of pain. He shaved more carefully. Drove the long way home.

And every so often, he'd pick up his phone and stare at Robin's name sitting there, whole and unreachable, like a song he used to know all the lyrics to and suddenly couldn't hum without wincing.

He didn't apologise, not really. Not in the way that would mean peeling himself open and letting her see how the guilt had settled, small and mean, at the base of his spine. But he did try with messages like:

Can we talk?
and
I don't want to fight

Which wasn't the same as saying I miss you but lived close enough to it to count.

She hadn't answered. Or maybe she had, in that way Robin knew how to do. With silence that wasn't meant to be cruel, just final. For now.

At the frat house, nothing had changed. People still refused to clean up after themselves, still shouted over one another about nothing that mattered, still moved through rooms like they were born to fill them and never ask what came after.
Steve laughed at the right moments. Nodded. Smiled. It was muscle memory by now. Automatic. And if someone asked how he was doing, he'd say "Good," because it was easier than saying tired, or off, or I kissed someone and lied about what it meant.

His dad had called once. Or maybe twice. Left a voicemail that started with Stevie, my boy! And ended with something about an "investment opportunity" that sounded more like a dare than anything paternal. Steve didn't answer. Didn't delete it either. Just left it there, a weightless ghost in his voicemail box, floating between obligation and resentment.

And Eddie.

Eddie had slipped so seamlessly back into normal that it felt almost choreographed. As if the kiss, the moment, the way Steve's chest had cracked open like the porcelain of the plates, had never happened. No references. No sideways looks.

The tension had dissipated like smoke, subtle and untraceable. No big talk. No confrontation. Just normal.

And Steve didn't think about it again.

Except, of course, he did. Not directly, not in the way that left bruises, but the way someone remembers a dream hours after waking. Images flashing in the periphery of memory, just long enough to remind you that something had stirred once.

That something still could.

***

Eddie's hunched forward on the couch, controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen like the stakes are life or death. Like blowing up pixelated cop cars and drifting through empty warehouse lots first thing in the morning is some holy ritual.

His thumbs smashing buttons with ruthless precision, hair tied back in a low knot, curls frizzing around the edges.

Steve's sitting sideways beside him, legs pulled up, elbow on the armrest. He's watching Eddie. Has been for a while. Long enough that he probably should have left by now. Long enough to start overthinking. Long enough to notice the patterns.

"I've noticed you're not really into foreplay." Steve says abruptly. It's casual. Like he's commenting on the weather.

Eddie's hands pause, just for a second. Half a heartbeat, no more. Then he snorts, doesn't even look at him.
"What the fuck?"

"I'm just saying." Steve shrugs.
"You kinda skip to the main event. No warm-up. No teasing. Just—bam."

"Are you seriously giving me notes right now?"

"Not notes." Steve clarifies, quickly.
"Just—observations."

Eddie dies in the game, explodes in a burst of fire and code. He tosses the controller down like it betrayed him.
"Jesus Christ."
He leans back, throwing an arm across the back of the couch.
"You really wanna have a conversation about my dick game like it's a Yelp review?"

Steve doesn't flinch. Doesn't back off. He just tilts his head a little, lips pressed together, calm in that way that means he's thought about this for longer than he'll admit.
"You ever think maybe it could be better?"

Eddie laughs, quick and dismissive, but there's something in his face that betrays it. A flicker of discomfort. Annoyance.
"Better for who?"

"Exactly." Steve quips, bobbing his head forward knowingly.

Eddie sucks in a slow breath, scratches the side of his jaw. He looks away, toward the game menu looping on the screen. He picks up the controller, starts a new game.
"I'm not gonna do all that candles and eye contact shit. You want someone to write sonnets about your thighs, I'm not that guy."

"Pretty sure no one's ever written a sonnet about my thighs." Steve says dryly.

"Good. Keep it that way." Eddie says, focus stolen again as he speeds through California streets.

"Have you just always been that way?" Steve leans in a little, eyes still on him. Not pushing, not quite. Just there.
"Just get in, get out, done?"

Eddie shrugs. It's stiff.
"It's sex. It's not a fucking therapy session."

"I'm just saying—maybe—you've slept with people in the past who—perhaps don't care about those kinds of things." Steve says, innocent enough that he hopes it doesn't warrant an outburst.

Eddie meets his gaze now. Chin lifted, daring him.
"So?"

"So maybe you don't know what it's like when someone actually gives a shit if you're enjoying it."

Eddie shifts on the couch, head tipped back, jaw clenched just enough to make it clear he's not totally enjoying where this conversation is going. He looks at Steve like he's weighing something in him, like this is all starting to tread into territory he's used to burning down before anyone gets comfortable.

"Have you ever considered maybe I'm the asshole who doesn't give a shit if someone's enjoying it so long as I'm enjoying it?"

His tone's sharp, almost flippant, but there's a flicker behind it. Something older, something practiced. Like a shield that's been used too often and too early.

Steve, to his credit, doesn't flinch.

He just nods.
"Well yeah. That too."

That makes Eddie laugh. Short, humorless. He scrubs a hand down his face and lets it drop, mouth twisted like he can't believe they're doing this. Like he can't believe Steve's doing this.

"Look, if you wanna suck my dick, Harrington, be my guest. I'm not gonna stop you. I'll even pretend to say please if it makes you feel like there's mutual respect or whatever."

Steve rolls his eyes so hard it's practically audible.
"That's literally not what I'm saying."

Eddie cocks his head, voice all lazy mockery now, one leg stretched out, the picture of nonchalance.
"Could've fooled me. All this talk about foreplay and giving a shit—sounds an awful lot like you're trying to romanticize blowing me."

Steve folds his arms, exhales through his nose, jaw tight.
"Well—if you must know I've not done that before and if I was going to talk about doing it, it wouldn't be like—this. Or now. Or with you."

Eddie barks out a laugh so sudden it almost makes Steve jump out of his skin.
"Oh, so this is about you wanting to get some more experience under your belt so the next guy doesn't think you're a total priss. I get it now."

"No!" Steve shoots back incredulously.
"No. That's not what I'm saying. Don't make this about me. This is about you."

"How?" Eddie asks, the car on screen swerving, innocent civilians screaming.

"You ever think maybe someone getting close wouldn't be the worst thing? So you don't—die alone?"

Eddie gives him a long look, unreadable. Then he turns back to the TV.
"Nah. Sounds like foreplay."

Steve mutters under his breath, pressing his elbow further into the couch as his hand supports the weight of his head.

Eddie exhales through his nose. Sharp, annoyed, and pauses the game mid-drift, mid-crash. The controller lands with a soft thud against the cushion as he tosses it beside him again, like he's done being subtle about his irritation.

He turns to face Steve fully now, one knee up on the couch, arm draped over the back, eyes narrowing in that way that always looks like amusement but feels more like a challenge.
"Why are you sulking?"

Steve just looks at him, doesn't say anything.

"Because you want romantic sex?"

His voice is dry, drawn out, halfway between mocking and genuinely trying to figure Steve out like he's something under a microscope. He makes it sound like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, like Steve's just confessed to wanting to hold hands under the stars and whisper about their feelings. He smirks, but it's crooked, doesn't have the same edge it did earlier.

Steve's jaw tightens. He sits up straighter but doesn't look at Eddie at first. Just stares at the paused screen like maybe it'll offer him a script, or a reason not to care.
"I'm not sulking."

"You are. It's annoying."

Steve finally turns to him then, and he looks more tired than anything. Less offended, more worn down.
"I'm just trying to understand you."

"Yeah. Good luck." Eddie scoffs out a laugh.

Steve huffs out a breath, crossing his arms, gaze pointed somewhere near the wall because looking directly at Eddie when he's already this defensive feels like walking into a bear trap on purpose.
"I'm just saying we have time."
He pauses, not entirely sure where he's going with this.
"You don't have to undress me by the door and drag me to bed and fuck me for five minutes like it's a job you forgot to clock into."

"Whoa." Eddie's jaw falls slack. Shaking his head as though he can't quite believe it.
"Five minutes?"

Steve groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
"Okay, six if we count the part where you're muttering about where the lube went."

Eddie scoffs, mouth falling open in mock offense.
"I last way longer than five minutes. That's slander."

"Oh my God. That's all you took from that?"

"You ever try riding a 1971 dodge demon at 120 through live traffic? You'd come fast too."

Steve squinted, processing.
"What does that even have to do with anything?"

"Adrenaline. Performance anxiety. The thrill of the chase. I'm very complicated," Eddie said with that downturned smile of his, like he was offering a confession only to mock the fact that you cared enough to hear it.

Steve exhaled sharply.
"No. You're just aggravating."

Eddie smirked, tilted his head and tossed the line like a match onto kerosene.
"Fine. Next time I'll undress you slowly, Harrington. Light some candles. Maybe cue up some Barry White."

Steve's teeth clicked together.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't expect that much from you."

Steve brushed imaginary lint from his shirt like it mattered, like he needed the gesture to keep his hands busy.

"Good. Expectations are where joy goes to die." Eddie said flatly.
"If you don't ask, you can't be disappointed."

Steve opened his mouth. Shut it again. The words he wanted to say were like heat building in his throat, impossible to form without catching on the sharp edges of pride.

So instead he just chose to abandon ship.

"I need to go home."

Steve's car keys jingled in his grip. Sharp, metallic punctuation to his silence. He wasn't storming out. Storming was too dramatic. Too loud. This was something else. Controlled retreat.

"Okay, see ya."
Eddie remained where he was, all slouch and sarcasm, as if the couch were an extension of his spine and not the other way around.

"We have that stupid fucking party tonight at the house and I need to be there to make sure nobody has sex in my bed. Otherwise I'll have to—incinerate it."

"I already said see ya."

Steve blinked.
"Okay, well I wasn't done talking."

"Are you ever?" Eddie grinned, proud of himself.

Steve inhaled. Counted something internal. His pulse, maybe. His restraint.
"I'm hoping I can just make my presence known for long enough that I can sneak away upstairs and nobody will even know I'm gone."

"Yeah, well. You do kinda have a forgettable presence so I'm sure it won't be that hard."

"Do you ever get bored of being a complete ass?"

"Hm." Eddie tapped the controller against his thigh, not even looking up.
"No."

"Great." Steve muttered before settling for the door with a brisk stride.

"I'm racing on Saturday," Eddie said, like he was mentioning the weather.

"Okay..." Steve turned halfway back.
"Is that you inviting me to go and watch you, or—"

"No." Eddie said abruptly, brows furrowing like the sheer idea of it was blasphemous.

"Okay."

"You can if you want." He said coolly.

Steve's lips curled in confusion.
"Do you want me to?"

"I don't care. Do whatever you wanna do."

Steve stood there for a moment wondering if it was even worth toeing the line of whatever game Eddie was playing. He decided it wasn't.
"I'm leaving."

"Fine." Eddie groaned.
"Come. Is that what you wanted me to say? Does that make you happy?"

"Yes. Thank you." Steve gave a singular nod and a proud smile.

"Just don't—be weird."

"Weird how?" Steve asked.

"Like—just how you are. Do less of that."

"Thanks." Steve deadpanned, opening the door to the apartment.

Eddie didn't look up. Didn't even blink.
"See ya."

That was always the part that stuck. Not the sarcasm. Not the barbs or the flippant invitation. But the ease of it. How Eddie could say goodbye like it cost him nothing, like closeness was just a parlor trick, and all Steve had done was mess up the choreography.

Steve hesitated. Half a second. Long enough to be noticed, if Eddie were looking.

He wasn't.

The door clicked shut behind him with a softness that felt cruel.

***

The house was barely a house anymore. It was a living organism of noise and sweat and motion. Walls breathing, floors vibrating under the strain of too many feet, too many bodies pressed together in a kind of euphoric claustrophobia. Every room pulsed like a separate heartbeat, thudding out different songs, different drunken chants, someone screaming with joy or rage or both. Steve couldn't tell. He didn't want to.

It was obscene, really. Like watching a dam burst in slow motion and deciding to walk through it anyway.

He had no idea where half these people came from. He was certain they didn't go here. Couldn't. Some of them didn't even look old enough to drive, let alone hold solo cups filled with jungle juice and vodka they didn't pay for. And yet, here they all were, crammed into every corner of the house, a blur of crop tops and backwards caps and sharp glitter under bathroom lighting that made everyone look like they were sweating out their sins.

The hallway stank of beer and weed. The air was thick with it. And laughter. And the constant, inevitable sound of something breaking.

Steve navigated the kitchen like someone trying not to step on a landmine. Elbows tight to his sides, eyes flicking past faces he didn't recognize and didn't want to. He wasn't talking to anyone. That was the point. He just needed to move. To float through the chaos like a ghost and emerge, maybe, unscathed. Maybe invisible.

A girl shrieked near the sink, clutching a bottle of tequila like it was a live grenade. Someone was throwing red Solo cups into the ceiling fan just for the sake of seeing them fly across the room when they hit the blades. The floor was slick with water or beer or both. Steve nearly slipped twice. No one noticed.

No one was looking at him.

Which should have been a relief.

It wasn't.

There was something about being unseen that started to ache after a while. The kind of ache you only feel when you've been loud once, bright and obvious, and now you're dimming on purpose and you don't know if anyone would even bother turning the lights back up.

So he kept moving, head down, pretending he had somewhere to be.

And maybe he did. Upstairs, maybe. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere with a door he could close behind him.

He just had to make it there without being dragged back into the noise.

Jacob appears like a pothole Steve hadn't noticed until he was already stepping into it; grinning wide, breath sweet with whatever ungodly mixture the punch was made of, and slapping a heavy, too-familiar hand on Steve's shoulder like they'd been best friends since birth.

Steve really wished he'd just get rid of the sideburns. Every time he saw him they just looked worse, somehow. Like he'd started shaving one day and never quite figured out when to stop, and a face so enthusiastically average it made Steve feel like he was staring into the default setting of college masculinity.

"Yo, Harrington!" Jacob shouted over the music, leaning in close. His breath was loud. Even that felt like an accomplishment.
"You see that girl over there? Blonde one, in the red?" He said, pointing across the room.

Steve blinked in her direction. The girl in question. Perfect posture, legs for miles, looked like she belonged in an ad for perfume or divorce court. She was talking to someone else and very clearly not looking in Jacob's direction.

"Yeah?" Steve acknowledged.

"Like—insane body, right?" Jacob pressed.

"Uh," Steve said. He wanted to keep moving, but Jacob's hand was still on his shoulder, anchoring him to the floor.
"Yeah. Sure. I guess."

Jacob leaned back, his grin getting wider, like Steve had confirmed a suspicion he'd been desperate to believe.
"Right? Right?! Okay, so like, I was thinking about going over there. Not just to talk, you know, but like—talk talk." He did this weird, exaggerated wink, which felt less like flirting and more like a twitch.

Steve smiled, because that's what he did when he didn't know how to respond. He smiled like a default program, like a lifeboat.
"Yeah, man. You should—go for it."

"Really?" Jacob urged.

"Sure, man. Course. You're a total catch."

The words left his mouth with all the conviction of a man selling flood insurance in the desert. He winced at himself, eyes darting to the side like maybe someone would rescue him from this social wreckage. No one did.

Jacob slapped his back.
"Hell yeah, man! See, I knew you got it. You get it. Like—vibe recognises vibe, right?"

Steve, who did not get it and did not want the vibe anywhere near him, nodded, lips pressed into the thinnest version of a smile. He didn't know what else to say. He could already feel his ears going red.

In his head, a million other answers were trying to surface. Jokes, redirections, some honest variation of I have no idea what I'm doing here, I don't even like girls, and I really wish you would stop talking. But they all clogged together and stayed stuck behind his teeth.

Instead, he gave Jacob a thumbs-up, like a dad from a sitcom, and said:
"Go get her, man."

It sounded like a dare. Like something from a teen movie that would absolutely end in someone getting punched.

Jacob grinned and peeled off into the crowd, overconfident and undeserving, like always.

Steve let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Then rubbed the back of his neck and made a beeline for the stairs, where no one would ask for his opinion on women ever again. Hopefully.

Except, that didn't happen.

Jacob pivoted mid-step, like Steve's vague encouragement had suddenly knighted him, bestowed upon him the sacred confidence of the terminally average. He spun around, still grinning, and caught Steve's arm again, reeling him back in like an over-eager fisherman who'd just felt a tug on the line.

"Okay—okay, wait," he said, eyes alight with a kind of desperate glee.
"What should I say? Like, what's the move here? Should I be, like, funny? Or should I go in confident? You know—like alpha energy, yeah?"

Steve stared at him, stomach sinking. He felt the same way he did when someone handed him a baby or a loaded gun. Unqualified and likely to drop something important. He blinked, mouth half-open, already regretting every life choice that had brought him to this exact moment, in this exact place.

"I don't know, man," Steve said, trying to pull his arm back casually, like he hadn't just short-circuited.
"Be—yourself?"

Jacob looked genuinely moved by this. As if Steve had just quoted a sacred text.
"Be myself," he repeated, nodding slowly, as though this was some kind of revelation. Then: "So like—funny myself? Or deep myself? Like do I talk about my dog dying last year? Or is that too soon?"

Steve's eyebrows rose.
"I don't think she needs to know about your dead dog right away."

Jacob snapped his fingers.
"Okay, cool. Cool. No dog. Got it. So then like—compliment her? Or is that too basic?"

"I—" Steve faltered. His brain was folding in on itself.
"I think maybe don't go in with a script. Just—talk. Like a person."

Jacob nodded again, faster this time.
"Talk like a person. Talk like a person. Yeah. No, that's good. That's smart. That's why I came to you, man."

Steve offered a strained smile, because if he opened his mouth again he was worried he'd start screaming.

"I mean," Jacob added, gesturing broadly, "you clearly know what you're doing."

Steve blinked.
"Do I?"

"Fuck yeah," Jacob said, already turning back toward the glittering blonde across the room. "You got that, like, smoldering, mysterious thing going on. Girls love that shit. And you got Becca to be your date to the alumni dinner. You're unstoppable, man. You're like—Edward Cullen or some shit."

Steve made a sound. It might've been a laugh or a dying animal.

"Wish me luck, bro!" Jacob called, disappearing into the chaos.

Steve was left standing there, alone now. He exhaled. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

God, he needed a drink. Or a hole to crawl into.

Or both.

He moved through the bodies like someone ducking through rain. Quick, silent, pretending it didn't touch him. The stairs creaked under his feet and someone was hunched over a potted plant near the landing, retching into it with the kind of full-bodied commitment only cheap vodka and zero self-respect could summon. Steve barely glanced down. He didn't care. He just kept climbing.

The upstairs hallway was darker. Not quieter, exactly, the thump of bass still pulsed through the floorboards, laughter and shrieking rose in waves from below. But it was thinner here, stretched and muffled, like sound passed through layers of cotton. Almost manageable.

He reached his bedroom door, turned the handle fast like someone might stop him, then shut it behind him with the finality of a trapdoor slamming shut.

For a second, he just stood there. Back against the wood. Breathing. His palms were a little damp, his jaw tight. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, maybe nothing, but somehow it still felt like too much.

He glanced at the dresser in the corner. Big. Heavy. Solid oak, inherited from someone's grandmother who probably never imagined it might one day be considered a barricade. For a moment, he thought about it. Seriously. The image of pushing it across the room, bracing it against the door like a medieval soldier anticipating siege, flickered across his mind with the absurd clarity of a daydream. He didn't move. But he thought about it.

Instead, he kicked off his shoes and flopped down onto the bed like gravity had won. Not gracefully. Just dropped, flat onto the comforter, arms spread, face tilted toward the ceiling.

Finally.

***

A knock.

Hard. Measured. The kind that doesn't ask for permission so much as already assumes it's been granted.

Steve didn't move right away. His heart jumped. Guilty, unreasoning, like someone had caught him doing something he shouldn't.

"Yeah," he called out, too fast, too loud.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Becca. All legs and perfume and engineered effortlessness. She stepped into the room like it was a commercial shoot. Backlit from the hallway, her silhouette poised with that practiced nonchalance only the deeply self-aware ever really mastered. She closed the door behind her with the kind of exaggerated casualness that made it clear this wasn't a mistake. She had come here on purpose.

Steve sat up straighter.

Becca.

In his bedroom. And it wasn't a bad dream. It was worse. It was expectation made flesh. A walking reminder of every should.

"Becca." he said, too brightly. His voice cracked at the edge like a smile left out in the sun too long.

She paused just a breath too long in the doorway, like something about the way he said her name had startled her. But then she crossed the room, slow, catlike, trying not to seem like she'd practiced this a dozen times in the mirror. Maybe she had.

"I was told I might find you here," she said. The air between them fizzed faintly with the perfume she wore. Something sharp and sweet and expensive, meant to linger.

Steve's stomach dipped. He tried to sound amused.
"Jacob?" he asked.

She nodded, her lip catching briefly between her teeth before she let it go again, like a secret she didn't mean to keep.
"How'd you guess?"

"Oh, well—he does have a habit of—saying things." He said, letting out an awkward laugh.

"I haven't seen you in a while," she said.
"You haven't texted me."

And there it was.

Not an accusation. But not, not one either.

Steve looked at her like someone watching a wave come in too fast, knowing full well it would hit, that it was already rising, and still unsure if it was too late to move back.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

There was something about Becca. Her careful tanlines and the gloss on her mouth and the softness of her voice that made boys nod and lean in. That made him feel like he was standing outside his own life. Watching someone else be the person she thought she was here for.

He swallowed.

"Yeah," he said.
"Sorry about that."

Becca smiled. Gorgeous, almost pitying, and waited. Like she already knew he'd come around, that he was just playing coy. Like the story had already been written, and she was here to walk him through the next line.

She ran her hand along the edge of his dresser, fingers trailing like she was inspecting the furniture in a boutique hotel suite, and not the room of a boy who had only ever half-lived in it. She glanced at the half-drunk water bottle on his nightstand, the way his shoes weren't quite under the bed, and Steve had the sudden, burning awareness of what this looked like to her. To anyone.

She smiled again, that practiced tilt of the head. Chin slightly tucked, lashes low. It was almost admirable, the way she wore her beauty like muscle memory.

"I was starting to think you were avoiding me," she said, turning toward him now, arms crossed loosely over her chest.

Steve let out a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

"No," he said, staring at a spot just over her shoulder.
"Not avoiding."

"Well I should hope not. You still owe me dinner," she said. Her voice had dropped, softened, as though intimacy were just proximity in disguise.
"The alumni thing. Remember?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, as if the memory had physically landed there. He remembered the moment too well. Who was watching, how she'd been beaming already, how it had felt like steering into a skid.

"Right," he said.
"That."

"You didn't change your mind, did you?" she asked, teasing but with that underlying pressure, like a hand pressing lightly on the small of his back. Guiding. Not giving.

"No," Steve said quickly.
"I mean. No, I didn't change my mind. I'm—good. Great."

Even as the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back, wanted to crawl out of his own skin and leave it folded on the chair. He looked down at his hands. Traitors, both of them, folded politely in his lap like they might not shake if left alone.

Becca finally sat, perched on the edge of the bed, angled toward him. One leg crossed over the other. Every movement was deliberate, like choreography.
"You know," she said lightly, "you could at least pretend to be excited to see me."

Steve looked up at her then, startled. And she laughed. Soft, airy, the laugh of someone who always gets what she wants and doesn't quite know what to do when she doesn't.

"I'm just messing with you," she added, with a playful little roll of her eyes.
"God, you're so serious."

He smiled, but it didn't quite touch his eyes.

"I'm just tired," he offered, the safest excuse. Always the easiest lie.

Becca patted the space beside her with two fingers. Light, casual, but unmistakably purposeful. Like she was saving it for him. Like this was where this night was always supposed to end up.

Steve hesitated for half a second too long before moving. He sat down like the bed might give out beneath him, spine rigid, knees close together. His hands fidgeted in his lap.

She turned toward him fully now. folding one leg beneath her.
"So, why don't you wanna be downstairs?"

Steve didn't look at her. His eyes flicked to the wall, the carpet, the doorknob. Anywhere but her face.

"It's chaos," he said quickly.
"Loud. Someone was throwing up in the ficus."

Becca laughed. Not a big laugh, more like a secret she was inviting him in on. She leaned in, her knee just brushing his thigh, like it had slipped but didn't need correcting.

"That's why I like you," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, slow and deliberate.
"You're not like the others."

Steve swallowed. His tongue felt too big in his mouth.

"Oh," he said, and then, "Thanks," because that was what you were supposed to say when someone complimented you. Even when you felt like you were being praised for the wrong thing. Especially then.

Becca was watching him now, grinning.
"You're quiet," she said, amused.
"Are you always this shy or is it just me?"

Steve let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I'm not shy."

"No?"

"No."

She leaned a little closer.
"Then why do you keep blushing?"

He blinked.
"I'm not—"

She gave him a look. Playful. Lethal.
"You're kind of impossible to read, you know that?"

"Yeah. I've been told." He said, defeatedly.

"Like—do you like me?" she asked, and it sounded like a joke, but it wasn't one. Her voice was syrupy-smooth. She licked her bottom lip.
"I mean, you asked me to the alumni dinner, but then you ghosted me, so"—

Why does everyone keep throwing around the word ghosting like it means absolutely nothing. It infuriated him.

Steve's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I didn't ghost you," he said, weakly.
"I've just been—busy."

Becca raised a brow.
"Doing what?"

And suddenly this conversation started to feel a little too familiar for Steve's liking. Except the last time this happened it was something that Steve didn't know he wanted or needed. And now he neither wants nor needs whatever the fuck this is.

Steve blinked.
"School—stuff."

She tilted her head, smiling.
"You're cute."

His stomach dropped. Cute. The word felt like a spotlight.

"I mean, if you're hiding up here, I guess we might as well make the most of it. So you're not all alone."
She said lightly, like they were two people sharing a secret, and not two people who had no idea what the other was thinking. Or, maybe, she thought she knew exactly what he was thinking. Maybe that was the problem.

His mouth was dry. He licked his bottom lip, not breathing.

Her voice dipped, silky and slow.
"Plus you didn't answer my question."

"What question?" Steve practically squeaked.

"Do you like me?" She tilted her head.
"You never answered."

He tried to smile.
"I think you're—great."

She laughed at that. Light, teasing, but she shifted closer. Just barely.
"Great?"

She reached over and smoothed a hand down his arm, like she was dusting something off of him. His whole body tensed.

"Yeah. Sure. You're—hot. Like—super hot. Very hot. You should be—proud." Steve practically grimaced, his voice raised about ten octaves.
"You have great teeth. Very—straight. Do you wear Invisalign?"

"What?" She asked, quirking a brow.

"My best friend Robin had Invisalign. But it took her like—two and a half years to finish the course because she kept forgetting to wear them. I always thought they were kinda gross, like—having to take them out to eat. Like old lady dentures. But I'm sure yours aren't gross if you do have them." Steve rambled, stalling.

She let out a giggle that was so sharp it made the hairs on Steve's neck stand on end.

"You've got all this energy and nowhere to put it," she said, her fingers still grazing his sleeve.
"I can feel it."

He forced a laugh.
"I'm—yeah, I guess I've just been—keyed up lately."

Or always.

"You think too much." Her hand drifted down, past his elbow now. Her fingers rested there.

She was looking at him like she was waiting for something to click. Like if she kept touching him, maybe it would.

"I'm not really—" he started, his voice too soft.

She leaned in then, her fingers slipping toward his wrist.

Steve's heart was in his throat.

This was what he was supposed to want. Wasn't it?

This was the scene he'd imagined himself in a thousand times growing up. Blonde, beautiful, laughing at all his awkwardness, waiting on a bed with nothing but possibility.

Only now, in the real version, his body wasn't cooperating. His limbs felt locked, like they belonged to someone else. He couldn't tell if it was dread or guilt or just that awful, creeping knowledge that whatever version of himself he'd invented for nights like this, it wasn't who he was.

She leaned in closer. Her voice dropped again, warm and easy.
"You want me to kiss you, don't you?"

He said nothing.

He didn't nod. He didn't meet her eyes. He just froze.

