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crookedteethed · 3 months

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RADIO appearance (1) | e.m & s.h

Pairing: Rockstar!EddieMunson x Radiohost Fem Reader x BandManager!SteveHarrington

Summary: You're seemingly going nowhere at your job at Studio 66. You finally get your big break when your boss meets a terrible fate. Given the opportunity to become Mental in the Morning's newest radio host, you embark on a never before experience when you fall into a love triangle between Corroded Coffins, Eddie Munson, and his manager, Steve Harrington, all while trying not to lose yourself to your sudden fame. What will you choose?

Warnings: Cursing, Misogyny, Love Triangle, Sexual harassment in the workplace, eventual smut, Drug and alcohol use, slowburn, mentions of blood, Character death

Authors note: Wanted to give writing on Tumblr a try. Let me know how you like the story and thanks for reading.💗💗 Word count: 2,463

RADIO appearance ⭑ materiel list

Divider credits- @cafekitsune

Circa’ 1991

Spike Van Dyke was an idiot.

He was the type to ask you for the time, even though he had a shiny metal Rolex banded around his wrist, just to purely get on your nerves. Spike was the type of person to play obnoxious clown honks and buzzers on his morning radio show as hungover parents rushed their children off to school in their minivans or Subarus. Spike also was the person to ask you if you were "Mental in the Morning?!" And if you weren't, you would get sprayed with silly string and get kicked in the tush.

Spike didn't like me; well, he acted like he didn't like me. Said I had the type of looks that made a freight train take a dirt road, per se, compared to Candace "Candi" Jones.

Here comes the sad part. My family says it's sad, but I like to think otherwise: After being told I wasn't good enough, I didn't quit. Anyone with an ounce of self-respect in their bones and dignity in their gut would quit after being told they weren't good enough, but I stayed. I've been Spike's humbled assistant for four years now—not like he needed one, though.

Despite being obnoxious and sometimes rude, Spike was a low-maintenance guy. A day's work for me is grabbing him bottled water after he's choking on a fly, getting into his mouth from gawking at Candace.

"Metal fucking sucks." The sound of a crowd booing and then a loud tuba-sounding "Womp womp womp" plays in the background—radio imaging.

Now where was I? Spike Van Dyke was—is—an idiot.

The big and bright “ON AIR” sign lit up my face as I watched from outside Studio 66.

“Now Spike, you aren’t saying that because Corroded Coffin is coming to studio 66 tomorrow, right?” Candice said, a shit-eating grin plastered on her lips. He only kept Candice as the co-host of Mental in the Morning because she once flashed him her big silicon Double D tits at a wet tank top contest he was hosting.

“Oh, that’s a load of bullshit, Candi. And you wanna know why?” “Why?” “You wanna know why that’s bullshit, Candi? Because I hadn’t even heard of crowded coffee—” “Corroded Coffin.” “Until you just brought them up seconds ago.” Spike shrugs, leaning his back in his seat and swinging his feet in his chair because they barely touch the ground.

“I don’t know, Spike, you have a reputation for making your guests mad. Remember when you called Madonna a sellout?”

“She never denied it.”

“And when you called Steven Tyler a creep?”

"That one's true and we all know it."

"Ok, so let me get this straight: are YOU, Spike Van Dyke, going to play nice tomorrow for the Corroded Coffin boys?"

Spike shrugs again. "Depends, Candi, why don't you play one of crowded coffee—" "Corroded Coffin." "Eh.. yeah, why don't you play one of their songs? I'll have my conclusion at the end of the break."

"Welp, you heard it folks, whatever Spike wants, he gets. Here's "Hellmouth" from Corroded Coffin's sophomore album "Mutilation, Sickness, and a Little Death." Make sure you all stay tuned after the break, and also don't forget to stay—"Candice points to Spike, and in his dreadful, languid voice, he says: "Mental in the Morning."

At a click of a button, the dark and muddy strings of Corroded Coffin's "Hellmouth" ring through the speakers of studio 66; by the time the long interlude is over, I only hear a snippet of Munson's throaty singing before Candice and Spike come out of the studio.

The "ON AIR" sign is now turned off, but it's only until the break is over. "That was a good take, guys." I softly say as Candice and Spike leave the studio.

Y'know, when I was five, I dressed up as a brick wall for Halloween--I'd thought it'd be funny. Who knew I'd still be in the same costume fifteen years later? Spike walks straight past me, like the wall I am.

Candice does pay mind to me, leaning beside the same wall as I, looking at the short and stout Spike Van Dyke going straight to his favorite intern--Bonnie, I think her name is--just to mess with her for his shits and giggles.

"Should I start making apology gift baskets now?" I ask her.

She asks. "Maybe he'll have a change of heart this time? You know, I've noticed he hasn't been staring at my breast as much lately. I think that's a sign for something."

"A sign for what?" Now it was my turn to tsk. "That he's finally gone through the lobotomy he so desperately needs?"

I look up at her, and she's laughing. Candice wasn't that much taller than me, but her hot pink stilettos made me look like Stuart Little standing beside her. I join in on the laughter, too. But the joyous moment is cut short when we hear an "eek!" from the intern and see Spike pinching up the ends of her frilly white skirt.

"Poor girl." Candice says. "One day he's going to mess with the wrong person." Candice mutters.

Black and green sludge starts swishing in my body, and I think I will be sick. I watched the intern's skin become extremely pallid, and her eyes turned a shade of fear. Any other time, her skin would be pretty porcelain, like an antique doll you'll find in an upscale market, and her eyes would shine the brightest green.

"I hate to say it, but it's kind of like a rite of passage for the girls of Studio 66 to get hounded by Spike, right?" I hear Candice say from afar; she sees I'm gone when she looks over.

And out of the emergency exit and down three flights of stairs I go, I find myself in front of studio 66, looking out at the crowded streets of New York City, and thinking of Bonnie, the girl with porcelain skin, and Candice, the 5'8 glamazon.

A "Rite of Passage" it was. It wasn't a shocker when Spike liked you; he shows it. He's done it to many women prior before he's done it to Candice, and now he's doing it to Bonnie. Bonnie was just an intern today, but she'll be Spike's new assistant tomorrow. Why hadn't Spike taken a liking to me? Well, according to him, I'm "too boring." I’m simply plain and simple—old, boring Y/N.

I know it's wrong, but how else should I feel? It's not like I wanted to get filled up by Spike; that's disgusting, but if that meant I get to do something at my job or move up a position, then so be it.

Fuck. How would I do that when Spike doesn't even look at me?

Bonnie was about to be promoted while I was off somewhere, filling out yet another job application. Maybe I'll apply to Coney Island. At least then, I'll have the joyous laughter of children or exciting screams from amusement parkgoers to drown my sorrows.

"You have an expressive face." A voice says beside me. I look up at the stranger; his fluffy-looking hair draws my attention away from his face. The warm stink of nicotine fills my nostrils, and I feel the hairs on my body prick the fabric of my clothes. When I relaxed my face, I realized how scrunched tight I had it.

"Jesus, what kind of deep shit are you in, kid?" He asks. He says "kid" as if he and I didn't look remotely close in age.

"You got another one of those?" I say, pointing to the cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. Without hesitation, he goes into his left boot, pulling out a pack of Camels. I pull out a cigarette--his last one. When I have the cigarette in my mouth, he whips a white lighter with its blazing flames.

"Thanks." I say, my voice almost muffled. I nearly gag from the nicotine as I smoke it.

Cigarettes sucked. They only looked cool as an accessory--accompanied by a cup of coffee and some old French novel. Other times, cigarettes look fantastic when they're used by guys who stare at you so intensely, waiting to hear what you have to say.

"Um--" I freeze; his eyes roll down my body before meeting my eyes again. "It's rude to stare," I say, nerves starting to leave my body as the nicotine seeps in.

"It's rude to leave people hanging." He snaps back. "What's gotten you so pressed?"

I huff, "Spike Van Dyke, that's what."

He hums. "With a name like that, how couldn't he? Did his mother even love him?" I let out a nervous chuckle, somewhat wary about talking to the stranger, but he gave me his last cigarette, which meant he was ok?

"We're in the same boat, y'know?" he says, playing with the cigarette between his fingers.

"He'd hit on your girlfriend or something?" I cock my eyebrow, and I feel a smile form on my lips. "Say he did hit on your girlfriend, and you're here to kick his ass; you wouldn't say anything if I let you in without a badge?"

"No, I'm not here to kick his ass." He breathily laughs. "Your funny." He says. I wasn't joking. I deadpan.

"I'm Steve. Steve Harrington." He introduces.

Why does the name seem so familiar? I squint my eyes at him.

"Y/n. Y/n Y/l/n."

"So, I take it you work here." he points his thump to the building. "At Studio 66?"

"Not for long; I'll be working at Coney Island soon. I could get you tickets, perhaps?

He laughs again, and for the second time, I wasn't joking.

"Yeah, my band--the band I'm managing--you've might've heard of them? Corroded Coffin? I'm here for them."

Something in my brain snaps.

"You're Corroded Coffin's manager." I state that's why his name was so familiar. "You're the one we talked to about the interview."

He nods. "Yep." he drags. "That's me."

"I didn't expect you to be so..."

Good-looking? The good-looking that would make you instantly popular--taking it back to my high school days. Most of the managers I've met in the past have been the Spike Van Dyke type, y'know, bald and plump with deceitful eyes and a deceitful chin and wandering hands.

"Preppy? Not the type to manage a band who sings about war, destruction, doom and misery?"

"Took the words right out of my mouth."

"I'm reminded of it every day." He says, now leaning on the cold brick wall, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his dark blue bomber jacket.

"Your interview isn't until tomorrow." I say.

"Yeah, but I'm here to talk to Spike, that guys an idiot."

As if that still needed to be established.

"I bet you won't say that to his face." I dare.

With a smirk on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes, he took me up on the challenge.

Spike took Steve's comment well, I think.

"Ok, so what do you want me to do?" Spike shrugged.

"All I'm saying is, Corroded Coffin won't do the interview if you're going to be a..."

Steve's eyes met mine. I look at him wide-eyed and boggled, sitting on the edge of my seat beside Spike's desk. Steve jitters a bit, switching all his weight from one foot to another.

"An asshole."

I would've preferred the word "dickhead" instead, but "asshole" is close enough.

"But "asshole" is my brand. If you or Corroded Coffin don't like it, I'm glad to not have you all on my show."

"Should I remind you that we were the ones to get a voicemail from you guys? You're the one that wants us here. My group will be damned if you think we're going to let you disrespect us." To convey his authority, Steve places both hands on his hips. A smirk creeps onto my lips.

Spike squints his eyes, gnawing his teeth. "Who sent you here?" He asks. "Was it that hotshot—what's his name? I forget." Spike snaps his fingers. "Munson."

Steve scoffs. "I'm here on the behalf of all of Corroded Coffin."

Spike rolls his eyes and says: "Y'know Munson has a "bad" reputation himself. I'd seen his little stunt he pulled with Rush the Radio a few weeks back."

As if it were him involved in the horrendous event, Steve mutters a "Jesus Christ" and runs his fingers through his bouncy hair.

"I mean, who gets mad like that over one little question? My poor guy Rush is still paying for the damages that little shithead caused."

It was Steve's turn to squint his eyes and gnaw at his teeth.

"You all should be grateful that another radio host wants to have the spawns of Satan on their show." Spike continues.

With a few nibbles of his fingertips and a long, harsh stare, Steve concluded:

"Let's agree to disagree. If you don't act like such an asshole, my guys won't either." Steve says.

"Harrington, I think we have a deal." I had a crawling suspicion that Spike had his fingers crossed behind his back.

Steve and Spike shook on it, thus the ending of their little spat. It was not climactic enough, but indeed, it was entertaining. Spike gets my name wrong when telling me to walk Steve out.

"Problem solved?" Steve says, seemingly trying to convince himself and me that "the problem" was resolved. When really, that was only the tip of the iceberg.

Steve gives me a piece of paper with his personal number on it; his fingertips touch mine in a subtle exchange. I feel a sting of heat that twinges my body; I blame the August searing heat. Steve says to call him if anything significant happens between now and tomorrow, though I highly doubt it.

I watched Steve walk down the pavement and turn the corner to 13th Street. I feel a small smile creep onto my lips, holding the piece of paper with his number on it close to my chest.

When I return to Studio 66, my smile fades when I watch everyone scatter around in a frenzy. My eyes follow the pattern of warm blood that puddles to my ankles. The trail of blood seems never-ending, but that myth is busted when my eyes land on a good as dead(?) Spike Van Dyke.

His eyes were stapled shut, followed by a few staples around his dome and neck. My eyes followed the body that hovered over him. Bonnie—the porcelain skin—intern, hovers over Spike's unconscious body, a stapler in her hand.

#Eddie munson x reader #Steve harrington x reader #love triangle #90s #stranger things #x reader #steddie fic #rockstar eddie munson #radio host #corroded coffin

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folklorebau · 2 years

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your instagram while dating eddie

ofc stranger things is set in the 80s so consider this an au! a modern!eddie munson fic feat. others … i honestly loved making this and i am SO down to make others if u guys want me too!!!! enjoy <333

PART TWO

♡ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ 🕊 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ 🏹 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ☕️ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ♡

Liked by eddiemunson, robinbuckley & 70 others

@y/n: eds has influenced me too much.

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eddiemunson: what can i say… i’ve always been quite the fashion icon ;)

↳ dustinhendo: you wear the same shirt to school everyday.

↳ eddiemunson: why do you follow my girlfriend on instagram?

robinbuckley I LOVE IT AHHHH.

↳ y/n: THANK U BABY <33

Liked by eddiemunson, elhopp & 38 others

y/n: i am crying. went to lovers lake and saw SWANS!!! and look at them :( they’re in love.

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steveharrington: lovers lake huh…

↳ y/n: shut up and look at the swans.

↳ eddiemunson: head out of the gutter steve jeez…

elhopp: swans!

elhopp: cute :)

↳ y/n: right!!!! :’)

Liked by eddiemunson, mikewheeler & 80 others

y/n: living my rockstar gf dreams with the best 🏹 eddiemunson

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eddiemunson: most important job of them all. love u love u love u my sweet.

robinbuckley: this is offensive stop it.

↳ y/n: IM SORRY.

↳ robinbuckley: ur both too cute i hate you both.

↳ y/n: we love u too robs <3

comment liked by eddiemunson

dustinhendo: my parents?

↳ y/n: PLSSS :’)

↳ eddiemunson: no.

Liked by eddiemunson, madmax & 60 others

y/n: guess how long it took for me to fall. closest answer wins.

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eddiemunson: can i participate?

↳ y/n: NO. you were there… :|

robinbuckley: 5 mins

↳ eddiemunson: you have very high standards robin

steveharrington: i’m gonna guess that you didn’t even have both feet on the board before it happened.