And she was already moving in, lips parting, one hand sliding up the back of his neck.

He flinched.

It wasn't huge, wasn't loud. But it was enough. Enough to still the air between them. Enough to change the shape of the room.

She didn't give him time to think.

Before he could catch his breath, Becca was there. Her lips pressing against his, firm and insistent, like a question that demanded an answer he didn't have.

His body was stiff, eyes blown wide, every nerve suddenly electric. The room spun a little, or maybe it was just his head.

She kissed him like she was claiming something, her hands sliding up the sides of his neck, fingers tangled in the soft hairs there. The heat of her mouth was overwhelming. Too close, too much. Steve's chest tightened, like a fist squeezing, like air was suddenly harder to find.

He wanted to pull back, but the weight of her was pressing down, a tide he didn't know how to resist or escape. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure where to go, what to do, how to even breathe.

His mind screamed for space, for distance, for anything but this closeness he couldn't handle.

But his lips were trapped beneath hers, the kiss growing deeper, louder, more demanding.

His heart hammered against his ribs like a wild animal trying to escape.

He swallowed hard, trying not to panic.

Trying to remind himself that this, this was just a moment.

Just a moment. A blip. It would be over soon.

And yet it felt like drowning.

She didn't hesitate. Like the kiss was an invitation, a permission slip, she shifted, and before Steve could register what was happening, she was perched on his lap. The sudden weight of her startled him.

He wasn't even a person anymore. Just a body. Like one of those dummies used in first aid exercises. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to say something, to break the spell, but the words tangled in his throat, silent and useless.

His mind scrambled for escape routes, for excuses, but the moment stretched, unbearable and endless. He felt like a moth trapped under a glass. Slamming itself against it at every angle.

She eased him back onto the bed with a confidence so fluid, so rehearsed, it made something in his chest cinch. The mattress gave beneath him, a sudden dip that felt less like gravity and more like vertigo, as if everything he knew had quietly rearranged itself and he'd only just noticed.

Her shirt came off in a single, sweeping motion, not provocative so much as inevitable, like this had always been where the moment was headed. She had this red lacy bra with almost an uncomfortable amount of padding, and one of those dangly silver emblems between the cups.

The kind of bra people would find appealing. But it made Steve want to vomit.

Her skin caught the soft lamplight, golden in places, shadowed in others. She smiled, too openly, too easily. Like he was lucky to be there, like she was giving him something and expected him to take it with both hands.

Steve couldn't meet her eyes. Instead, he looked past her, past the ceiling, past this night.

He closed his eyes, just for a second, and there it was. Eddie's apartment. The old couch that creaked when you shifted your weight. The incense that never really masked the faint musk of vinyl sleeves and coffee grounds and something else. The heavy silence between them that always felt more like truth than silence.

"Are you okay?" she asked, leaning in, her voice honeyed and close.

He nodded before he knew what he was doing.

But his body had already betrayed him. His chest tight, his jaw locked. He was somewhere else entirely. Buried in memory, in the faint press of Eddie's knee against his while they slept. He could almost feel the scratch of flannel beneath his cheek, the way Eddie's laugh felt when it hit the back of his neck, unguarded and close.

She leaned down, her fingers moving with total ease, undoing the belt he hadn't realized was too tight until it gave with a soft clink. The button followed, and his breath caught in his throat like he was choking on nothing.

He didn't say anything. Not yet. Just stared at the ceiling like if he focused hard enough, maybe it would open up and suck him out of the room entirely.

Please stop please stop please stop.

She didn't stop.

Her hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers, fingers warm and confident, and that's when it all happened at once.

His whole body jerked like someone had snapped a rubber band inside his chest.
"No, no—I—I can't—I don't"—

He shot upright so fast it was like his body rejected the whole situation on a cellular level. His knee hit hers, and before he could stop it, before any of it could be undone, she was on the floor with a thud, her hair falling into her face and the sharp sting of her bracelet catching on the comforter.

"What the actual fuck, Steve?"

He stared at her, wide-eyed, helpless. His mouth parted like the words he needed had scattered before he could catch them.

"I'm so sorry," he said, breathless, hands rising now in frantic little gestures, like he could smooth the air between them, like he could press rewind on a moment already splintered beyond repair.
"I didn't—I mean I did—I just—this is—I don't—I'm really sorry."

She scooped her hair off her face in one quick motion, not graceful this time, but sharp, embarrassed. Angry. She looked down at herself, still half-undressed, like she was seeing her body for the first time in the wrong room, with the wrong person, under the worst kind of light.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, voice pitched high with guilt, with panic, with something almost childlike.

"No. I'm not okay."

He reached out without thinking, the apology still forming in his throat.
"Let me help"—
But she recoiled, batting his hand away like it burned.

"Don't," she said sharply, like a slap.

"I'm sorry," he tried again, quieter now.

"Just—stop. Jesus," she snapped, and it wasn't just rejection. It was humiliation, righteous and hot.

"It wasn't you," he said quickly, desperately, each word more unravelled than the last.
"It's really not. I just—I can't do that. I thought maybe I could, but I—I'm somewhere else entirely, and you're here and I'm not and that's not fair to you and I'm just so, so sorry—"

She stood slowly, methodically, the way someone stands up from a fall they know they won't let anyone see. Her hair was mussed, her expression unreadable but furious in the way a person becomes when the night shifts without warning, and suddenly they're the only one who didn't know the script.

"You could've just said no," she bit out, biting each word like it tasted bitter.

"I didn't know I was gonna say no until you—until I—fuck, I didn't know, okay?"

He could hear how pathetic it sounded. Could see the way she flinched at it. She didn't answer. Just grabbed her shirt off the floor, each movement clipped and final. And Steve, still half-dressed, chest rising too fast, didn't blame her. How could he?

His face was burning. His jeans were undone.
He wanted that room. That quiet. That version of himself. The one who didn't have to lie, didn't have to fake, didn't have to perform closeness like a bad actor missing his cues.

He wanted Eddie.

Not this.
Never this.

She jerked her shirt over her head with a hard snap of cotton. Her voice shook, not from tears, but from fury distilled into something clean and sharp.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Steve didn't answer. Couldn't. Still caught in the middle of his own undoing. Shirt bunched at the waist, belt half-hanging, pulse thudding like a warning bell inside his chest.

"You asked me to go to the alumni dinner with you." She said, pulling the shirt over her head, yanking it down like it had personally offended her.
"You asked me. You made this a thing. I thought you wanted this."

"I—" he started, but nothing came out right. His hands were shaking, his mouth too dry.
"I thought I did. I did, kind of. I don't know—I thought if I kept going it would feel like—like something real. Like maybe I just had to catch up to everyone else. Or maybe if I got it right this time—"

Her laugh was bitter and cracked.
"This time? What does that even mean?"

He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. Tried to find words that didn't feel like failure.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice breaking around it. "You're—beautiful. You really are. That's not a line, I swear. You're—Jesus, you're everything people are supposed to want. You're kind and funny and—confident. And I meant it when I said you have really great teeth."

She was staring at him now, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"It's not you," he said again, softer this time.
"It's nothing to do with you."

Her eyes narrowed.
"I know it's not me." And then, with venom that didn't need to be shouted:
"You're just fucking weird."

That one landed. He felt it. A clean hit.

He nodded like he deserved it, because maybe he did.

"Yeah," he said.
"I know."

"You know what? Fuck this." She huffed, straightening her shirt.
"Find another date for the dinner. Maybe try not to throw her on the floor."

She didn't look at him again as she left, just the echo of her steps down the hallway, the door slamming shut behind her like the period at the end of a sentence he didn't get to write.

He just stayed sat on the bed, pants still half-open, skin still humming from the panic, and let himself fall backwards.

***

He practically fell down the stairs.

The music was still people were still everywhere. Crowded on the couches, grinding against walls, spilling drinks down the stairs. He caught a glimpse of someone in a toga riding a pool float through the living room.

Steve shoved past a guy holding a full box of wine like a baby and tried to keep moving. He just needed air. Or space. Or the kind of silence you can crawl into and disappear.

"Steve!"

Too late.

Jacob was leaning against the banister, beer in one hand, pink lipstick smudged on his neck like a victory stamp. His grin stretched across his face like he'd been waiting for this exact moment all night.

"Dude. Becca asked me where you were. Did she find you?"

Steve hesitated.
"Yeah. Yeah, she found me."

Jacob leaned in a little too close, eyes gleaming with idiot curiosity.
"So?"

Steve blinked.
"So—what?"

Jacob snorted.
"Did you fuck her?"

There was a beat. A small silence in Steve's brain like a Windows startup error. He could've told the truth. Said no. Said it didn't happen. That he basically launched her off the bed like a bottle rocket in the backyard.

"Yep," he said, nodding with fake confidence. "We—we fucked."

Jacob whooped like that was the single greatest news he'd ever heard.
"Holy shit, Harrington! That's what I'm talking about! You dog!"

Someone behind them screamed as a cup flew through the air. Steve flinched.

"Was she good?" Jacob asked, raising his eyebrows.

Steve paused again.
"Yeah. She—uh—she was. Great. Real—symmetrical."

Jacob squinted.
"Symmetrical?"

"Like—in general. You know. Balance."

Jacob burst out laughing and slapped Steve on the back so hard he nearly knocked him into the banister.
"I knew you had it in you, bro."

Steve gave him a tight-lipped smile that was half grimace.
"Yep."

He slipped away before Jacob could ask for details. Shoved through the crowd again, heart hammering from a lie so stupid it echoed in his skull like a bad drum solo.

Outside. Just get outside.

Jacob wasn't done. Of course he wasn't.

He followed Steve down the hall, still clutching his beer like it was a microphone.

"Okay wait—what happened?" he asked, eyes gleaming like a toddler hearing the word "boobs" for the first time.
"C'mon, man. Give me details."

Steve's mouth opened. Closed. His brain was screaming abort, abort, but his mouth didn't get the memo.
"I—uh"—he rubbed the back of his neck.
"I finger-banged her."

Jacob blinked.
"You what?"

"Hard," Steve added, nodding too fast.
"Like—aggressively. But in a good way. Not like violent. Like—confident. Y'know?"

Jacob's eyebrows shot up like they were trying to escape his face.

Steve was already spiraling.
"I used, um, both hands. Eventually. I think. Like, a double-team sort of—technique. It's hard to explain."

"Bro," Jacob whispered, half in awe, half in horror.
"That's intense."

"Yeah, she said it was"—Steve paused. What would someone say after being emotionally catapulted off a guy's lap?
"Transcendent."

Jacob looked like he'd just seen the face of God. Or like he was trying to decide if Steve was a genius or a war criminal.

"Dude. No wonder she looked so messed up when she left."

Steve's face twitched.
"Yeah. That was it."

"Was she on top?"

"Uh—well, we both kinda—were on top at some point. I don't really remember." Steve shrugged.

Jacob slapped his arm like they'd just forged a blood pact.
"You're a fucking animal, Harrington."

"Mmhm," Steve said, trying not to throw up. "Real feral."

He stumbled out the front door and into the night like he'd just escaped a hostage situation.

The cold air slapped him in the face. Thank God. He kept walking, fast and aimless, past a group of freshmen throwing up in a bush, past the beer-sticky sidewalk, past someone shouting "Free shot if you kiss me!" into the void.

He didn't stop moving until he was half a block away from the house, breathing hard, like he'd just outrun something that didn't have a name.

He yanked out his phone with shaking hands. Scrolled. Paused.

Robin.

They hadn't talked in—God, was it two weeks now? Ever since the fight. The stupid fight about nothing and everything. About her not understanding what he didn't have the words to explain.

But now? He didn't care. None of it mattered.

He hit call.

It rang.

And rang.

And then:
"Hi, this is Robin—if this is my professor, I probably already turned it in. If this is someone else, congrats on reaching my voicemail. Leave a message."

Beep.

Steve took a breath.

Then another.

And then he spoke.

"Hey. Uh. Hi. It's me. Obviously. Steve. Unless you've deleted my number which, I hope you haven't."

He winced. Good start.

"Look—I know we're not—I mean, I know you're mad and you don't wanna speak to me. But I just—I really need you right now, okay? And I don't mean, like, emotionally in a general way. I mean specifically right now, like tonight, like ten minutes ago."

He started pacing along the sidewalk.

"A girl just tried to have sex with me at this party at the house. She put her hand in my pants and I—uh—I panicked. Like, full-body, existential, cartoon explosion panic. I might've launched her off me and she fell on the floor. She's fine. I think."

He rubbed his face. He stopped walking. His voice cracked just a little.

"I know you're mad. But I'm still me. And I still need you. So—please call me. I miss you."

He hung up.

Steve was still walking, fast and aimless, clutching his phone like it might fall out of his hand and take his last shred of dignity with it.

He didn't want to do this. Knew what kind of berating, nonchalant, assholery was going to be waiting for him at the other end of the line.

But he had no choice.

The line picked up mid-laugh. Eddie, clearly already amused by something that wasn't Steve.

"What," Eddie said, flatly. No greeting. Just what.

"Are you home?" Steve asked, trying to sound calm, normal, like he wasn't currently falling apart on the sidewalk.

Eddie snorted.
"Does it sound like I'm home?"

In the background there was the clang of glass, a jukebox, someone yelling something about pool.

"Right," Steve said.
"Sorry. I just—look, can I come over?"

A pause. Long enough to feel cruel. Steve figured he was probably taking a long sip of whatever beer he was drinking.

"Why?" Eddie asked.
"You need someone to sing you to sleep after the scary frat boys tied a scarf around your eyes and spun you round in a circle? Or, wait. is this a drunken booty call?"

"No, I—" Steve swallowed.
"A girl tried to have sex with me."

There was a silence. Then a breath.

Then Eddie burst out laughing.
"Oh my God."

"It's not funny. It was awful." Steve groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes hoping he could erase the images before they became permanently burned behind his retinas.

"What happened?" Eddie asked, breathless.

"I freaked out," Steve said, voice wobbling.
"Like—full meltdown. She put her hand down my pants and I panicked and I—I sort of threw her. And she fell on the floor. And then she got mad. Which—makes sense."

"Holy shit," he said, practically choking on the words.
"You threw her?"

"I didn't mean to—" Steve started.

"This poor girl. Just trying to get laid and you launched her like a fucking volleyball."

"It wasn't like that!"

Eddie kept laughing. The sharp kind, the kind that wasn't warm. The kind that made Steve feel like he was twelve again and someone was pointing at him for wearing the wrong shoes.

"You are—God, you're unbelievable," Eddie said.

Steve stopped walking. The cold air hit him all at once.
"Please," he said, voice cracking.
"Can I just come over?"

Eddie didn't answer right away.

"I can't be here," Steve said, quieter now.
"The house is like a fucking zoo. It's just—heaving. I thought my bedroom would be a safe space but evidently not because I had to spend a panic attack inducing amount of time staring at a girls boobs. Everyone's drunk, and vomiting or passed out—"
He swallowed.
"And Robin didn't answer."

Silence.

"I have nowhere else to go."

The laugh was gone now. Eddie didn't say anything. But he didn't hang up either.

Steve waited. Breath caught somewhere in his chest.

Then, finally, Eddie sighed. That familiar, oddly comforting sigh which meant that Steve had somehow worn him down like wood under sandpaper.

More noise. A chair scraping, maybe. A voice in the background yelling something unintelligible. Then Eddie again, voice low, annoyed.

"Fine," he muttered.
"Whatever. I'll leave in twenty."

Steve closed his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, barely above a whisper.
"I really"—

Click.

The line went dead.

Steve stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, chest full of something hot and tight and deeply humiliating.

***

Steve pulled into the lot with his hands clenched tight around the steering wheel, his headlights briefly lighting up the chain-link fence, the oil-stained pavement, the one guy sitting on the curb drinking a tallboy in silence.

And Eddie.

Leaning against the brick wall like he had nowhere better to be, one boot kicked up behind him, cigarette glowing at the corner of his mouth, arms crossed, chin tilted like he was posing for a punk rock mugshot. The picture of indifference.

He didn't wave.

Didn't move.

Just watched, head cocked slightly, smoke curling past his cheek like he was bored of the whole performance.

Steve parked and climbed out of the car slowly, like he was afraid the act of standing up might knock him over.

Eddie looked him up and down. His lip curled, just barely.

"C'mon, Casanova," he said, flicking ash onto the pavement.

Steve flinched at the nickname.

Eddie pushed off the wall and started walking toward the stairwell, not checking to see if Steve was following.

***

The door creaked open with that familiar, haunted-house groan and Eddie stepped inside first, flicking the light on with the same kind of careless annoyance he brought to everything.

Steve hovered in the doorway for a second, like a stray dog that wasn't sure if it was allowed inside before letting it shut with a soft click.

Eddie didn't look at him as he kicked off his boots.

Just dropped his keys onto the coffee table and muttered, "Door's closed, drama's over."

Which Steve was emboldened to interpret he probably meant something along the lines of: "you're safe now. You don't need to worry."

Steve stood in the middle of it like he'd just wandered into someone else's life. He didn't sit. Didn't touch anything. Just stood there, arms crossed too tightly.

From the kitchenette came the sound of a cap unscrewing, the quiet, bright glug-glug of liquid tipping out of a bottle. Vodka. Steve watched the way Eddie drank it, straight from the neck, casual, like it wasn't the first time today. Like it didn't matter if it burned.

Without saying anything, Eddie slid the bottle across the chipped laminate counter toward him. It stopped just short of Steve's hand.

Steve looked at it like it might bite.

Still, he picked it up. Took a small sip. Winced.

"Sorry, Princess. Haven't got any cranberry juice mixer for you." Eddie smirked, leaning one elbow against the counter.

Steve wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No, I'm good."

Eddie inhaled, as though he might regret the next thing that was about to come out of his mouth.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" His voice was flat, but not unkind.

Steve swallowed. Looked down at the vodka like it might do the hard part for him.

"I just"— He exhaled through his nose.
"I don't know. It was stupid. I thought I could—handle it and then I couldn't. I thought maybe if I just got through it somehow everything would be okay and—everyone would just move on. And now I feel like an asshole. Like a fraud. Or worse."

"Well—you're not exactly not a fraud."

Steve's arms tightened over his chest.
"She thought that's what I wanted. And I didn't stop it. I didn't know how to stop it. I thought maybe if I just—" he shook his head, stopped himself.
"Doesn't matter."

Eddie watched him quietly. The fridge hummed. A siren passed somewhere outside, far away but not distant enough.

Steve reached for the vodka again. Took another sip. Less hesitant this time. He grimaced again but didn't complain.

"She was—undressing me and I just sat there, letting it happen, until I couldn't anymore. And then I freaked. And she yelled at me, and—fuck, I don't blame her."

Eddie didn't say anything right away. Just stood there tracing his ring across the surface.

"She said, 'What the fuck is wrong with you,'" Steve added, voice hollow now.
"And, yeah. I've been asking myself the same question my entire fucking life."

"There's nothing wrong with you." Eddie sighed exhaustedly.

Steve looked up.
"You don't know that."

"I do," Eddie said.
"Because if something's wrong with you, then it's wrong with me too. And I'm perfect."

Steve blinked, gave a crooked smile that required scaffolding to keep it there.
"I just wanted to be normal."

"So you, what—" His voice was level, casual, but with that glint Steve knew too well. The one that meant he was about to say something that would either make Steve laugh or want to walk into traffic.
"You were gonna have sex with this girl at the slutty toga party just so nobody would think you were, I don't know, what? Different?"

Steve didn't answer. Just stood there, shoulders hunched, the vodka bottle between his hands like it was a grenade he hadn't decided whether or not to throw.

"I didn't plan it like that. I just—thought maybe if I did it, it would make sense."

"Make what make sense?"

"Me."

Eddie snorted.
"Christ. Do you hear yourself?"

"Yeah, I hear myself," Steve muttered.

"You were willing to sleep with someone just to prove you're not the thing you're afraid you are. Even though you are."

Steve looked at him, eyes glassy.
"Easy for you to say."

Eddie gave a dry little laugh.
"No, it's not. You think I haven't done the same kind of shit in my life? Let people think whatever they wanted just so I didn't have to say it out loud? Flirted with girls I didn't like, let people assume I was some kind of burnout ladies' man just because it was easier than explaining why I never followed through?"

Steve said nothing.

Eddie snatched the bottle from Steve, swirled it in his hand like it might reveal something at the bottom. He didn't look at Steve when he said it, maybe to give him room, maybe because if he did, it would come out too sharp.

"Not once have you ever said you're gay. Not to me. In fact—the only thing you've told me is that you're not gay. Or—you're gay in theory, Whatever the fuck that means. Or that nobody else knows. You've never said it like you own it. Like you've accepted it."

Steve stiffened slightly, a breath caught in his throat.

Eddie glanced up, reading the recoil in his posture.
"Have you ever even said it out loud? Just—I'm gay?"

"I don't know," Steve said, which wasn't a lie, exactly. Just a foggy half-truth, the kind you tell yourself when denial has built a home in your ribs.

Eddie leaned forward, resting his forearms atop the counter, voice steady.
"Steve. You're gay."

The words landed like a slap, not cruel but real, too real, too unclothed. Steve winced, like hearing it aloud made it more permanent, like the sound itself etched it into the air, unable to be taken back.

He looked down at his shoes.
"You don't have to say it like that."

"How else am I supposed to say it?" Eddie asked, gentler now but unyielding.
"You think this gets easier if you never say it out loud? If you keep trying to prove something you're not?"

Steve didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"Do you want to keep living like that?" Eddie asked.
"Splitting yourself in two every time someone looks at you a little too long? You think people won't notice?"

Steve's eyes lifted. Wide. Stung.
"So, what am I supposed to do exactly? It's not like there's any room for me to be—that along with everything else."

"Just stop." Eddie said fiercely.

Steve blinked, his voice brittle.
"Stop what?"

"Running from yourself."

It hit like cold water. Not cruel. Just bracing.

Outside, someone slammed a car door.

Eddie didn't move. He didn't push.

And Steve sat there, vodka burning in his throat, and tried, really tried, to find the shape of the word in his mouth.

Gay.

He still couldn't say it. He didn't even want to think it. Just kept trying to push it away like some kind of intrusive thought he couldn't tolerate permeating his brain.

Eddie sighed, mouth twitching in the corner. Less of a smile, more like pity.
"You wanna watch a movie or something?" He asked, as though it pained him.
"I've got one of those—jailbroken firesticks so we can watch pretty much anything."

Steve huffed out a laugh. Because of course he does.
"Okay, sure."

"I'll let you choose. Given you're all—sad and pathetic tonight." Eddie smirks.

And Steve smiles, nods. Follows Eddie to the couch.

***

Steve had been here before. Knew, in theory, what to expect.

The same roaring engines, the same oil-slick bravado, the same swarm of people who always looked like they'd grown up with one hand on the wheel and the other flipping off God. He wasn't surprised by the scene. He just didn't know what to do with himself in it.

They arrived together. Eddie behind the wheel, as always, one arm slung out the window, grinning like he was already halfway to winning. His hair still damp from the shower, cigarette tucked behind his ear. Steve had watched the whole drive with that same silent awe he always got when Eddie turned the dial up. When he got loud with the world in a way Steve never could.

The crowd had already gathered. Floodlights buzzing, tires squealing somewhere in the near distance. That smell of rubber and brake fluid and fried food in the air. Music from four directions at once. People shouting, laughing, posturing.

It should've felt somewhat familiar by now.

But the second Eddie peeled off to find the others, disappearing into the knot of racers and gearheads and people who knew how this place worked. Steve was back where he always ended up: on the edge of it all.

He gave a few nods, tucked his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, leaned against the same shipping container he always leaned against.

He let himself look like he was waiting for someone, which technically wasn't untrue.

He knew how to do this. The casual half-smile, the slow scan of the scene like he was looking for something cooler to do, even though he knew he wasn't moving. It wasn't fear. Not really. Just that same ache in his chest he always got in places like this. Like he was a song two keys out of tune.

Some girl walked by with a drink in one hand and a boy's number scrawled across her bare shoulder. Someone tossed a bottle that shattered too close to someone else's foot. Nobody even flinched.

Steve stayed quiet. Played the part. Noticed things.

Like how Eddie didn't glance back.

Or how his name wasn't a password here. How proximity didn't equal belonging.

Still, he stayed. Eyes scanning the crowd, ears half-trained for the sound of Eddie's laugh somewhere under the thrum of the engines. Because it wasn't just about the race, and it never had been. Not really.

It was about being where Eddie was.

He got himself a beer from the cooler one of the regulars had dragged out of the back of a truck. Didn't ask. Just nodded and took it the way he'd seen the others do, like it was no big deal, like the weight of it didn't somehow settle the way his nerves never could. It was already half-warm. He didn't care. It gave him something to hold.

He drifted to the outskirts, as he always did. Found the same spot near the edge of the crowd, just close enough to see everything, just far enough to be invisible. The voice over the speaker was the same. Big and blown out, soaked in static, too loud even when it didn't need to be.

A countdown. Names. Wagers. Laughter. Gasoline in the air.

And then Eddie's car rolled up to the line.

Steve straightened without meaning to. The moment always crept up on him like that. Sudden, sharp, and too fast.

There he was.

Helmet on. Elbow out the window. Probably the same concealed, loose grin, as if this wasn't the part where you could die. As if dying wasn't even an option.

It was always terrifying.

It wasn't a crash he feared. It was how little fear Eddie seemed to have. How he looked more alive behind the wheel than he ever did outside of it.

But God, it was thrilling, too.

The sound when the engines screamed to life. The blur of motion. The way Eddie's car launched forward like it had something to prove. Like he had something to outrun.

And Steve, he just stood there. One beer in hand. Pulse in his throat.

Watching.

Always watching.

***

As always, Eddie won. Of course he did. Like he was born with the map to victory printed on the insides of his eyelids.

The moment the finish line blurred behind him, he was swept up. Half mob, half coronation, by a tangle of guys who looked like they could bench-press a truck and probably had. Leather jackets, gold chains, tattoos that meant something if you knew the right kind of trouble.

Steve stayed back, as usual. Just another civilian in sneakers, nursing the dregs of a beer that had long since gone flat. He watched Eddie get pulled in. Laughing, radiant in the low light, someone whispered something in his ear and shoved a wad of cash into his jacket like it was nothing. Eddie just grinned wider, head thrown back like the night itself was an inside joke.

Steve waited. Didn't push. Didn't hover. Just watched, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders stiff with that specific tension of wanting to be somewhere and not knowing how to belong once you're there.

Eventually, Eddie turned. Scanned. Found him. That unmistakable grin cracked open again, and he summoned him over with a casual flick of two fingers.

Steve made his way through the crowd, trying not to trip over someone's foot or look too much like the guy who'd never been in a fight or owned a leather jacket. The closer he got, the bigger the men seemed.

"Steve," Eddie said, clapping a hand on his back with a kind of performative force, like he was presenting a show pony.
"This is Roach, Wick and Pete."

Roach looked like his nickname wasn't ironic. Greying at the temples, deep lines around the eyes, a beard that had never once met conditioner. He nodded at Steve, barely. As did the other two.

Steve straightened like he was meeting someone's dad at a country club.

"Hi," he said, extending a hand too politely.

There was a moment there that felt like an eternity.

Then laughter. Loud, full-throated, unkind but not cruel. Roach took his hand but didn't shake it, just held it a second too long, then let go with a grunt that could've meant anything.

"You bringin' the prom king to race night now, Munson?" Wick barked, elbowing Eddie.

His hair looked freshly buzzed, fading tattoos around his hairline that just looked like smudges now. He had a couple gold teeth, but the rest of them just looked like old yellowing gravestones leaning up against each other.

Eddie, without missing a beat, leaned against the car and said, deadpan, "Be nice. He's delicate."

They laughed again.

Steve smiled like he wasn't dying inside, like he didn't feel like a kid in a too-tight tie at the wrong funeral.

"It's—nice to meet you guys," he added, voice a shade too formal.

Roach took a drag off his cigarette and said, "Yeah. Sure, pretty boy."

Eddie didn't look at him, but his smirk tugged sideways. A little too fond. A little too smug. Like he was proud of how out of place Steve looked.

And Steve, hands still in his pockets, back straight decided he'd survive this. Like he survived most things. Quietly, awkwardly, with all the grace of someone who didn't belong but stayed anyway.

"That was, uh, fast," he offered, nodding vaguely at the car like it wasn't still ticking hot behind them.
"Like—I mean, obviously fast, but it looked—extra fast tonight."

Someone snorted.

Eddie didn't say anything, just sipped from a beer bottle like he hadn't heard it.

"Yeah. Tends to be fast. Kinda the whole point." Pete said.

He was younger than the others. Maybe only a little older than Eddie. Probably Puerto Rican, skin dappled gold with dark eyes that made his pupils look non existent. Beautiful, really. In a way that made Steve feel inferior.

Steve pressed on.
"Y'know, I uh—read somewhere that traction control can really make or break a race." He says, casually.
"Or do you think it's more the aerodynamics side of things? Like y'know—wind resistance. Must be a huge deal when you're going that fast. S'probably good for you guys we're not in a tornado state." He bungles out a laugh, and everyone just stares.

He could feel himself slipping. Sinking deeper with every syllable, like his mouth and his brain were out of sync. No traction. No grip. Just a slow, embarrassing slide into sounding like someone who thought racecars came from cereal boxes.

"Bro thinks he's on Top Gear." Pete snickered.

Even Roach cracked a smile.
"Aerodynamics," he muttered, shaking his head. "Christ."

Steve scratched the back of his neck, nodding like yeah, fair, that was a dumb thing to say. His face burned.

"So—uh," he tried again, voice a little tighter.
"I wondered—if you guys have pit stops or whatever. Or is that just for the big leagues?"

"Fuck the big leagues." Wick said, voice gruff.
"Those guys are a bunch of kids wrapped up in bubble wrap. They wouldn't know a real race if it hit 'em in the face."

Steve laughed, trying to be agreeable.
"Yeah. Totally. I agree. Plus I always think it's like—a total waste of champagne. Y'know when they win and they just open it up and spray it everywhere. Like—what's that about? Just drink it."

They didn't laugh. But Steve smiled like he meant it, even though it landed wrong on his face, a little too tight, a little too much like defense.

Eddie finally looked at him, biting down on a smile.
"Careful," he said.
"They can smell when you're trying too hard."

"I'm not—trying," Steve muttered, instantly knowing how much worse that sounded.

Pete stepped forward, clapped him on the back, hard enough to rock him forward.
"Relax, prom king," he said.
"We're just fucking with you."

And maybe that was the worst part. That it wasn't even real malice. Just amusement. Just easy, careless laughter from people who belonged so thoroughly they didn't even have to try.

Steve took a sip of his beer. Swallowed down the taste of it and said nothing else.

Eddie just kept watching him out of the corner of his eye like he wasn't sure if he should pull Steve closer or let him squirm.

"So," Wick asked, turning to Steve with that half-interested, half-predatory look that frat guys and car guys seemed to share when they were bored.
"What do you do, Goldilocks?"

Steve hesitated, beer can halfway to his mouth. "I'm, uh—at CW. Studying economics."

A beat. Then laughter. Not cruel, not exactly. Just—too loud. Too sudden. Like they couldn't help themselves.

It wasn't even fucking funny.

"Economics?" Roach barked.
"Jesus, Eddie, where the hell did you find this kid? A fucking lecture hall?"

"What you calculating out here, bro—horsepower per dollar?" Pete asked.

Steve laughed, too quickly. Too brightly. That brittle laugh you give when you're trying not to look like you're bleeding.

Eddie smirked, raised his hands like alright, alright.
"Chill," he said, light, like a warning tossed over a shoulder.
"He's cool."

But that only made it worse somehow. It wasn't for Steve. It was for them. A peacekeeping gesture. A signal that yeah, Steve might be the butt of the joke, but don't go too hard. He's with me.

Steve could feel the heat climbing up his neck, settling behind his ears. He stared down at his beer.
"It's not—it's not, like—nerdy. Or it's not that nerdy." He said, voice barely carrying.
"I just—like numbers. Patterns."

"Ohhh," Pete said, mock-impressed.
"He's a patterns guy."

"Hey, maybe he can run the stats on Eddie's win rate," Wick quipped.
"Figure out if it's even worth showing up next week."

More laughter. A few claps on Eddie's back.

And Eddie just smiled again, that neutral, keep-it-smooth smile he wore when he didn't want to pick a side. He didn't say anything.

Steve tried to fix it, to claw his way back from the soft, humiliating center of their laughter.

"I don't even—like, I'm not, like, super into it or anything," he said, shrugging too hard, like maybe if he made himself small enough they'd just forget he'd spoken at all.
"Economics. It's just—whatever. I just picked something."

He laughed again, but this time it didn't even sound like a laugh. More like something stuck in his throat.

But the damage was done. It only made it worse. Because now they were smirking. Smirking the way people do when someone's trying too hard to look like they don't care. The way predators watch a rabbit try to look invisible.

"What, you just pick something off the shelf like shampoo?" Roach asks.

Steve blinked. His fingers tightened around the beer can until it crinkled softly.

"I mean, I guess I just didn't wanna do something—dumb," he muttered, eyes on the ground.

Pete raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, so we're dumb now?"

"No, that's—no, I didn't mean—" Steve started, but his voice had thinned out, like it was trying to sneak away from the rest of him.

Eddie, leaning against a stack of tires with that unreadable look on his face, finally said something.
"Alright. That's enough. Lay off."

It wasn't harsh. Wasn't loud. Just there. Low and easy.

Steve wanted to disappear.

He took a sip of the beer, hoping maybe the taste would drown something in him. It didn't. It was warm and bitter and sat wrong in his mouth.

He looked at Eddie, but Eddie wasn't looking back.

"I'm gonna grab another beer." Steve murmured.
Or at least, he hoped that's what he said.

It was probably more like a half-formed excuse strung together with a shrug and a flick of the wrist. No one really responded. A few of them barely looked up. Eddie didn't stop him.

So he turned. Walked.

The cooler was behind a folding table, crusted with rings of condensation and someone's forgotten sandwich. Steve didn't stop there. He kept walking, past the rows of cars and the wall of noise, past the oily glow of floodlights catching on chrome and the echo of engines, and the smell of burnt rubber that clung to everything out here like a second skin.

The further he got, the less he had to pretend.

His eyes were already stinging. He blinked once, hard, but that only made it worse. The tears weren't dramatic or showy, just full and sudden and real, like something inside him had come undone quietly. Without announcement, without apology.

He wasn't crying because they laughed.

He was crying because they were right.

Because he didn't belong here. Not with Eddie's crew, not with the frat boys either. Not in his major. Not even in his own body, most days. Every room felt like it belonged to someone else. Like he was borrowing a life he hadn't earned.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand and kept walking, still holding the empty beer bottle. Not even aware of it. Music blasted. Engines revved. Someone whooped.

And Steve just kept moving through it like a ghost, mouth tight, breath shallow, the realization settling in:

He didn't belong anywhere. Not really.

Eventually he sat on an overturned canister, loading up the uber app. Not that he'd even be able to get one out here in the middle of butt fuck nowhere.

He didn't hear Eddie at first, just the crunch of boots on gravel, the distant echo of cheers, the swell of music pulsing like a second heartbeat. But then a shadow crossed into his periphery, and Eddie was there, standing in front of him, brow furrowed, the half-concerned, half-exasperated look that meant Steve, don't do this right now.

"You good?"

Steve didn't answer. He just wiped his cheek with the heel of his palm, furious with himself for even needing to.

Eddie sighed, ran a hand through his hair.
"Look, chill, alright? They're like that with everyone. It's not personal."

Steve scoffed and shook his head, eyes fixed somewhere far away.
"Sure."

Eddie stepped toward him, more insistently now. "No, seriously. They gave me hell too, first time I showed up. It's just noise, Harrington. Don't let it get in your head."

Steve finally looked at him then, red-eyed and raw, voice clipped.
"Just—leave me alone."

"Come on." Eddie scoffed.
"Don't be a child."

"I said leave me alone, Eddie. Go back to your friends. I'm going home."

It was more of a threat than a fact. Given he just got a notification to say there were no drivers nearby. But he didn't need to know that.

"They're not—Jesus, Steve." Eddie was pacing a little, hands flung out.
"What is this? You're seriously pissed because they made fun of your major?"

Steve stood, too fast.
"No. I'm pissed because you just stood there."

"They were joking. It was friendly fire." Eddie shot back.

"You let them laugh at me like I was some—some pet you brought along to show off."

"Oh come on, no one was—"

"You didn't say anything, Eddie!" Steve snapped. "Not really. You just smiled and shrugged and made it all fine so everyone would still like you."

"What, like you do?" Eddie said flatly.

Steve stared at him, stunned silent for a beat, jaw clenched.
"Then why do you spend so much time telling me not to do that. That makes you a hypocrite."

"Hey. I never said I was a role model, man. Do as I say not as I do." Eddie shrugged.

"Oh my God." Steve said, throwing his head back in exasperation.

"Steve, if I genuinely thought there was any danger there I would have stepped in. That's just what they're like. If anything it means they like you. If they hated you they would have just turned their backs and pretended you didn't exist. Or spat chewing tobacco in your face. I've seen it happen."

"Okay, well just because something looks fine to you doesn't mean it doesn't hurt my feelings." Steve retorted, slumping back down on the canister.
And then Steve's voice cracked. Small, quiet, but louder than anything else he'd said.
"I don't belong anywhere."

It dropped between them like a weight.

"I don't belong here with you," Steve continued, softer now, "or them, or school, or Robin. At least not for right now. I don't belong at home. There is literally not a single space for me in this world." Steve sobbed, the dam breaking. He didn't care anymore.
"And definitely not with some girl who wants to rip my clothes off because she thinks I'm something I'm not."

Eddie didn't speak. Just stood toeing his boot into the dirt.

"I don't even know what I am," Steve finished, breathless, broken open.
"But it's not this. Whatever—this is. And all this stupid fucking pretending."

Eddie stepped closer, voice gentler now, edged with something vulnerable.
"Then stop pretending."

"I"— Steve started before Eddie interjected.

"God, Steve. How many times do I have to sit here and listen to you say the same thing over and over. You're like a broken record." Eddie snapped, Steve's shoulders tensed.
"Pretending. You're always pretending. Your life is so hard and nobody understands you. Your dad will disown you and you'll get kicked out of the frat and become a pariah for homosexuality. Fine. Let them. Let them leave. Let them slam the fucking door in your face. Maybe then you can actually open your eyes long enough to find another one to walk through and stop being such a victim all your life."

Steve looked at him. Really looked at him. The floodlights behind Eddie cast his hair in gold, shadowed his face. He looked so real in that moment. And Steve, he just felt like a draft version of himself, half-erased and overwritten too many times.

Eddie sighed, the kind that came from somewhere deep in the chest, as though whatever he was about to say had been circling for a while, looking for a place to land.
"Move over." He said quietly, waving a hand so that Steve would scoot along the canister.

There wasn't enough space for breath, or to retreat. Thighs pressed together, Eddie's elbow nudging his side.

"You know," he started, picking at the frayed seam of his jeans, "when I was fifteen, I used to come out here and just—watch."

Steve turned slightly toward him, still wary, but listening.

"Didn't race. Didn't even have a learners permit let alone a car. I'd just sit on the hood of my uncle's piece-of-shit Pontiac and pretend I was gonna be someone. Like, someone people actually wanted around. Someone they'd pay attention to."

He chuckled, more self-directed than anything else.
"I was a kid. Nobody wanted to talk to me. They just brushed me off like I was nothing. We weren't equals, we had nothing in common. I'd see all these guys and I just thought they were cool as shit. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to know how I could be like them, but—they just laughed in my face and told me to grow a foot and a half taller and then we'd talk."

Steve said nothing. Just watched him, blinking the sting from his eyes.

"And then when I did start racing, I thought—cool. This is it. I belong here. I've got a thing now. A reason to show up."

His gaze drifted toward the lights in the distance, the track still buzzing with motion and noise. But his voice stayed low.

"And it helped. For a while."

Steve stared at the gravel at his feet, something soft unraveling in his chest.

"But they're interested in me because I win. They're interested in me because I'm good for them by association. Because I win them money, because I have a reputation. If I start losing, or I totally bomb or crash—they're not gonna want anything to do with me. And that's why I can't pin all of my self worth on them. Because they don't care about me beyond what I do here. It's all for convenience."

Eddie leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"I'm sure you're smart enough to pick up what I'm putting down, but in case it wasn't clear, I'm doing something called drawing parallels." He goaded with a soft laugh.

"Yeah. I got that." Steve gave a small smile.

Eddie finally glanced over, catching Steve in that raw, open way that made him flinch inside.
"All your dad cares about is having stories to tell about you at the country club in their endless dick swinging contests. Now, I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt but—from what I've heard he's not exactly the kinda guy I'd wanna sit down and have a beer with. So I'm not gonna promise you that if you told him what was really going on he'd take it well."

"He only drinks IPA." Steve said simply.

"Point proven."

Steve huffed a breath, half a laugh.

"You keep saying you don't belong like it's some big secret. Newsflash. No one belongs. You just stop giving a damn if they think you do or not." Eddie says, tilting his head to the side in an all knowing manner.
"And maybe," Eddie went on, voice low, a little gruff, "you don't need to belong to anything. Not school, not this, not me."

Steve blinked.
"You?"

Eddie looked down, like he regretted the word even as it left him.
"Not like—me, me. Just—a hypothetical me. As in—I could be anyone. I'm just using myself as an example." He said hurriedly.
"I just mean—you don't have to fit. That's not a requirement for being wanted."

Steve nods slowly, not really understanding, but not wanting to push it.

"This is life, Harrington. Nobody ever thinks to look up unless there's a sound. You're just too scared to make one."

Eddie shrugs like he hasn't just torn through Steve's defenses. Like he hasn't just sat beside him in the wreckage and made it bearable with nothing more than his presence and his blunt, lopsided truths.

Steve wipes his face with the back of his hand, still raw around the edges, but a little steadier now.
"Thanks," he says quietly.

Eddie shoots him a sideways glance, already half-smirking.
"Yeah, well—don't get used to it. I'm not exactly the patron saint of emotional support if you haven't already realised."

Steve laughs, shakes his head.

He thinks about the word again. Gay.

He thought about what it means.

Gay is a slur scrawled on a locker when he was thirteen. Chalky, rushed, half-rubbed away by the janitor's rag yet still visible enough that every glance felt like a finger pressed to his sternum.

It's the brittle laugh of boys in towel-whipped locker rooms, the whispered warning that you shouldn't linger at eye level too long.

It's his father's wince when a talk-show guest crossed his legs "like that," the offhand don't be lame that shut whole parts of him down before he knew they existed.

Gay means veering conversations, polite disinterest, invitations revoked in the silent space after someone finally suspects. It's something dim and cautionary, a word that makes shoulders tighten, a room tilt fractionally away.

And yet, gay is also the thrum under his skin when Eddie's laugh finds the back of his neck, the quiet knot that loosens when he stops performing and simply breathes.

It's the tenderness of noticing another boy's wrist in lamplight and feeling, for once, less alone.

It's the color that seeps into everything when honesty slips its leash: the certainty that desire is not wrong but simply there, waiting to be named.

In the same breath that calls him other, gay promises a key. Small, matte, tucked behind his ribs, to rooms filled with the music of people who have already learned to open windows. It is fear, yes, but it is also the first clean inhale after years of borrowed air.

Steve takes a breath. Sharp and sudden. Like it hurts a little going in.

"I'm gay."

It falls into the air between them like something tender and breakable. He doesn't look at Eddie when he says it. Just stares out into the dark like if he looks directly at him, the moment might disappear.

There's a pause. Not long. Not awkward. Just enough.

Eddie lets out a low chuckle. Warm, not mocking. He knocks his shoulder gently into Steve's.
"Thanks for telling me."

"You're welcome." Steve nods meekly.

"Come on." Eddie said, nudging him as he stood with a stretch.
"Let's go do gay shit."

"Gay shit?" Steve asks, eyebrows knitting together.

"I meant sex, genius." Eddie rolled his eyes, already walking away.

"Oh." Steve nods.

"You might be gay but you're still stupid." Eddie scoffs.

***

It was different now. Everything about it.

There was no rush, no practiced rhythm, no careless pulling or grabbing or panting toward some invisible finish line.

Eddie wasn't just touching him, he was noticing him. As if every inch of Steve's skin said something Eddie had been waiting to hear. As if the slope of his neck or the soft hollow beneath his ribs was part of some secret language Eddie had only now begun to understand.

And Steve. Steve, who had always half-flinched from closeness, who had spent so long holding his breath through moments like these, was breathing. Not easily, not entirely without fear. But breathing, fully, as though this was the first time his body wasn't being borrowed by someone else's desire.

There was a reverence in the way Eddie moved. A kind of stunned awe, like he couldn't believe Steve was real, or here, or his, even for a moment. His mouth traveled with purpose. Curious, unhurried, learning rather than taking. Kissing, not claiming.

And Steve, who'd once confused being wanted with being used, was finally starting to feel the difference.

It wasn't about lust. Not anymore. It was about softness. About being allowed to exist with nothing held back. About trust that had been hard-earned and reluctantly offered, blooming now into something neither of them had words for.

Eddie hadn't said he cared. Hadn't admitted a thing. But everything he did told the truth for him.

Steve hadn't known that being looked at could feel like being kept. That the press of someone's palm against his sternum could say, Stay here. Stay just like this. I want you exactly as you are.

Eddie had talked about sex like it was a means to an end, only ever linear. He'd rolled his eyes at softness, at the kind of intimacy that didn't disguise itself behind jokes or heat. He'd made it seem like anything tender was weak. Like he didn't have time for it, or maybe worse, like he'd never needed it.

And yet here he was. Hands moving slowly, deliberately. Mouth following skin like he was trying to map something by memory. Not even looking up to gauge a reaction. Just there, present, like this was its own destination, not just the way to one.

Steve didn't understand.

Not entirely.

Not when Eddie's thumb swept across his hipbone like he was soothing a bruise. Not when he lingered over the hollow of his throat, or pressed open-mouthed kisses to the inside of his knee, as though even the places no one had ever touched mattered now. Steve had never been studied like this before. Not like something worth returning to. Not like someone whose body was a place, not a passage.

It made no sense. Eddie, of all people. Eddie who rolled his eyes at the sheer idea of poems and sentiment. Eddie who thought of romance as if it was for people with nothing better to do. And now, here he was, pausing just to look at Steve. Letting silence bloom between them like something sacred. Worshipping him, wordlessly.

Steve didn't ask why. Didn't need to.

He just lay there, wide-eyed and breathless, letting himself be wanted in a way he didn't have to earn. And in that, the not knowing, the not deserving, the not needing to pretend. He understood something truer than anything either of them had ever said.

***

Eddie was asleep beside him. One arm slung carelessly over the pillow, mouth slightly parted, chest rising in a rhythm that made Steve feel calmer just watching it.

The room was dim, the kind of dim that made everything feel suspended, like the world was waiting for morning to start breathing again.

Steve reached for his phone from the pocket of his jeans. Careful not to stir the mattress. The screen lit up with missed calls and a flood of unread texts, all from Robin.

Omg I'm so sorry I missed your call  this weekend was crazy I literally can't I just listened to your voicemail
Sex with a girl??? WHAT
are you okay? Where are you?
Do you wanna come here?
Hello?

His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a second too long, like he was debating telling her everything, or nothing. Like maybe if he typed slow enough, the right thing would write itself.

But he didn't have it in him tonight. The explaining, the unraveling. Not when he was still floating somewhere between disbelief and something gentler, heavier.

It's okay. I'm fine. I'll call you tomorrow ❤️

And then, before he could start overthinking it, he hit send. Put the phone face-down. Let the silence settle again.

Eddie shifted beside him in his sleep, breath hitching once, then evening out.

Steve watched the ceiling for a while, still not quite used to feeling safe in a place that didn't belong to him. But maybe that was changing.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Steve woke to the soft dissonance of unfamiliar quiet. The kind of quiet that comes from someone else's bed in someone else's room, when the world hasn't quite decided if it's morning yet.

The light through the blinds was dim, blue-grey, casting itself in faint stripes across Eddie's wall. He blinked, adjusting, and turned his head.

Eddie was still asleep beside him, sprawled and slack-faced in that careless way people sleep when they've never had to worry about being watched.
One arm curled under his head, the other flung across the crumpled duvet like he'd been reaching for something before falling back under. His hair was a mess of black waves against the pillow. He looked soft in ways he never allowed himself to look awake.

Steve sat up, slowly. Just watched him for a second. His own hands were folded in his lap, as if unsure of what to do now that it was morning.

"Eddie," he whispered.

A murmur. No real response.

"Eddie."

A groan, then, low and full of gravel.
"What."

"Are you doing anything today?"

There was a pause. A breath.
"Getting my asshole bleached."
Then, flatly, "No. Why."

Steve smiled faintly, eyes soft with something too careful to be named.
"Can I stay here with you?"

Eddie inhaled, sleepy and languid, his body sinking deeper into the mattress like the bed itself had claimed him.

"If you go back to sleep for another five to six hours."

"I can't do that," Steve said, matter-of-fact.
"Once I'm up, I'm up. It's biological."

Eddie exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed.
"Okay. If you let me sleep for another five to six hours and be quiet."

"Okay." Steve clambered over him carefully, half a smile tucked into his cheek as he reached for his phone on the nightstand. His fingertips brushed the cord of Eddie's earbuds, the edge of a book spine, the discarded rings that had been stacked beside an old lighter.

"I'm gonna go call Robin."

"Not being quiet," Eddie muttered, eyes still shut.

"Sorry," Steve whispered, sheepish. He slipped out the door with the caution of someone not wanting to wake a cat.

The air in the living room was cooler. A little stale. Steve stood in the middle of it for a second, looking not at anything in particular. Just existing.

He walked to the kitchen, bare feet quiet on the floor, and leaned against the counter while his phone dialed.

A beat. Then Robin answered.

"Hey."

Her voice, alert, a little too alert.
"What is going on? What the fuck happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just—wanted to call you."

There was a pause.
"Why are you whispering?"

"Oh—" Steve scratched the back of his neck. His eyes drifted across the cluttered kitchen: a chipped mug, half-full with something unidentifiable. An open bag of tortilla chips. A crumpled napkin that might've once been a receipt.
"I'm—at Eddie's. He's sleeping."

"Okay," Robin said, a little unnerved, like she didn't trust the softness in his voice.

"I'm sorry—"

"It's fine. Forget about it. It's not important right now. I don't care. I just—care about you."

"I care about you too."

"So what happened?"

Steve sighed, rubbed his hand over his face and opened a cupboard, peering in like maybe it held answers. It was mostly cereal. And canned chili.

"It's fucking insane," he said finally.
"There was a party at the house. It was literally doomed from the start. My plan was to just—avoid everyone and go up to my room. And then Becca—wait, did I tell you about Becca?"

"Don't think so."

He shut the cupboard. Opened the fridge instead.

Practically barren.

He raised a brow. Closed it again.

"Oh, well I basically got coerced into inviting her to the alumni dinner a few weeks ago by some of the guys. They said she was into me or whatever. When the whole horse cock thing was at its prime."

"Ah yes." Robin sang.

"Yeah. Anyway. She came up to my room and she was being all—flirty, or whatever. Then she started kissing me and we were making out. It was just—weird. I just didn't know what to do so I just sat there. And then she was just in my lap with her shirt off and the next thing I know she's got her hand down my pants—"

"Jesus Christ."

He opened another cupboard. More canned stuff. A half-eaten protein bar.

"And I just totally freaked. I threw her off of me, she hit the floor. She was—mad."

"I mean, yeah. Can't say I'd be too thrilled if someone threw me on the floor either."

Steve's lips twitched into a line.
"Then she left."

He heard Robin let out elongated sigh, a small rustle on the end of the line.
"Fuck me. That is—something."

Steve leaned against the counter now, phone pressed to his cheek, the cold laminate digging into the backs of his thighs.

"Something—else happened." Steve said, voice low and laced with guilt.

"Dear god, what?"

"I ran downstairs—I was making a b-line for the door, I just needed to get out of there. Jason clocked me. He was the one who told Becca where I was. He's been—trying to get us together from the start. The whole thing is just insane. And he was all—did you fuck, did you fuck?"

"And?" Robin pressed.

"I lied."

"You did not."

"I said we did."

"Steve!"

"I know, I know." Steve said, shifting himself off of the counter and pacing in the small space, voice hushed.
"But it's just Jason. He's not gonna say anything. If anything it was probably just—to add to his mental collection of weird fantasies."

"This is—so much to process at 10am."

"Sorry." Steve muttered.

"So—now what? You've been at Eddie's ever since?" She asked.

"Yeah. Pretty much." Steve shrugs to himself.

She paused. He knew that pause. The one that comes right before a punchline or a sigh.

"Don't suppose you have any sage words of advice?" He asked, letting out an involuntary nervous chuckle.

"Uh—no. I think you might need a priest for this one."

Steve smiled, just barely. He looked toward the closed door of Eddie's bedroom, where the light was still low and everything behind it was warm and quiet.

There was something about the sound of Robin's voice and the smell of Eddie's kitchen, that made him feel, just for a second, like maybe he wasn't completely drowning.

Just slowly treading water. In the direction of shore.

It was all so still. Still in that way only someone else's home could be in the late morning. Quiet not because it wanted to be, but because it didn't know what to do with someone else's presence.

"Great." Steve sighed, dragging his hand over his face, thumb catching against the corner of his mouth.

Robin didn't miss a beat.
"I mean—off the top of my head, if you're asking for my expert level guidance I'd say maybe don't sleep with people you don't want to sleep with. Don't lie about sleeping with people you didn't sleep with. And maybe—don't live in a house run by horny men with toddler level intelligence?"

A laugh, dry and tired, escaped before he could help it.
"Yeah, I mean. Can't argue with that. S'pretty wise."

Her voice, sharp and knowing as always, softened at the edges.
"Just stop tying yourself into knots to make everyone else comfortable. How many lies are you gonna tell before you start disappearing completely?"

"I know."

And he did. He felt it. In his body. In the slight ache behind his eyes, in the guilt swimming low in his stomach, in the way his voice caught when it tried to be casual. He turned toward the sink, watching a slow drip fall from the faucet, silent but steady.

"And as for Eddie," she continued, "I have a whole list of questions that I'm gonna save for another time."

Steve smiled, lips pressed together.
"Yeah. I figured you might."

"I'm just—glad you had somewhere to go."

He blinked. Looked out the window at nothing. A bird fluttered from one branch to another. "Yeah."

"Especially while I got roped into some 48-hour long cowgirl-themed bar crawl and was legally brain dead for the most part."

His mouth curled.
"Jesus Christ."

"Those buzzballs, man. I'm telling you. Lethal."

"Oh, totally. I haven't touched one since the red projectile vomit incident."

"You are a wise man."

Steve closed his eyes at the fullness, let the phone rest lower against his cheek.
"I miss you."

"I miss you more." Her voice softened, lost its edge.
"I want you to have it all, Steve. Love, sex, identity. Happiness. I just—don't want you confusing chaos for care."

"I know." It came out quiet, like a confession.

"I love you, dingus." She said, firm, unyielding as Steve cracked a smile.

"Love you too."

"I'll see you soon, okay?" She urged and Steve nodded to himself in the empty space.

"Yeah. For sure."

The call ended. The kitchen hummed again with its small, dumb sounds. The fridge motor, footsteps from the hallway beyond the front door.

Steve set the phone down and exhaled like he'd been holding something in his chest too long. He didn't move right away. Just stood there, barefoot, trying not to think about how much of himself he'd given away just to keep from being alone.

***

Eddie's apartment was sterile in the way of bachelor places. Not unlived in, but unloved.

The guy had no food. Nothing. It was perplexing.