↳ y/n: eddiemunson DID U TELL HIM????

↳ eddiemunson: HAHAHAHAHA

↳ steveharrington: AM I RIGHT?

madmax: i can teach you!!!

comment liked by y/n

↳ eddiemunson: she has a teacher already, max.

↳ y/n: stop terrorising everyone in my comment section. PLEASE.

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curtsycream · 3 months

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Support The Arts 2

Eddie Munson SMAU

Basically Rockstar!Eddie x Gallstone!Reader years later

liked by y/n.jpg, steveharrington and others

eddiemunson eight amazing months with the love of my life @y/n.jpg

tagged y/n.jpg

user1 waiting for them to adopt me

↳ user2 get in line, wait your turn

↳ user3 I’ve been here since december

steveharrington gross get this off my feed

↳ y/n.jpg it’s the fact that you have notifs on

↳ eddiemunson awww harrington 😘

↳ steveharrington yeah you’re blocked

dustinhenderson when are you guys coming back? You’ve been on tour for a week

↳ mikewheeler sad 👆🏻

↳ dustinhenderson fuck off mike

↳ eddiemunson we’ll be back in two months

↳ dustinhenderson I knew you hated me

y/n.jpg always supporting the arts

↳ robinbuckley no one needed to know that

↳ eddiemunson I needed to, I think you need to support the arts more babe

↳ y/n.jpg on my way

↳ lucassinclair I hate the mental images

↳ mikewheeler then don’t picture it

↳ lucassinclair 😐

#rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie munson #gallstone!eddie #gallstone girl #eddie smau #Eddie Munson smau #stranger things au #stranger things #stranger things smau #eddie munson x reader

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jemmacdraws · 2 years

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rockstar #eddiemuson and no.1 fan #steveharrington is my fave au✨😌

Just trying to get used to procreate again.

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie

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edhellfire · 8 months

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Hi Eddie how have you been rockstar? ;)

@the-king-steveharrington

"Rockstar? You flatter me, Harrington."

#ask eddie #thekingsteveharrington

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madaboutmunson · 3 months

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Look through these blackened eyes You'll see ten thousand lies

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 9

Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Pumping with the adrenaline from their fight and with his permission, Eddie attempts to exact his revenge on Steve between the sheets. But is retribution all that is at play here?

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only.

This is my first ever published smut chapter. I am sweating with nerves as I type this lol.

I have a few bang event projects to finish up, so this story will have to take a short break. Though the next few 5 chapters are already written then need to be edited, which takes me a lot of time. Sorry :(

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip; stobin; platonic stobin; platonic with a capital P; canon typical violence; angst; masochism; fist fight; smut

Word Count: 10.5K

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Part 9 - Eddie POV

Even in his wildest dreams, Eddie couldn’t have possibly imagined this because nothing about this moment in time makes any sense to him at all.

Hasn’t he loathed this man for years now? Didn’t this guy ruin his life? Hadn’t this guy just seconds ago tried to beat him down verbally and physically? Eddie realises it’s a resounding yes to everything, yet he feels a pulsing energy around them—something teetering on a cliff edge.

He didn’t know why he’d answered that way. It just fell out of his mouth, Only everything.

And he did want that. He wanted to steal everything from Harrington, just like he’d stolen everything from him, but he knew that wasn’t just revenge talking. Although that feeling is still very present, another looming entity is in the room. Lust. He could feel its selfish, irresponsible form like some gelatinous ooze was creeping all over him. Seeping into every recess of his brain, turning off logic centres as it passes, only leaving primal things in its wake. The only reason he lets it continue its pilgrimage into his very being is because it’s evident he isn’t alone in this.

Harrington’s lips are still at the shell of his ear. The last thing he’d heard from them was a whimper at his reply as his entire body weight rested on top of him. Eddie is in semi-thoughtful, mostly impulsive deliberations with the ornate ceiling above them. Then there is the delicate brush of stubble as Harrington pushes his head further over his shoulder until his lips press against his ear, “Then take it.” He whispers like silk, and Eddie is not god’s strongest soldier, or anyone's for that matter. His eyes roll back as the words and all their potential implications ignite every neuron in his body. Surging to the tip of his tongue for the next thing to say. Rocketing to his fingertips for the next thing to touch. His heart thumps powerfully in its skeletal hideaway, but not for love, for an imminent frenzy. For the thrill of finally getting something over the man who’s haunted his every waking day, every nightmare-filled night, and the poor wretch is offering it up to him on a silver platter. Take it.

Eddie never considered himself an angel, but he had principles and morals that kept him on the right side of judgement from himself and maybe others, but this might be a temptation too far. Harrington was correct. He had been a fan in the early days, at least. Perhaps even up until everything fell apart. Recalling his world imploding, he feels his grip on Harrington tighten again like he wants to squeeze the breath right out of him, but he resists when he hears that gentle groan in his ear.

He feels like he could both give in to something basal and still satisfy the need to get one over on Harrington if he follows the path his hormones are gouging out for him. He feels his accomplice's hands shakily run up his sides. The breath at his ear is now against his cheek as Harrington turns to face him, head still heavy on his shoulder. Maybe he was exhausted? Perhaps he’d already given up?

Eddie has to decide. Morally, this was bad. Professionally potentially the worst decision ever, but personally, maybe the sweetest fucking revenge. The holy grail of blackmail, or perhaps no one would even believe him if he told them. No one would think that Harrington, who walks the red carpet with his doting wife, or Harrington, who gets papped with his tongue hanging out for some harem of female groupies to hang off by sucking on it, would forgo them all to fool around with an average joe, like him. A nobody. A nobody who was, at one time, on the cusp of being a somebody.

And maybe that’s what seals the deal for him. He violently pushes Harrington off him, hoping to press against one of the many bruises currently developing, and he must because he hisses as he meets the carpet with a thud.

Eddie gets to his knees, and before Harrington can let any more spiteful words leave his wretched mouth, he grabs a fistful of hair and yanks him up until they are face to face. But Harrington isn’t struggling; he lets himself hang limp in Eddie’s grip. The previous violence has begun plumping parts of his face, the red marks deepening as burst blood vessels spill under his skin. His mouth hangs open slightly, “Take it,” he mumbles a reminder through swollen split lips.

Eddie’s other hand rapidly finds its way into Harrington’s obnoxious, luxurious hair and closes the gap between them with a clash of teeth. Their lips meet brutally. He can feel the hair strands fall between his fingers as his grip tightens, pulling it out from the roots. There is no polite request for entry when Eddie’s tongue forces its way into his mouth, but he’s not met with any resistance, only moans of pleasure.

Initially, Harrington is a malleable thing in his hands, bending to his will, letting Eddie cruelly bite and drag his teeth over the wounds on his lips before kissing his hisses and whimpering back into his mouth, like he doesn’t want to hear them. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to hear or see anything that might induce him to be merciful. Soon enough, Harrington springs to life, grabbing fistfuls of a T-shirt at Eddie's waist, twisting it around his fingers until Eddie feels it pull tight across his back. With a grunt pushed into his mouth, he finds himself yanked flush with Harrington. The heat and pressure from another makes the skin in all the places their bodies meet feel like embers of something long forgotten, but as they move together, the sparks find their fuel and ignite a searing wildfire across the surface of his skin. He can feel his heart pounding. He can hear it in his ears like a bass line to the wanton melody of noises between them.

He feels a shift again. Harrington’s knees bracket one of his own, forcing them closer together. Another sigh spills from out Harrington, and Eddie consumes it hungrily. Like he’s trying to capture everything. He would let the night have nothing. This was all his. Every sigh, moan, whimper and groan. He would gorge himself on everything he was pulling out of Harrington until he was sick from overindulgence or until Harrington had no more to give.

Then, just like he’s acclimatising, nothing further happens between them below the belt line, but Harrington’s hands find their way up and under Eddie's shirt. Calloused fingertips but soft palms glide over his back, urging him closer, even though it is physically impossible, but the gentleness is distracting and has no place here. Eddie drags his teeth over Steve’s tongue as he pulls away, only to have his mouth adorably chased by the man opposite him, who looked starved for it, even though they’ve been clamped together for who knows how long. Eddie ignores it, licks along Harrington’s jawline, and bites down on the hinge of it with his teeth, a helpful reminder of what is happening here.

He gets the message.

Harrington’s hands raise to his shoulder blades, rough fingertips press into his skin there, and then excruciatingly slowly, he drags his blunt fingernails down Eddie’s back. A gasp fights out and into his ear, causing a reactionary hip buck into his thigh from Harrington, whose fingers soothe their way back up the fresh scratches.

Harrington, for the first time, leans back, his spit-wet mouth slightly parted as he observes Eddie through barely open hooded eyes before raking his nails down him again, faster this time, making Eddie’s back arch towards him with a yelp from the stinging pain melting into a sigh caused by a wave of endorphins rearing up and crashing down on him. Involuntarily, he closes his eyes, maybe to savour the sensation of the burning strands of heat trailing over his back, perhaps to not look at Harrington. He isn’t sure, but he soon finds himself pulled into a more comfortable measured distance of zero. But no lips meet his. A hand grasps his jaw tightly and tips his head backwards. He feels a breath at the base of his throat, the moisture evaporating so quickly from him there is a coolness for a second before Harrington’s tongue drags up the column of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “Wait here,” he’s instructed as Harrington leaves, and he finally dares open his eyes, tries to catch his breath, palms at the bulge in his jeans for a second of relief, and relaxes back on his heels.

He watches Harrington busy himself with a door handle sign, and he opens the door a crack. Immediately, Buckley’s face appears in it.

“Jesus Christ, Steve!” She exclaims quietly, but he’s already trying to close the door again after hanging a do not disturb sign.

“Relax. We’re not fighting anymore.” He says and slams the door.

“Then what are you doing in there?” She yells angrily through the door.

Steve yanks the door open again, “I dunno, fucking hopefully,” she’s about to say something else when he slams the door shut and locks it again.

That makes Eddie spring to his feet, and his brain feeds him a million reasons why he really should leave, but the problem being he still has a reason to stay, and he’s still horny as hell.

Harrington slinks his way back and leisurely looks Eddie over, “What happened?” He smirks, “Didn’t wanna be on your knees when I got back?” Harrington reaches over and takes his arm, runs his hands over it, inspects it, leads him to the couch, and sits them both down. He waits for a second before crawling towards Eddie. He looked more creature than man. Almost under a spell, Eddie feels himself doing one thing but saying another. He reclines back on the seat, coaxing Harrington into his lap, saying, “This is a terrible idea, Harrington.”

“Oh, the absolute worst, for sure,” Harrington smiles slyly as he straddles Eddie’s thighs, “And I think it would be even worse for me to hear you call me by my name and not my brand.”

Eddie’s chest heaves as he is manhandled to make him a more comfortable seat, “Yeah, that would be a really dumb thing to do, wouldn’t it, Steve?” And he watches as Steve’s eyes shoot to his and shift from something amused to something all the more sultry. He tilts his head a little like he didn’t hear correctly, eyes firmly fixed on Eddie, who thinks he knows what he’s being asked to do, “Did you hear what I said,” Eddie lets his eyes fall to his lap and drags them unhurriedly back to meet the blooming dilated pupils of the man seated on him, “Steve?”

Like his own name is the shot of a starting pistol, Steve launches himself at Eddie again, with force enough to rock the furniture.

Within seconds, things start to feel almost competitive. Every kiss was returned with a more forceful one, every grip on the other's body was returned with a harder, more cruel squeeze, and every needy grind down was met with a hard thrust upwards.

The one-upmanship leaves Eddie intoxicated. He’s trying to think but can’t. He’s overwhelmed by sensation. His primitive brain just hungers for more. To take everything until all that is left is a carcass of the man huffing and panting in his lap. For a second, he doesn’t think he has ever seen anything more gloriously desperate as Steve. He wants Eddie with abandon of everything else. His persona seemed shed. He seemed real. Human. Not a nemesis. Not a celebrity. Not an object to covet. Just a guy. A hot as sin, ravenous, wild, hazardously beautiful man.

Something threatens to bloom inside Eddie’s chest, and a fresh urgency springs to life, like a survival instinct almost. He reaches for Steve’s shirt and begins unfastening it. His fingers feel their way clumsily over the buttons as the rest of his body is otherwise occupied. He finds his hands grasped and pushed down to rest on Steve’s thighs as he leans back for a moment to pull the shirt over his head, and he finds his hands placed back on his torso, and that feeling of much softer than expected skin under his fingertips is tantalising but as he caresses over his body, it’s when his fingers meet the stubble at his chest or the trail down his abdomen that really sends Eddie into a spin. It overheats him. He feels like his own clothes are suffocating him. That they are needlessly in the way. He craves to feel this against his own skin and reaches behind his head, leaning forward to shed himself of some of it, but a hand on his chest pauses him.

Eddie looks up to find Steve toying with one of the many long chains draped around his neck, but instead of asking any questions, his eyes force him on a mini visual expedition of what his hands had been trailing over. A short, stunted breath leaves his mouth. This was crazy. He’s seen this body a million times in magazines, adverts, album covers, billboards, through his own camera lens and eyes, yet it feels like he’s never seen anything like it before. Littered with tattoos, a visibly heaving chest, ribs that appear and disappear as he breathes, muscles that flex and pulse as he writhes his body, but eventually, he hears him.

“Does it hold any sentimental value?” Steve rasps, his eyes trailing over and grasping onto his T-shirt.

“No,” he replies with a pointless, unseen shake of his head. Steve immediately yanks a necklace from his neck with a grunt of effort, and he slides that under Eddie’s shirt. The chain still attached slides along his skin. Some links are still heated from Steve in parts. Others were cool enough to almost make him want to jerk away from them.

The safety-conscious part of Eddie is urging him to look at what might be happening under his shirt, but the hedonist who has clawed his way from the depths to the surface only wants to feast on what it wants to store for future reference.

It’s innocent enough to start with, taking in how engaged he is with his task at hand, how his eyes that, naturally slope into a sadness, are wide and alive with anticipation. The way his bruised lips are pressed together in concentration and occasionally bite back into his mouth. Then his eyes trail further down to the sizeable bulge in his jeans, how it’s pressed against his own. He can’t stop his hands from sliding up to his hips, running his fingertips over the bone he hopes to be more intimately acquainted with as soon as possible. He settles on gripping them tightly, rocking his hips upward impatiently. A series of tuts raises his eyes to Steve’s face again, noticing a small smile growing, “Patience, baby. Patience.” He barely mutters out, his eyes still focused on the job at hand until his hand stills high up on his chest, the pendant still gripped in his fingers, “Hold still.” He says with an audible metallic click. Eddie dares to look down but can’t quite see what’s happening until Steve raises his other hand, splays his fingers in a V-shape, pushes down on the material, and the small blade pushes through.