There was a bottle of mustard in the fridge and three different kinds of hot sauce, but nothing resembling food. No eggs. No bread. Not even a can of beans hiding behind expired pickles. Steve stared into it for longer than necessary, more out of disbelief than hope.

Takeout.

The bag came twenty minutes later, warm and heavy in his hands, smelling of fresh bread and crispy potatoes.

He padded back to Eddie's room, the floorboards creaking beneath his socks. Late morning light filtered in through the blinds in thin gold stripes, landing on Eddie's bare shoulder.

He was stirring, already halfway back from wherever he'd been in sleep. Rubbing at his eyes like a child, frowning against the intrusion.

"Was that my buzzer?"

"Oh—yeah. Sorry. I ordered food," Steve said, gently placing the bag on the nightstand.
"I didn't really know what you'd want, so—just kinda got a basic breakfast bagel with some little potato waffle things. They're kinda cute."

Eddie looked at him, still blinking the sleep away. "Thanks, but—why?"

"Just to say thanks. For—y'know. Everything." Steve let out a nervous laugh, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Oh." Eddie's voice was casual, a shrug dressed up as a syllable.
"Well, you're welcome."

Steve nodded once, backing out of the room without waiting for more.

He let the door fall gently shut behind him and carried his own bag to the couch, sinking into its too-soft cushions. The remote was already beside him, he didn't know why it surprised him, but it did. He clicked the firestick to life. Below Deck. The comfort of low-stakes dysfunction. He bit into his bagel and tried to ignore the ache of adrenaline still thumping in his legs.

The sound of the bedroom door opening was soft but noticeable. Eddie appeared barefoot, hair still messy, eyes half-lidded. He sat down without a word, a presence rather than a comment.

Steve acknowledged him with a glance but didn't speak. Didn't want to break it. Didn't want Eddie to disappear again into that carefully curated detachment.

"The fuck is this?" Eddie mumbled, mouth already half full as he pointed vaguely toward the TV.

"Oh, Below Deck," Steve said.

"Is this another trashy reality TV thing?"

"It is not trashy. It's excellent." He sounded defensive and proud at once. Eddie snorted.
"It's all about these people who work on a yacht during charter season but it's just chaos. There's fights, relationships, affairs. Crazy stuff."

"Yeah, and it's all acting." Eddie grumbled.

"It's not. It's a hundred percent real."

"And you're a hundred percent gullible. Shit like this is always scripted."

"Trust me. The stuff that goes on, on this boat? No one could write this."

Eddie watched for a moment, still chewing.
"So who is she?"

"She's the chief stew." Steve said.

"Chief what?"

"Stew. Like stewardess. She manages the interior. Guests, meals, cabins, crew drama, nervous breakdowns. The whole nine yards."

Eddie squinted, unimpressed.
"You're telling me the highlight of this show is watching some overworked waitress have a meltdown over turndown service?"

"She's iconic. She has, like, three nervous breakdowns a season and still manages to fold a towel into the shape of a swan."

"You're insane." Eddie scoffed out a laugh.

"You're watching it though." Steve said pointedly.

"I'm watching you watch it. That's not the same."

"You'll get it soon. Trust me." Steve smiled, the kind of smile that came without thinking.

They sat together, the TV filling the room with the noise of boat chaos and petty grievances. Something about the quiet felt earned. Like they didn't need to talk because they already were.

Steve turned to look at Eddie again. His eyes were a little clearer now, but his shoulders were still soft with sleep. He ate slowly, distracted, as if the food was a side note.

Eddie lifted his head, looking to Steve with furrowed brows.
"What?"

"Nothing. I've just never seen you eat before." Steve shrugged.

"Oh. One sec." Eddie took a dramatic bite, chewed with cartoonish slowness, then turned to Steve and opened his mouth, tongue half out, full of mashed bagel and potato.

Steve made a disgusted face, averting his gaze.

"There. Now you got the full experience." Eddie said, mouth full as he chewed obnoxiously.

"Great." Steve muttered.

***

The show played on like a metronome, the rhythm of chaos and confession set against the gentle clink of cutlery on paper. Steve barely registered it anymore. Not really. His eyes were on the screen, but his body wasn't there.

He was curled into the corner of Eddie's couch, warm from the bagel still in his stomach, knees half-tucked to his chest. Eddie was beside him. Close enough that their arms touched occasionally when one of them shifted.

There was nothing significant about the way Eddie sat. He was just there. One knee up, one arm slung carelessly along the back of the couch, muttering commentary like it mattered.

"She's definitely gonna get fired," Eddie said. His voice was still a little groggy, like it hadn't woken up all the way, but he said it like they'd been watching this together for years.

Steve said nothing. Just smiled faintly and tucked his chin into the collar of his sweatshirt.

Then Eddie got up without a word and disappeared into the kitchen. No asking, no checking. Just the quiet sound of a glass clinking into the sink, the hollow knock of the cabinet door closing.
When he came back, he handed Steve a glass of water like it was muscle memory. Like it was something they always did. Like he knew Steve well enough to know he was probably thirsty but wouldn't say so.

Steve took it without speaking, fingers brushing against Eddie's. The glass was cold, but his hands were warm. That contrast, sharp and dull at once seeped into his skin and stayed there.

They watched more in silence. A stew cried on camera. Someone smashed a plate in the galley. Eddie scoffed.
"They should all unionize," he muttered.

And Steve laughed. Not because it was funny, but because he liked the sound of Eddie's voice in the quiet. Like the world didn't exist outside this apartment. Like nothing did.

And that's when it happened.

The thing.

The shift.

It didn't come as a grand revelation. It didn't strike like lightning. It was more like a small hairline fracture he noticed too late, already spreading across the surface.

He was falling in love with Eddie.

And it was awful.

Like being hit in the chest with something heavy and unspeakable. Like that feeling when you're about to cry but can't. When something is stuck just behind your throat and no amount of swallowing will make it move.

He looked at Eddie, really looked, and the realization settled somewhere behind his ribs and started to rot.

This was terrible.

Because Eddie wasn't going to love him. Not like that. Not ever. This, whatever this was, was a fluke. A strange intermission in the lives they were supposed to be living. And Steve was already too deep, already playing pretend like it meant something, like he could keep doing this forever and not unravel from the inside out.

He stared down at the condensation sliding down the side of his glass and tried not to let it show on his face. Tried to keep his breathing steady. Tried not to picture himself saying it out loud.

I love you, and what it might sound like. Like an accusation. Like begging. Like a scream in a house where no one was listening.

It would ruin everything.

So he sat there and watched the yacht people implode on screen while he quietly imploded beside Eddie, who didn't even notice.

Of course he didn't.

And why would he?

He was just being kind. Or maybe not even kind. Just familiar. Comfortable. Like this was something he'd do for anyone. Like this didn't mean anything.

And Steve nodded along with the TV, with Eddie's voice, with his own breathing. Nodded as if it helped keep the pieces of himself from slipping through his fingers.

He didn't speak. He couldn't. If he did, it would all spill out at once.

.***

It was late into the early evening. Like time had escaped them. Blurred between mouthfuls of bagel and endless episodes, that kind of day that felt like one long exhale. The light outside had thinned, stretching shadows across the floor, dimming everything to amber. Eddie's living room had this dusty quiet about it, warm in a way that didn't feel earned.

They were both slouched deep into the couch cushions, hollowed out by eight straight episodes and the easy silence that only comes from having nothing left to say and not needing to.

Steve's shoulder was half-tucked into Eddie's. Neither of them had shifted in a while. On the screen, the yacht crew screamed about dirty laundry, both literal and not, and Steve glanced down at the time glowing on his phone screen.

"I should go," he said, stretching his arms overhead, groaning a little at the stiffness in his spine.

"Okay," Eddie said.

But he didn't move.

Just stayed there, legs spread wide, one arm slung across the back of the couch like he hadn't heard Steve. Or like he had, and just didn't believe he meant it. That same loose, maddening stillness. Like Eddie was just waiting to be proven right: that Steve would stay anyway.

"You gonna carry on?" Steve asked.

"Well, I'm in it now." Eddie shrugs.

Steve grinned, cocking a brow.
"Well, well, well. This is a new development from you."

"Shut up." Eddie seethed with no heat.

"You need to stop pretending you're not invested. I saw your face when Kyle got fired."

"He deserved it. Dude's a grade A asshole."

Steve laughed, soft and free. It bubbled out of him like something private.

Then he groaned, collapsing back into the couch cushions again, elbow grazing Eddie's arm.

"What?" Eddie asked.

Steve sighed, like he'd been waiting for someone to ask.
"It's the alumni dinner on Friday."

"I'm probably gonna regret asking this question, but what the fuck even happens at an—alumni dinner?" He emphasised the words like they were something that had never been spoken out loud before.

"Just—a bunch of old men who can't let go of their formative years, drinking wine. Networking. Awful small talk. Boys acting like they wouldn't throw their brothers under the bus for any kind of business opportunity just to get ahead. The usual."

"Oh. So a nightmare." Eddie nodded, lips thinning. That same disaffected smirk Steve had come to find weirdly comforting.

"Yep. And my dad's coming."

That earned a quiet, crooked smile.
"Nice of him to make the pilgrimage from Mount Olympus."

Steve snickered.

"You have to wear a tie?"

"I have to wear a suit." Steve clarified.

Eddie's mouth curled.
"God, I wish I could see that."

"Yeah, I bet you do." He rolled his eyes.

"Would've paid good money for a front row seat to watch you say something weird and awkward to some old trustee."

"I always say something weird."

"Exactly, it's your gift." Eddie shrugs, a smirk teasing at the corner of his lips.

"I'll send you a photo."

"Deal." Eddie nods once as though they'd signed some kind of treaty in the space between them.

And then something flickered.

Neither of them moved.

Steve just leaned his head against the back of the couch, turning toward Eddie. And Eddie, like they were mirroring each other without realizing it, turned too.

Their eyes met. Accidental, quiet. Like looking into a mirror and not recognizing your own face. Like hearing your name in someone else's voice.

Steve leaned in before he had a chance to think. Before he could stop himself. Before logic could interrupt.

A kiss. Not a suggestion. Not a prelude. Just a kiss. Like a thought you don't mean to say out loud. Like touching something on instinct.

It made him feel selfish. Like he was taking something he wasn't supposed to want. Something Eddie couldn't, or wouldn't, give.

But Eddie kissed him back. No smirk. No joke. Just his hand gently cupping Steve's jaw, slow and sure, like he didn't want it to fall apart.

It wasn't long. But it wasn't short either. It lived in that pocket of time where a breath could last forever.

And then it was over. Just like that.

No dramatic pause. No witty remark.

Just their eyes, drifting down and away. As if they both knew something small and irreversible had just happened, and neither of them could pretend otherwise.

"I'll, uh—see you soon?" Steve asked, filled with fear he didn't show.

"Sure." Eddie nodded, pulling his hand back into his lap, shifting like he was trying to shake something off.

"Okay." Steve nodded, knees moving like he was about to get up. One foot braced against the floor.

"Or you could just—not." Eddie said, stiffly. Abruptly.

Steve stilled.

"Not what?" he asked.

But Eddie wasn't looking at him.

"Not see you again?"

"No. Jesus." Eddie scoffed, but it was soft. As though it was a ridiculous question.

"What? Not leave?" Steve asked, trying not to sound too eager, too relieved, too anything.

"Sure." Eddie shrugged. Still not looking at him.

Steve smiled, lips barely parting.
"Okay, well your delivery needs work."

"Yep. Thank you for that." Eddie says, voice bristled in something probably akin to embarrassment but too self righteous to show it.

"So—just to be clear. You want me to—stay?"

And in that moment, everything felt precarious. Like standing at the top of a staircase, one foot hovering. The weight of the answer pulling gravity in one direction or the other.

"I mean, it's not the worst idea you've ever had," Eddie said coolly, voice a little rough from disuse.
"Plus season's almost over. May as well finish it."

Steve smiled. Not smugly. Not exactly. But proud. Like he'd cracked something open and found gold inside.
That Eddie, despite everything, despite the eye-rolls and the huffing and the way he always sat like he'd rather be anywhere else, actually wanted him to stay.

"You enjoy my company." Steve grinned to himself, settling back into the couch.

"Don't make it weird." Eddie grumbled, eyes fixed to anywhere but Steve.

"And you enjoy trashy reality TV."

"I also enjoy when you're not talking and doing that—stupid smug smile you do. Irritates me."

Steve laughed. Not because it was funny, but because Eddie was so bad at lying. And because this version of him, the one buried under blankets of sarcasm, stretched out on a couch watching TV and pretending not to care, was becoming Steve's favorite thing. A comfort so sharp it made his chest hurt.

"I'm learning a lot about you today," he said, leaning deeper into the couch, hand tucked against his chest, the other stretching toward Eddie in a mock offer.
"You wanna hold hands and snuggle?"

He kept his palm open, hovering between them, like it didn't matter if Eddie took it. Like he hadn't already imagined what it might feel like. Rough fingers, callused knuckles, the accidental brush of someone choosing not to move away.

Eddie looked at his hand like it was some grotesque insect, brows pinched.
"I will break it. And I won't even feel bad about it."

Steve laughed, again, breathy this time, and tucked the hand back against his stomach where it felt safely ignored.

There was a weight to the moment that didn't belong to it. A quiet hush in the air that said: this isn't about hand-holding. Not really. It's about what it means to be this close. To be wanted, even in jest. To keep offering, even when you expect rejection.

Steve didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. The fact that Eddie hadn't moved away spoke louder than anything he could have said.

He turned back to the screen, eyes flicking occasionally to the side, to Eddie's profile, the half-smirk he tried to hide behind his hair. The little twitch of amusement he didn't think anyone could see.

And Steve just sat with it.

That ache. That quiet want. That almost.

***

It was dark now.

The only light came from the TV, flickering soft blues and pinks across the edges of furniture, casting half-shadows on their faces. The show still droned on. Some overproduced music swell, someone shouting about laundry or betrayal or both. But it wasn't about that anymore.

They hadn't moved in a while. Not much, anyway. Just the occasional shift of weight, a bathroom break, the rustle of fabric against fabric, the lazy stretch of limbs as time.

The couch had molded to their bodies hours ago, its cushions worn into the shape of two people who no longer felt the need to perform presence for each other.

Eddie shifted again now, a sharp enough movement that Steve noticed it. Like he'd had a thought, one that made him flinch, but didn't follow through on saying it. Steve turned to him, trying to read his face.

Eddie looked—off.

Like he was bracing for something, or rehearsing it in his head. Trying, Steve realized. Trying to be considerate, to be kind, and finding it unfamiliar in the worst way, like a pair of shoes that didn't fit but someone expected him to wear anyway.

"What?" Steve asked, quiet.

Eddie grimaced, almost like he was annoyed with himself.

"Do you—need anything?" he asked, stiffly.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Whatever things people need. Food. Water. A blanket."

Steve smiled. A real one this time, soft around the edges. He couldn't help it.
"I think you're getting me confused with a stray cat."

"Less of the sarcasm." Eddie shot back, but it was a halfhearted jab, more muscle memory than malice.

"Coming from you." Steve retorted.
"I appreciate it. But—I'm okay." He said, and he meant it.

That seemed to let the air back out of Eddie's shoulders. He nodded, small, like he didn't want to make a big deal out of it but maybe it was one.

He turned back to the TV.

"The more I see of this the more I'm adamant this is the world's worst job."

"Why?"

"All these people hate each other. And they're just stuck out in the middle of the ocean together. Fuck that. I'd jump."

Steve laughed again, lighter now.

"You think I'm joking. Catch me rowing away on that lifeboat at the ass crack of dawn. I don't even care."

Steve watched him for a second, then turned back to the screen too.

"What did you wanna be when you were growing up?" he asked.

Eddie didn't answer right away, and when he did, his voice had that faraway tone Steve recognized. The kind you used when something touched the past.
"What, like a job?"

"Sure."

"I don't know."
Eddie paused again, his jaw ticking slightly.
"I don't think I ever imagined myself having, like—a conventional career. I didn't lay awake at night dreaming about selling my soul to capitalism."

Steve smiled faintly. That sounded like him.
"Yeah. That makes sense."

"At one point I really wanted to be a magician."

Steve's head turned sharply, interest piqued.
"Really?"

"Sure."

Steve sat up more, swinging one leg onto the couch to face him fully, eager now.
"Did you do magic tricks?"

"Obviously. That's like—one of the fundamentals of being a magician." Eddie said, like it was nothing.

"Like what?"

Eddie's mouth twitched, but it wasn't a smile. More of a memory slipping in.
"Nothing crazy. At one point I was just—really into the idea of making myself disappear. So I'd just—put a sheet over my head in my bedroom and just—think about it. Trying to will it into existence. That I'd—take the sheet off and be somewhere else. Or nowhere at all."

Steve didn't know what to say to that. Something tightened in his chest. Not pity. He didn't dare insult Eddie like that. But ache, maybe. Wondering what kind of hurt made a kid want to vanish without a trace. He didn't ask. He wouldn't.

Eddie went on, voice softer.
"I wasn't very good at that so—I put my energy into card tricks, instead."

"You can do card tricks?"

"Sure."

"Do one on me." Steve said, trying to bring them both back to something easier.

"Well, then it's not magic." Eddie said.

"Sure it is."

"No. For something to actually be magic it has to be—spontaneous. You can't think too much about it. You just gotta do it. That's the magic of it. The surprise. The look on their face. It's not about the execution it's about how it makes them feel."

Steve sighed, dramatically.
"Fine. Be that way."

But he was still smiling, and the ache in his chest was starting to feel like something else entirely. Something dangerous and warm and wildly out of his control. Something with a name he wasn't ready to say.

A few stray lights from outside caught in the sheen of the coffee table, and the TV flickered on, low, playing something neither of them were really watching anymore. It was just a placeholder. Something to fill the room while everything unspoken curled around their ankles like thread.

Eddie shifted, leg bouncing, one hand draped across his stomach like it didn't know where else to go. He wasn't looking at the TV. He was looking at Steve.

"Do you actually like economics or do you just do it because it's what your dad wants," Eddie asked, like the question had been sitting on his tongue all night waiting for the right pause.

Steve blinked, caught a little off guard. He thought about lying. Not a big lie, just the kind that preserved the shape of the life he was already living.

"It's not so bad. Get a good job with it. Bad or good, the economy will always be there. Someone'll always need you."

That line had always made sense to him. Solid, pragmatic. A foundation built on the belief that utility was the next best thing to meaning.

"But do you like it," Eddie pressed, his voice softer now, more deliberate, as though he didn't want to let Steve wriggle out of the truth.
"Does it make you happy? Do you—think about it when you're not doing it? Do you—fantasise about it? Do you see it in your future? Does it excite you?"

Steve stared at the space between them. The space where a glass used to be, or where their knees almost touched, or where the idea of something else hovered like a stray thought.

He let the silence sit before answering, like it might shape itself for him if he waited long enough.

"Well, when I was in high school I used to—dabble with the idea of being a writer."

Eddie laughed, not cruelly. More like Steve had said something so unexpectedly human it cracked the cool surface of him.
"Wow. Okay. A writer of what?"

"I dunno. Anything."
Steve shrugged.
"I like poems."

It was like admitting to something too fragile to name out loud. Something private. His fingers tightened slightly against the couch cushion.

"Steve Harrington the poet," Eddie teased with a grin, letting the syllables stretch out like he was savoring them.
"Here I was thinking I'd need to write a sonnet about your thighs when you should have been writing one about mine."

Steve scoffed, deflecting it like a reflex, trained by years of knowing when a compliment could turn too easily into vulnerability.
"I've never written a poem, I just like them. I probably wouldn't be very good," he said, quieter, like he was making himself smaller just in case.
"I guess I kinda like them for the same reason I like numbers. The patterns, the flow. The uncertainty."

That part surprised even him, how close it landed to the truth. Like he'd traced his own outline without meaning to.

"So why don't you do, like—creative writing or something as a minor?"

Steve rolled his head toward Eddie, giving him a look of exaggerated disbelief.
"It's like you don't know me at all." He said with a grin.
"No. Majoring in economics. Minors in finance and political science."

"Riveting," Eddie said, flat and sarcastic.

"Mhm."

The conversation didn't dip after that. It curved. Eased around a bend that neither of them had mapped but didn't resist either.

"Do you think you'll race forever? Y'know, until you get too old and decrepit."

"No." Eddie said decidedly.
"When the time's right I'll pack up and go. Learn something new."

"Go where?"

"Anywhere. I dunno. Just get in the car, drive through a couple cities, see what looks good."

Steve tried to imagine it. Just going. Without a plan or a purpose or someone to prove himself to. He tried to picture a life like Eddie's. Messy, improvised, driven by something internal rather than inherited.

"I don't think I've ever gone anywhere without a purpose. Like—I couldn't just—get in a car and hope for the best. I can't even go for a walk if I don't have an end goal."

Eddie smiled faintly, something warm behind it.
"Should take a leaf out of my book sometime. Stop hanging around waiting for something to happen. Be spontaneous."

"Like magic." Steve added, and Eddie gleamed. Toothy and wide.

"See, you're getting it. You've got some smarts in there after all." He said, teasingly.
"Stick with me, Harrington. I'll teach you all about how to major in the art of not giving a fuck. With minors in—selfishness and narcissism."

Steve's smile came easily now, stretching into something that felt like home.
"I dunno. You're kind of a good guy. Sometimes."

And it wasn't a confession. Not yet. But it felt close. Like something vital pressed against the seam of his chest, waiting to be named.

"Shh," Eddie said suddenly, sharp but not serious, his hand lifting a fraction in mock warning.
"Don't say things like that. People might hear you." His smirk curled lazily at the corners of his mouth like he couldn't help it.

Steve smiled. And that was the thing about Eddie. He always made you feel like the punchline was already waiting for you. Like you were lucky to be let in on the joke.

"So what's the first lesson?" Steve asked, letting himself lean a little closer, shoulder brushing the back cushion, legs stretched out but tense.

"You're in the first lesson. Realisation." He said casually.
"I'm probably gonna have to give you a C though because there was some push back and a little attitude."

Steve scoffed, mock-offended.
"What?"

"Admit it. You haven't exactly been a pleasure to have in class."

"Alright, fair. So what's the second lesson?"

Eddie gave a theatrical sigh, like he was dealing with the most difficult of students.
"Giving ol' Daddy Warbucks the finger."

"Of course."

"Y'know, a real—fuck you dad, this isn't my dream this is your dream, moment."

Steve laughed softly, but there was a beat of something bitter tucked inside it.
"Yeah, okay. You can go ahead and mark that as a big fat F. This isn't a Disney Channel movie."

Eddie looked at him for a second longer than necessary, like he was peeling something back just by watching.
"Nah. You're not as weak as you think you are."

It disarmed Steve completely, like a trapdoor swinging open beneath his ribs.

"I dunno about that," he said, voice quieter now, eyes falling to the edge of the coffee table. It was easier to look at something static. Something not Eddie.

"I'm serious."
Eddie didn't let up. He never did when it counted.
"I know I give you a hard time. But—I should give you credit too."

"Credit for what?" Steve frowned.

"You wake up every single day living a life that was picked out for you. Hiding who you are. Suppressing, repressing. Day in, day out. And you do it all with that—stupid smile on your face." He said pointedly, but a small smile was trying impossibly hard to spread across his lips.
"That's not weakness. It's perseverance."

Steve's throat went dry. He wanted to laugh it off. Make a joke. Shrug like it didn't sting, in the good way, but his mouth didn't want to cooperate.
"Perseverance sounds noble. I don't think what I'm doing qualifies. I'm just a sheep."

He meant it. More than he expected. The words hung there, trembling.

But Eddie only nodded, like he'd expected that too.

"It does when it keeps you alive. Gets you through." He said as though it was nothing.
"You might be a sheep. But it's better to be a sheep in a field than one in the slaughterhouse."

He was looking at Steve, not blinking, not trying to be poetic. Just honest in that unflinching way.

"I didn't suddenly wake up one day the way I am. I cared. I still do, sometimes. I just care more about not hating myself."

It was the most vulnerable Steve had ever seen him. There was no smirk, no posture, no armor. Just Eddie, sitting on a couch at one in the morning, lit up like a ghost by television light, telling Steve something unshakably true like it wasn't remarkable.

And it almost made Steve stop breathing.

Not because it was sad. Not even because it was beautiful.

But because it was real. And there was no part of him that felt ready to hold it.

The room had taken on a stillness that felt borrowed, like it didn't really belong to them but was being lent just for now. The kind of silence that felt stolen from the rest of the world.

The kind where you could hear the radiator ticking, the soft shift of someone swallowing, the press of two minds thinking in tandem.

Steve thought about what Eddie had said about spontaneity, about magic, and it clung to him in that moment. Not the whimsical kind of magic, but the kind that made your breath catch, that made time stall between one heartbeat and the next.

He'd never really been good at spontaneity. He could fake it. Jokes at the right moment, charm like it cost him nothing. But this? Doing something before he'd already thought his way around it three times? It didn't come naturally. He was too used to rehearsals, to asking permission even when he didn't speak the question out loud.

Still, he watched Eddie in the flickering blue light of the TV, the way the glow kissed the high points of his face, the bridge of his nose, the arc of his cheek, the corner of his mouth like it was a secret only Steve could see. The light made him softer somehow. Like maybe he wouldn't bite if Steve reached out and touched him, not just physically but really touched him. Beneath the humor, beneath the sharp edges.

Without a word, Steve picked up the remote and pressed the power button. The screen blinked out and left the room hushed and dim. No more background noise to anchor them to the present. Just them. Just the air between them. Eddie turned to look at him, eyebrows quirking in that way that always landed somewhere between challenge and curiosity.

"You good?"

Steve didn't answer. Not with words, anyway. He shifted, slow like he was still waiting for his body to catch up to what he already knew he wanted. One knee sunk into the cushion beside Eddie's thigh. Then the other as he climbed into Eddie's lap. Not like someone trying to seduce, but like someone trying to say something.

Eddie looked up at him, blinking, and Steve could see it. A flicker of something unguarded, a moment of clarity right beneath the surface of his usual sarcasm. His hands hovered at Steve's waist, hesitant, like even he didn't trust what might happen next. For once, he wasn't leading.

Steve's palms rested gently on Eddie's shoulders, thumbs brushing the line of a tattoo that peeked out from under the collar of his t-shirt. He could feel the heat of him there, the solidness. And Eddie's hands didn't move, not yet, not until Steve leaned in slightly. Just enough to bring them closer but not enough to demand anything.

He saw Eddie swallow. That cocksure grin faltered for the briefest second before steadying again, but Steve caught it. And he smiled. Not smug, not coy, but certain, in that quiet, almost reverent way that said: I see you.

That's when Eddie's hands settled, not possessive, not rough, just steady. Fingers splayed across Steve's waist like he'd realised he was allowed to touch him now. Like they belonged there, had been waiting for the signal.

Steve leaned forward until their foreheads touched, eyes still open, still watching him, until the hush felt answered. Not suspense anymore Permission.

Eddie breathed out. Just that. A release. And Steve felt the shift like a tide, like gravity swinging its weight ever so slightly in his favor. The reins were in his hands now.

When Steve finally kissed him, it wasn't a question, or a test. It was the thing itself. Slow. Decisive. Not about what might happen next, but about this. About now.
The streetlights blinked far off behind closed curtains. And Steve, without a plan, without a script, let go of control. Only to find he hadn't lost it. He'd taken it back. And Eddie didn't stop him.

The air between them feels like something woven tight, like fabric stretched across the frame of a drum, taut and waiting. The only sound is breath, exchanged in slow, uneven bursts. Steve can feel it, the change in temperature where Eddie's hands ghost toward the hem of his shirt. Familiar, routine, like a ritual neither of them had questioned before. But tonight, Steve questions it. Interrupts it.

He catches Eddie's wrists, fingers closing around them gently, like he's holding something precious and volatile. There's no aggression in it, just clarity. He guides Eddie's hands down to the couch cushions, pins them there. Not hard. Just enough. The kind of pressure that makes its point without force.

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, something amused curling at the edge of his mouth. That signature smirk. Easy, challenging. But Steve doesn't rise to meet it. He doesn't smirk back. Doesn't give him the game Eddie's used to playing. He just holds his gaze, calm and steady, saying everything without saying it.

Eddie breathes a small laugh, dismissive, almost. A bid for control. But Steve feels the change. The way Eddie stills beneath him, how the laugh doesn't make it to his eyes. Like a current running under the skin, too soft to name but impossible to miss.

Steve leans back, knees bracketing Eddie's thighs, and slips his fingers under the hem of Eddie's shirt. He moves slow, like he's unwrapping something sacred. Lifting the cotton inch by inch until it's bunched under Eddie's arms, over his head, gone. The fabric drops somewhere behind them but Steve doesn't look. His eyes are still on Eddie. On bare skin, on collarbones in the low light, on a chest that suddenly looks more vulnerable than he remembers.

Eddie shifts again, hands moving on instinct to Steve's waist, ready to tip the scales back, but Steve brushes them off, slow and warm.
One hand rests flat in the center of Eddie's chest, grounding them both. His palm feels the staccato rhythm there, quicker than before. Eddie exhales, the sound low and breathless, like something's been taken from him he hadn't realised he was holding on to.

There's no dominance in this. No performance. Just presence. Steve isn't pretending anymore, not smiling to keep things light, not asking to be chosen. He already has been. And now he's choosing, too.

Eddie's arms relax. His palms spread open beside him on the couch, like he's giving something up willingly.
"You trying to wear me down or something?" he says, voice low, teasing. A retreat to familiarity.

"Is it working?" Steve answers, half a smile playing at his mouth but not reaching his eyes. He already knows the answer.

Eddie tilts his head back slightly, studies Steve like he's seeing him through fresh light. Like something's shifted in the geometry of his face. Like maybe he never knew what Steve Harrington really looked like until now.

"Maybe."

Steve pulls his own shirt over his head, smooth and unrushed. The space between them narrows but doesn't collapse. They sit in it. Just sit. The television, long since dark, hums with dormant static behind them. The room holds its breath.

Eddie's hands remain still. Patient in a way that makes Steve's chest ache a little. As if Eddie's given him the floor and will stay right there until Steve decides what happens next.

Steve studies him. His face, the gentle raise of his ribcage, the curve of his fingers relaxed into the cushion. No mask. No act. Just Eddie. Just here.

"Okay if I stay here tonight?" he asks softly, the question not quite a question. More like a thread tossed across the small space between them.

"Sure." Eddie replies, nodding. His voice is so quiet it almost folds into the silence.

And just like that, something shifts. Not loudly. Not with ceremony. But wholly.

No one says this means something. No one needs to.

Steve leans forward, resting his forehead gently to Eddie's, breathing him in. And in that space, bare skin, slow breath, quiet acceptance. He lets himself believe that this is magic. Not the dramatic kind. Not the spontaneous kind. The quiet kind. The kind that comes when someone looks at you and doesn't look away.

Eddie was slouched into the couch in a way that looked almost deliberate, but Steve knew better. Knew the slight tension in his shoulders meant he was waiting. Watching.

Steve paused. For a breath. For a second guess. Then he stood, took a step, and dropped to his knees in front of him.

He didn't move at first. He only looked up at Eddie, his eyes searching for hesitation, for the telltale twitch of doubt in his expression that would make him stop. But Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't look startled or amused or confused. He just waited.

So Steve reached up, fingers curling under the elastic of Eddie's sweatpants, and pulled them down with a slow, deliberate motion. Nothing rushed. Just quiet. Intent. And Eddie let him. Shifted a little, obliging, like he was stepping into something he didn't want to break by speaking too soon.

"This is new." Eddie said, voice quieter now. Less cocky. Less sure.

Steve looked up, mouth tugging into something that was almost a smile. Wry, nervous, apologetic.
"I can stop."

Eddie shook his head, eyes soft in the half-light.
"Don't."

And there it was. Not a green light. Not permission. Something else. Something warmer. Steve nodded once, slow and reverent, like a pact had been made.

Then, without letting himself think too hard about it, Steve reached for the waistband of Eddie's underwear, thumbs sliding beneath the fabric. As he pulled them down, something in his chest hiccupped. Tightened. And that's when the panic hit him, not as a loud alarm, but as a soft throb behind the ribs. The kind of fear that comes not from the act itself, but the meaning behind it.

"You okay?" Eddie asked, and the quiet in his voice wrapped around Steve like a safety net.

Steve gave a half-shrug, his cheeks warm, eyes low.
"I don't really know how to—do this."

Eddie smiled. Not teasing. Not smug. Just kind.
"You're doing fine."

And somehow, Steve believed him.

Because Eddie wasn't posturing. He wasn't cracking jokes or making light. He was sitting still, his hands resting gently at his sides, his gaze fixed only on Steve. And for once, Steve wasn't performing. He wasn't Steve Harrington, the golden boy, the flirt, the conqueror. He was just Steve. Curious. Nervous. Wanting.

He leaned forward, letting instinct and want guide him. And yes, it was awkward. Messy, even. The angles felt uncertain, and he could feel the heat rise to his cheeks again when he wasn't sure where to place his hands, how to breathe through it all, how not to think too hard.

He had thought about it before, of course. Abstractly. In flashes. In shadows of things he couldn't name at the time, except to say he liked the idea. The control. The offering. The nearness. He'd seen it played out in porn a hundred different ways. Always glossy, always scripted, always quick. He'd had it done to him, too, by girls in high school he never really spoke to again. The thrill of being wanted, of being touched, of disappearing into sensation without having to give anything back.

But this. This wasn't that.

There was no performance in it, no rhythm he could steal from somewhere else. Just a slow undoing. Just Eddie, real and warm and impossibly still in the quiet, looking at him like he wasn't quite sure what he'd done to deserve this.

It was clumsy at first. Not like porn. Not clean, not choreographed. He fumbled. Felt unsure of where his hands were supposed to go, how to breathe, when to move. He thought for a moment he might be bad at it, might mess it up, might break the moment by being too eager or not eager enough.

But Eddie was there. His hand finding Steve's hair, stroking through it with a tenderness that undid something deep in Steve's chest. His other hand reached down, thumb brushing along Steve's jaw. He didn't press, didn't pull, just held. Not like he was trying to keep Steve there, but like he wanted to remind him he already was.

Steve pulled back, lips parted, eyes flickering upward. He felt raw and new. Like he'd opened a door and stepped into something softer than he thought existed.

And Eddie just smiled down at him like he already knew. Like he'd been waiting for Steve to see it too.

Eddie reached forward, tapping Steve's forearms in a quiet beckon. His touch was gentle but unmissable, guiding Steve up as he stood in the narrow space between couch and coffee table.

Eddie's hands worked with deliberate tenderness. Fingers brushing the waistband of Steve's sweatpants, easing them down, sliding past the thin fabric of his underwear. And just like that, they were seated back on the couch, Steve settled on Eddie's lap in a way that sent warmth spreading through him. Electric and tender. Eddie's arms curled around Steve's waist, strong and careful. Steve's hands cradling the edges of Eddie's shoulders, grounding himself in something he felt safe enough to trust.

Their kiss was different now. Slow. Devoted. Eddie's mouth finding Steve's neck, pressing soft kisses against his collarbone, hands gliding over skin that had never known the attention of gentleness before. Each brush of lips drew a tremor from Steve, who breathed through it all. The soft whimper of what felt like first-time pleasure mingling with the fear and the relief that this moment could hold both tenderness and ecstasy without judgment.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth pooling in his belly, the thrum of Eddie's heart beneath his palm, the rise and fall of breath shared between them. He let himself move in time. Stumbling at first, unsure of the pace, but Eddie's voice cut through the haze with quiet insistence.
"You don't need to hold back."

Steve blinked, head lifting slightly, searching behind closed lids.
"What do you mean?"

"With me." Eddie's voice was calm, steady, sliding around him like a promise.
"I mean—you're allowed to feel good here. You know that, right?"

Steve exhaled, small and hesitating.
"Yeah."

"Okay, good."
Eddie pressed closer, more deliberate, warmer.
"Because you can be loud, and messy, and nervous. You don't have to be perfect and quiet."

Steve swallowed, a tear or two pooling at the corners of his eyes even though he didn't want them to fall. He lowered his head, nodding against Eddie's forehead.
"Okay."

Eddie kissed him again. Soft, lingering, forgiving. Steve let himself be held. Not just his body, but everything he'd tucked away, everything he was learning to unlearn.

***

The bed was warm, their skin still flushed with the residual heat of everything unsaid, everything newly learned. The room smelled like sleep and faint sweat and the shampoo Eddie used that Steve had never known he liked until now.

They lay shoulder to shoulder on their backs, not touching save for the press of arms, but the closeness was unmistakable, like the hush before thunder.

Steve could hear the soft hum of the box fan turning in the corner, the way it clicked each time it swung too far, like it was straining to reach them. Outside, someone's car stereo pulsed faintly with bass, but the rest of the world had gone quiet. They whispered like they didn't want to wake it.

"Y'know, when you said—" Steve's voice was the tremble of an idea forming. He could feel it against his ribs first, where it lodged and bloomed with the kind of nervousness that made a person bite their lip without knowing. He didn't finish the thought.

"What?" Eddie asked beside him, without turning.

"When you said about how, when the time's right you're gonna up and leave. Go somewhere else."

"Yeah." A nod he could feel more than see. That quiet agreement Eddie gave when something was obvious. Natural.
"Why?"

Steve stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster like they might spell something out for him.

"Would you consider—maybe that time being—in—" He stalled. The ceiling offered no hints.

"In?" Eddie said, half-curious, half-cautious.

"In like—two years. Maybe."

Steve didn't move his head, didn't dare look over.

"Why?"

"Just"— His voice went quieter, like the truth was something to be handled gently, like it might bruise if he said it too hard.
"I guess I was just wondering if you'd ever consider—waiting."

There it was. Bare and hanging. Not a demand, not even a real ask. Just something he'd carried with him long enough to finally let out into the air.

"Waiting?"

"Not like—waiting for me," Steve clarified quickly, heart picking up.
"Just—not going yet. Or maybe, I don't know, if you do go—maybe we could keep in touch and I could meet you somewhere. If you wanted. Like—if you don't wanna wait."

He turned to look at him then. Risked it. Met Eddie's profile and tried to read what was flickering there in the half-dark.

Eddie was quiet. Staring up, blinking slowly. Like he was fitting all the words into their right places before deciding what to do with them.
"Huh." He exhaled.

Steve felt the embarrassment prickle at his neck. "I mean, you don't have to—obviously. You don't owe me anything. It was just a thought, I—" His words began to tumble over themselves, each one more panicked than the last.
"Doesn't matter."

"I didn't say no." Eddie finally turned to him, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

Steve swallowed.
"No?"

"I didn't say yes either." There was the tease again, soft and familiar.
"But I didn't say no."

"Okay." Steve nodded, too fast. Trying not to let the smile escape, but already feeling it break through.

"We'll see." Eddie's voice was quieter now. Not uncertain. Just gentle.

"Yeah." Steve grinned, letting it take over this time.

He rolled over to face the wall, but it wasn't to hide. It was to hold the joy somewhere safe, inside the curve of his grin and the warmth along his spine.

He was still smiling when he felt the tentative sensation of Eddie shifting into the mattress. Assumedly retreating to his familiar sleeping position facing away from him. Backs grazing only just as they slipped into sleep.

That was until Steve felt Eddie's arm snake around his waist, felt the slow certainty of being pulled in.
Eddie's fingers found Steve's, wove themselves between the gaps as he let them hang there loosely.

"You're holding my hand," Steve said, voice somewhere between wonder and amusement.

"Okay, see, when you say it out loud it ruins it." Eddie groaned into his neck, and Steve's laughter shook the bed.

He turned then, quick and sudden, needing the contact, pressing his bare chest to Eddie's, winding his arm around his waist and burrowing under his chin. He didn't care how it looked. He didn't care what it said.

"Thank you," he said into the space between Eddie's breaths.

He felt Eddie stiffen for the smallest moment, like he'd caught him off guard. Then he exhaled slowly, letting his cheek rest against Steve's forehead, arms pulling tighter.

"You're welcome," Eddie said, and it was the kind of answer you gave someone who didn't ask for much, but deserved it anyway.

***

The house smelled like stale beer and cold grease. Leftover pizza, sweat-soaked jerseys draped over the bannister, a pong of the weekends bravado gone limp.

The door creaked on its hinges as Steve pushed it open, the cool of the morning evaporating into the muggy stillness inside.

His body ached. A good ache, full-bodied, rooted in something real. Something he wasn't ready to let go of. Not yet. He closed the door softly behind him, like he might slip in unnoticed, still half cocooned in the silence of Eddie's bed, the feeling of breath on the back of his neck.

But he wasn't even three steps in before the rustle of footsteps cut through the hallway, too loud, too choreographed to be accidental.

Joel and Leon emerged from the side room, already postured with folded arms and impatient eyes.

"Yo, Harrington. What the fuck, man?"

Steve blinked, slow. Like waking. His head felt underwater, like he hadn't quite made it all the way back to the version of himself they expected here.

"You skipped out on cleanup. Not cool."

Steve froze, stalled in the doorway with his hoodie half off one shoulder. He searched himself for something. Something plausible, something quick.

"Sorry," he started, a step too slow.
"I had a—family emergency. I've been at the hospital all weekend."

Joel's brow furrowed, softening.
"Oh, shit. Your dad okay?"

"Uh—yeah. My dad's—fine." The words tasted clumsy in his mouth. Too direct. Too fake.
"It was my—uncle."

"Tim?" Leon asked, his face dropping with something like recognition.

Steve blinked.
"How do you know my uncle?"

"Dude's a legend." Leon shrugged, like that explained everything.

"Oh." Steve said.
"Uh—yeah. Was a whole thing, but—he's good. Or, he will be."

The lie sat there, weightless and unremarkable. He didn't like how easy it was.

"Sucks," Joel offered, nodding slowly, as if that was all that could be said.

"Yeah. Sucks." Steve echoed, one shoulder lifting with practiced indifference. He didn't stop. Just turned and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time like he might outrun the conversation altogether.

His room greeted him with its usual disorder. A heap of laundry half-folded in a basket, the smell of cologne and old textbooks, a lanyard hanging from the bedpost like a noose. But the smile hadn't left his mouth. Residual. Quiet. The kind that wasn't for show, wasn't even for anyone else.

It was still Eddie's kiss on his shoulder. Eddie's laugh somewhere under his skin. Eddie's hand, still metaphorically there in his own. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a second, just breathing in the leftover air between two different worlds.

***

Steve ambled between classes with a weightless indifference, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum until he paused at the vending machine. The clink of coins against metal, the faint hiss of cooling water. It should have been a simple interlude.

He didn't hear Becca until she was already there. Her presence slamming into him out of nowhere like a punch. One second, he was pressing the button; the next, everything was fire and bloom as her hand met his cheek.

"Fuck you!"

Shock exploded on his face before his hand even registered the sharp warmth spreading on his skin. Around them, the hallway stilled, then rippled with that freighted shock of a room full of people who know something juicy is happening.

"Are you proud of yourself? Huh? You think this is funny?"

He opened his mouth, tongue stumbling forward, but the hall swallowed the words before they could find shape.
"I didn't—"

"Yes. You did. Don't even try me with that bullshit."

Her voice was raw and pitched sharp as broken glass. Steve backed up against the cold metal side of the machine, his hand pressed to his cheek, his heartbeat rattling loud enough he thought she might hear it over the growing curiosity of the crowd.

"Is this some kind of joke to you?"

"No—"

"Why?" She asked fiercely, cheeks dappled red and lips so thin they were white.
"Why did you do it?"

He swallowed, tried to meet her eyes, but the world was spinning, lined with faces watching, waiting.

"I didn't think it would—"

"Oh! You didn't think? What, you thought the boys would high five you or something? That it would get you points? That you'd look cool in front of your friends?"

He closed his eyes, exhaling a quiet tremor of air.
"It wasn't like that."

"Oh, wasn't it? You finger‑banged me, Steve? Really?"

Her accent on the word made the corridor shrink. With accusation, humiliation, surprise, hurt all folded together. He glanced around, memorizing faces: smirks, stifled laughter, eyes lifted in confirmation. Like vultures circling death.

"I didn't say it like that, exactly." He said quietly.

"But you said it. You said enough. Enough that half the campus is looking at me like a fucking party trick!"

He opened his mouth, words fumbling, lips dry.
"I wasn't trying to—"

"To what? Disrespect me? To use me as a fucking trophy. Well, congratulations. You did."

The hall hummed, urgent with electricity; someone took a step closer to get a better view.

Steve realized he was shifting, trying to make space between them, but there was nowhere to go now. Becca's words had carved something into the air, permanent.

"Look, can we go somewhere else and talk about this?" he whispered, voice flat and fatal.

"Why? Are you embarrassed? Am I embarrassing you, Steve? God, I'm so sorry. How inconsiderate of me."

Her mock apology was a razor, slicing through him. The sting of her slap still lingered like a brand.

"I never wanted this to happen."

"But you wanted something from it, didn't you?"

And Steve didn't say anything. Just let his shoulders slump and his mouth fall agape. Gaze drifting to the floor.

"Yeah. That's what I thought."
Her glare blossomed, fierce and bright.
"You got to tell your side of the story, so why don't I tell mine?"

"Becca, please."

"No. You already got your little frat points, right? Walked out of that party and let everyone think I was just another box you'd ticked."

His voice wavered, cracking puberty-shy in public.
"I didn't mean to—God, I didn't mean for anyone to think—"

She stopped him with another glare, eyes blazing.
"That we slept together? That I had the night of my life?"

"I panicked, okay? I just—I didn't want them to ask questions."

He stood there, hands limp at his sides, his face flushed, settings glaze, corridor hum.

Becca stood in front of him, her voice trembling. Not from weakness, but from the effort it took not to completely shatter.
"So you sold me out. So you wouldn't have to answer for why you couldn't even look at me, let alone touch me."

He could see it now. The rim of her eyes gone glassy, her fists balled tightly at her sides as if the only thing keeping her from falling apart was the sheer force of her own rage. And yet she was still here, still upright, still speaking. There was something almost cruel about that kind of strength.

Steve didn't answer. Couldn't. His mouth was a dry cave, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs. He looked around. Faces everywhere, faces with smiles twisted like thorns, eyes wide with a voyeur's glee. Phones out. Voices low. The hush of a thousand judgments made louder by how quiet he was.

"You wanna know what really happened, Steve? Why don't I remind you. Just in case it escaped your memory."

She didn't wait for him to look at her, didn't need him to meet her gaze. The truth was a blade that didn't need aiming.

"We barely even got our clothes off before you freaked out. You couldn't even get it up, Steve. You let Jacob run his mouth like you were some—stud and I was just some girl who couldn't wait to spread her legs for you."

There it was. The strike. The truth, or at least her version of it. Laid out, not whispered in a hallway corner, not confessed beneath sheets in the dark but shouted under bright lights where everyone could hear. Where everyone was supposed to.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he said. His voice came out tight, frayed at the edges, the words falling short of the intention behind them. He wanted her to see it. The sincerity. The ache. But it sounded too much like a line. Something someone might say to soften the blow, to cover the shame.

"No, you just wanted to protect your rep. You let them think you nailed me, because God forbid anyone finds out what a fucking pussy you are. You let me take the fall so you wouldn't have to explain why your dick doesn't work."

Each word felt like a nail being driven in. And he let it happen. Let her voice echo. Let everyone watch. He couldn't even defend himself, because what could he say? That she was wrong? That she was lying? She wasn't. Not really.

"Go to hell, Steve."

Her voice was low now, venom-laced and final. Not a scream. Something quieter. More dangerous. She didn't wait for a reaction. She walked off with her head high, her rage tight against her shoulders like armor.

And Steve just stood there.

His hands didn't move. His legs didn't follow her. His eyes blinked toward the floor, and the shame felt like it was crawling up the back of his throat. He wasn't sure if he was sweating or shaking. Maybe both. Everything inside him was cold, and his stomach curled like something rotting had been left behind.

The hallway exhaled, applause and dismissal mingling. Steve pressed back into the vending machine, hands shaking so hard he almost knocked it off-kilter. The bottle of water rattled in the tray below, untouched.

***

The day had gone slack. Like something left out in the sun too long. Wilted at the edges, brittle and hollow inside.

Steve drove around town for hours, not really seeing anything, just letting the blur of streets and sidewalks and small storefronts fill the space that words or thoughts would've taken.

The silence of the car was its own kind of shelter, a suspended world that didn't ask anything of him. No one could reach him in there. No one could look at him. No one could say his name like it tasted like disappointment.

He got back late, the kind of late that didn't have a number on it. Just darkness. The house was mostly quiet, settled in its usual thrum of post-evening stillness. A single lamp in the hallway. A flicker of TV light bleeding out from under the den door. He closed the front door gently behind him, hoping, absurdly, to pass through without being seen.

But of course the floorboards had other plans.

A creak. A shift of movement.

And then Owen.

Owen, all slow swagger and manufactured menace emerged from the den like a bad feeling Steve had tried to outrun but never really lost.

"Bad news travels fast, huh, Harrington?" Owen smiled like it cost him nothing. Like it always cost him nothing.

Steve said nothing. He just started up the stairs, keeping his gaze ahead, hand clamped around the railing like it might hold the rest of him together.

"Hey, c'mon. Don't rush off. Someone's gotta congratulate you."

Steve stopped. Turned.

"Big man on campus got caught with his pants down and suddenly he doesn't feel like talking?"

The laugh that followed was low and sharp. Cut from the same place all of Owen's words came from. Somewhere smug. Somewhere ugly.

"I honestly thought you'd be used to that by now, given that's how you got yourself into this mess."

"Owen. I'm tired. I just wanna go to my room," Steve said. His voice sounded wrong. Smaller than usual. Like something that had already given up.

But Owen just smiled wider and stepped forward, deliberate. Each word laced with something poisonous. Something rehearsed.

"You know, for a guy who walks around like he's untouchable and like he's better than all of this, all it took was one bitch to send you spiraling. Why is that?"

Steve tightened his grip on the banister. White-knuckled now. His fingers ached with it.

"You live here, you eat our food. You wear the letters. But you're never really in it. You ever notice that?"

Owen was right below him now, like a shadow that climbed the stairs in echoes instead of steps. Steve didn't move.

"I mean, the guys don't know what your deal is. First they thought you were shy. Then stuck up. But me?" Owen tilted his head.
"I think I know exactly what it is."

"I don't know what you're talking about."
He said it too quickly. And Owen smelled the panic on him like blood in the water.

"Crying during sex? Looking at your shoes whenever we talk about what we did the night before? Like you're trying not to picture something that makes you sick."
His voice softened with fake concern.
"Is it just—not your thing?"

It hit Steve like a wave of nausea. Like his body couldn't tell whether to run or fold in on itself. The breath in his lungs went cold.

Owen didn't need an answer. He was already writing the story, casting the parts, giving himself the best lines.

"Starting to feel like all that charm's just a cover for something else. For what you're really about."
He laughed again, small and mean.

Steve couldn't meet his eyes anymore. His face burned. His throat felt too tight to swallow.

"See, it's one thing to do what you do behind closed doors. But when you start dragging that shit into our house—screwing with people's heads, making us look stupid? That's a problem."

Steve didn't even flinch when it came. The slap of the words. The weight behind them. He stood still and took it like he always had. Because the only other option was running.

"But hey. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're just—sensitive."
Owen's voice went saccharine. Almost friendly.

He clapped Steve on the shoulder, hard. Too hard. The kind of contact meant to leave a bruise whether you could see it or not.

And then he was gone. Off to the kitchen, like he'd just made a point that didn't need repeating.

Steve stood there alone on the stairs. And he didn't move. Not for a long time.

***

His room didn't feel like a room anymore. Just four walls closing in too fast. The air too thin, the light too sharp. Steve didn't take his shoes off. He didn't even look around. He walked in and let the bag fall from his shoulder, a dull thud against the floorboards that somehow made it all real again, like sound could tether him to the moment he was trying to outrun.

He shut the door behind him too hard. As if that could keep the world out. As if that could keep himself in.

And then it hit him. Too quick, too much.

His breath caught in his throat, jagged and sudden. His chest started to seize, his lungs pulling air like they were choking on it. Hands braced on his knees, bent over, he tried to stop it. Tried to wrestle it down with logic or stillness or anything at all. But nothing worked. His whole body went hot and cold at once. His throat was tight, his stomach twisted. His legs buzzed with something between adrenaline and collapse.

He was crying before he even realized it. Bawling, messy, loud. The kind of crying you don't come back from right away.

He clamped his hand over his mouth instinctively, the way you do when you're trying not to scream in a house full of sleeping people. But it didn't matter. It was already happening. He was breaking open. He couldn't stop it. Couldn't bury it fast enough this time.

The thoughts were relentless. A loop with no exit ramp. Everyone knows. You're not safe here. You're pathetic. You let this happen. Why didn't you lie better? Why didn't you keep it in? Why did you ever think—

He couldn't breathe.

He sat on the edge of the bed like the floor might dissolve if he didn't. Hands in his hair. Palms over his face. Gasping like a man drowning in open air. He thought he might throw up. His whole body was shaking. He could feel the scream inside his ribs, pushing against bone.

He couldn't stay here. Not for one more second.

Somehow, he was on his feet. Somehow, he was back down the stairs. He didn't even grab his jacket. Didn't look to see if anyone saw him. He just ran. Out the front door, down the steps, across the gravel, into the car.

He got in and locked the door immediately. Like someone was coming for him. Like someone was already at his back.

Phone. Hands shaking. He unlocked it three times before the message finally sent.

Are you at home?

He whispered it out loud to himself as he typed it. Like a prayer.
"Please, please, please."

The screen lit up.

Just coming back. Why?

He didn't hesitate.

Can I come over?

There was a beat, long enough for doubt to slip in, to needle at his ribs.

Okay.

He didn't breathe a thank you. Didn't text it. Just tossed the phone onto the passenger seat with a small thud, turned the key in the ignition with hands still trembling, and pulled out of the driveway like if he didn't leave now, he never would.

***

Steve could barely feel his own limbs. His hands had been fists the whole drive over. He'd barely parked straight. Now he stood on the threshold like a soldier back from something unspeakable, knocking on the door like the building might vanish before he touched it.

Eddie opened it almost immediately. Hair damp, sleeves pushed up, eyes sharp and soft all at once.
"What's going on?"

But Steve didn't answer. He surged forward, lips finding Eddie's with a kind of desperation that made it feel less like a kiss and more like an invasion. He kissed like someone trying to take something back. Claimed the space between their mouths like it owed him.

Eddie stumbled backward from the force, hand bracing the door as Steve kicked it shut behind them. He kissed him again, rougher, and Eddie responded. Because of course he did, but already there was something uneasy in the way his hands hovered instead of held.

"I don't wanna talk," Steve said, jaw tight, voice already wrecked.

Eddie tried to joke, tried to do the thing he always did when things got heavy.
"Makes a change."

But Steve didn't laugh. Didn't even blink. He kissed him again like he was trying to cut him off at the knees. Pulled him toward the bedroom like he was racing some unseen clock. His hands were already on Eddie's shirt, dragging it up, shoving it off. The buckle of Eddie's belt clicked too fast, the zipper too loud in the silence.

"Steve, Steve—" Eddie tried, somewhere between a laugh and a warning.
"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." The word snapped out of Steve's mouth like a reflex.
"I'm fine. Everything's fine. I just wanted to see you." He kissed him again. Harder. Anything to stop the questions. Anything to stop the softness.

He was stripping off his own clothes now, standing in Eddie's bedroom like a stranger in his own skin. Like if he could just get naked fast enough, he wouldn't have to explain why he was here or why he couldn't breathe.

Eddie stood there, shirtless and confused, watching him like someone watching a fuse disappear into a bomb. Not stepping in. Not yet.

They were both undressed now. Steve grabbed his arm and yanked him down onto the bed, pulling Eddie over him like armor, like if he could just feel weight, it would anchor him. He barely registered Eddie's hands. How careful they were, how they weren't grabbing, just touching. Like Eddie didn't want to break him.