Panic sets in, and a new adrenaline wave surges through him. He should leave immediately. This was fucked up. The fact he had a knife on him this whole time was terrifying, regardless of how little damage it looked like it could do. As he takes a panicked gasp of breath, he looks up at Steve, who is almost chewing on his bottom lip, his heavy-lidded eyes focused on the metal, and he makes a sound of appreciation before rearranging his hands so that he can hold the material taught and pull the blade down. It slices through easily, the fabric falling open, exposing him as it glides down. Eddie’s still breathing hard, but his heart isn’t thumping so much with fear anymore as the knife cuts through the hem, and Steve retracts the blade and tosses it somewhere into the room. His fingers grip the top of the slit, roughly yanking it apart to rip open the collar with a grunt.

Eddie stays entirely still and simply observes Steve. He wishes he had his camera to hand, as it’s quite a sight to behold. He can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like this, not just lustfully, but like he was the most spectacular thing they’d ever seen. Steve’s large hands smooth over his skin and delicately push back the material. A yearnful noise emits from Steve like he can’t have what’s laid out in front of him as he presses into his skin, exploring it with his fingertips, his eyes trailing after them.

So Eddie reminds him that he can. He surges forward, capturing Steve in his arms, pulling him in tightly, pressing them together, and capturing his mouth with his own. It’s a mess of lips, groans and saliva topped with wandering mouths, causing careless, hurried nips of cuts and bruises. But the apologies are wordless. A hiss of too much from one is answered with a pleasurable pinch or caress elsewhere by the other.

Suddenly, Steve’s thighs clench hard around Eddie, and it doesn’t need explaining, but an excited smile sweeps across his face mid-kiss. He grips the back of his thighs and moves them up to wrap around his waist. Denim drags against denim, and he finds his arousal pressed up against something a lot plusher, and at the same time, Steve’s is now pressed into his abdomen, and he resolves these clothes have got to go now. He shuffles to the edge of the sofa, one arm holding their bodies together, the other draped under Steve’s legs, holding him up, simultaneously copping a feel of his ass.

And this must be where their experiences differ because Steve pulls back and looks unsure. Eddie smiles, “Better hold on to something, sweetheart.” He realises his mistake as soon as the pet name leaves his mouth, but he’s not gonna apologise awkwardly over words right now. He pushes himself up to standing, and Steve’s arms urgently wrap around his neck. Eddie checks in on him. Just a glance, he tells himself. Expects to see an almost comical face of panic, and he does for a second until he hears the thick swallow from Steve’s throat and watches his eyelashes bat slowly in a dazed blink at him.

Typically, Eddie knows he would have settled for the couch, but like he said, he wanted everything, and one of the things he wanted most right now was to see Steve an absolute mess under him.

He pushes adjoining doors open until he finds a bed. He stops at the edge of it, peels Steve’s arms from around his neck and unceremoniously lets him go so he lands on it with an oof and a bounce. Then Eddie’s hands quickly find his own belt buckle to finally get out of the remainder of his clothes. Steve doesn’t interrupt him. He just looks him up and down as he rests back on his elbows, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed, wetting his lips in anticipation.

He lets his jeans drop to the floor and kicks off his sneakers. As he bends down to remove his socks, he looks up and finds himself level with Steve’s knee, and his eyes trail up to his crotch, but from this angle, it’s easy enough for Steve’s eyes to capture him again and as he does Steve spreads his knees apart a little more and bites his lip temptingly.

That’s when Eddie acts out of sorts. Usually, he’d just let the other guy give him a show, but he reaches for Steve’s boot, unzips it and removes it for him, and the sock and the other set in turn. Like he’s saving him then trouble. Then clasps onto Steve’s calves, kneading into them through the denim as he works his way up over his knees until his hands glide over his upper leg. Steve’s mouth drops open a little with hope as he glances between Eddie and himself, but Eddie's nimble hands skirt around the place Steve wants him most to undo the fly of his jeans, but once he removes the belt and buckle from the equation he doesn’t find one. He sees where a zipper should be, something akin to the back of a laced corset. Metal eyelets with a black cord running crisscross through them. He tugs at one end, and the ties fall apart easily. His fingertips wander into the waistband of them. He anticipates feeling the fabric of some designer brand briefs, but he finds none. Only the softness of skin. Of course, he’s not wearing any underwear. Eddie almost laughs as he stands to get a better grip on removing his pants, but he’s interrupted.

Steve, obviously not happy about anything slowing down, has sat up, pushed Eddie’s hands out of the way and is currently mouthing at him through his underwear, and Eddie wants it not to feel this good, but it absolutely fucking does. He looks down to meet the hungry, longing eyes already looking up at him, planting eager kisses and licks over the material that is gradually getting soaked through. Steve’s chipped, black, polished fingertips crawl into the band of the Kirkland signature briefs. Eddie wonders for a second how much more expensive the nail polish is compared to them before nodding and Steve pulling down his underwear so he can finally spring free of its oppression.

Steve stops. He stares and goes a little cross-eyed before looking back up at Eddie and running his tongue over his bottom lip. This is different from how he wanted this to go exactly, but who is he to say no. Nobody says no to Steve Harrington, right?

He watches himself taken in ringed hand, fingertips running down his length are soon accompanied by the flat wet expanse of Steve’s tongue dragging up it until it’s rolling around the throbbing head of his cock, and as his lips finally wrap around him, he looks right back up at him again, Eddie has to look away. He puts his hands in his hair, lolling his head back and groans with delight. Not solely because of the fact he’s getting his dick sucked, not just because it’s someone famous, but because it felt like, finally, the tables had turned. Finally, he’s in charge.

Steve’s hands urge him closer, but Eddie plants his feet and steps back even. He looks back down to watch himself pump in and out of that pretty pink pout. and it’s so good, but he needs more. He cards his fingers through Steve’s hair, which gets his attention. Their eyes meet again, and this time, Eddie makes himself gaze back. His hand falls to the side of his face as his head bobs rhythmically. His thumb brushes over his cheek, his fingers cradle his wide-open jaw, and it feels like Steve leans into his palm. Eddie shakes his head quickly, moves his hand back into Steve’s hair, and holds onto it. And it brings the current events to a slower pace.

Steve opens his mouth wide, extends his tongue out, and laps at the underside of the head of his shaft in a sort of come hither motion with the tip of his tongue, but Eddie does something else. He grips more tightly onto his hair and drags Steve towards him and off the bed until he’s on his knees. Steve doesn’t complain. Smiles even, with his tongue still hanging out, desperate for its next taste.

With a firm grip, he tilts Steve’s head back a little so he can see his face as he tugs hard on his hair, pulling him towards him forcefully until he gags and pulls him back off again. Looks down at him and raises an eyebrow in question as Steve catches his breath. He smiles up at him and drops his mouth open again, letting his tongue hang to his chin. Eddie slowly drags him by his hair up and down, repeatedly, occasionally forcing Steve’s nose to be pressed hard into his thatch of curls and held there, choking, his throat squeezing around Eddie as he does before he’s forced off of it again. He lets Eddie wield him like a plaything. And soon, that’s not enough either. Eddie finds himself gripping the sides of Steve’s hair, observes the grey tear stains rolling down his face, the drool pooling at the corners of his mouth, and by the gods, Eddie wishes he had his camera right now. And he thinks about it, about pounding himself into Steve’s face until oblivion, until he’s spent, leaving Steve hard and unsatisfied, but he finds his hand trailing over his face again. Whatever he was trying to prove, he felt like he’d just done that. Now, he wants something else. He wants to hear Steve fall apart.

He cups Steve’s jaw gently, encourages him to stand, and once up, he wipes at his face a little. He wants to ask him if he’s ok, but he knows he shouldn’t. He smooths his hands down his back until Steve takes matters into his own hands. He swiftly turns them around, deeply kissing Eddie as he does so, walking him back towards the bed. He feels the back of it hit his knees and sits down as Steve finally frees himself of his pants but doesn’t give Eddie much of a show about it all. Before Eddie has even had a chance to perceive how perfect his dick might be, Steve has clambered onto the bed too. He crawls up Eddie until their mouths slot together again, as one of Steve’s hands presses against his chest, encouraging him further back until he hits the headboard.

He finds himself caged between Steve’s arms, pressed against one another without a safety barrier of fabric. Desperate kisses move south to become more languid and wet at his throat, which chills him when Steve intermittently huffs out a breath over the sites of desire as his hips roll down into his own, causing delicious friction between them.

Steve moves lower but scoops his arm behind Eddie’s back, arching his chest upwards to dip his head and trail his tongue, which he wields like a demon, over it. He mouths over his stiffened nipples as he finds them, kitten licks them, chances a drag of teeth over them, as his lower position has him slowly thrusting against Eddie’s thigh. With each roll of hips, Eddie watches him slowly coming undone. Controlled deliberate kisses turn into him sucking down on Eddie’s skin, placing fresh areas of burst blood vessels next to the less recent ones. Ones from pleasure next to ones from pain. Calculated nips at his torso become full bites that linger to quieten his moans as they seep under Eddie’s skin.

Whilst it’s thrilling to watch Steve fall from grace as he uses Eddie as a means to get there, and it feels fucking fantastic, he wants it to be him that does it. He wants it to be him that pushes Steve over the edge. Up until the fight earlier, he’d been entirely sure that this guy was as straight as they come, but from what Eddie had witnessed so far, that was absolutely not a possibility. He’s done this before. Maybe countless times. Maybe with other guys like Eddie? Maybe with guys more like himself who both have to keep it quiet? Something hideous squirms inside him unpleasantly at the thought.

He captures Steve’s chin on the knuckle of his index finger, lifts his head, and receives a dopey smile. Eddie hasn’t seen him take anything, yet he looks pretty out of it, “You ok?” He asks, even though he knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t want to be doing any of this with someone out of their gourd.

“Mmmhmmm,” he nods on the crook of Eddie’s finger and smiles lazily.

“Did you take something?” he asks plainly, scanning him for clues.

Steve shakes his head and crawls forward so their noses brush against one another, “The only thing I want right now is you,” his voice trembles as he leans in for another kiss. Eddie's stomach flips, which he can’t help feeling is very inappropriate.

That isn’t what this is, he reminds himself.

He pushes him back to break the kiss and runs his fingers over Steve’s lips, cuts and bruising included, before hooking two of his fingertips inside his bottom lip and gently pushing them further into Steve’s mouth. Eddie almost shudders at how obediently he opens his mouth wider with a nudge of his hand. He doesn’t even have to ask. He adds fingers, letting Steve suck down on them until he feels it’s enough.

He lowers his saliva-soaked hand between them and reaches for Steve first. Rolls his palm over the head before sliding his fingers easily down the shaft until he has him in his grip. At first, his strokes are slow and soft, not for Steve but for himself. He watches Steve’s eyes close, his breathing deepens and shudders, still on all fours hovering over Eddie, his fists clenched against the bedding, as his head drops forward against Eddie’s shoulder. He quickens his pace and tightens his grip until Steve is just a series of cut-off guttural noises in his ear. Then he lets go, takes himself in hand, and lazily moves his hand up and down. Their proximity means that the back of his fingers occasionally bump against Steve’s shaft. Maybe sometimes he stretches his fingers out so the contact is for longer, just so he can hear those whimpers in his ear again that are swirling around his head, disorienting him from his goal. He hadn’t realised how much faster he’d gotten, like Steve’s delicate whispered exhales reverberating through him were speeding him up. Soon enough, he finds his own moans intertwining with Steve’s.

“Fuck, you sound good.” Steve manages, and his first instinct is to quicken his pace further, let Steve’s voice ring in his ears as he succumbs to pleasure himself, but somehow he resists. Turning his attention and hand back to Steve, and the gasp in his ear, he’s sure he’ll be able to recall until the day he dies because his name is whispered out immediately after.

He must have heard Steve’s voice in his ear hundreds of times before, listening to his music and interviews before everything went wrong. He remembers how thrilling it had been to hear his whispers on record or the bits a live recording would catch before and after a song, and now Eddie was collecting his own, all just for himself, never to be released or shared with anyone else.

From the corner of his eye, he notices Steve’s arm shaking, the one Eddie had to beat his way free from. He sits up a little, taking the weight from his arm upon himself, and maybe it’s an act of compassion too far. Perhaps he should have waited until he’d collapsed because he feels his eyes on him again. He can’t help but glance, and he’s greeted with a snapshot of brutalised perfection. His lips, cheek, and one eye are swollen and reddening, but his jawline is still perfectly angular, the beauty marks still decorate his skin, his long lashes flatten out against his cheek when he blinks dumbfounded, maybe even a little surprised, mouth dropped open letting stuttering breaths pass freely. Eddie takes a mental snapshot. A pang of fleeting guilt runs through him, but entirely by chance, it’s interrupted.

Steve’s hands quickly reach out to clumsily hold Eddie’s face. His palms on his cheeks almost squeeze a little too hard, pulling him towards him, but the fingertips in his hair, caressing his scalp and the lips that ravenously meet his, make him forget to breathe.

The sea of sin Eddie had been cannonballing into and happily disrupting the surface of suddenly didn’t feel like his safe space anymore. Occasionally a shadowy something below the surface reaches out. Threatens to drag Eddie down with it. He wonders how long he’ll have the strength to escape its grasp.

Eddie adjusts his position a little, doesn’t pull away from Steve, gets closer so he can take them both in hand, slides his hand over them both, takes his time, and thumbs over the top of them for any droplets of added lubrication he can find. The moans passing into his mouth grow louder. He opens his eyes to see Steve’s brow knitted together, his eyes no longer softly closed but screwed shut. Eddie moves faster, and Steve pulls back. A string of curses leave his mouth, “Shitshitshitshit.” He quickly moves out of Eddie’s grip with a hiss, “Fuck!”

“Something…wrong?” Eddie teases a little. Steve shakes his head, looks down at himself, wipes his hand over his face, and laughs a little. “If you wanna stop, put your big boy pants on and say so, Harrington.”

Steve’s smile fades, and his mood switches. “I never fucking said that. If you…” he starts, and whatever was about to leave his mouth makes him cower back down, “I-I didn’t say that, that’s all.”

Eddie can’t guess what he wants to say but wants to know, “My mistake.” He offers, and Steve looks up at him again, hopefully. Eddie hops off the bed and retrieves the wallet from his jeans. On return, he props himself up with pillows, tips out a bunch of lube sachets and condoms from his wallet and then tosses it onto the floor somewhere.

Eddie tears open a lube sachet with his teeth and squeezes it over his cock and hand. The cold sting of it makes him bite down on his lip to hold in a reactionary noise. He hitches up his knees and makes eye contact with Steve as he pleasures himself. The slick glide soon has him breathing more heavily, and like a moth to a flame, Steve is soon stalking his way back up the bed, looking between Eddie’s face and his display. Eddie stills his hand, sighs, and looks expectantly at Steve, “If I what?”