"I just—want it hard. And fast. And I don't want to think." Steve said it like a command, like a warning, like a plea. His voice broke a little on the last word.

Eddie stared down at him. Eyes dark, furrowed.

"Okay?" Steve pressed, sharper now. Like if Eddie didn't agree, he might fall apart completely.

There was a beat. One second. Two.
"Okay," Eddie said quietly.

But it wasn't okay. Not really.

Because Steve had been the one who'd once asked for more. More tenderness, more slowness, more space to feel safe. He'd once whispered thank you into Eddie's neck like it was the only language he trusted. And now here he was, asking not to feel anything at all.

But he went with it.

And maybe that was the moment everything started to go wrong. When silence stopped being comfort and became a wedge. When touch wasn't about closeness but about control.

Steve had wanted to reclaim something. But in doing so, he let something else slip away.

It was like kissing a statue. Steve's hands kept grasping, pulling, trying to move Eddie's limbs the way he wanted them, like he could coax heat from him with just enough insistence.

But Eddie wasn't kissing back anymore, not really. He was just there, and Steve was molding himself around him, against him, trying to make it all fit. Skin to skin, mouth to mouth, when it didn't, not tonight.

And that was when Steve started crying.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a single tear making its slow way down his cheek like it had waited until this exact moment to betray him. He didn't even flinch. Didn't wipe it away. Maybe part of him wanted Eddie to see it. Maybe part of him thought it would explain everything he didn't have the language for.

But when Eddie pulled back, the look on his face wasn't soft. It wasn't tender. It was cold. Almost annoyed.
"Get dressed."

Steve blinked.
"What?"

"I said get dressed. I'm not doing this."

Eddie stood, grabbing his underwear from the floor like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"What the fuck?" Steve snapped, sitting up now, heat rising to his face. Equal parts shame and rage.
"What's your problem?"

"I'm not gonna let you use me to deal with whatever the fuck it is that's going on because you think I'm gonna fuck you so hard it'll drown out the noise. Fuck that. I don't do that."

His voice wasn't raised. Not really. But it cut through Steve like glass anyway.

Steve's words flew out before he even knew what they were.
"Oh, like you don't use me."

That was when Eddie froze. Just stood there and looked at him, like something in him had gone still. Like he didn't recognize the person in front of him anymore. Like Steve had become someone else entirely in the span of a sentence.

"Go home, Steve," Eddie said, voice low and bitter. No trace of affection left in it.

"Are you serious?" Steve practically guffawed, jaw falling slack.

"Don't make yourself into some kind of toy for people to break just because it's easier than dealing with your problems."

The sentence landed hard. Steve flinched as if it had hit bone.

He stood, tugging on his clothes haphazardly, like he couldn't get dressed fast enough, like his own skin had betrayed him.

Everything about him felt sloppy. His shirt inside out, his belt twisted and the embarrassment settled in his chest like a second heartbeat.

"Like you care," he muttered, petulant and thin.

"Hey!" Eddie barked, stepping forward, and Steve's body stiffened. There was a flicker of fear then, just a breath of it, and it made him hate himself more.

Eddie stopped, not touching him, but close enough that the air shifted.

"Y'know, you've got a really twisted idea about the kind of shit I'll put up with in this world," he said, his voice quieter now but sharper.
"So maybe I shouldn't care. Because you clearly don't know me at all."

He looked at him with something that wasn't quite anger anymore. Something closer to disbelief. Or disappointment.

"Quit acting like a fucking kid and grow up."

And just like that, Steve felt like he was standing there naked again, but not the kind of naked he could hide with a shirt. The kind where someone saw everything. Where someone stopped pretending. Where someone stopped letting him pretend.

He could barely see straight, the tears still blurring the edges of the room, but the words came anyway. Mean and fast and unsorted, each one thrown like a stone in the dark.

"What's to know?" Steve hissed, the sound more air than voice.
"That you're a fucking dropout failure with no future? All you do is play pretend like you don't give a shit about anything, and I'm supposed to believe you suddenly care now? I was a fucking pity project for you."

He heard himself say it and didn't stop. Didn't even flinch. Because it wasn't about truth anymore. It was about impact. About striking first before he could be hurt again.

"No one even knows who you are, Eddie. You disappear tomorrow and no one blinks. You're nobody."

Eddie didn't move, not right away. But Steve saw it. The way his face cracked around the edges, like the blow had landed right where it was supposed to. Like he was trying not to show that it hurt.

"Maybe I don't let people know me," Eddie said, low, controlled, the kind of voice you use when you're trying not to cry, "so they can't show up here and throw it back in my face when I don't do exactly what they want me to do."

Steve just scoffed and yanked on the rest of his clothes. His movements were jerky, graceless. A sock inside out, shirt clinging to damp skin.

"Fine." he bit out, toeing on his shoes before stepping toward the door with that sour adrenaline that always follows a fight.
"Then I'll just find someone who will."

He didn't know what he meant by that. Not really. Someone who would what? Touch him? Let him burn everything down? Someone who wouldn't care enough to stop him?

But before he could reach the door, Eddie's hand caught his wrist. Not rough. Just there. Just enough to remind Steve he was still in the room, still real.

"Let go of me," Steve said, his voice fraying like worn fabric.

Eddie's eyes were sharp, unreadable.
"Don't play a game that you can't win."

And Steve, without thinking, without checking himself, leaned in. Not to kiss, not even to argue, but to wound.
"You're not my fucking boyfriend. Remember? We aren't together. I don't need you."

He didn't stay to see how it landed. Didn't give Eddie the dignity of a reply.

Just shoved past him, out the door, the slam echoing down the hallway like punctuation.
Steve hated himself for how cold the doorknob had felt when he pulled it shut. Hated how badly he wanted Eddie to follow him anyway.

He clambered back into his car, still shaking.
Steve's face catches in the orange wash of a nearby streetlight, all angles and broken things. His chest is heaving. He doesn't even remember closing the door, doesn't remember walking down the stairs or crossing the sidewalk. Only remembers the sound of it slamming behind him, the finality of it. The echo of his own voice ringing in his ears like some stranger had taken over his mouth.

You're not my fucking boyfriend.
You're nobody.

It had felt powerful for a second. It had felt like control. Like biting back before someone else could hurt him. But now?

Now it feels like he's trying to tear his own heart out.

He slams the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. Once, twice, again. The horn blares too late and too loud. His sobs stutter. He grips the wheel like it might steady him, like if he holds it tight enough he won't fall apart entirely. But it's too late. He already is.

He leans forward until his forehead touches the leather and stays there, gasping, crying into the silence of the car.

He said it to hurt Eddie, but it didn't even matter that it worked.

It hurt him, too.

He wants to go back. God, he wants to go back. Wants to climb those stairs and throw himself down at Eddie's feet. Apologize until his voice gives out. Let himself be held, touched, told he's not too much or too broken or too complicated to be loved.

Steve claws at his face with his sleeve, smearing tears, trying to breathe. Trying not to look like a kid having a meltdown in a parked car. But he can't stop.

He was the only thing that made me feel okay. The only one I wanted. The only one who saw me.

And now he has no one.

Nothing.

Not even himself.

hang out with me on tumblr

Chapter Text

The air in the pick-up bay was heavy with jet fuel and summer's dying breath. Thick, tired, and vaguely chemical, like everything had once mattered here but had since faded into the shrug of a layover town.

Steve stood by the driver's side door, fingers curled loosely around the handle, shoulders half-braced like he was waiting for a wave to crash that he knew would come anyway.

Then the voice cut through it. Booming, uncontainable, familiar in the worst kind of way.

"There's my guy!"
His father's voice echoed off the concrete pillars of the arrivals garage, loud enough to make nearby heads turn.

Steve had barely shut the car door before he was engulfed. His dad's arms pulling him into a firm, two-handed grip, like a football tackle disguised as a hug, like he thought Steve might somehow escape if he didn't lock him down fast enough. He jostled him, laughed from his belly, patted Steve's back with unrestrained affection that always felt more like a performance for the people around them than for Steve himself.

Steve managed a smile. Hollow, polite, barely there.
"Hey, Dad." The words came out soft, his voice barely pushing through the press of surrounding traffic.

His father pulled back, wide-eyed, energized in that way only men who never learned the art of silence could be.
"God, it is good to be back in the Midwest. That real college town air. Grit, grit, and potential, baby."

Steve reached for the suitcase, tugging it from his father's hand with practiced efficiency, already popping the trunk. The scent of scorched rubber wafted up as he tossed the bag in.

The slam of the trunk felt final, like sealing something inside. When really, he was just now realising he was trapped inside of an endless weekend.

They slid into the car, Steve behind the wheel, his dad still talking as if they hadn't only spent mere weeks apart.
"How are you, huh? You look—well, you look tired. You partying too hard or not enough?"

Steve's fingers wrapped around the ignition like it might anchor him. He forced a laugh, soft and practiced.
"Ah, just—exams. Trying to keep up in class."
The engine rumbled to life. It sounded louder than usual, or maybe it was just him.

"Ahhh, that grind. I remember pulling all-nighters with a pot of coffee and a pack of Marlboros. Not that I recommend that, of course."

Steve watched the rearview mirror, reversed carefully, more grateful for the silence between turns than he let on.

"How was the flight?" He asked.

"Oh it was a breeze. Got bumped to Comfort Plus—don't know how, don't care. Flight attendant had a great laugh, reminded me of that girl I dated sophomore year. Tracy? Trisha? Hell, I don't know."
His dad leaned back, relaxed in his seat like this was a homecoming parade and not just Steve's 2018 BMW creeping out of a parking structure.

"You eating? You look thin."

"Yeah. Yeah. I eat."
Steve didn't meet his eyes. He took a right turn, slowly. The weight of every question stacked up like a silent tally in his chest.

"You still lifting? Keeping up with the weights? You gotta stay in shape, Stevie."

"Yeah. When I can."

"Your body will thank you when you get to my age. I'm lucky. I've always been an active guy. But I look around at other guys in their 50's who can't even get themselves off a couch. It's depressing. Fitness and health is an investment in your future."

Steve adjusted his grip on the wheel. Outside, the highway drifted past in a blur of grey brick and dead summer grass trimmed too close, the illusion of order masking everything he wanted to avoid.

"You remember to get your jacket pressed?"

"Yeah. It's in my closet."

"Good man. Legacy doesn't mean squat if you don't wear it proud."

"Uh-huh."
His voice was a fraction of what it was supposed to be.

"So? How's the house? The guys treating you right? You running the show or just keeping your head down?"

Steve's jaw worked slightly before he spoke.
"Something like that."

"That's my boy. Always got his cards close to the chest. You'll make a hell of a lawyer or senator or CEO, mark my words."

The sun bled through the windshield now, slicing the car in gold and shadow. Steve blinked against it, not sure if the ache in his chest was from the light or the words.

"You know, this whole weekend's gonna be great. Like old times. Football, whiskey, war stories. Maybe we'll even sneak out after the dinner, find a real dive bar. Just you and me. Whaddya say?"

"Sure. Sounds great."
His voice cracked just slightly. He swallowed it down before it grew legs.

"This dinner, Stevie—it's important. These guys? They remember faces. Names. You shake the right hands, you're setting yourself up for ten years down the line. Trust me. Carson's law firm? He hires out of loyalty. He was two years ahead of me, never forgot my name. That's what this is about."

"Yeah. Okay." Steve nods.

"You gotta look alive tonight. Be sharp, listen more than you talk. Ask about their kids, not just their companies. Laugh at the jokes even when they're crap. These are the people who write recommendations, Stevie. They open doors."

"I know."

"Do you? 'Cause I've been coming back here for years, and I've seen a lot of guys just coast. Waste the chance. You don't get to phone this in. You're a Harrington. People expect something. You need to show them you're not just riding on the name."
His father's tone shifted then, from exuberant to insistent. Like the cheerleader mask dropped and left something sterner, colder behind.

"This is your shot, champ. You nail tonight? You're a serious man. Someone they remember."

"Yeah. I got it." Steve exhaled, his hands dampening against the leather of the steering wheel.

"What's the matter? You nervous?"

"No. No I'm good."
The lie sat too comfortably on his tongue, like one he'd practiced for years.

"Should try and get yourself booked in for a haircut this afternoon. It's all over the place."

Steve finally looked at himself in the mirror. The hair falling in his face, the tired eyes just behind them. For a second, he imagined Eddie brushing it back. And then just as quickly, he shut it down.

"Oh—I think I actually like it a little longer."

His father turned, squinted at him like he didn't quite recognize the person beside him.
"There's a little longer and then there's that. It's all in your face like you're a moody teenager. You don't wanna show up there like that tonight."

"I'll see if I can get an appointment." Steve offered him a smile through the crushing of his spirit.

"Good man."

His dad adjusted the passenger seat with a grunt, then leaned back and pulled out his phone like it was a badge of office. Thumb already gliding across the screen, aimless and entitled, like the world inside the device was more immediate than the one humming past the windows.

The highway was half-empty, the light beginning to flatten into that dull gray that comes before an early Midwestern storm, when the clouds yawn wide and color everything the shade of ash.
Steve kept his eyes on the road, both hands on the wheel like he was bracing for impact that hadn't come.

Yet.

"So, how's mom?"
He didn't mean for it to come out like that. Too eager, like a lifeline thrown just to change the subject, to steer them anywhere else but here.

His dad didn't look up, just gave a low chuckle, thumbing through photos or texts, god knows what.
"Ah, she's alright. Doing mom stuff. She's got her yoga and her pilates keeping her occupied. So long as she's not nagging me, I don't care."

Steve gave a small nod, barely perceptible. He kept driving.
"Cool."

"Oh—God, you'll love this."
His father shifted suddenly, almost excited, like a kid remembering the punchline of a joke halfway through telling it.
"Remember Paul Danvers? Played baseball, graduated a year before me? Real solid guy, family man type—his kid just got married."

Steve didn't look over. He already felt the terrain shifting beneath the words, the trapdoor creaking open. He kept his expression still.
"Oh. Cool."

"Yeah, well—married a guy."

Steve flinched, barely, but his hand twitched on the wheel, and for a moment the car strayed just a little to the right before he corrected.

"Some hedge fund kid. Big wedding in Napa or something, real expensive. You should've seen the photos—Paul looked like he didn't know whether to smile or throw up."
He laughed. Steve didn't. The air between them felt colder now, but maybe that was just him, pulling back inside.

"Funny world, huh? I mean, whatever—times change, people do what they do. But man, I never would've guessed. The kid used to eat dirt in little league."

Steve gave a dry, automatic response, eyes fixed on the road.
"Guess he grew out of it."

"Yeah, guess so." His father leaned back, tossed the phone onto his lap like he was settling in for the main act.
"I'm just glad you're still giving it a go with the ladies, that's all I'll say."

Steve's mouth went dry. His knuckles whitened on the wheel.
"Yeah."

"I mean, listen—I got nothing against it, right? But let's say I'm doing business with some firm and my son shows up with a guy on his arm. What am I supposed to say—'This is my boy and his—partner'? Can you imagine trying to land a deal at a golf club like that?"

Steve blinked. Once. Twice. The road ahead blurred slightly, then snapped back into focus.
His throat ached from staying quiet.

"People say it doesn't matter, but c'mon. You walk into a room and your kid's kissing some guy with a nose ring and suddenly everyone's wondering if you've gone soft."
His dad said it casually, like he was sharing a business tip over drinks. Like he wasn't twisting something invisible inside Steve with every word.

"I mean, I'm progressive—but I'm not blind. You still want people to take you seriously, right?"

He felt the pressure settle between his ribs like a second seatbelt.
"Yeah. Sure."

His dad slapped his knee, triumphant.
"Exactly! You get it. That's why you'll be fine in the real world, Stevie. You've got your head on straight. You know how to read a room. The other guys—"
He leaned forward, gesturing now, energized by his own conviction.
"—they're too busy waving flags to notice when the door shuts behind them."

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose. Outside, the sky was darkening. Inside, it already had. The silence afterward wasn't mutual. It was Steve's alone, held tight to his chest like a secret no one had earned the right to hear.

***

The mirror in his room offered nothing back.

Just a square of light that seemed to reflect less of Steve and more of the failure he couldn't quite name. The room smelled faintly of starch and the plastic wrap from his dry-cleaned jacket, peeled off half an hour ago and now hanging by the window where the breeze barely stirred it.

He was only halfway dressed. Shirt crisp, sleeves buttoned, bow tie pulled tight like a hand closing around his throat.

He raked his fingers through his hair again, again, again. It had been cut that afternoon. Too short. The kind of short that made his ears look exposed and his thoughts feel louder.
No matter how many times he ran his hand through it, it wouldn't lie right. It wasn't his. It made his face sharper, more like someone else's. Someone his father would approve of.

He stared at himself for a second too long. The bow tie felt stiff. Off-center. He adjusted it, pulled, then stopped. Letting his hands drop, flat against his thighs. The collar scratched his neck like it knew it didn't belong.

"Damn, Harrington. You actually clean up nice."

Steve startled, slightly, his hand twitching at his side. He didn't need to turn around to know the voice.

Owen stood in the doorway like he owned it, one shoulder propped against the frame, eyes dragging over Steve with that half-lidded smirk that never touched anything real. The lighting from the hall caught on the gold chain around his neck, made his grin look dangerous.

Steve turned, slowly, not quite meeting his gaze.
"Thanks, I guess."
His voice was careful, quiet. Like he hadn't decided yet whether he was joking.

Owen pushed off the doorframe and sauntered in like this wasn't a private space. Like nothing was sacred. His walk always had that loose, slow prowl, like a threat dressed as a shrug.

"Big night, huh? Daddy's golden boy back in uniform."
He swept his eyes down the length of Steve's torso, lips twitching, his presence so confident it made the walls feel smaller.

Steve stiffened, hands brushing down the front of his shirt.
Owen kept going, circling the room with idle curiosity, the way a cat circles a mouse it doesn't even want to kill. Just wants to watch squirm.

"What's the move tonight? Play the charming son? Shake hands, kiss babies, pretend your dad still thinks you're his straight-A, straight-everything boy?"

Steve's jaw tensed. He didn't flinch, but it took something from him to stay still.
"Did you come in here to say something, or just hear yourself talk?"

Owen raised both hands like it was a game, like he hadn't already drawn blood.
"Little of both."

Steve turned back to the mirror, adjusted the bow tie again, then stopped. The reflection stared back. Pristine, polished, and utterly foreign.

"If you have something to say, just say it."

Owen tilted his head, smiled like he had won something without even playing.
"I could say the same for you."
His voice dropped then, not louder but lower, like he wanted it to settle under Steve's skin.
"But I'm sure you'll just carry on walking around with your half-truths and your sad little smile."

He lingered by the door again now, having delivered the blow he came for, casually brutal in the way only certain boys can be when they know you won't hit back.

"Anyway. Nice suit. Champ."

And then he was gone.

Steve stared at himself one last time in the mirror, tugged the bow tie looser with sudden frustration.

***

Steve stood in front of the door at the hotel for a second before knocking. Just breathing, straightening his sleeves like they might offer protection, like fabric had ever made anything easier.

The door opened almost immediately, like his father had been standing just behind it the whole time, waiting to perform.

"Look at you. Lookin' sharp. That haircut's not bad, either. Could use more gel, though."

Before Steve could step in fully, his father had already turned toward the desk inside, rummaging with a theatrical flourish.

"Here, come here. I brought the good stuff. They stopped making this in '04, but I've still got a stash."

He held out a small silver tube like it was a relic. Something rescued from time and memory and a black comb with teeth worn slightly at the ends. His father moved behind him, hovering close, all presence and expectation.

Steve stepped toward the mirror, the hotel light overhead a little too yellow, casting shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there this morning.
He unscrewed the cap slowly, the gel smelling like something synthetic and sharp. High school, maybe. Freshman year. His dad watching from the stands. Or not.

He squeezed a little onto his fingers. The texture was tacky. Cold.
He didn't say anything. His shoulders curled in slightly, like he was trying not to take up space.

His father stood behind him, hands on his hips, the reflection of them both like a before-and-after photo that hadn't worked.

"How you feeling?"

Steve kept his eyes on the mirror.
"Yeah. Good."

His father clapped a hand to his shoulder. Not hard, but firm, rehearsed. The way coaches did. The way dads did when they didn't know how to ask if you were okay.

"You just walk in there like you belong, Stevie. Like you're already someone. Doesn't matter what kind of mess is going on in your head. All that matters is tonight, and how you show up."

Steve nodded faintly, pulling the comb through his hair with slow, careful strokes. The gel caught in it, dragged it into a shape that didn't feel like him. Too neat. Too visible. He tried not to wince.

"Just smile. Say all the right things. Shake all the right hands. They remember the sons who show up looking like they're already halfway to CEO."

There was a pause. Steve almost let out a sigh of relief until:
"Hey. Where's your ring?"

He froze. Just slightly. The kind of stillness that feels louder than a gasp.
"Don't tell me you lost it already."

Steve tilted his head, casual. Not too fast.
"No, I just—I forgot it. Left it on my desk, I think."

"Forgot it?"
The disappointment came quick, sharp.
"Christ, Stevie, it's not a gym sock."

"Sorry."
It came out too softly. Not quite sorry enough to change anything, but enough to stop the moment from cracking wider.

His father reached back into his suitcase, rummaging again with a kind of triumph.

"Well, lucky for you I came prepared. Got something better."
He pulled out a small box and opened it with care.
"These were my father's. Gave 'em to me when I graduated. Thought it was time they found their next stop down the line."

Steve didn't answer. Didn't move.

He just stood there, his hands hovering like they didn't know what to do with themselves.

His father took one gently by the wrist, not rough, not loud, just suddenly there and began fastening the cufflink in place. The movement was slow, ceremonial, a muscle memory of love. Something that should've belonged to another time, another version of them. A film scene. A memory they never had.

Steve watched him do it without blinking. Something about it made his throat hurt.

"I know I'm not always around. I know I wasn't there for every little thing. But I see you now, okay? You're doing good, Stevie."

He didn't say anything. Just looked down at the cufflink, small and silver and heavy as a promise he didn't remember making.

"You're becoming the man I always hoped you'd be. The one who walks in a room and everyone knows it."

The second cuff was finished. His father gave his chest a quick pat, affection disguised as a rallying cry.

"Now let's go knock their socks off."

Steve nodded slowly. His eyes were lowered. He said nothing. The cufflinks gleamed under the hotel light, almost too polished.

The ring was still on Eddie's floor.

And he wished to anything or anyone who would listen that he could be there instead.

***

The room was high-ceilinged, paneled in dark wood that drank the light in slow, solemn gulps. Along the walls were plaques upon plaques, names etched into brass like prayers, like proof, like pressure.

The kind of room where voices echoed with permission, where history made itself known in the grain of the oak and the chill in the air.

It smelled faintly of roast meat, shoe polish, and old scotch. Linen napkins, tightly folded. Candles on every table that weren't needed, but were there for atmosphere. There were trophies in glass cases near the door, decades of them, all gleaming under the dim lights as if trying to prove something. The room didn't just remember its own past. It enforced it.

Steve sat at a massive round table that felt too big and not big enough.

His father was beside him. Close, loud, comfortable, arms always in motion. Around them, a collection of other men who looked vaguely like the future. Dads with confident voices, sons with upturned collars.

Steve hadn't eaten much. A bite here, a fork moved there. His plate was mostly decoration. The green beans had gone rubbery, and the potatoes had lost their heat. He wasn't hungry.

"So I tell the guy, I say, 'You want me to pitch this to a board that just spent six months trying to figure out how to open a PDF?'"
His dad's voice rolled over the table like a well-trained dog, pausing exactly where the laugh was meant to land.

It landed. All around the table. Amused, knowing chuckles, some sharper than others, glasses lifted in the shared rhythm of men who were good at being listened to.
"Hell, I told him I'd have better luck explaining it to my dog!"

More laughter, louder now, the kind that pulled shoulders back and tilted heads. The kind of laugh that demanded you join in, even if it wasn't funny.

Steve smiled. Or tried to. He nudged a pea across his plate with his fork. It wobbled, didn't go far.

"How the hell do you come up with this stuff, Harrington?" one of the dads said. Mark, maybe. Square jaw, watch with a thick gold band.

Steve's father raised his glass like a victorious punchline.
"Years of practice. That, and a healthy disregard for people who make three times my salary and can't find the 'on' button."

The table cracked up again. Steve felt it like a ripple he wasn't part of. He blinked, slow, fixed his eyes on a crease in the tablecloth.

"This one knows what I'm talking about. Right, champ?" His dad leaned in, nudged him lightly with an elbow, all warmth and pride and projection.

Steve didn't look up.
"Yeah."

It came out flat. Neutral. A word so practiced it didn't even sound like him anymore. But it was enough to satisfy his dad, who turned back to the crowd with renewed energy, like a comedian who'd survived the lull.

"Tell you what though—these kids? They've got it good. I mean, I don't know what I was doing at twenty, but it wasn't half this. You boys know how lucky you are, right?"

A few of the guys gave performative nods. Steve glanced away. His hands found his napkin, folded it tighter.

"I mean, look at Stevie—got the brains, got the looks, got the charm. Always said he'd go far, didn't I, son?"

Steve didn't lift his eyes. Didn't move.
"Yeah. You did."

"Damn right I did."

His dad launched into another story. Something about a golf cart and a pond and how grown men still behaved like teenagers when whiskey was involved. The table drank it in. Every punchline landed. Every voice joined in.

Steve shifted in his chair. Not enough to be noticed, just enough to feel something change.

The cufflinks his dad had given him itched. He ran his thumb along the underside of one, a slow, absent stroke, as if the metal might offer some grounding. It didn't. It just felt cold.

The potatoes on his plate were stiff now. The sauce congealed. His chest was tight, like something inside had tried to rise and been pushed back down.

The laughter was still going, and the room kept shining like everything was golden.

The ring was still on Eddie's floor.

He thought about being there again. The two of them invisible in some small, quiet room, where no one was watching and nothing had to be earned.

You're nobody.

The room had only gotten louder. The kind of expensive noise that settled beneath your skin, a sound like old money laughing at its own jokes.

I don't need you.

Steve sat in the middle of it all, his hands limp in his lap, as if everything he was had been flattened beneath the weight of the tablecloth.

"So, Steve. What's the plan after graduation, son?"
The question floated toward him from somewhere to his left, Mr. Langford, square-shouldered, loud. There was a steak knife balanced on the edge of his plate, the blade glinting with pink.

Steve's fork paused mid-sweep. The question landed harder than it should've. He could feel his father's gaze before he saw it, a flicker at the periphery, that slight lean in, the mouth already shaped into a smile that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken expectations.

He turned his head slowly, met Langford's gaze with something like a shrug, though it came out sharper than that. Something chiseled, polite, empty.
"Uh—not totally sure yet. Just taking things one step at a time, I guess."

A pause. Short. Uncomfortable. Then Langford offered a hearty chuckle that filled the space before it could feel too quiet.
"Well, hey, nothing wrong with that. But you're in business, right? Got the Harrington gene, I imagine."

His father jumped in before Steve could answer.

"Oh, he's got it. He just doesn't know it yet."

Langford grinned, turned to his son with a theatrical nudge.
"My kid's the same way. Thinks he's gonna 'find himself' in Europe for six months. Told him the only thing he's gonna find is a Visa bill and a sunburn."

Steve barely knew him even though he lived with him. Can't even remember the last time they were in the same room together.

His cheeks flushed as he hissed a quiet "Dad", low enough to miss if you weren't listening for it.

Steve pressed his fingers together under the white linen, thumb digging into his own knuckle until it gave a little. It kept the twitch in his jaw from breaking through.

"Steve here's got options. Connections. I told him—start with a summer at the firm, then we see. Maybe even grad school. He's not gonna be flipping burgers, I'll tell you that."

A soft wave of laughter rose from the table, warm and approving. Steve let it pass over him. Like heat. Like static.
"I haven't decided yet."

The words came low and flat. A tether cut short.

"Well, whatever it is, make it count."

He nodded, but it was mechanical. His eyes drifted down to the edge of his plate.
The wine glass beside him was still full. He lifted it, tilted it just slightly, watching the light bend through the deep red.

For a moment, the air felt too thick. The heat in his collar, the press of the room, like he was wearing a mask over another mask, one sewn into his very skin.

"Told you, kid. Eyes on the prize. Always." His dad said, leaning in to him.

"Yeah."

Another voice piped up.
"Harrington. Remember Professor Lundy? Taught us in Business 101. Wonder where he is now."

His dad snorted into his drink, didn't even wait before answering.
"That old queer? God knows where he ended up—probably writing some poem about corporate synergy or dating a guy half his age, for all I know."

The table chuckled. Half laughs, unsure, posturing. Steve's throat closed. His hand curled tighter under the tablecloth.

"Dad," he said, voice low, but steady. It scraped out of him like a stone.
"You can't say stuff like that."

There was a pause. Brief, but it crackled.
His father scoffed.

"Oh, come on. You can't even joke around without someone getting their feelings hurt."

Langford shook his head in mock disbelief.

"Whole world's gone upside down," his dad continued, warming to the moment.
"You remember protests back in our day? Vietnam. Draft dodging. There was a reason behind it. Now it's all about—what? Bathrooms? Flags? Kids crying because someone used the wrong pronoun?"

"Yeah, I saw something the other day," Langford added, eager to pile on, "about a college kid suing a professor for calling her 'miss' instead of 'they' or something."

The table began to murmur again. More laughter. Another shrug from someone down the line. Steve stared at the wine glass. It caught the light just wrong. Like blood against crystal.

His hands had gone cold. Not shaking. Just distant. As though they belonged to someone else now.

He thought about being under Eddie's duvet. Of how he could be there now. Barefoot, stripped down, quiet, unseen.

Instead, he was here. Listening to his father talk about the world like it had betrayed him by evolving. Watching names gleam on the wall that didn't mean anything except who had been allowed in.

"Exactly!" his father said, his voice filling the room like a sermon dressed in golf anecdotes and power lunches.
"No one wants to work hard anymore. They want safe spaces and participation trophies and fifteen different gender labels. And if you ask a question about it? Suddenly you're Hitler."

Laughter again, familiar and cruel and utterly unaware of itself.

"College is supposed to toughen you up, not coddle you. Isn't that right, champ?"

Steve didn't answer. His napkin sat crumpled in his lap like a white flag. He pushed back his chair too fast, the legs scuffing the wood, the table shivering in response. The room barely noticed.

"I'm just gonna go to the bathroom." His voice was quiet, like something caught between embarrassment and exhaustion.

"Hey. Is it gender neutral?" his dad tossed after him with a grin, and the table howled.

He didn't turn around. He couldn't.

The hallway was lined with old oil portraits. Men with too-large foreheads and eyes that all seemed to follow him as he walked. Men who had built legacies and buildings and empires of silence. The bathroom door groaned shut behind him like a closing vault. Cold tile, humming fluorescent lights.

Steve slipped into a stall at the end, the one without a lock that stuck. Lowered the seat. Sat.

Everything felt distant. A hollow kind of quiet that rang in his ears. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

"Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe."
His voice barely made sound.
"You're okay. It's fine."

But his chest was already tightening, lungs shrinking with every breath like they were folding in on themselves. The gel in his hair had hardened, pulled at his scalp like punishment. His shirt collar was choking him. The cufflinks felt like weights at the end of invisible chains.

And then the memory came. Loud and bright and exact.

Eddie's face. Furious, wounded maybe.
The heat of it. Steve's voice raised, too loud, too sharp.

You're nobody.

I don't need you.

Now they were on repeat, looping through his brain with the sick rhythm of guilt. His own voice, weaponized and stuck on playback. Each time it echoed, he flinched a little harder.

"Breathe," he whispered again, like it might drown the rest out.
"Breathe."

But it didn't stop. He was fighting himself now.
Every inhale caught against the ache in his throat, the pressure behind his eyes. He wiped his palms against his pants and they came away damp.

Somewhere far off, someone pushed open the door.

The room shifted.

Footsteps. Laughter. A couple of guys, loud, jostling each other as they stumbled in. Voices bouncing off the walls. Carefree. Easy. Like the world didn't press against them at all.

Steve held his breath.

He stayed perfectly still.

The noise of their jokes and the slamming of stall doors was suddenly deafening. Reminding him he was still here, still stuck in this room, in this life, in this lie.

But for now, he stayed in the stall, sitting like a ghost on porcelain, trying not to be heard. Trying not to fall apart.

***

The mixer had swallowed them whole.

Its velvet lighting, its brass railings, its polished parquet floors that echoed just slightly under too many dress shoes. Jazz murmured in the background, loose and expensive, the kind that didn't ask to be listened to.

Somewhere near the far wall, someone laughed like they owned the building. Another clinked a glass and bragged about numbers. No one was really listening to anyone, but it didn't matter. It was about the performance. The theater of being seen.

Steve stood with his back to the wall like it might swallow him up if he pressed hard enough. One hand buried in his pocket, the other wrapped tight around a sweating glass he hadn't touched.

The wall behind him was dark paneled oak, polished to a shine, but colder than it looked. Like it didn't want him there either.

"There you are. Thought you'd disappeared on me. I want you to meet someone."

His father's voice broke through the noise before the man did, like it always had. Steve barely managed to force a smile before his father was already turning, already motioning for him to follow.

"Yeah. Sure. Who?"

His father waved a hand, brushing aside the question.

"Greg Landen. Big-time guy, real estate, old fraternity brother of mine. He's got his hands in everything from construction to politics these days. Could be a huge connection for you."

Steve blinked once.
"Yeah. Okay."

"That's my boy." His dad clapped him on the shoulder as they walked.
"Eye contact, firm handshake. You know the drill."

They moved through the crowd like actors through a script, Steve slightly behind, his father leading with that specific kind of older-man charisma. Too loud, too assured, too sure of the gravity of his own anecdotes.

Steve rehearsed the lines in his head like they were part of a costume.

Great to meet you, sir. Yes, keeping my options open. Absolutely, would love to follow up.

Each one felt like chewing air.

"Greg! Look who I've got with me."

"Steve! Heard a lot about you. All good, don't worry."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

His handshake was solid, but it didn't feel like his own.

"Steve here's figuring out his next move. Bright future ahead. Real people person, too. Always been that way."

"Yeah. Still weighing my options, but—trying to keep doors open." His voice sounded flat, trailing off at the end like a voicemail he hadn't meant to leave.

"Smart. Keep 'em open long enough, and one usually swings the right way."

"Kid's got potential. I keep telling him, this is where it starts—rooms like this, people like you."

Steve nodded, jaw tight. He didn't trust his face to say anything else.
"So, how did you, um—how did you get into what you do?"

"Well, that's a long story. Right place, right time, really. Started in brokerage, did some time in finance, then a buddy of mine pulled me into development. Never looked back."

"That's—cool. Sounds like you've seen a lot of different sides of it."

"Oh, absolutely. That's the key—versatility. Can't be afraid to pivot. You ever think about getting into real estate?"

"Uh—maybe. I mean, it's definitely something I've looked at."

A lie.

"He's got the look for it, right? Polished, knows how to talk to people. That's half the battle."

"You listen to your old man, Steve. He's not wrong."

Steve's nod came automatically. His eyes had already drifted. Past Greg, past the bartender shaking something glossy in a silver tin, past the chattering cliques of old men and too-young sons, to the wide wooden door across the room, where Eddie stood.

Eddie was standing there.

Not in a suit. Not polished. Just Eddie. Looking uncomfortable, but still somehow rooted. His gaze moving over the crowd like he was searching for someone. Like maybe he had hoped Steve would be looking too.

Steve's breath caught.

"When I was first starting out, I—"

"I'm so sorry. Can you excuse me for just a moment?" Steve stepped back too quickly.

"Sure. Of course."

"Steve?" his father called after him.

"Just—one sec, dad."

He was already moving. Not fast, not enough to draw attention, but with purpose. His pulse was in his throat. His tie felt like a leash.

He reached Eddie in six strides, grabbed his arm harder than he meant to.
"What the fuck are you doing here." He said through his teeth, spit flaying.

Eddie raised a brow, almost amused.
"The hell happened to you? You look like a waiter."

And before Eddie could answer, Steve was pulling him, weaving them through the crowd, eyes darting in every direction, breath shallow.

The music kept playing. The voices kept rising.
No one noticed the boy with the heavy cufflinks dragging his secret out the door like his life depended on it.

The night air hit him like a slap, cooler than expected, fragrant with cut grass and the faint musk of campus trees just beginning to turn.

Steve yanked Eddie out of the heat and din like someone rescuing, or evicting, a drowning man. The heavy wooden door thudded shut behind them, muting jazz and laughter.

They rounded the corner of the building in silence, the stone path gritty under their shoes. Steve pulled him into the shadow between two columns and pressed him against the brick wall, more to keep him there than out of anger. His fingers stayed clenched around Eddie's arm, and even though the touch wasn't rough, it felt desperate. Possessive. Uncertain.

"Are you fucking insane?" Steve hissed.

"Oh my god, chill. You'll blow a blood vessel." He looked at Steve like someone trying to calm down a bird that's flown into a window.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Eddie's mouth quirked, shoulders lax. The moonlight caught the corner of his smirk like it always did when he knew he'd crossed a line and didn't regret it.
"Oh y'know. I just thought I'd come see what all the fuss was about. Big dinner, fancy suits, your dad holding court"—

"Be serious." Steve's voice cracked on the edge of fury, eyes flaring with too much emotion to land on just one. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall or cry or both.

"I am being serious."

"You can't be here." The words spilled out like water from a cracked glass. Steve was pacing now, back and forth in the sliver of lamplight, the kind of pacing that said I can't keep this inside me anymore.
"I mean—do you hate me? Are you trying to embarrass me? Show me up in front of everyone? Is that what's happening? Because—fine. I was an asshole. I know I was an asshole. Trust me, I've been—turning myself inside out about it since I left. I deserve it. So if this is some kind of joke"—

"I'm not joking." Eddie said it without blinking. Without flinching. His voice was quiet, firm. A stone dropped into a pond.
"I just—need to talk to you."

Steve stared at him, face caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak.
"Out of every possible moment, you picked this one?"

"You know me. I'm into my theatrics." Eddie shrugged, a crooked little smile trying to lighten the mood and failing.

"Jesus Christ, Eddie." Steve dragged both hands through his hair, messing up what he'd spent too long trying to tame. His bowtie was coming loose again, and he didn't fix it. He looked more like himself that way. Raw, human, cracking under the pressure.

"Look—I'm not here to make a scene. I just—had some shit to say."

"Yeah. I have some shit to say too. But now is not a great time." Steve's words were tumbling over one another now, barely strung together.
"Look—just—go home. Okay? My dad leaves tomorrow, I'll come and see you. And then we can talk. Or yell. Or fight. Or you can insult me. I don't know. Whatever you want. I just—need to get through tonight, okay? I can't think of anything else right now. I'm just—stressed, I'm anxious, I'm trying not to throw up in my mouth at every given opportunity. I'm hanging on by a thread."

The words echoed softly in the narrow space between them. Crickets in the bushes. A breeze tugging the hem of Eddie's hoodie. The silence between them was deep and immediate.

Eddie didn't move. He didn't argue. He just looked at Steve the way someone does when they want to reach out and hold something that doesn't want to be held.

He said nothing.

"Yes?" Steve pressed, desperation curling around the syllable like a fist.

"Okay, yes. Fine." Eddie huffed, defeated.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay."
Steve nodded, shoulders loosening but just barely. His breath came out shaky, relieved, but not safe.
"Now just—go. Please. Before my dad sees me out here and starts asking way too many questions I don't know the answers to."

He was already stepping back, already turning his face away like it might stop the ache from showing.

"I'm literally leaving." Eddie said, half-smiling, not quite bitter with his hands held up in a de-escalating manner.

And he did.

Steve watched him go, not breathing.

***

The lights inside hit him differently now. Sharper, too bright, too loud. Like everything in the room had ratcheted up a notch while he was outside, trying to keep his world from tilting off its axis.

Steve slipped back into the mixer like someone rejoining a play they'd forgotten their lines in. His tie was crooked again. He didn't fix it.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, took a breath like a swimmer about to dive into water he couldn't see the bottom of, and made his way across the sea of linen-draped tables and glittering wine glasses.
Laughter bubbled up from little pockets of polished alumni and their glossy sons. He wove between them, posture stiff, face set in that same practiced, pleasant mask.

He found them. His dad and Greg, right where he left them, near the center of the room, flanked by a couple of ivy-tall potted ferns and the cool shimmer of bourbon in lowball glasses.

"I'm so sorry. Where were we." He offered it with a smile that felt like it belonged to someone else.

His father turned slightly, inspecting him.
"You okay, son? You're sweating."

Steve gave a little laugh, shrugged.
"Yeah. Fine. Great. Just—warm."
He adjusted his collar, already damp underneath.
"You'd think with all these donors they'd be able to afford some functional air-con, am I right?"

Nobody laughed. Another smile, tight as a thread.
"Anyway. Please—tell me more. Did you—always know this is what you were going to do?"

Greg chuckled, holding his glass in one hand, gesturing with the other like a man used to holding court.
"God, no. I wanted to be a drummer. My dad shut that down fast. Said, 'You wanna play music, do it in the garage. You want a future? Learn to sell something.'"

His father leaned in, eager.
"That's what I've been telling Stevie here since he was old enough to hold a briefcase. Dream big, sure, but dream smart."

Steve nodded, his hands wrung tightly in front of him.
"Right."

Bill went on. He was charming in a way that made people trust him, even when they probably shouldn't.
"But it worked out. Now I've got a team under me.  Lotta travel, lotta stress, but once you're in—you're in. The game never really stops."

Steve's father beamed, proud and expectant, the way someone might be while showing off a purebred.
"That's what I want for this one. Huh, Stevie? Big leagues. None of this small-time freelancing or—what is it—'finding yourself.' You find a suit, you find an office, and you make a life."

"Yeah. No, totally. That's the plan." The words came out on autopilot, his eyes flat, lips moving almost out of sync.

Greg took a sip of his drink, turned to Steve.
"You got any internships lined up for the summer?"

Steve blinked once, then again. The sweat under his shirt felt like a second skin now.
"Uh, no. Not yet."

Before the silence could stretch too far, his father stepped in like always.
"He's got options. And if he doesn't, well, we'll knock on the right doors, won't we, son?"

"Yeah. Sure. Absolutely." He was nodding, but it was almost manic now. Too fast, like the words and the motion had uncoupled. A strange brightness in his eyes. The forced composure of someone keeping a balloon underwater with one hand while waving with the other.

His dad narrowed his eyes slightly.
"You sure you're okay?"

Steve laughed again, too high, too breathy.
"Uh-huh. Yeah. Fine. Great."

"You look like you're about to pass out."

And something about the way he said it; the offhand concern, the casual truth of it, let the mask slip just a bit too far.

Steve smiled again, cracked and glistening.
"Y'know what—actually. I don't think I am feeling so good. I think I'm just gonna go and splash my face in the bathroom. I'll be back."

He was already turning before they could answer, moving quickly, head down, as if the air around him had become unbreathable and he was chasing oxygen.

***

Eddie doesn't move. Not at first.

The apartment is still vibrating faintly from the door slamming shut, a hollow echo that hums along the walls like relinquishing your grip around something.

It's too quiet now. Unnaturally quiet. The kind that makes the traffic outside feel like screaming. The kind that makes silence feel personal.

He's still standing by the bed, arms folded, jaw tight. He can feel where Steve had touched him last. Fingers at his wrists, a heat that should've faded by now. Should've.

He's staring at the mess of sheets, the way Steve left the blanket half-twisted, the way his pillow still holds the shape of his head. And his own body feels foreign suddenly. Useless. Like a knife with nothing to cut.

He doesn't cry. Eddie doesn't do crying. He was raised on noise and nerve and clenching your fists until the feeling passed. He doesn't even sit down. Just stands there, trying not to look at the door like it'll bring Steve back if he stares hard enough.

It replays in pieces. Steve's eyes gone glassy, his voice cracking in that way Eddie always pretended not to notice because if he did notice, he'd have to admit it mattered.

It was over so quickly he wasn't even certain if he could call it a fight. Like stubbing your toe or getting a paper cut.

The way he'd asked to stay, not with words exactly, but with the desperation in his hands. And Eddie had said no. Because he couldn't say yes. Not when Steve was hurting and hiding it. Not when all he wanted was to turn pain into sex and silence.

Because Eddie couldn't bear being needed like that. Not when he didn't know how to carry it.

He runs a hand through his hair, yanks at the roots a little, then lets his arm drop like it's given up. His throat feels tight, but nothing comes out. No sound. Just heat behind the eyes, sharp and stupid and humiliating. He bites the inside of his cheek instead.

It wasn't supposed to matter. None of this was supposed to matter.

Steve was a complication. A pretty one, sure, a charming, infuriating, full-of-shit golden boy who lit up like a fuse when he cared about something too much. But he wasn't supposed to get inside. And yet here Eddie is, trying to breathe in a room Steve's absence has made smaller.

And the worst part is, he doesn't even know what he's feeling. Not really.

He just knows he'd rather be punched in the face than feel whatever this is.

So he does what he always does.

He kicks at a pair of boots by the bedroom door, shuffles out into the half-lit living room like a ghost in his own place, and collapses into the couch without turning on a light. The silence follows him. Wraps around his shoulders like a damp towel, clinging, pressing.

He opens a beer. It hisses like it's relieved to be touched. He drinks it like it's medicine. Bitter, familiar, numbing. He tips his head back, stares at the ceiling. There's a crack in it. Has been for months. He should fix it. But doesn't.

His phone's in his pocket. Warm against his thigh like it knows. He pulls it out. Thumb hovers. Then he opens the app.

Grindr glows in the dark like something radioactive.

The little tiles bloom one after another: torsos, half-faces, smirking mouths. Bios that try too hard or don't try at all. He scrolls. Scrolls. He's not really reading. Just letting them pass like static.

Twenty feet away. Twenty-two. Seventy. Online now. Discreet. Mask4mask. Looking. Wanting. Something rough, something soft. Something they probably won't remember tomorrow.

He's not even turned on by the prospect. That's not the point.

He's just looking, waiting for a face, a sentence, anything to crack the numbness. To hit something. He doesn't know if he wants to fuck or fight or just forget what it felt like to watch Steve cry.

He keeps drinking. Keeps swiping. Opens a profile, closes it. Opens another. Stares at a picture of some guy with broad shoulders and no eyes in the frame. Wonders if he'd make a good excuse. Wonders if he'd even feel it.

He doesn't want company. He wants erasure. He wants noise. Hands, teeth, sweat, just enough of a blur to scrape out the memory of Steve's voice breaking.

But the truth is, he already knows.

None of them will make him feel anything. Not like Steve does.

He closes the app.

The screen dims for a second, just his reflection in the black glass. Bleary-eyed, jaw tight, expression unreadable even to himself. He sets the beer down, doesn't remember if it's half-empty or just warm. Rubs at his face, drags his hands back through his hair.

The silence thickens again.

His thumb hovers over the Messages icon. Taps it.

Steve's name is still pinned to the top like always, like a bad habit. It's not a picture, just an initial in a gray circle, but it might as well be his face. His voice. That stupid laugh. Those eyes that don't miss anything even when he pretends they do.

Eddie stares at the screen. Taps the name.

The chat opens.

Eddie's fingers rest on the keyboard. No words come.

He thinks about calling. He stares at the little phone icon in the top right corner, traces it with his eyes like it might blink first. But calling's too much. Too loud. Too real.

He backs out. Opens the message box again. Starts typing.

Hey.

Deletes it.

You okay?

Deletes that too.

He types "I'm sorry," but that one hurts too much, so he lets it disappear.

He sits there with the screen open, the blinking cursor waiting like it knows what he wants to say better than he does.

But he doesn't send anything.

Because what would he even say? I'm sorry I made you feel like a transaction? I'm sorry I can't fix whatever's wrong with me long enough to not fuck this up?

So he puts the phone face down on the arm of the couch. Lets the silence have him again. Lets the apology stay where all the others live. Half-formed, unspoken, untyped.

***

Eddie stood just around the corner from the mixer hall, where inside, laughter still floated like helium. Effortless and hollow. Steve's voice still rang in his head, that tight, cracking edge.

He wasn't angry anymore. Not really. Just suspended, like something waiting to fall. The sharpness of being told to leave had dulled into something else, something older. He kicked at the gravel by the hedges, watched dust bloom and settle in the lamplight like smoke.

Then he caught the flick of a thumb, the spark that wouldn't catch.

A guy leaned against the red-brick wall not far from the path to the back lot, head bowed, fingers struggling to get his cigarette lit. Muttering under his breath. Jacket slung over one shoulder like he owned the night.

Eddie clocked him instantly. The way you recognize the villain in a photo you've stared at too many times. Owen didn't know him. Not like that. But Eddie knew him.

He stepped closer, slow and casual, pulled his lighter from his pocket and offered it out.

"Here."

Owen didn't even look up at first, just took it, lit the end of his cigarette with a satisfied hiss, and handed it back.

"Thanks."

Eddie lit his own cigarette with the ease of someone who didn't need to be somewhere else before pocketing the lighter. The two of them stood in the quiet halo of a streetlamp, smoke drifting up between them like a veil.

Eddie stared at him. Not angry. Just watching.

Owen clocked it after a second. He glanced over, narrowed his eyes.

"Do you need something?"

"No. Just—hanging out." Eddie exhaled, slow, thoughtful.

Owen shifted his weight. Flicked ash off his cigarette.
"Right. Whatever."

Eddie narrowed his eyes, considering.

"It's Owen, right?" He asked, too casually.

Owen gave him a look.
"Yeah. Who are you?"

"No one important. Just heard your name around."

"That right."

"Mhm." Eddie took another drag. Held it a beat before letting it out.
"Heard a couple things, actually. About your—initiation techniques. The kind of guy you are. What you did to Steve."

He watched it land. A twitch in the mouth. The slight shift of shoulders stiffening beneath fabric. Owen didn't answer at first.

"Initiation's tradition. If he can't take the heat, maybe he shouldn't be wearing the letters."

Eddie nodded slowly, like he was agreeing. Or thinking.
"Yeah, maybe." He tilted his head.
"Speaking of heat, how's your car?"

"What?"

"Just wondering if she's running alright these days. Lotta people don't think to check the undercarriage. Especially when there's a leak. Things get—volatile. Y'know?"

Owen turned toward him now, both feet planted. Tension coiling slow and hot in his frame.
"The fuck are you talking about?"

Eddie shrugged, tapping ash to the ground like he was bored.
"I dunno. Just making conversation. Car trouble's a bitch."

A long, staring pause.

"Did you torch my fucking car?"

Eddie looked up, eyes dark and unreadable.

"I didn't say that."
Then another shrug, almost playful.
"But if someone did want to send a message. Something loud, something hot."
He smiled, barely. Not with his mouth. With his presence.
"Can't blame them, right? Some things just—deserve to burn, I guess."

He turned before Owen could speak, flicked his cigarette to the pavement, and started walking away.

"Have a good night."

The sound of his boots on gravel was unhurried. Calm. The kind of calm that could kill you if you underestimated it.

He figured that Owen was still behind him, rooted to the wall, fists curled tight in his pockets. Watching him go.

But he didn't follow.

***

The door to the bathroom thudded softly behind Steve, closing off the echo of running water, his reflection in the mirror already fading from his mind like fog receding from glass.

He'd splashed his face. Twice. Pressed his palms against the porcelain basin until they hurt. Told himself to breathe until the words meant nothing.
And now the air in the hall felt thinner, tighter. Every sound. Laughter, clinking glass, it all pushed against his temples like static.

"Steve"—

His father's voice cut in, suddenly at his side catching him off guard.

"Yeah. Yes. Hi." Steve said, blinking, too fast, his words spilling out with no rhythm.

"You speak to Tim?"

"What?" His head jerked slightly. A breath caught. There was a pause that lasted a moment too long.

"Did Tim call you?"

Steve's mind was already rerouting, rerouting, rerouting.
"No, why? When?"

His father gestured vaguely toward the crowd.
"I was just talking to that Joel kid you live with. He said you said Tim was in the hospital last weekend."

There it was. One of the many paper-thin lies—already softening in the rain, the ink bleeding.

The excuse he'd barely thought about, thrown out to buy time. A weekend lost entirely to silence and Eddie and the messy crater between them.

"Huh." His voice cracked with casual indifference.
"No, I—I don't remember saying that. He definitely didn't call. He must have misheard me."

"So he wasn't in the hospital?"

"No. No he's—fine. I assume? I don't know. I haven't talked to him recently."

The lie fell like a glass set down too hard. Not broken, not quite. But not unnoticed either.

"Okay, good." His dad laughed, clapped him on the arm like they were just two guys, no web of performance tightening around them.
"Scared me for a moment."

"Yeah, scary." Steve echoed, his smile stiff.

His father was already shifting, already focused on the next handshake, the next opportunity. "Anyway, you met John Linkletter? CEO of a big tech firm."

"Uh—no. Don't think I have."

"Come on, I'll introduce you."

"Okay."

They moved through the room again, each step heavier. Steve was still trying to fit himself back into his skin.

"John, this is my son."

A man with salt-and-pepper hair and an air of effortless authority turned, shook Steve's hand firmly.

"The famous Steve Harrington. I've heard a lot about you."

Steve swallowed and offered a hand that was only slightly damp.
"All lies, I'm sure."

"Don't let him fool you." his dad cut in, all charm. "Kid's sharp. He's got his mother's brains and my charm. Deadly combo."

Steve smiled, but it felt too wide. He launched into words before his brain had caught up.
"So—um, yeah, I'd love to hear more about your company. What you guys actually—do. I mean, I know it's tech, obviously, but like—what kind? Software? Hardware? Or is it more like—future stuff?"

John lifted an eyebrow but didn't blink.

"We focus on data security infrastructure. Mostly enterprise-level. So we work with big institutions—governments, banks, medical providers. To build and protect their networks. You'd be amazed how much data's out there floating around, waiting to be picked apart."

Steve nodded. Once, twice, too fast.
"Yeah, totally. That's like—scary, right? Like, terrifying. I mean—not your company! The other stuff. The floating data stuff." He laughed, hollow.
"I read somewhere that every second we generate enough information to fill, like, a thousand libraries or—maybe it was five? Anyway—information's wild."

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough to wrinkle the air.

"Ha—he's funny, huh," his dad said, a little too cheerfully. A little too loud.

Steve pressed on.

"So what do you guys do with it? I mean, not with it. But to it. Like, protect it?"

John, to his credit, stayed professional.
"Well, mostly we keep it from getting into the wrong hands."

"Right, yeah. That's—important. Definitely important. You know, I used to have a really bad password, like—'password123.' Total rookie move."

"Glad you've grown since then." John smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"So—how'd you get into it? Security, I mean. Not passwords."

"Long story. Started in finance, pivoted to IT. Eventually realized everyone was building, but not many were thinking about what happens when things break. That's where the opportunity was."

"Smart. Very smart. It's like—who watches the watchers, right?"

A pause. Longer, now. John's smile faded, polite but not curious.
"Something like that." And with a nod that was all exit.
"Anyway. I'll catch you guys later."

"No worries, John. Have a good one." His dad called after him. Then, quieter and closer, a low snap through gritted teeth.
"What is the matter with you? You're a mess. Pull it together. You look—scruffy. Look at your hair."

Steve's jaw twitched, his breath shallow in his throat.

"I'm gonna grab myself a glass of water. I'll be right back."

He didn't wait for a reply. He just moved fast, not running, not quite. Through the swell of voices and tuxedos, the murmur of jazz and air too full of ambition.

Steve practically throws himself over the bar, fingers gripping its edge like a ledge above a steep drop. The brass rail is cold under his palms, the wood lacquered smooth with decades of sweat and conversation.
The jazz behind him is too slow, too careless. Like the room doesn't understand the kind of effort it's taking just to breathe.