“If you…” Steve starts, and Eddie starts pumping his fist again. “If you hadn’t got laid in this long” He catches on pretty quickly as Eddie quickens his pace, lets his growling moans out freely, and watches how it makes Steve’s dick twitch when he does. Maybe he over-performs a few to wind Steve up further. He then exhales slowly as he squeezes the base of his shaft and stops again.

“What are you just playing Yahtzee with your friends in your playroom, Harrington? Is that it?” Eddie chuckles, and Steve looks a little conflicted.

Steve takes a hard swallow of what must be his pride and talks directly to Eddie’s glistening dick, “I might as well have been,” he starts, and so does Eddie, “I haven’t been able to, um, you know” Eddie pumps himself faster, trying to make the most lurid noises with the lube and an occasional exhale of a moan from his mouth. Steve is silent, quietly inching his hand towards himself. Eddie slows again, raises an eyebrow at Steve when he looks at his face, “Fuck, I mean, I thought it was gone for a year or something. Until…well, tonight.”

And now many pieces are slotting into place for Eddie, why he’s so desperate and needy. Letting Eddie use him, why he pulled away, he doesn’t know if this is a one-off or not, and not just with him but his own body too. He wants the works, and though Eddie really shouldn’t have any pity for him, he feels a spark of it.

“Lie back,” Eddie says, and Steve double-takes.

“What?” He frowns.

“Don’t what me, asshole. Come up here, and lie fucking back, Steve!” Eddie performatively snarls, and he sees the corner of Steve’s mouth twitch up as he ungracefully hurries to obey.

He straddles Steve’s thighs, pinching them closed between his own and transfers most of the lube still on his hand onto Steve’s thigh ungraciously. Nothing too exciting for him right now, not yet.

He leans over him, careful not to create too much friction between them. Brackets Steve's broader shoulders with his arms and returns to how they started. Urgent kisses, wandering hands, teasing tongues. Walks a series of gentle bites along his jaw, licks at his throat, and sucks down onto his skin, leaving his mark as he travels down, making a kiss or lurid lick pitstop at every beauty mark and tattoo he finds. Pulls gently at the nipple piercings with his teeth and soothes over them after with the wetness of his tongue. Traces over every muscle dip until he gets to those hip bones he’d promised himself earlier. Steve writhes like the reptile he is under him as he mouths over them. Eddie might be getting a little too into it and reaches down to give himself some much-needed touch before moving down further, resting his chin on Steve’s thigh and looking up at the dewy-eyed, breathless creature above him.

Eddie observes him and waits for his attention before blowing gently on the moistened tip of Steve’s dick. He watches Steve’s craned neck release and throws his head back into the pillows, “Jesus!” he breathes into the air above him.

Eddie waits a little while until his breathing slows before hitching up Steve’s knees and separating them so he can lie between them. He trails a mixture of wet kisses and teeth drags along the inside of his thighs, watching his body constantly, ensuring it’s enough to keep him in that sweet spot but never too much.

He tests a slow trail of kisses along his solid shaft, which, on closer inspection, as Eddie had predicted, was indeed as perfect as the rest of him. It would almost be annoying if Eddie wasn’t having such a good time.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Steve moans as his hands grip onto the bedding. Eddie smiles. This is what he’s after, keeping him right here until Eddie decides to push him across the line. He wets his lips and pushes himself onto his elbows, admiring the gift before him as Steve settles down again. Then, he licks a fat stripe with the flat of his tongue from base to tip, and Steve jolts. He flicks the tip of his tongue along the slit to collect what is pooling in it and watches Steve’s back arch off the bed. Gods, Eddie wishes he hadn’t done that. He tastes delicious. So fucking good, Eddie is trying to spread the tiny droplet around his tongue so he can savour every aspect of it, and that makes Eddie lose sight of what he’s supposed to be doing. His hand rushes down to fuck into his own fist as he takes Steve wholly into his mouth until the tip of it threatens his throat. He just about hears Steve’s broken-off ahs and chanting of his name over his own guttural moans caused by hollowing out his cheeks and letting his tongue massage the underside of the throbbing cock in his mouth. Strong hands grip his shoulders, pull him out of his trance, and he releases him with an audible pop.

Steve’s chest and face are sweetly flushed as he’s gasping for air, and then the knitted brow falls into a content expression once he’s calmed again.

Eddie reaches over him to grab a few more lube sachets and a condom, but as he does, Steve desperately grabs at him again, pulling him in for another kiss, and Eddie isn’t sure it’s because he’s so damn close himself, but it makes his head spin, almost drops what’s in his hands. It’s not a hard, rough kiss like before, but it has passion and want all the same.

“Turn over,” Eddie says gently as he encourages him back down to the bed. Steve stalls for a second. Eddie figures he’s misheard, “Turn. Over.” he repeats softly, and this time he meets the request, “Just so I’m clear, this past year, you haven’t fucked anyone but has anyone fucked you?”

“No,” he answers quickly, though the pillows slightly muffle it, and Eddie has to bite his lips together to not whimper with anticipation as he sits behind Steve, rips open another packet of lube, and observes this new angle. The huge wolf tattoo he’s seen plenty of times, and the text stamped at the base of his spine he’d seen twice before partially, but now Wild Thing had an entirely different meaning.

Sachet, still hanging out his mouth, Eddie has an idea. He wraps an arm around Steve’s waist and pulls him onto his knees so his peach of an ass is raised in the air. He runs his hands up Steve’s back and out to the sides so he can hold his arms. Trails his fingers down them until he has hold of Steve’s hands and brings them around so he can spread himself for him, and he wordlessly obeys as Eddie takes off his rings.

He generously applies the lubricant to Steve and himself, secretly relishing in every exclamation or body spasm from the man before him.

He touches the pink puckered flesh, circles it gently, listens for the melody of moans he’s conducting and feels infinitely harder with each one. Waits for that magic moment when Steve backs up towards him, eager for it. Eddie pushes his finger inside and holds it still for a while as Steve’s body tenses, accompanied by a hiss until he finally relaxes. Relaxes might be a strong word because the way he’s clamped around Eddie’s finger makes him wonder if this would be possible at all.

Steve pushes back again, taking him deeper, and honestly, Eddie is impressed with how keen he is but does a quick glance of a check anyway. Steve’s face is side on, pushed into the pillows, panting heavily. He thinks maybe it’s enough. He’s had his fun, he’s already a mess, but Steve catches him looking, “What’s the holdup, stud?” he mumbles out, pushes back again, and that pisses Eddie off. Fine. He was just trying to be courteous, being fond of switching it up himself. He knows how it feels on the other side of things, but fuck it, right? Steve doesn’t give a shit.

Eddie does, however, and he’s not letting this debauched freak drag him down to something he’d regret. So he continues loosening Steve up, sometimes, to be spiteful, excruciatingly slowly, delighting between the switching Steve’s whines of frustration and groans of ecstasy as his fingertips meet the spot he knows is making him see stars.

When he’s primed to Eddie’s satisfaction and squirming in the hotel’s bright white sheets, a pathetic begging mess of a man, Eddie reaches around and quickly gives him a few firm strokes, making him huff out into the pillows. Eddie returns his fingers to his mouth for another taste, like an amuse-bouche before the main event.

He taps the sheathed head of himself at the tight entrance, pushing Steve’s hands away, and amuses himself by sliding over it a few times because it feels exquisite and drives Steve insane. He waits like a predator stalking his prey, waiting for Steve’s frustration to reach its peak. He waits for Steve to turn around with a frown, pushes the tip of himself inside as they lock eyes, wipes the scowl right off of it, and takes his breath away.

Eddie would love to smugly smile back, but he’s gripping Steve’s sides for dear life. Jesus Christ, he was tight. He stays perfectly still. Which alone is making him start to sweat. He pushes himself deeper. Another x-rated groan from Steve and clenching around him almost has him retreating entirely. A strange jealousy sweeps over Eddie. All those noises from Steve were supposed to be his. He wraps his arms around Steve’s torso, coaxing his back to press to Eddie’s chest. Steve almost panics when he realises his weight might slide him down quicker than he wants, but Eddie holds him tightly until he’s found a comfortable squat, “There you go, sweetheart, take your time,” he croons slyly in his ear.

And Eddie expects this evident pain slut to impale himself on his dick, but that isn’t what happens. His arms that are wrapped around his torso are mapped over by Steve’s, their fingers become intertwined, and as he turns so, they are face to face again. The grey streaks of eyeliner-saturated tears and tenderness take Eddie entirely off guard and snap him out of his attempted cruelty. He couldn’t figure this guy out at all.

This close, he can see that no photograph would do his eye colour justice, not without editing, and where is the reality in that. Eddie gets lost in the pigments, getting bullied to the edges of his iris by his dilated pupil or looking at the beauty marks on his face that aren’t hidden by the blemishes he caused.

Before he can say something clever or push him away, he finds his bottom lip trapped between Steve’s teeth. He pulls and drags his teeth over it as he sinks down a little more. It’s released when a groan threatens to escape Steve, which Eddie swallows down in a kiss and feels the fingers intertwined with his squeeze tightly.

Eddie senses the danger now, but it happens in fits and starts because, in between the warning signs, his pleasure centres are blocking out any logical functions. Eddie knows he’s treading water, the shadowy thing licking at his heels, making its presence known but never quite revealing until it disappears again. He wonders if Steve feels it, too. If he feels like there isn’t just hate and lust here. He hopes to any deity listening that it is simply his hormones talking nonsense. That he’s merely just in the heat of the moment.

Steve pushes down again, and Eddie is in to the hilt. He’s clenched around him tightly and overwhelmed by sensation, and Eddie gives in. He softly sighs into another kiss and almost forgets why he’s doing any of this in the first place. Almost. It’s the roll of Steve’s hips and the whimper of “Fuck Eddie. You feel so fuckin’ good.” That pulls Eddie entirely out of his trance, reminding him of the aim here,

“Good.” he purrs in his ear before untangling their hands and pushing him back down to the bed.

Initially, the pace is slow, deep and deliberate as his fingers grip tightly onto Steve’s hips, and Eddie is just enjoying watching himself disappear inside him when Steve decides to say something stupid.

“Is this how you fucked that guy at the hotel?”

And in that one question, everything comes flooding back to Eddie again. The reason he’d stayed at the hotel, the reason he had to come crawling back to work with Harrington, everything he’d lost.

With an absence of a reply, he tried to jog Eddie’s memory, “The one that looked like I used to?” As if implying that Eddie fucks so many people in hotels he’d not know which one he was talking about. It makes Eddie's lip twitch into a discrete sneer.

“No, but I probably should, shouldn’t I? Treat all you sluts the same, right?” Harrington’s body tenses under his touch as he pushes him around, making him arch more and his legs spread wider. He grabs his wrists and pulls them behind his back, landing him face-first into the bed again. Eddie tugs on his wrists, pulling him into a stretch almost. He starts thrusting again much faster this time, enough to make Harrington’s groans waver with each one, “He was beautiful, wasn’t he? Actually had some meat on his bones, something to really dig my teeth into. Something that I thought about for days later, and thank the gods for you bringing him up now, Harrington, because I get to think about him all over again whilst I fuck you wide open.” Eddie goes for broke and wants to make Harrington feel like dirt, like nothing, that he's lost it all in this moment.

Eddie sets a relentless pace. There is no talking now, just the sound of skin on skin, an occasional curse word from Eddie and Harrington’s muffled groans as he bites down on a pillow. With every noise, he fucks into him harder to shut him up until he’s just a set of stunted breaths, and Eddie becomes a sweaty grunting mess.

Harrington’s noises go up an octave as Eddie lets go of his arms and adjusts his position. And soon Eddie, hearing his name chanted again in a mixture of curse words and blasphemy, knows he’s got him where he wants him.

“My god, Eddie, fuck,” Harrington babbles. “I’m so close, Eddie, please” And fuck does he think about stopping right there, but he’s achingly close himself. Only a staring competition between this fucking giant wolf on Harrington’s back was helping.

Eddie spits in his hand, reaches around to spread it over Harrington’s length, and takes one of Steve’s hands and places it there, “Go ahead, Harrington, make a mess of yourself,” Eddie says with a slight mockery in his voice.

Harrington doesn’t need telling twice. Eddie watches his arm move in time with his thrusts and with a screwed-up face and a strained “Jesus. Fuck” Harrington spills with a loud exhale, and Eddie slows to a stop and pulls out as Harrington’s body stutters before it goes limp. He’s desperately near cumming himself, but he wants the full view. He rolls Harrington over so he’s lying in his own cum, picks up some on his fingertips and decorates Harrington’s lips with it whilst he’s trying to catch his breath. He then repositions himself between his legs and hooks them over his shoulders.

Harrington looks down but can’t form a response. He just slams his head back into the pillows behind him in blissed-out exhaustion. Eddie reinserts himself easily and leans right forward, bringing Harrington’s knees nearly up to his shoulders and leans down to messily lick over his lips as he rears his hips back only to slam them back down, a guttural winded noise leaves Harrington, and Eddie grins, looking down at this picture perfect fucked out freak underneath him.

Eddie wedges a hand between them and runs his fingers over his length to see if he’s got anything left or just to overstimulate him. He gets the latter, some amiable noises, turning into things on the edge of expressing pain, but he’s not doing a single thing about it. He slams into him again, and this time, the gasp comes with a sigh of enjoyment. Eddie continues to pick up the pace as he watches Harrington’s face contort underneath him.

And Eddie starts to lose himself. He closes his eyes as they roll backwards at the pleasure he’s feeling course through his body. He whimpers and moans, curses the gods, curses Harrington. The sweat is dripping from him as he closes in on the finish line. Steve’s hands on his face make him finally open his eyes. He’s brushing the curls and sweat from his face between huffed-out noises from Eddie’s jackhammering.

“You’re so fucking, hot, Eddie,” Steve sighs out as one of his hands reaches in between them. Finds Eddie’s hand to jerk off Steve together. “Are you gonna cum for me?” He manages before his brows push together, and he moans loud and long. In his pre-climax state, Eddie leans forward to capture his sounds for his own.

“Mine.” He growls through gritted teeth as his hips rut faster into Steve.

Steve’s unoccupied hand cradles his jaw, “Yours,” he whimpers out, and Eddie’s insides, already buzzing with adrenaline and imminent climax, completely somersault. “That’s it baby, cum for me.” he urges Eddie on, and stupefied by hormones and sensations, Eddie wholeheartedly agrees.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard for you, sweetheart,” Eddie pushes through his teeth.

And that has Steve in a real mess, his arm moving much faster. Eddie watches him babble incoherent things, his eyelids flutter, and tears spill out as he cums again between them.

This was everything Eddie wanted. He had finally broken Steve Harrington, maybe not in all the ways he wanted, but certainly in an unforgettable way.

As Eddie's most satisfying climax is seconds away, a broken Steve paints Eddie’s lips with his cum covered fingers, “Mine,” he hiccups as the tears spill out of his eyes, and he reaches up for a kiss as Eddie's hips stutter against him and he careers off the edge into complete euphoria.

As Eddie slowly comes down, he finds himself repositioned, held in Steve’s arms, fully collapsed against him, slow kisses being gently applied all over his lips and a hand in his hair.

Still catching his breath, Eddie raises his eyes to his. With their chests heaving, for some reason, they both laugh, and Eddie sees a side of Steve he’s not encountered before that maybe he’s seen glimmers of. When he laughs, he holds on to himself, and his eyes almost completely disappear from view because the apples of his cheeks are pushed up so high, even though there isn’t much to them these days. There is only silence or the sounds of their breathing for a while.

Eddie finds himself back where this started, staring at another ornate ceiling. His heart still thudding in his chest, he chances another glance over at Steve, only to look away quickly because he was already being observed. Steve’s hand gently plays with his hair, “We should probably clean up before they get here. Make it just look like a fight.” Steve’s voice is quiet and rough, but Eddie thinks he can hear a little sadness, too.

“Before who get here?” Eddie asks in confusion.

“Whoever the label sends when they get wind of this.” He sighs, “Damage control. To make sure you aren’t gonna leak anything. To remind me to behave myself, maybe teach me a lesson,” Steve pats him, sits up, takes the condom off Eddie, ties it up, and then starts gathering the wrappers before heading to the bathroom. Eddie hears a flush before he returns, “Come on, get up,” he says kindly with a smile, “gotta get this in the laundry shoot asap.”

Eddie can see him favouring one arm over the other as he tries to gather up the bedding. He winces occasionally but makes no sound of pain. He just tries to bundle everything up as Eddie watches the melancholy work its way over him. The Harrington of it all makes Steve disappear again. “Here, let me do that,” Eddie pretends to be annoyed as he bumps Steve out of the way to take over, “Goddamn rockstars got no clue about chores, obviously” he bundles everything up in his arms, “Where is it going?” Eddie looks at him like it’s the biggest inconvenience in the world, but Steve just stares for a second before silently pointing him to the private shute. Eddie heads towards it, calling back, “Let me know when you're done in the shower.” as he shoves the material down.

But the reply is closer than he expects, “You can wait if you want, but there’s room for two,” Steve says, looking between Eddie and random objects around the room. Steve swallows, “Or you know more? I’m pretty sure I’ve had four or five in there at a squeeze before,” with that, he walks away, saying, “You know, saving the planet, Eddie, not wasting water or whatever.”

He’s frozen in deliberations with himself, can feel that shadowy thing lurking closer now, and senses the danger of where his endorphins are taking him, but he’s also curious about Steve’s behaviour now. Was he afraid of the label?

Eddie resolves to take a chance. If what he said was true, this could be their last few minutes or hours together, the final opportunity for information for his book. He quickly shoves the material down and ensures it has not got stuck on the way. And follows the sound of running water.

He eventually finds the lavish bathroom. For a moment, he is confused that he can’t see a shower but can hear one until he realises another part of the room is around the corner. He pokes his head around, and the sight that meets his eyes is not what he expects. Steve's forearms and fists against the wall, his forehead pressed against the tiles, and his body slightly hunched over as it shakes like he’s sobbing. Eddie retreats quickly and thinks about leaving entirely. Was it because of what he’d done? Fuck he’d wanted to get revenge so badly he’d forgotten there was a human inside. What had his anger led him to become? Another bully, another vile person in a despicable place.

Eddie swallows down his emotions and resolves this was enough, he’d gotten something, which wasn’t everything but better than nothing, and maybe if he could fix this with the label, he’d get his career on the up again. He nods at no one and steels himself, “Steve, are you in here?”

“Y-yeah,” Steve replies, and Eddie gives him a few seconds to compose himself before strolling in like he’d seen nothing, putting on a show, looking around the area and whistling.

“Wow, this is truly fancy, huh?” He smiles, and Steve mirrors it as best he can and pushes open the door for him.

“This is the presidential suite.” Steve jokes and that’s the last thing said between them. They shower in silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Steve occasionally hands him a bottle of product. He doesn’t look at him when he does; he just holds it in his eyeline to take. Eddie notices the hair products are specifically for curls.

Steve gets out, towels himself, and sits in the chaise lounge. Eddie goes to grab a towel from the pile, but before he can, Steve hands him one from a rack, and it’s warm to the touch.

As Eddie dries off, he can see Steve examining the aftermath in the mirror. Poking at his face and body, wincing occasionally. Eddie joins him in the reflection.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. I lost it,” Eddie tries.

“I deserved it,” he says back simply before checking over his teeth, which makes Eddie feel terrible. He looks at the floor and goes to leave, “I started it on purpose, Eddie. You tried to walk away.” Steve says as he continues to look in the mirror.

“Yeah, well, I should have just kept walking, shouldn’t I?” Eddie says solemnly.

“I wasn’t gonna let you walk out of there without hitting me.” He says, running a comb through his hair, which he hands to Eddie as he catches up to him.

Eddie plays with the comb between his fingers and leans against the hallway wall, “Do they do this often?” Eddie asks.

“Who? Do what?” Steve asks, a little confused.

“The label about people you spend time with,” Eddie says vaguely, not looking up from the comb teeth he’s running his thumb over.

He hears Steve sigh, “Look, as you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m not as straight as I’m portrayed, ok? They want me to stay that way. That’s what keeps me making money. If I were to come out, it would ruin the whole thing. So no, they don’t normally do this because I don’t normally do this. Buckley usually keeps me in line, not because she wants to, but because I ask her to,” he pauses, “and sometimes I ask her to turn a blind eye, when we’re away, when there are fewer company spies, but usually, that’s for five minutes or so, at some no coverage allowed party, you know?”

“Why don’t you just tell them to fuck off? You’ve got more money than you could possibly know what to do with.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just me, Eddie. It’s Buckley, Denise in PR, Fred in merch, and Gina in finance. Harrington isn’t just me. It’s a machine, and I’m just one cog everyone can see,” Steve says, “also, money can’t buy everything, or so I’ve found. Sometimes you gotta be in with the right people too.”

“Steve, you paid nearly a million to work with me. You’re telling me there is something millions of dollars can’t buy?” Eddie folds his arms and almost laughs.

“Do you, maybe, wanna stay over?” Steve asks, ignoring the question.

Eddie is surprised. Isn’t that what people typically say before sex rather than after? Was this guy insatiable? Did he want another round? No, he’s just made sure the evidence was gone.

“You haven’t gotta, I just thought maybe….I dunno. I guess I just don’t know what’s gonna happen, is all, and punches and fucking aside. I kinda like your company and, uh, though this isn’t your responsibility, I don’t really like waking up on my own. I mean, I could get Buckley to call someone in, but, um, they might ask questions,” Steve gestures to himself.

Eddie looks up at him, but he’s looking down and toeing at the carpet. Eddie huffs out a laugh, “Guess it beats walking past Buckley on my own right now.”

Steve raises his head, and there is a twitch of a smile, “Thanks,” he says as he disappears for a minute or two, leaving Eddie with his thoughts, before returning fully dressed, holding Eddie’s clothes and wallet. He takes the cut-up T-shirt, returns to the lounge area, and starts planning his crime scene as Eddie puts his underwear back on. He starts placing glasses and leaving drops of alcohol in them, spilling a little on the carpet and doesn’t tidy up any items cast on the floor. Partially fills two glasses and carries them through to bedroom further down the hall. He places a drink on each bedside table and hands Eddie a fresh T-shirt from his own clothes.

“You're gonna have to put it all back on, so it doesn’t look…well…gay?” And Steve bursts out laughing at that, and Eddie joins him. The bed is enormous, so there is no need to be close. They take a side each.

The lights go out, and it’s still and quiet again.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” Steve says.

“Goodnight, Steve,” Eddie says as he closes his eyes for sleep to take him.

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Songs that inspired this chapter: Touch Me I’m Sick - Mudhoney, Low - Foo Fighters, Closer - NIN, Last - NIN

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #rockstar!Steve Harrington #rockstar!SteveHarrington #photographer!Eddie Munson #photographer!EddieMunson #steddie au #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #fanfiction #steddie fanfiction #steddie fan fiction #madaboutmunsonITICHBS #madaboutmunson #enemies to lovers #alternate universe

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madaboutmunson · 3 months

Text

Let me hear you speaking just for me - Part B

This was a pretty long chapter so I've split it in two just for ease of reading :)

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 7b

Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Eddie gets the chance to interview Steve for his book.

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only.

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip; stobin; platonic stobin; platonic with a capital P;

Word Count: 6.2K

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“Is that what your book is gonna be about?” He asks, sitting back in his chair. Eddie fusses nervously with his notepad and looks down at the blank page. Now, he’s been asked outright about the book's subject. It almost feels a little vulnerable.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been collecting pictures of artists, and I ask them all the same question, and the intention is to show a truth through words and the photographs,” Eddie looks up to find he has Harrington’s undivided attention, and that also feels a little strange, unnerving but not totally unpleasant. The admission of that in itself was weird, “Money and fame are great motivators, but not like music, right? People still make music even when those other things are no longer around. So I figured it would be interesting to see how artists felt about it at all different levels of fame.” Harrington tilts his head but says nothing, and Eddie feels like the quiet and his stare are pulling the words out of him, “So you are a huge star, right? Like, a household name, so you’d be in there, but then I also have my Uncle in there who has only ever played at an open-mic night once because I was too nervous about getting up there on my own when I was a kid. He has, like, zero interest in music being anything other than a source of enjoyment for himself. Even if he is pretty damn good, actually.” Eddie smiles fondly at the W on the inside of his wrist and brushes his thumb over it.

“Can I think about it a little while?” Harrington asks with his eyebrows slightly pushed together, and Eddie realises he’s said too much, but he would have expected Harrington to mock him for it, not whatever this was.

“Yeah, sure, uh, maybe we could, um…” Eddie looks at his other questions that lead on from that one. Most people just say music is everything to them and gush about their favourite band or the first time they heard a particular song or their first gig. Harrington's ringed hand waves near his face before he can decide the next course of action.

“Thought I’d lost ya there,” he chuckles, “Tell me to shut up if you need to, but I think I could offer some pointers if you want?” He holds up his hands in submission, “But I don’t wanna tread on your toes,” Harrington looks up into his eyes with a smile, “I just really wanna help you out, Eddie. In any way I can, you know?” his head tilts to the other side as he pours himself back into his seat, spreading his knees further apart.

Eddie does not want to admit defeat on his project, and it didn't seem like Harrington was trying to sabotage it with his delay in answering the question. It felt almost like he wanted to consider it more carefully, which was unexpectedly kind of him. But, the realist in Eddie knows that if he gets off this plane without the answer, he might never get the chance once they touch down. Logically, he recognises Harrington does these things all the time. He knows how these things go, “You know what, sure. Why not?” Eddie smiles with a light laugh. In for a penny, in for a pound, he figures.

“Good. That's good,” Harrington praises, which also feels strange to Eddie. He didn't want this guy’s approval, right? Did he? No, that's ridiculous. “So tell me, Eddie, how many of these books do you wanna sell?”

“What? Like a number?” Eddie asks, a little confused.

“Just a kinda idea, that's all. So I know what you’ll need, in respect to my fans anyway,” Harrington says, putting down his drink and turning back to Eddie, “That's why you want me in the book, right? So, my fan base buys it? You don't give the impression of being an avid fan of mine,” He adds with a smirk, and that gives Eddie the distinct impression he’s aware that this whole contract was essentially a mutual use of one another.

“I want to sell as many as I can, and yes, shamefully, appealing to your fan base is part of that,” Eddie says with a small smile.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. It's just business,” Harrington smiles at him and looks around the small area, “Bring your camera,” he says as he gets out of his seat and moves to one of the plainer parts of the section, “Easier to edit out if it's less busy I figured,” Harrington says as he observes the light on his hand and seems to try and find an acceptable place to stand before untucking his shirt.

“Hey! Wait, whoa, what are you doing?” Eddie blurts out, nearly dropping his equipment in a sort of panic. Why was he getting undressed? This was not that kind of book.

Harrington laughs, “Just take the pictures, would ya?” He turns around, his back to Eddie. He pulls the shirt up and ducks his head, revealing a substantial menacing wolf tattoo and cute text stamp of ‘Wild Thing’ on his lower back and the ribcage heart on his arm.

Eddie obliges and takes numerous shots as Harrington slightly repositions himself and the shirt to make it look as though he’s been caught in the middle of undressing. It felt very much like a voyeur shot, especially when he ducks his head to hide his face.

Eddie’s alarmed reaction causes the curtain to flick open and Jesse’s head to pop out, but he only glances at Eddie to assess the situation and then sends his gaze and smirk towards Harrington’s exposed torso.

“Hey,” Eddie pretty much barked at Jesse, “consider this a closed set. He’s half undressed,” and whilst Eddie knows that is said mainly out of jealousy, he would do the same for anyone he was in a shoot with. It’s always felt like his responsibility as a photographer to keep his subjects feeling safe so they could open up to the camera.

“Easy there, big dog,” Harrington laughs, “Maybe if he’s gonna gawk, he can make himself useful.” Harrington removes the top entirely and throws it at a giggling Jesse, who fumbles to catch it.

Harrington stands one hand on his hip, the other beckoning to Eddie, “Dude, my ego isn’t gonna withstand it if you don’t get that lens back on me.”

This isn’t a side of Harrington Eddie had expected to see, acknowledging his persona, playful, knows his craft and public. Though loathe to admit it, he didn’t mind this peek into his other aspects.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, looking between them, “It's just habit. Protecting my models, I mean.”

Harrington’s eyes widen briefly, “Well, I wasn’t expecting that kind of forcefulness from you, but from our last meeting, there was a hint that you could be a bit of a spitfire,” he smirks mischievously and then tilts his head and plunges his hands into his back pockets, “I’m ok though, more than used to it. No harm in having fun when doing these things unless that would interfere with your process?” Eddie observes him, and he’s almost softer somehow. He’s pliant with what Eddie wants to achieve, and honestly, he didn’t look bad doing it in a certain light. Eddie brushes that off again. He didn’t like Harrington, not like that. It was just another model body. Eddie adjusted the camera settings, focusing on the wolf tattoo as Harrington turned around again. "That ink's impressive. Gotta story behind it?"

“Oh, you know, typical rebellion, my body is my own, I’m a lone wolf, bullshit,” Harrington answered lazily, striking a few poses as Eddie snapped away.

Eddie chuckles, “Lone wolf? Are you ever truly alone? I can’t imagine that you are.”