The bartender glances up from polishing a highball glass, reading Steve's face like a story he already knows the ending to. There's a small, wordless nod.

"Uh—just an iced water please." Steve mutters, his voice thinner than he wants it to be, raw at the edges.

The man nods, moves without urgency. Steve can hear the clink of ice, the splash from the soda gun, and when the glass is set down in front of him, he downs it in two gulps, ice clicking against his teeth. His lungs are still working overtime.

And then a presence.

An elbow. Just grazing his. Not an accident. Not in this crowd.

Owen.

"Think I just met your little boyfriend, Harrington," he says, too close.

"What?"
Steve flinches slightly, barely enough to be noticed, but enough that he hates himself for it.
"I don't—I don't have a boyfriend."

He doesn't look at Owen. Doesn't want to give him his face. Doesn't want to give him anything.

"So who was the—artsy, alternative asshole lingering around outside then like a rat circling a drain?" Owen leans in, breath sour, teeth gleaming like something meant to tear.
"Unless—you two aren't official yet."

"I don't have a boyfriend." Steve repeats, firmer now. The glass in his hand trembles slightly. He sets it down.

Which, technically, isn't a lie. Eddie's not his boyfriend. They've never even said the word.

"He's the one who keeps you locked away all weekend, right? Must be nice for him. Having someone around that's so eager to please."

Steve stares ahead. Into the mirrored wall behind the bar. At the endless reflections of this moment refracted over and over again. He doesn't move. If he doesn't react, maybe Owen will get bored and leave like an intrusive thought.

"You think it'd hurt his feelings to know that he's just—your idea of some kind of rebellion with a pulse?"

Steve blinks. Slowly. Like a man trying to stay asleep.
"Owen, seriously, please just walk away."

"Aww. Did I hit a nerve?" Owen's grin sharpens. "Y'know, someone should probably warn him that you've got a real habit of making messes and expecting someone else to clean them up."

The words hit bone. Steve doesn't show it. He breathes in through the nose, quiet. He can feel his nails digging into the bar.

"Walking around like you're still your dad's golden boy. Lying through your teeth. Like this isn't all gonna catch up to you at some point. I mean—shit. What's he gonna say when he finds out?"

Steve turns, finally. Just his head. Just enough to look Owen in the eye.
"Do you honestly think that what you're saying to me right now is some kind of—grand revelation?"

Owen snorts, as if pleased by the resistance.
"No. Just wondering if you've actually thought about it."

Steve doesn't answer. He pushes himself up from the bar, steadying his breathing again. A decision made somewhere behind his eyes. His shoes tap against the tile as he starts to walk.

But Owen follows. Of course he does.

"No. No, see, you don't get it. Your family built half this campus. You've got a name people still respect for some fucking reason. But here you are—throwing it all away, for what?"

Steve's throat is tight. He's not blinking. Not because he doesn't want to, but because if he does, he's scared he might not stop crying.

"You're not fooling anyone, Harrington. Least of all your old man." Owen's voice is a sneer now, his words louder, angling for attention.
He shoves Steve once. Just a poke, with two fingers. Steve's shoulder jolts. He keeps walking.

"Your dad's out there talking you up like you're the second coming, and here you are, ruining everything he built. You're a goddamn disgrace."
Another shove, harder this time.

Steve almost stumbles. People are looking now. It's happening. It's all cracking.

"Should've known you'd end up like this. Always had that—softness. Guess it wasn't just an act, huh? Just needed the right guy to bend you over and finish the job"—

Crack.

The sound is sharp and final.

A punch, clean across the jaw.

Owen's head snaps to the side as if someone pulled it with a string.

Eddie is there, all momentum, all fury disguised as stillness, knuckles curled and red. His chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie, face unreadable except for the storm in his eyes.

Gasps echo around them. Someone shouts. A glass breaks somewhere behind the bar. The music stutters and doesn't stop.

Owen reels back, stumbling, hand clutching his face.

The room is soundless, caught mid-breath.

Eddie shakes his hand out, slow, like he's trying to rattle the heat off his knuckles, like he doesn't feel the weight of every gaze drawn tight around him.

The silence is a vacuum, the kind that fills your ears until your own blood sounds louder than the world. Steve doesn't move. He just stands there, still tethered to the moment, stunned and useless, heart pounding somewhere in his throat.

Owen lowers his hand from his face.

Sees the blood.

And lunges.

No warning, just motion. A blur of fury and humiliation wrapped up in a blazer and righteous rage.

They collide like animals, arms flailing, fists wild, clothes yanked in fistfuls. They go down hard. The sound of it, body against floor, breaks the silence like a gunshot. Then comes the shouting.

Someone screams.

Someone else yells about getting security.

But no one moves. No one knows how to step into a fight like this.

They're rolling. Eddie on top, swinging with more instinct than precision, then Owen twisting them, grappling, pulling at Eddie's shirt, blood smearing down one sleeve. There's a coffee table knocked sideways, chairs scraping, a drink spilling its way into carpet like it's trying to escape.

Steve's frozen. Tunnel vision. The edges of the room blur and warp like heatwaves. All he can see are the two of them, knotted together in hate and sweat and blood.

He doesn't think.

He just moves.

Like being yanked on a string, Steve lunges forward and grabs Eddie by the shoulders, fists twisted in his hoodie. He hauls him up and back, Eddie still swinging until his arms are pinned, legs dragged through the mess, Steve all but carrying him.

They crash through the crowd, Steve tugging hard, adrenaline making him stronger than he is. Eddie resists at first, breath ragged, body tense, but he lets himself be pulled. Shoved through the side door. Into the cold air.

Far.

Farther.

Away from all of it.

They stop in the empty lot behind the venue, under an orange streetlamp that makes everything look like it's underwater.

Eddie blinks, squinting against the light. His tongue drags through the inside of his cheek, checks for missing teeth. His nose is bleeding. There's a cut on his eyebrow, bleeding too. His shirt's torn at the collar.

His hands. His hands are a mess. Raw and red, a smear of someone else's blood crusting along the side of one.

Steve is heaving. His chest rising and falling in furious waves.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" he yells, voice cracking open like a fault line.

Eddie meets his eyes, still panting, still spit-wet and wired.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"I had it! I—I was handling it!" Steve's pacing now, gesturing wildly with one hand, the other still clenched from where it had grabbed Eddie's arm.

"Handling it how exactly? By letting him push you around?" Eddie spits a little pink onto the asphalt, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist.

"In a way normal people handle things! How mature, rational people handle things!"

"Oh, right. And I'm not normal?"

"No. No, Eddie. You aren't. Because you do shit like this!"
His voice is rising, fast and hot and out of control. He throws his arms out, laughing without humor.
"You just—you think everything can be solved through—blowing shit up or knocking people out. It's like—all you know is just—violence and aggression and anger. You didn't handle anything. You just created another situation that I now have to deal with. Except this time? This time it's way fucking worse. It was bad last time but—Jesus, you—you really—"

His breath's caught, words crashing into each other.

"Every single person who means something was in that room."

Eddie straightens a little. His jaw clenches.
"Means something to who? To you?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Steve shrugs, exaggerated.

"Bullshit, Steve."

Steve snaps his head toward him.
"No. You don't get to bullshit me. You aren't even supposed to be here. I told you to go."

"Yeah, well I didn't."

"Why!" The word erupts from him. His fists balling up like he's ready to hit the wall or himself or time.

"Because I was—looking out for you."

"Looking out for me? What, this is you looking out for me?"
He gestures back toward the building, voice hoarse. His eyes are wild now, the thread's snapped completely, and what's left is pure unraveling.

Eddie doesn't answer. He just stands there in the orange light, nose bleeding, fists ruined, watching Steve fall apart like it's the only thing he knows how to do.

"I needed to"—

Steve cuts in before he can finish.

"What?" His voice is still raw, bitter at the edges.
"You needed to what?"

Eddie's gaze flicks to the ground, but not before Steve sees the sheer panic that flits behind his eyes. Like he's trying to lace together a sentence that won't tear him apart.

"You make me feel"—
He hesitates, swallows, tries again.
"I can't be around you, Steve."

"What?"
It hits wrong. Steve blinks.
"What the fuck does that even mean, you can't be around me? You're the one who came here."

Eddie's voice is too loud now, cracked and desperate.
"It means every single time I'm in a room with you I feel like I'm dying. Like I'm fucking—being burned alive or some shit. I don't know!"

Steve takes a step back, every word a hit.
"So—you came here to tell me that I make you feel like shit?"

"No. No, not—not like shit, entirely. I mean"—
He's floundering, both hands now dragging through his hair like he could pull the words out that way.
"I can't think when I'm around you. I can't eat, I can't sleep, it's like I'm—crawling out of my skin."

Steve scoffs, short and hollow.
"Jesus, sorry I'm such a fucking burden."

Eddie jerks his head up.
"That's not—God, you're not listening."

"I am listening! You're just talking about how awful I make you feel!"

Eddie breathes through his nose, eyes wild.
"You wreck me, man. You make everything feel like too much and not enough at the same time. I see you and I wanna—punch a wall. I don't know what that is. I don't know what the fuck to do with that."

Steve looks at him like he's trying to decipher a foreign language written in a mirror.
"I don't understand."

"I'm saying you make me feel terrible. You make me feel—like I'm not in control of anything. I feel like shit, all the time."

Steve throws up his hands, laugh bitter and close to a sob.
"Okay! I get it! I'm sorry"—

But Eddie barrels forward, voice shaking now.
"Look. I've done a really shitty job of making you feel like you matter. Because you do. And I've treated you like you don't. And I know that. I know that. And I don't blame you for saying all that shit. For hating me. I'd hate me too. I do, half the time. Because it's true. But it's not true—it's just"—

He pauses, fists clenching, jaw tight like it hurts to keep going.

"It's just true for what you know. For what I let you know. And I—I didn't let you know enough. I didn't tell you anything. I just—needed you and didn't know how to ask. So I took and I acted like none of it meant anything, like you didn't mean anything. And that"—

His voice drops.

"That's the worst fucking lie I've ever told."

Steve stares. The world feels suddenly muffled.
"Lie?"

"I've been pretending to be this person for so long I don't even know what's under it anymore. And you—you see through all that. And I can't stop you. I don't know how to stop you, you just keep—pulling me apart whether I want you to or not." Eddie speaks like he's pleading now, and Steve can't wrap his mind around it.
"But I feel like—you already know that."

He looks at Steve like he's waiting to be saved. Like maybe if Steve just says one right thing, he'll be able to breathe again.

But Steve says nothing. Just stares at him like he's trying to find the floor beneath his feet.

"So—what do you think." Eddie asks, quietly. Earnestly.

Steve's breathing is shallow, uncontrollable.
"I don't—I don't know. I don't understand what you're saying, I"—
Steve's voice is small, like the words can barely push their way out.

Eddie takes a slow step forward.
"Yes. You do."

"Steve!"
The booming voice comes from across the lot like a bell toll. Steve flinches.

His father's voice, unmistakable. Sharper now, closer. Authority woven through irritation.

"The hell you doing out here?"
Footsteps echoing toward them.
"Who is this?"

Steve doesn't look away right away. He stares at Eddie one moment longer, both of them locked in something shapeless and breathless, something already dying.

Then, he turns.

"No one."
The words are soft. Forced.
He looks past Eddie now, toward the glow of the building.
"I don't know. I was just—I was just telling him to leave."

Eddie's face doesn't change. But something in it drops.

"Alright, well"—
His father's tone hardens.
"Hurry up and get back inside, yeah?"

"Yeah. Sorry." Steve mutters.

He risks one last glance. Just one. Eddie hasn't moved. Lips thin. Shoulders squared.

Steve doesn't say another word.

He turns back and walks away like he's moving underwater.

Steve trails behind his father, who's saying something. Probably about appearances, about decorum, but Steve can't make out a single word. It's all blurred together, like the dull throb in his ears or the pressure behind his eyes that hasn't let up since the moment Eddie said "you wreck me."

His dad's voice rises and falls, one hand gesturing as if trying to sculpt the future in midair, and Steve just nods. Or maybe he doesn't. He can't tell. There's a strange stillness in his body now, like the calm after a bruise blooms. Like the pain's already happened and all that's left is the echo.

The gravel crunches beneath their feet. The building looms closer. Glass and brick, sharp and cold.

Then something pulls at him. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a pull.

He turns.

And Eddie's still standing there.

Far enough away that the details blur, but close enough that Steve can see the way he hasn't moved. Like he's anchored to the spot. Like he's been waiting. Not for another punch, not for forgiveness. Just waiting. And maybe hoping, too.

Their eyes meet, and Steve feels it again, something tightening in his chest, something breaking open. And if he stood there long enough, maybe he'd walk back to him. Maybe he'd say I feel it too or I never wanted to lie or don't go.

But instead, he blinks. Swallows. Looks away.

He follows his father into the building. Doesn't look back again.

hang out with me on tumblr

Chapter Text

Steve's hands clenched around the wheel so tight it felt like he could snap it clean off. He wasn't even breathing right. Shallow, erratic inhales that wouldn't settle in his chest, just made him feel dizzy.

Then the door slammed.

His dad's presence filled the car immediately. Loud, heavy, suffocating. He barely got a look at Steve before he started in like an avalanche, voice already rising.

"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Christ almighty. This is what passes for students now? These are the people they're letting in? A goddamn street brawl in the middle of a dinner for respectable people."

Steve turned the key. The engine stuttered, then caught. His eyes didn't leave the road.

"And that kid. That—whatever the hell he is. No respect. No class. Scum of the earth. Comes outta nowhere, throws punches like he's in some back alley. And that's who they let on campus now? That's who they're handing diplomas to?"

The words pelted him like stones. One after the other. Relentless. Sharp.

"Goddamn disgrace. Kid looked like he crawled out of a dumpster. I don't even know where he came from. Just charges in like a maniac. No self-control. No discipline. Probably high."

Steve's palms were slick. His breath kept catching in his throat. Every red light was too long, every green too short. He couldn't feel his fingers. It felt like something was about to burst in him, something raw and ugly.

"I mean, Owen's no saint. I know his dad, kid can be a nightmare. But at least he's one of us. That thing? Doesn't belong anywhere near a college." A pause. Then a lash of irritation.
"And what is the matter with you? Why are you so quiet?"

Steve blinked hard.
"I'm gonna throw up."

"What?"

"I'm gonna throw up." Louder this time, his voice shaking as he jerked the wheel and pulled over hard, the tires skidding against the curb.

The car hadn't fully stopped before he was pushing the door open, stumbling out into the gravel and weeds and the yellow wash of the streetlights.
He barely made it to the grass before he was bent over, retching. Everything came up in violent, body-wracking waves. Panic, shame, the acid burn of whatever he'd eaten last, like his body couldn't hold any of it in anymore.

"Jesus Christ, Stevie," his dad said from behind him.
"What's the matter? You sick?"

Steve wiped his mouth, felt his fingers trembling. "No."

"Did you eat something bad? You need to go to a hospital? I can drive—"

"No!" he shouted, louder than he meant to.
"Just—give me a minute, Jesus Christ."

"Alright, alright," his dad muttered, retreating to the car. Steve could hear the door shut again.

The night was cool and smelled like wet asphalt. The trees moved gently above him. A dog barked somewhere down the block. He took a breath, then another. His stomach ached. His eyes burned. His chest felt like someone had kicked it in.

He slid back into the driver's seat. The vinyl was cold against his back. He could still taste the bile.

"You okay?" his dad asked after a beat.

"Yeah." Steve exhaled, trying to catch his breath to no avail.

"You want me to drive?"

Steve couldn't answer. He couldn't do anything.

It started as a hitch in his throat and then he was sobbing, silent at first, just tears and shuddering breath, his hands gripping the wheel like it could anchor him to the world.

"Jesus, Steve." His dad sighed, concern lacing his tone.
"Hey, what's going on?"

Steve couldn't respond. He just wanted to repel the feeling of his dad's firm hand on his shoulder.

"Look at me. What is this? Is this about that kid? About what happened back there?"

"I don't— I don't know." Steve's voice was shaking and hoarse, collapsing in on itself like something too fragile to hold shape.

"You don't know? What does that mean, you don't know?"

"I just— I don't know what's wrong with me."

His dad's voice grew sharper, like he could slap Steve out of it with words alone.
"Well, pull it together. You're not a kid anymore, you can't fall apart every time someone throws a punch."

Steve swallowed hard, tears coming faster.
"It's not— It's not about the fight."

"Then what? What, you tired? You coming down with something?"

"I don't know. I don't know, I just— I can't—"

"You can't what? Jesus, Steve."

He looked over then, his face blotchy and wet and hopeless.
"I don't want you to be mad at me."

His dad squinted at him, confused.
"Mad at you for what? What, you get a girl pregnant or something?"

"No," Steve groaned, like the weight of everything had finally broken his ribs.

"Then what is it?"

He couldn't say it. He was crying too hard to say it. His mouth opened, then closed. He just looked at the dashboard, at the sheen black plastic of the stereo and the blue glow of the clock. 11:42 p.m.

His world was ending at 11:42 p.m.

"You need to sleep," his dad said eventually, voice softening, as if he were reaching for something normal again. Something he could understand. "That's what this is. Exhaustion. You're wearing yourself out. You're studying too hard. That's all."

But Steve knew that wasn't it. It wasn't even close.

Steve tried to hone his focus in on the rhythmic twitch of his right foot against the brake.
His father leaned in to his space. Solid, unmovable, like a piece of architecture he'd been built around. Steve's fingers curled around the steering wheel again. His chest felt too small for his lungs.

His voice came out quieter than he expected, like it hadn't been meant for anyone to hear at all.
"I don't know who I am anymore."

There was a pause, one of those cold silences his dad could summon like flipping off a switch.

"What?"

Steve blinked once, hard. The streetlight outside flickered like it was unsure it wanted to keep shining.

"I don't know. I don't know anything. I don't know who I'm supposed to be."
The quiet didn't stretch. His dad snapped it in half.

"Don't start with that. You know exactly who you're supposed to be."
His voice was clipped, efficient, as always. As if naming the truth gave it too much power.

"Look, why don't you just head back to the house. Get some rest. I'll get an Uber from here. We can get breakfast in the morning or something."
Steve shook his head, still staring at the windshield, but he wasn't seeing the road anymore. Just the soft, gold reflections of passing headlights.

Gone before they ever fully arrived.

"No, I"— Steve started, swallowing. Bracing.
"I don't wanna do this, okay? I—I don't want to be here, I don't want—fuck, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore—"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

His throat was hot, like something burning had lodged there. It cracked when he tried to speak again. He was still crying, and he hated himself for it.

"I'm trying. I'm trying—to be what you want but I can't—I'm not—I'm not like them, okay? I don't want to be!"

His father turned to him slightly then, his expression unreadable in the half-light. The dashboard cast both their faces in blue.

"Slow down. What do you mean you don't want to?"

"I don't wanna be in the frat, I hate it—I hate every second of it. They don't even like me. I just—smile through it, I swallow it, and you keep acting like this is some kind of prize but it's—God, it's suffocating."

"So, what? You're quitting? That's your grand solution? You're just giving up?"

Steve let out a wet, helpless breath that could've been a laugh if it hadn't hurt so much.

"I don't even know what I'm doing! I don't even like what I'm studying, I don't get it, I don't care about it—I keep showing up and I feel like—I feel like I'm faking it. All the time."

"You've got a future, Steve. You've got a name. You can't just throw it away because you're having a bad week."

Steve's fingers gripped tighter, nails digging into the leather of the steering wheel.

"It's not a bad week! It's every day, it's—it's every room I walk into where I feel like I'm too loud or not enough or just wrong. It's like I'm—defective and they know it. They all know it. They know I'm pretending."

"You're being dramatic. You've had a long day—"

"No! No, I'm being honest for once, and you're not even listening, you never—you don't hear me!"
He slammed his palms against the wheel, the horn sounding for a half-second like it too had had enough. Then silence again, bitter and too loud.
"You just see what you want and you decide that's who I am and I've been trying to be that for so long and I'm—"

"Don't raise your voice at me."

Steve turned toward him, finally, breath uneven, cheeks blotched and wet.

"I'm exhausted! I'm so fucking tired, Dad! I can't keep—pretending I know what the hell I'm doing. I can't keep doing this for you. I can't keep being this—this version of me you invented."

His dad's voice was flat now, more insulted than moved.
"You're lucky to even be here. You have no idea how hard I worked to make this happen for you."

"I know! I know, okay? And it's killing me. I know what you gave up, I know what this cost you, but it's not my life! You handed me this thing I never asked for and now—I don't know what to do with it!"

"Don't turn this into some sob story, Steve. You think I had choices? I did what I had to do. I built something. You don't even have the guts to hold onto it."

Steve wiped at his eyes, not to hide the crying, but just so he could see straight.
"I don't want it! I never wanted it! I didn't ask to be—this, I didn't ask to be your second chance, and every time I try to say that, you make me feel like I'm ungrateful or broken or lazy or—"

"Because you are! You're wasting your potential, Steve! You're pissing away everything I built for you!"

"Then maybe you built the wrong thing!"

That was the line. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. His father's jaw tightened, the kind of silence that meant danger.

"Watch your tone—"

"No! No, fuck the tone, fuck being polite, fuck sitting in silence so you can keep pretending everything's fine when I'm drowning, and you don't even see me—"

"I see you. You don't get to blame me for your failures just because you can't handle pressure."

"This isn't pressure, it's a slow fucking death. It's like I'm being suffocated!"

"Get a grip, Steve! You sound insane."

"I feel insane! Every day I wake up and I think—what if I just left? What if I just disappeared? What if I never came back and no one noticed, would that be easier for everyone? And all you can do is call me dramatic and weak and a disappointment—"

"I never said you were a disappointment."

"You didn't have to! You say it every time you talk about me like a résumé. Every time you introduce me to someone and tell them what I'm going to be. Like I'm some project you're trying to fix."

"I believed in you. God help me, I still do. But if you want to throw it all away? Go ahead. Be a failure. Join the rest of them. I mean—this is just ridiculous. All of this. Sitting here having a tantrum like this."

His hands trembled a little on his knees, useless hands, the same hands that had worn the right watch, held the right handshake, texted the right things, clapped the backs of boys he never wanted to be. The ones who slapped each other's shoulders like they were afraid of touching.

"I tried, okay? I tried. I wore the clothes and smiled and let you drag me around and told the stories you wanted me to tell. I joined the frat. I shook the hands. I memorized all the fucking buzzwords. And it doesn't even matter, none of it matters! None of it will matter at the end of it all because I'm still not gonna be good enough for you because I'm gay!"

It came out like a rupture. Like something had cracked in his ribs and was spilling out faster than he could stop it. The word echoed between them, clanging around the cabin of the car like a glass dropped on tile.

His dad was still. Everything was still.

Steve stared at him, eyes open too wide, searching for any kind of flicker, some acknowledgment. Anything. But his own shame caught up to him and he looked away, exhaled, like he'd flinched.

"What?" his dad asked, after too long.

Not angry. Just confused. That particular kind of male confusion that was always one breath away from turning into fury.

"I'm gay," Steve said again, the second time heavier, less afraid.
"I like men. I have for a long time. And I've been so scared of what you'd say, of what mom would say. So I lied. And now I don't even know who I am anymore except I know I'm not the kid you wanted."

The words hung there, too large for the space they were in. Like steam on the windows, slow and all-consuming.

"So that's what this is? This—mess? That's what it's about?"

"No! This is about everything! It's about the fact that I've been breaking trying to be something I'm not and it's not just the frat or the major or the job you already picked for me—it's me."

Steve could hear the pulse in his ears. His voice felt far away and too loud. Like he was watching himself unravel from somewhere outside his body.

He watched his father's shoulders tense as he stared out ahead of him. His palms rubbing against his suit trousers.

"Okay. Okay, alright, you're—what, you're confused right now. This is—this is all just—stress, Steve."

"No, it's not—"

"It's the pressure. I get it. New environment, new people, you're overwhelmed. You think you feel one thing, but it's not real, not really. It's just a phase, kids go through things."

"I'm not a kid."

"Well, you sure as hell are acting like one." The tone snapped like a twig underfoot. Then softer, suddenly.
"I know you. You've always liked girls."

"Yeah, because I had to." He said it like a punch. Not to win, just to stop bleeding.

"Look, maybe you're—experimenting, or whatever it is they do now. It doesn't mean you're—"

"It does."

"You don't know that. You're too young to be sure—"

"I'm sure."

There was silence. But the kind that screamed. His dad scoffed. One of those short, ugly, involuntary sounds. A sound of bitterness so practiced it almost sounded natural.

"Jesus Christ."

"The guy, who—the guy who hit Owen, tonight—"

"No." His dad's voice was hard now, clipped like steel.
"No, no, no. Don't. Don't even finish that sentence."

His dad wouldn't look at him. He stared out the windshield as though it were a movie screen and he could still change the ending.

"You need to think about what you're saying right now. Really think. You don't want to throw your whole life off track over—over this."

"Oh my god." Steve groaned, head falling back against the headrest.

"Maybe you just haven't met the right girl yet."

"I don't want to meet the right girl. I've met—so many girls and I don't want any of them. I've never wanted any of them."

The silence folded back over them like a blanket soaked in cold water.

"I can't do this," his dad said, voice sharpened to a knife. And then he opened the door.

"Dad—wait"— Steve sighed, defeated.

Steve scrambled out of the car, feet clumsy against the pavement, lungs too fast, like his body was trying to outrun the sound of the door slamming shut behind his father.

"Dad, please—can we just—just talk, please—"

His father was already walking, fast, like he could walk away from the whole night, the truth, the fact that he didn't know his son at all.

"I don't know what you want from me, Steve!"

"I don't want anything! I just—I need you to not walk away right now, please—please—"

His dad stopped. Turned. His face was a shadow in the orange spill of the streetlamp, unreadable.
"You drop all this on me like it's nothing and expect me to—what? Applaud you? Say I'm proud?"

"No! No, I just—I didn't want to lie anymore, I didn't want to be scared anymore—"

"You think this is easy for me? You think this is something I ever imagined? I did everything right, I gave you everything, and now you want me to pretend like this is normal?"

"I don't want you to pretend! I just want you to stay! I—I need you to stay, please, I can't—"

Steve couldn't finish. The words burned out, too big to pass through his throat. His shoulders folded inward, arms wrapped around his stomach like that could keep him from falling apart entirely.

"I don't care if you're mad. I don't care if you don't understand. I just—please don't leave me right now."

But his father had already turned.

"Dad!"

Steve didn't move. He wanted to. He would have run if his legs could take it. Not because he thought he could catch him, but because some part of him, some final, cracked-open part, still hoped that love could mean staying. That love could look like turning around.

But he didn't look back.

***

The parking lot was half-dark and silent, save for the distant hum of a streetlamp buzzing with its own quiet indifference.

Steve stood beneath it, bathed in its jaundiced glow like something under examination. Too exposed, too still, too hollowed out. The air tasted faintly metallic, like rain on concrete, though it hadn't rained in days. He pressed the buzzer with the side of his thumb, waited.

Nothing.

He tried again, a whisper escaping like it had snuck out of him without permission.
"Please."

The silence mocked him.

His hand moved faster now, pressing and pressing. Then slamming.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

The noise echoed up the brick face of the apartment building like he was trying to wake it, like maybe the building itself could pity him and pull Eddie to the window.

Still nothing.

He pulled out his phone with fingers that didn't quite feel like his, half-numb with cold and something worse. Called. It rang too many times. No answer.

He called again.

Then again.

And again.

Each voicemail tone that followed was sharper, angrier, colder than the one before.

And then it came out of him like a wound splitting open. A scream, full-bodied and raw, guttural and animal, the kind that you can't ever explain to someone afterward because it wasn't language, it was grief. The kind of scream that doesn't echo but stays lodged inside your own head after it's gone.

He slid into the driver's seat without meaning to, without remembering moving there. His hands were shaking. He let his head fall back against the seat, the world tilting.

He waited to leave a voicemail like it was the only lifeline left.