Harrington laughs, “Oh, brace yourself for the cringiest truth,” he looked back over his shoulder at Eddie, “It’s possible to feel entirely alone with a room full of people,” he turned around and shrugged, “Sounds stupid. I know.”

Eddie knew that feeling only too well in the fallout of his failing business. He’d felt very much like that. People just didn’t get him or wouldn’t listen, so he felt incredibly alone and cut off whilst still going through the motions of being there.

He feels a slight tug on his sympathy. Two men, two very different paths, both ended up feeling exactly the same for a time. He hears his Dad’s voice in his head calling him a pushover, but he’d rather be a pushover any day of the week than what he became for a time.

“Everything ok, Eddie?” Harrington asks with what sounds like genuine concern, and Eddie nods with a crooked smile, “Good, thought I’d lost you for a second there,” Harrington smiled at him, and it looked concerned and laced with something Eddie couldn’t quite figure out.

“What about your other tattoos?” Eddie tries to shift the conversation back to something safe.

Harrington turns around and poses for Eddie to capture the few tattoos on his body. For the most part, it turned out the tattoos were essentially meaningless other than Harrington was claiming back a bit of himself with each one. It’s not a big deal now, but for a time in product advertising or acting roles, tattoos were generally not welcomed. So, with every tattoo he went out and got for himself, it was a piece of Harrington they couldn’t sell that he could keep covered up.

Eddie couldn’t imagine being treated like that. Like a piece of land, a show pony, or a billboard. Harrington assures him that most artists go through it at some point when the people who funded them want to reap the harvest. With Harrington, who’d been lucky enough to have been brought up around money and got some pretty pricey people to look over his contract, he wasn’t as over a barrel as most eager wide-eyed artists are money-wise, but not even that could help with paying back what he owed, and the louder Harrington was about supporting specific causes, which he saw as human rights, the sooner they wanted to be paid back.

It started with the text on his lower back that reads ‘Wild Thing.’ at the time, he was trying to make a statement. Now, it just makes him laugh.

The Slayer tattoo on his lower abdomen was another joke. He’d been touted in the papers as some kind of playboy whose dick put women under some sort of obsessive spell. It was total bullshit. He wasn’t dating any more people than the average person his age, and one at a time, but the paparazzi and gossip columns kept screwing things up for him, so his romances were short-lived. He walked into a tattoo shop, saw the word Slayer and decided that was the tattoo for him. Even though he had no clue who the band was.

Many years later, that did bite him in the ass pretty hard, though, once tattoos became a little more embraced, they started appearing in his pictures. His fans caught wind of it, thought it was a band Harrington liked, found out about the band and although very popular as they were on the metal scene, it brought the band into the mainstream again for a year or two, by a pocket of his fans getting into them too. So, in the midst of this, Slayer invited him to play with them. This began a month-long crash course of all things Slayer for Harrington, and he actually became a fan.

“No way, man!” Eddie gasped, completely amazed. “I can’t believe you got to play with one of my favourite bands!”

Some refilled drinks had appeared, but Eddie had hardly noticed them being topped up after they’d sat down and Harrington had gotten dressed again.

“Hey, if we get these projects tied up nicely, I’d gladly give their people a call for you. They’re real awesome guys,” Harrington beams at him.

The heart-shaped rib cage on his arm was something again he rolled his eyes at. When Eddie pushed, he simply said, “Matters of the heart aren’t always as soft and pliant as we might have been taught.”

The last tattoo on the list is the heart gramophone in the centre of his chest. “What about that one? That has to be the most unusual out of the lot,” Eddie points the end of his pencil toward the centre of Harrington's chest, where he can just make out the tattoo through the sheer shirt. Harrington smiles, and it feels genuine and if Eddie didn't know any better, almost impressed. “Yeah, this design was a collaboration. It’s kind of a tribute to a song that saved my life and also a reminder, “ Harrington smiled, and it wasn’t one of his smirks. It doesn't look like the type Eddie has seen in photographs of him. It looks real. “It’s also kind of the answer to your question, actually.”

Eddie notices he’s on the edge of his seat, pencil poised against his notepad. This flight had been quite the reveal. He wasn’t best buddies with Harrington or anything, but finding him helpful and pleasant to be around had helped Eddie soften towards him, which was paying off. The less Eddie bristled, the less Harrington hid behind his image.

“My Slayer educational journey opened me up to listening to more heavy music, and exploring that genre was interesting. Turned out I’m not a super thrashy guy, but I appreciated it. From that, I started to listen to Metal that was born during my era, ya know. I found that Nu Metal stuff,” Harrington stops and looks at Eddie like he’s reading him.

“Yeah, I know that genre. It’s kinda my era too, but I am very much a thrash guy also,” Eddie smiled as if to reassure him he could carry on.

Harrington looks him over and relaxes back in his seat, “Well, I heard this song by Korn called Twisted Transistor and apart from literal parts of the lyrics,” he laughed, “It very much resonated with me.”

Eddie watches Harrington swallow, and his arms wrap around himself subtly, “So, in answer to your question, it’s not really what music means to me. It’s very much that I don’t feel I could survive without it. It’s caught me so often when I was free-falling into the depths. The right song at the right time can be a lifeline, you know?”

That only intrigued Eddie more. What the hell happened to this guy? Is he just talking about overindulging and pushing too hard, or was it something much less hedonistically caused than that?

“And I also felt that music gave me one way I could really express myself. Even if it has to be heavily coded sometimes,” Harrington gives him a shrug of a smile.

Eddie can see that vulnerable look on Harrington and decides to change the subject. He has his answer for the book. “I remember you going through that phase,” Eddie grinned, “It made the news for weeks, that photoshoot and music video reveal.”

Harrington hums, “Yeah, it did, didn’t it?” And Eddie almost feels like maybe that might not have been what it seemed.

Eddie puts down his notepad, but the dictaphone is still running. He and Harrington talk about music, their favourite artists, first and favourite gigs, guilty pleasures and phases, and before he knew it, the time was up. A huge surprise to himself, but he was disappointed the conversation was over.

“You’ll have to return to your seat now, Mr Munson,” Jesse advises, whom Eddie had utterly forgotten about for a while.

“Oh shit, yeah, of course,” Eddie said urgently as he scrambled to get his equipment together and packing it away to take back to his seat.

Once packed up, he turned to Harrington, “Thanks for your time, Harrington. It was a pleasure,” and he meant that. Maybe his therapist was right. He felt lighter for letting go of all that hate for a little while.

“It really was,” Harrington beams at him and stands up to shake his hand.

As Eddie turns to head back through to the other section, he feels a tug on his sleeve. He’s half expecting to see Jesse, but he knows as he turns from that heady cologne it’s Harrington.

“So when we get back to the hotel, you’ve got your pick of where to stay from what’s available, but if you don’t like anything on offer, my suite has multiple bedrooms, and you’re welcome to one if you need it.” Harrington offers, and Eddie is almost floored by it.

“Uh, well, I kinda like to have my own room, in case of different, uh, schedules,” Eddie says. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the offer, but he didn’t want to be kept up all night by Harrington and friends.

Harrington tilts his head and smiles, “Yeah, that’s fair. How about we go through the photos and the checklist for the residency later? Drinks on me,” he laughs, and it’s fucking charming. The checklist has been signed off, and maybe Harrington is just looking for another way to hang out with him, and he guesses he understands that, in respect of he’s enjoyed their interactions today. The more amiable they were, the better this project would turn out, and after what he learned today, it sounded like they both really needed that.

“It would be a fantastic opportunity for me to finally be able to give back. You’ve been helping me for years,” Harrington’s eyes flick to his and then back out the window.

“What?” Eddie frowns in confusion.

“I have a picture you took of me, and I,” he looks at the ground for a spell, his hands on his hips. He looked embarrassed but built himself up to say, “I felt you captured me in that shot, like my very soul in that moment in time.” He shook his head with a soft laugh, “That’s why I’ve been bugging you for years to work with me. I wanted to be around someone who really saw me, just like you did in that picture.” Harrington shifted his weight from one leg to the other, “It helped me feel less disconnected when I’d look at it.” Eddie sees another odd thing, Harrington gives him an awkward smile. The kind that people give you when they already know you're about to reject them somehow.

Eddie ponders that maybe this photograph he enjoyed so much didn’t hold the weight for Eddie that Harrington thought it did, but that was pretty normal in his photography experience. He didn’t look at every family portrait he’d taken and gush with pride like the family did when they looked at it. Maybe this time around, he could genuinely capture some magic if he got to know Harrington a little more. Today hadn’t been so bad at all.

“You know what, yeah, that would be really helpful, thanks,” Eddie smiled.

Harrington’s face erupts into the biggest grin he’s seen to date, and he wishes he hadn’t packed his camera away, “Great, see you later then, Eddie,” he flicks his hand in a wave, and they both return to their seats.

Eddie sits in his seat and sighs contentedly as the seatbelt sign lights up. Maybe it didn’t need to be such a chore. When a flight attendant comes around to check his belt, they also hand him another notecard, which he opens quickly. It has a telephone number, a smiley face, and ‘Harrington’ written, not signed, underneath it.

Upon landing, there is a very direct split in the people on the plane. The majority of people, including himself, are requested to remain in their seats. Harrington is swamped by security and bustles through their section, quickly off the plane first. That makes sense, Eddie thinks. He’s gotta beat the crowds and get to the hotel.

As the plane door opens, Eddie hears the crowd's noise, a mixture of cheers, screams and the shutter clicking, and this is on the tarmac. He hasn’t even got down the stairs. The shades of his and some of the security’s sunglasses show their purpose as the flashes go off. So many Eddie thinks their lenses look like star-crowded skies, but there was only one star in which anyone else was interested.

A few minutes after Harrington has descended into the chaos, one of the lesser security team members appears back through the door and waves everyone else off the plane, down the stairs and towards a small executive coach.

Once everyone is in their designated seats, they all have a small gift bag with their hotel key card, an overpriced designer bottle of water, some towelettes to freshen up with, and some snacks already inside.

The security member stands at the front of the coach and pushes her shades on top of her head, “Ok, everyone, we’ve got a mix of veterans and newbies to the Harrington convoy, so I’m just gonna go over this for ya. Please give me a minute of your attention. It's super simple.”

“Mr Harrington, as you can see, is currently running distraction for us,” she gestures out the tinted window to where Harrington is still signing things and taking pictures, much to Eddie’s surprise, “But he can’t do this all day, so our side of the operation has to be slick,” she says looking around the coach as the driver starts it up, “So let’s keep it simple, go where I tell you without argument if you have a problem between here and your hotel room I’m your point of contact. Once in your rooms, please stay put until we call you to notify you the area is cleared down. There will be fans and professionals alike trying to infiltrate the hotel to get at Mr Harrington or information on the upcoming performances, so consider this your first reminder that strangers aren’t your friends on this trip.”

As the coach finally departs the tarmac to head for the exit, she smiles at them, “That might sound a little restrictive in principle, but it’s for your safety and the safety of others. However, for the duration of your stay, you can consider yourselves under the Harrington family umbrella,” That gets an excitable buzz throughout the vehicle that confuses Eddie, and a handful of others clearly don’t understand the significance of that either.

The security team member smiles at the puzzled faces, “Anything you need during your stay, anything at all,” she emphasised with a smirk, “Is on Mr Harrington or the label. When you get to your rooms, the number for your point of contact will be taped next to your phone. For any room service or housekeeping, you can call down to the front desk.”

She pulls her sunglasses back down, “And last of all, remember to have fun,” she smiles and disappears into her seat to applause.

It only took around fifteen minutes to get to the hotel, but they were to remain seated as their luggage was retrieved. They were assured it would be returned to them shortly and to just go to their room and wait for the call.

Eddie finds his room without trouble. He finds the number taped next to his phone and notices a key with a different room number on it.

He walks around his sizeable room, reclines back on the bed, and watches TV while waiting for a call or his luggage to arrive.

Twenty minutes and a knock on the door, Eddie is reunited with his luggage and work gear. He stops the security guy before he leaves, “Uh, I think someone left another key in here, but the number on it isn’t to this room,” Eddie says, gesturing towards the phone.

“Oh sure, yeah, that’s to Mr Harrington’s suite. He wanted to make sure if you changed your mind about the entourage rooms or wanted to catch some more candid shots, you had the access to do so. The number on it is just a decoy-type thing. Probably a good idea to reassure him you got it,” he nodded, “Anything else I can help you with?”

Eddie shakes his head, “No, that’s great, thanks,” he smiles and closes the door behind the security guy as he leaves.

Eddie takes out his phone and the note card in his pocket and messages Harrington.

I got the key card and gift bag. Thanks. Let me know if you still wanna go through the photographs later. If not, it's understandable. It looked crazy out there! Eddie

Moments later, his phone pings. It’s Harrington.

No problem, buddy. It might be fairly late, though. I got a few interviews and hotel obligations before I’m free. Steve 🙂

Cool. Let me know when you’re free, Eddie replied

Eddie spends the next hour or so making some barely edited versions of the shoot on the plane. Just making them look less flat and adjusting some aspects of the lighting to make the tattoos really pop.

He can’t hear much outside noise in the hotel room, but Harrington must be here now as there is some kind of kerfuffle outside, which is enough to shatter the peaceful sanctuary of his room. Eddie gets up from his desk and takes a peek.

The relatively busy road they had travelled to get to the hotel was at a standstill. Someone was trying to redirect the traffic because a solid wall of fans was going partway across. The two lines that look like they are coming out of the hotel, which he imagines but be more fans flanking the hotel entrance, it was challenging to say for sure at this height.

Soon, the outlines of the crowd start to be bitten into by sharp, bright white stars. Like popcorn, there are few at first until the area is almost entirely flooded by repeated small explosions of light, and then they die out. Just like the main chunk of the crowds until barriers are gone and traffic flows as usual.

A while after the phone rings in Eddie’s room, a member of security advises him he’s free to roam freely around the hotel and its pool, theatre, casino, and stores.

He does just that, but his mind is plagued by the conversation on the plane, how he diverted the press and fans, and the hospitality in general. He had the whole plane in the same hotel as he was, and whilst Eddie chugs a cocktail slushie that he didn’t have to pay for because it’s all taken care of, he paces around the slot machines, and wonders if Harrington was truly as awful as he’d built him up to be. It’s not like he knew about the aftermath.

He turns a corner and comes face to face with a life-size Harrington cut-out, directing anyone with his charming half smile to check out the all-new Harrington-themed slots. Eddie blinks a few times, shakes his head, and returns to his room. There really isn’t anything they wouldn’t put him on.

Eddie’s phone goes off several hours later, and he wakes still wrapped in the robe from after his bath and a plate of green stalks from the chocolate-covered strawberries he had treated himself to.

He blindly reaches for his phone to find a message from Harrington.

I’ll be ready in 20 if you still wanna hang out.

Eddie goes into full panic; he thought the lack of messages throughout the evening meant he wasn’t going to be available, yet at nearly midnight, he’s carved out some time for Eddie.

He scrambles to get ready but then thinks better of it and texts back a much more relaxed message than he actually feels.

Yeah, cool. See you then.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Eddie finds him outside the door of Harrington’s suite. Buckley is right next to the door, and a few members of her team line the hall. Eddie gives her a nod and a forced smile of greeting. In return, she raises an eyebrow and turns away again.

She held her earpiece momentarily and then turned to Eddie, “You can go in.” She says simply, and Eddie does as he’s told.

He walks in to find Harrington in a different set of Rockstar attire. Another set of clothes can be seen slung over a chair, some blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Staple Harrington uniform. That’s how he looked on most of his albums and tours, not this dark, brooding version of himself.

“Hey man,” Harrington says almost pleasantly, not the couldn’t care less greetings he’s had before, “Didn’t know if it was gonna be too late for you?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Eddie says with a laugh. He’s not even sure why he does that, “Thought you might be wiped from the day.”

“I’m used to it, plus I’ve kinda been looking forward to this,” Harrington says with a small smile, “We got a full bar of drinks, and I can order some food if you're hungry. Just help yourself to whatever you want, you know?” He leans a bony hip against a table and gestures around before his hand migrates naturally back to his hip.

They while away the next half hour chatting about music, looking through Eddie’s pictures of other artists, and talking through Harrington’s expectations for the checklist of photos.

Eddie, weirdly again, is enjoying his company, or maybe it's the energy drink he’s gulping down?

“Hey, could I see the ones you took of me last time? Could you talk me through ‘em?” Harrington asks with hopeful eyes, his hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Yeah, of course. I mean, my work has improved since then, but I still have them,” Eddie says, leaning over to find the correct folder.

Scrolling through hundreds of photos is pretty fun. Harrington makes a few self-deprecating jokes about how he looks now compared to then. But Harrington's mood drops as they move into more backstage candid shots. Eddie knows he could completely ignore it, and he tries to a few times, distracting him with anecdotes, but Harrington will reopen the same picture repeatedly. It’s that same barrier shot, and he’ll look at it, then Eddie, but say nothing, and it’s confusing as hell and a little annoying. So Eddie bites the bullet.

“You don’t like some of these shots or something?” Eddie asks cautiously, “I mean, feedback is feedback. It will help me ensure I don’t make the same mistakes twice.”

Harrington furrows his brow in confusion, “It’s not your work, Eddie, that’s great. It’s just,” he stops himself from the next thing he’s about to say and huffs in frustration, “You can’t make the same mistakes again, because those people aren’t around anymore. Fucking assholes. Traitors!” Harrington seethes, and he brings up the same barrier shot again.

Eddie feels like something is unspoken, and he keeps moving back to this picture where he thinks he saw him for who he truly was. But Eddie had just taken a tried and tested shot.

“I’m surprised this one is your favourite. It was everywhere at one point,” Eddie tries to lighten the mood.

“Was it? I wouldn’t know. They took all my social media away from me,” Harrington grumbles, and Eddie can see him slowly sinking in on himself.

“Yeah, man it was on every kind of merch and your posts, fan stuff, news articles everywhere. But I guess you wouldn’t have seen the full impact of it without socials.”

“It fucking sucks sometimes, you know? Getting treated like a fucking kid. Being pushed and paraded around like a living fucking billboard for whoever is throwing their money at us that week. This life is fucking gross sometimes,” Harrington complains.

Eddie can’t help but feel how easily he’d give up most things to be as rich as Harrington. He’d kick the fame stuff to the curb and just disappear with a boatload of cash, flipping everyone the bird goodbye.

“I mean, that sure sounds like it’s sucked, but it could have been worse, dude,” Eddie says, consoling him a little bit, also trying to get him out of this side of himself that is slowly grinding on Eddie.

Harrington huffed out a laugh, “Really? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have that happen, like explaining to your peers, ‘Oh, I’d love to promote your charity, but my socials are run by that eighteen-year-old cyborg in the corner because they are viewed as more responsible than me’? Or worse, fans asking me questions at panels that I have no idea how to answer because I have never seen whatever post they are referencing?” Harrington looks annoyed almost, “Then I get labelled as high or drunk or worst of all that I don’t give a shit.”

Eddie has an excellent idea of what it’s like to have something hit him out of nowhere, the source of which is a post he had no idea about. Eddie’s lip twitches and he is about to suggest looking at some of the pics he took at an open mic night a few months back, but Harrington is still going.

“And for what? I got a little wasted one night and posted a rant video. Like, who gives a shit? There are people out there who do way worse and keep their socials. They get fully cancelled and then turn up a month later, and everyone forgets about it! That’s just the modern world! People just need to suck it up!” Harrington spouts from his imaginary soap box.

Eddie's relaxed hands are balled fists, his smile is a tight line, behind it a set of gritted teeth on a clenched jaw.

This guy is precisely the privileged prick he thought he was. Unaware of the consequences of his actions. They’ve been hidden from him so well that he’s complaining that they didn’t let him get drunk all the time and spout his unfounded woes night after night to the public. Eddie wished his biggest problem was being unable to retweet his friend’s dog’s wedding pictures.

Eddie is livid and feels like he has a chance to stand up for everyone Harrington has potentially bulldozed in the past without a care in the world about who he affected.

Keeping his voice barely level, he asks, “Do you even remember what you said in that video? The one that got you banned from socials?” Eddie figured he’d need to specify because this asshole would be able to differentiate between them all.

“No, man, I was fucking wasted. I bet the people who watched the video couldn’t even make out half of what I said. It was a stupid little video,” Harrington huffs out a laugh, making an unholy rage run rampant through Eddie.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Eddie sneered, “I think they heard you loud and fucking clear!”

Harrington’s head snaps to him, “Are you ok, man?”

“No, man, I’m not fucking ok. That stupid little video ended my career!” Eddie snarls out his words as he feels the bile rise in him, “You were complaining about your sad little rich boy life,” he mockingly pretends to cry, wringing his fists by his own eyes and fake pouting, “and you felt that I was special enough to make the cut for the list of people that did you wrong!”

Harrington shakes his head in disbelief, “No, that’s impossible. Someone would have told me.”

Eddie makes an incorrect buzzer sound, “Wrong! They wouldn’t because they needed you to not be sad-boy-Harrington and get on with your fucking job. Sent you to a nice swanky rehab after making a show of it. That you were ‘struggling’ with some injury or some fucking bullshit.”

“What?” Harrington asks, entirely in shock.

“That was, of course, complete fucking lies too because you hopped the rehab fence and were seen dancing and drinking the night away in some bar with your fans!” Eddie is raising his voice now.

Harrington just stares at him blankly. His mouth partly opens and closes like the pea-brained goldfish of a man that he is. God, Eddie hated him.

“You complained about how I wouldn’t work with you. Which was not true! I couldn’t! I had no space in the calendar. But the twisted whispers from facts to whatever met your ears apparently gave you the right to call me out publically.” Eddie glares at him as he stands up and paces away and then back to him, “I didn’t even see the original video when it landed, but I didn’t need to because your fucking nutcase cult of fans harassed me incessantly for years!” Spittle flies from his mouth as he rages at Harrington, purging everything he can at the confused man sitting in front of him. “And all for what? For a meaningless picture, you read your fucking bullshit into.” Eddie feels the venom fill his body, and he bites a visibly crumbling Harrington right where it hurts most, “I saw nothing in that photo other than a ticked checkbox. This isn’t a special fucking shot. I just wait for the correct marks to be hit!”

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Songs that inspired this chapter:

Stripped - Depeche Mode

Come as you are - Nirvana

8 notes · View notes

madaboutmunson · 6 months

Text

I'm A Spy But On Your Side

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 6

Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Steve POV of the aftermath of meeting Eddie for the first time

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only. Note specifically for this chapter: Don't Panic lol :D

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip; stobin; platonic stobin; platonic with a capital P;

Word Count: 2.9K

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I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Part 6 - Steve POV

Steve didn't wake up alone this morning despite his friends leaving and no hired help because he hasn't even been to sleep, not for two days now.

He's holed himself up in the studio surrounded by instruments, dry marker scrawlings over every glass surface apart from one whose job was to store the thing that was helping him stay awake, to pull on this thread of inspiration.

In between are pulled-out pages from catalogues, scribbled-down telephone and product codes, ashtrays full of cigarette butts and a few empty beer bottles.

When the door swings open and Buckley steps in, he feels a waft of fresh air rush in, making his skin goose pimple. He's so excited.

"BUCKLEY!! You aren't gonna believe this! Look, I've written, like, three song demos, and-and I've found the best photography kit currently available, but I'm not allowed online without a chaperone, so I'm gonna need you to order these for me. Eddie's gonna be so pleased. I just know it!"

Robin nods, starts gathering up papers, looks at them and then slowly walks towards Steve, backing him towards the vocal booth. He's confused but still so excited about inspiration finally appearing again and how he's going to make everything up to Eddie. And they would have the best time in Vegas together, and he'd think about the consequences afterwards.

Once the soundproof door slides softly closed behind them. Robin roughly unplugs all the wires in the booth.

"Hey! This is very expensive equipment here, you know. You could be a little more gentle!" Steve complains and is starting to get a little annoyed that Robin is killing his buzz.

Robin dumps everything on the small chair in this tiny space before raising her hands to either side of her head and yelling at Steve, "What the hell were you thinking?"

“What do you mean? What was I thinking?” He frowns deeply at her.

“The photo, Steve, the one I said to not do anything stupid with!” She whisper-shouts back at him. Steve draws a blank. He’s trying frantically to recall, but his brain is swimming with ideas, not whatever this is. “Jesus, Steve, you don't even remember, do you? The picture of your photographer outside your home?” The words are flying out of Robin’s mouth like machine gun fire, and there is no room in the vocal booth for him to step back enough to dodge their intended impact, “The one you absolutely had to have? So I sent it to your stupid secret phone, ringing any bells? Which I knew was a mistake, but I was taking pity on you because you were all dewy-eyed!” She wags her finger at him.”But then Steve, you decide you want to get your little super-sleuths on the case and post it undercover to your fans?” Then it all comes rushing back to him, a moment of weakness. He knew his fans would find out everything about Eddie for him, and all he had to do was pretend it was some girl leaving his house. He knows Robin is mad, but he is hungry for intel. He locks eyes with her and feels himself lick his lips. She rolls her eyes and flops her arms to her sides in defeat because she knows what he’s about to ask.

“Did they find anything?” Steve quietly enquires, biting his lip back into his mouth immediately as the words leave him, and he winces a little.

“Of course they did!” Robin’s eyes widen as if he’d asked her the most ridiculous thing in the world, “They are minutes away from his blood type, his hairdresser’s dog’s name and what his regular coffee order is!”. Steve cautiously releases his bottom lip and looks around the ceiling, desperately trying not to ask what he wants to know. “Unbelievable!” she scoffs and shakes her head.

Steve tries a different tack, “Well, it's not like I can take it back now, is it?” he gives a little shrug and laughs as his eyes search the ground he is currently toeing at, “Sooo….” He looks up at Robin through his eyelashes.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, “He’s not married.” Steve punches the air, and Robin tuts and folds her arms, “I still stand by what I said, Steve. I’m getting weird vibes from him and the mountain of evidence that he wasn’t falling over himself to work with you.”

“We’ve been over this. He was busy! We both shot up the ranks at roughly the same time. He was fully booked for two whole years, and then we just couldn’t get our calendars to line up, that's all. His agent always sends those nice apology gift baskets with the little truffles you like in? Remember?” Steve searches her eyes with a slightly forlorn hopefulness. He needed her on his side. He needed this. Something to ignite his long, snuffed-out candle of creativity.

“Steve, no one is that busy.” Robin scoffs.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s here now, isn’t he? He’s signed up. What does any of the past matter? I’m not bothered by it. Maybe he just wanted more money, or, “ he raises an eyebrow at her, “Maybe he wanted an international celebrity to beg for him?” He laughs as Robin screws up her face in absolute disgust.

“I don't think he was busy at all.” She says seriously, but Steve waves his hand at her dismissively and laughs.

“What? He’s just been getting offers from me, refusing, and twiddling his thumbs? Is that what you think? Oh, come on, Rob!” He puts his hands on his hips, “That's ridiculous!”

She starts to say something but stops, and he watches Robin read over the many partial lyrics, chord tabs, diagrams, and randomly noted ideas. The corners of her mouth twitch up slightly, and her eyes finally find his, “Just be careful, ok? You’ve been doing so well since I started. I know that isn’t just down to me, and I know you’re still struggling and still indulging in too much, Steve, but you're doing so much better than when I got here. I just don't want you to sink back down there again.”

“Please, babe. I’m into him, yes. But it's not all that serious, you know?” Steve half-smiles.

“Are you sure about that?” She gestures around them.

“I’m just inspired. That's all it is. I know you haven't seen much of that so far.” he reaches out for her hand below the sight of anyone looking through the booth window, “It’s nice that you care, though.”

She pats his hand, moves away and starts plugging wires back in, mumbling, “It's kinda my job.”

“Was that what you came to tell me? About how I shouldn't have sent the picture?” Steve asks, picking up some of the papers.

“No, actually. It was just Heidi messaged me, but it’s nothing important.” Robin says quickly, trying to leave the booth.

“I thought she flew home the night she left here? Don't they start filming this week or something? I barely take in anything she says. She talks so much.” Steve shakes his head with a little smirk. Then he takes a pause. He wasn’t sure if the lack of sleep was finally catching up with him, but Robin seemed a bit hurried. No, she looks nervous, and that is not something Steve ever has or ever wants to see in his bodyguard, “What did Heidi want exactly?” he pries, crowding Robin a little, holding out his hand for her phone.

“I honestly don't think it’s important right now. Don’t you wanna get back to your writing?” She tries, with a grimaced half smile, and he immediately knows it's not good news she's attempting to save him from.

He knows he could walk away from this, go into the other room, rack up a few more lines and forget all about whatever this is, but within Steve, unfortunately, is a hunger to know. He sometimes wonders if it's because he is a glutton for misery. It's almost like he’s so used to it being impossibly attracted to him that he now tries to ambush it first.

He makes a grabbing motion with his hand at Robin, and she takes the phone out of her pocket, “This is a bad idea.” She says seriously and softly. Steve looks at the floor and stretches his hand towards her again, “Shall I just tell you what it is? Maybe that would be easier, huh?” Now, he was perturbed. What on Earth had Heidi done? God, he hopes she hasn’t posted anything fucking stupid, so he’d have to cut all ties with her. He wasn’t planning on anything serious with Heidi, but at least she was easy enough to get along with. She doesn't ask too many questions and gets what she wants. Steve gets what he wants, and they both go their separate ways. She wasn’t a friend, but at least an amiable acquaintance.

Robin finally places the phone in his hand.

The trepidation on Robin’s face works its way into himself until there is almost a feeling of static between his thumb and the screen. He takes a deep breath and opens the message.

Tell Steve I think I figured out why the photographer didn't want to stay over.

A little picture collection sits in a box below the words, and Steve already feels he knows what is contained within. Cloud 9 busting ballistic missiles. He could hand it back. He could save himself from reality and continue floating around in the happy haze of crushdom. He could keep this Eddie on his pedestal.

His thumb hovers over the small box of thumbnails. He wasn’t with Eddie. He didn't own him. He was a colleague. A really cute one. One that Steve had been waiting years to be in the same room as. One that captured the real him when no one else could see, and Steve had drowned in that particular work, night after night for years. He thought he’d be meeting some greying gent, an artistic sage, who Steve could thank profusely, and they’d discuss that particular photograph over cocktails or coffee and become real friends, and Steve would have someone that he didn't have to pretend around because this guy had seen the same photo too. He must have seen the dull, desperate hopelessness in Steve’s eyes against the vibrant backdrop of live music.

But instead, he’d manifested an impossibly hot, almost looked like a rockstar himself, of days gone by. With huge brown eyes, a dazzling smile, and ringed solid hands that looked perfect for capturing Steve not just through a camera lens, who moved like a panther and made Steve’s heart skip a beat whenever their eyes met.

His self-preservation, which had been trying to warn him away from thoughts of Eddie since his eyes were graced with him the first time, shoves the starry-eyed part of his psyche off the ledge of indecisiveness into the reveal.

His thumb taps against the screen, expanding the images, and a smile creeps over his face. There he was, sitting at the bar, chatting with the bartender, giving her one of his gorgeous smiles.

Swipe.

This one is a little more difficult to interpret, his eyes cast down toward his glass. He almost looks a little blue, and doesn't that just make Steve’s heart bleed. There should never be a day that makes a beauty like that look glum this way. He feels a ridiculous urgency to make it right somehow. Rush to the hotel he’s no longer at to put a smile back on the face of the man who is no longer there.

Swipe.

Steve’s heart stops, and a breath catches in his throat. He’s sitting with someone else. He feels his eye shoot to Robin as his chest rises and falls a little quicker, but she’s already looking at the ground. That's when he realises it's only going to get worse.

Swipe.

Eddie is beaming at this guy that Steve can see a little better now because he’s throwing his head back, laughing with a slight blush on his cheeks.

Eddie’s made him laugh.

Steve’s stomach drops as if his imagination rollercoaster nudges his emotions over the top, and down it falls. No brakes. He sniffs and pinches the bridge of his nose, wipes his hand down the lower part of his face and zooms in on the other guy. Sunkissed, muscular, younger. Clothes that unintentionally hug his figure simply because of his build. He feels his mouth downturn because, for a moment, he doesn't know why it hurts so much. He looks down at himself and what he’s become. When he and Eddie first crossed paths all those years ago, that is what they would have looked like together. That perfectly coiffed swoop of hair and that chest-hugging polo shirt would have been his. He feels his eyelids flicker, swallows down the crippling self-loathing, and the green-eyed monster of a coach, calls his inner masochist off the bench.

Swipe.

His hand is on Eddie’s knee as he leans forward mid-conversation, and he’s completely captivated him. Eddie's eyes fall a little lower than the man’s eye line, a subtle smile on his lips.

Swipe.

Eddie is holding up a cherry, and the younger man obediently opens his mouth to receive it on his tongue. Steve's lips are a tight line now.

Swipe.

But the last picture just bounces in place. There are no more images to beat himself up with. He swipes through them all again a few times in absolute silence before handing the phone back to Robin, who tries to look at him compassionately. She opens her mouth to say something, but Steve beats her to it.

“I don’t blame him. He’s cute.” Steve says, forcing a smile to his face, but too quickly, the bitterness races over his tongue, “Just another airport hotel slut looking for a hookup. Probably rinsed Eddie for all he’s worth. What could they even possibly have in common? Slim pickings in airport hotel bars, in my experience.”

“Right.” That is all Robin says as she tucks away her phone in its holster on her belt and goes to leave the booth. She stops halfway through the doorway, “Do you want me to stay and talk about it?”

Steve forces a laugh, knits his eyebrows together and his mouth twitches, “Buckley, please. I’m a fucking grown-up, ok? I just wanted to jump his bones, that's all. I’ve got time. For god's sake, I feel the same about the new gardener.” Her eyes look him up and down in a careful systems scan. He knows she doesn't buy it but hopes his display is enough to shout, I’m done here. He nods, “Buckley.”

It must be because she nods respectfully, “Mr H.” she says and leaves.

He busies himself reorganising the cables in the vocal booth. Buckley had tried her best but had no clue how this all worked. As he toils away, his thoughts only get louder. What was with this guy? He could have spent the night here with me, and he decides to go back to the hotel and take his chances in a bar? No, this is ridiculous. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the booth window as he stands to leave. As usual, he takes his own bony jaw in hand and twists it this way and that. Tilts his head up and down, widens and narrows his eyes until his reflection holds that tested and true Harrington pose. There is just no way Eddie isn't attracted to him. Sure, he looked different. He didn't look like modelling had just spat him out into the music industry any more. His body attests to his journey. His tattoos are a coded skin tapestry of the lives he’s lived. Most lines on his face are fine, except for the ones caused by lack of sleep.

There must be something else.

This pity party would not do. He’s Steve Fucking Harrington!

He leaves the booth and heads back out to his earlier station at the mixing desk, locates the treats he’d lined up for himself before Buckley turned up. Inhales his ‘medicine’ like a good boy and springs up with a “Goddamn!”

He does a whole-body shudder and reasons with himself in the nearest wall mirror.

Here are the facts. You, Steve Harrington, are hot, wealthy, famous, talented and successful. There is nothing here not to like. Not a damn thing. This guy at the hotel is nothing. The next time you see Eddie, they could only have possibly been seeing one another for two weeks. Nothing serious. Nothing incorruptible. If they even saw one another again at all, which was probably unlikely the way that preppy whore was mediocrely guzzling down that cherry in public. If you want Eddie, you can get him. You’re Steve Fucking Harrington!

The only interactions Steve had with Eddie until this week had been that concert and then years of practically begging Eddie to work with him, which wasn't a great look, granted, but it was honest. Maybe he’d messed up their meeting a little? Perhaps he was a little overzealous? Maybe Eddie doesn't like to be chased? Perhaps he wants to do the chasing?

A small smile spreads across Steve's face. So, let's give him something to chase.

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Songs that inspired this chapter: Private Eyes by Hall and Oates Don’t You Want Me Baby - Human League

10 notes · View notes

madaboutmunson · 7 months

Text

Baby, You're a Rich Man Too

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 1 Ao3 Link Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Eddie POV Introduction to this AU

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only.

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip

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"I do NOT want this assignment, Marney!" Eddie pushes the flimsy file back over to his agent. He already knows what's inside. It shows up at least once a year, which was a relief compared to how frequent the request used to be.

"Eddie, baby, hear me out. It’s not an assignment. It is a project. It could get you back on the radar. It's not even a tour. It's a residency, and his team have already provided you with a list of shots he wants for the book. It's pose, point and shoot, Ed. Easy money." She slides it back over to him, keeping her fingers on top of it firmly, drumming her bright red talons on the card as she looks him right in the eyes, "and it's not like the gigs have been rolling in for you, now have they, sweetheart? Other than the family portrait business that I know you absolutely adore!" She smirks and holds his gaze. Using his favourite pet name against him makes his blood boil, but he isn't angry with her. It was Him.

"Gigs drying up for us is not my fault! The last client wanted all candid behind-the-scenes shots. I provided that. I edited them, barely, because they wanted the realism of life on the road, and they ok'd them. It's not my fault the internet is a cruel, unforgiving place!” Eddie exclaims in annoyance, “Especially when it’s full of Harronites, or whatever those lunatics call themselves." Eddie mumbles under his breath.

She raises her eyebrow at him, "He asked for you specifically." She says, and flicks open the folder revealing an old photo Eddie had taken of Rock Phenom Steve Harrington at one of his shows. He didn’t know what was so special about the picture. He’d taken this shot hundreds of times for artists. It's on a list of shots they can ask for. The artist climbs the barrier, and the hands of the fans reach up to them like worshipers praising their false idol. Eddie waves his hand, and the artist looks straight down the lens. It's supposed to be a duality of intimacy. The solid eye contact with the camera whilst in the arms of strangers, eager to reach out and touch their obsession, which none of them would ever possess. Lest of all, that guy.

What a piece of work. Ruined Eddie’s career and damn near ruined his life!

"He says," she balances her reading glasses on the tip of her button nose and pulls the sticky note from the photo, "no one captures his truth like Eddie Munson." She flips over the message so Eddie can see, “Signed it too. Could be worth something?”

"I've never even spoken to the guy. Why's he so obsessed with me?" Eddie whines, and his agent shrugs.

"Does it matter, Ed? There are a lot more zeros here than we'd see normally."

"Something seems off about this. I don't like it."

"You like his stuff, don't you?"

"Did! I did like his stuff until I published that stupid photo. He's been on my case ever since."

"Not flattered, Eddie?" She laughs

"At first, sure. Until his demands started rolling in, and his fans started giving me grief for declining them. They called me washed up! I hadn't even begun! I thought that picture was gonna be my big break! It went viral! Remember you told me that! But it was actually my demise, Marn!" Eddie seethes, “Imagine calling up your horde of rabid fans because you couldn’t get your way!” He closes the file and folds his arms. “No fuckin’ way! I can’t post a picture of a fucking sunset without his fans all over it like a rash.”

“Then just say yes, Eddie. It can’t be any worse than it is right now.” Marney says with a kind smile of compassion. She did want what was best for him, and though it killed him to admit it, he did need that money. He was in debt up to his eyeballs, barely breaking even at the studio, and the numbers on the cheque he saw could clear that and then some.

Eddie sighs and sinks back into his chair, “I’m gonna regret this. I know I am.” he says tensely, running his hand through his hair.

He looks up at her, and she is already back in her chair, phone in hand, finger poised over the green call button. At his lowest, Eddie admits defeat and nods.

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madaboutmunson · 7 months

Text

Gucci Little Piggy

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 3

Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Eddie and Steve officially meet for the first time at Steve's home

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only.

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip Word Count: 6.2K

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Marney: Unclench your jaw

Eddie wrinkles up his nose at the message on his phone in silent fury because she knows him so well.

Eddie: My jaw is not clenched. Everything is fine.

It was clenched, and everything was not fine. He doesn't know why he bothers lying to Marney. Maybe he does it for himself like the words were part of a spell that could magically alter the level of tension that was actually causing pain in his body. His jaw, across his shoulder blades, his fingers digging into his thighs through the denim.

Marney: Just remember the money and exposure. 🤑

Eddie: Ok, never use that emoji again!

Eddie: You don't think I'm trying?

Eddie: I'm not a complete idiot!!

Marney: Who are you? And what have you done with Eddie?

Marney: He's my idiot and you'll give him back, otherwise I'm not meeting my quota

Eddie: Oh yes, ha-ha, very funny

Eddie: What's wrong with this guy? The residency isn't for another two weeks!

Eddie: Mark my words. This is going to end badly. He's clearly insane.

Marney: His level of sanity I cannot confirm.

Marney: The amount of money pending to be transferred I can, though.

Eddie: It was already six figures Marn. He adds another zero to meet the day after we agree to the project.

Eddie: For what? So you ship me off to him the very next day to have a conversation we don't need to have? It's all in the contract.

Marney: It's all getting a bit Indecent Proposal, isn't it?

Eddie: That's not funny!

Marney: It is a little, getting to see you all flustered like this 😏

Eddie: A million! A million dollars for a list of ten photos! That's insane! The man is insane!

Marney: A million is pocket change to people like Harrington. Do not sweat it.

Marney: When that extra zero came in, I woke Legal up and booked you a flight.

Marney: His requests aren't anything weird:

Marney: The checklist of photos for the book.

Marney: Access to all pictures taken.

Marney: You are on call for the duration.

Eddie: That last one…

Marney: Eddie, you used to do this ALL. THE. FUCKING. TIME! You know musicians don't keep regular hours. They can get inspired in the middle of the night.

Marney: And as you well know, it's usually you waiting around for them to wake up and function rather than you being woken up by them.

Marney: It's a million dollars! People like us never see that kind of money. It's life-changing. Please. For me. Just be civil and get through it.

Eddie: I'm just saying it seems weird.

Marney: He also agreed to your project too, Ed. Don't forget that. I cannot tell you how quickly that yes came back.

Eddie: Because he's got no shame, Marn!

Marney: Eddie.

Marney: Please.

Marney: Point. Shoot. Edit. Send. Get paid.

Marney: Change your stars.

Eddie goes to type back, but he feels the car slow to a stop. A crunch of gravel and muffled voices. Moments later, his door is opened.

"Mr Munson?" The woman asks as Eddie steps out and nods. The car is swarmed by athletic people sporting black security uniforms.

The woman in front of him makes eye contact with her team members and then looks back at him, "Your agent said you were staying?"

"I-I am. Just not here." Eddie says nervously. He was supposed to be, that's what Marney had advised, but Eddie had dug his heels in and got an airport hotel instead, at his own expense, "I'm so bad at waking up for flights, so," he scratches the back of his neck, "the closer, the better."

She folds her arms and levels him with a look before scanning him up and down. "You don't want to spend the night? Stay in Steve Harrington's house?" She almost laughs out the last question.

Eddie figures it's something ingrained in him that is making him nervous with all these official-looking uniforms around him, "Not if I wanna keep this job," he says with a forced laugh, looks down and rubs his stomach, "I should really learn that fast food doesn't always agree with me." He raises his eyes to her to see if his performance has landed, and though he's not sure she believes the story, she seems happy enough to accept it for some reason. She extends her hand to him.

"Buckley. Head of security here for Mr H. This is my team. Get to know their faces and names if you care to. If it's not one of us telling you, it's not mandatory." She says and waves him through the enormous, ornate gates that slowly open as she signals to the house.

Eddie quirks an eyebrow at that. Mandatory? If it's not one of us? What did that even mean? She didn't look like your typical bodyguard or security guard that Eddie had seen over the years, but knowing he'd be meeting her at the gates, he'd done his research.

Robin Buckley. She'd only ever worked with Harrington, no one before, no one in between. She wasn't a waif by any stretch of the imagination, but she was not your typical heavy-set build either. However, the footage Eddie had unearthed last night definitely sent the message home that she is not to be fucked with. She easily kept the crazies at bay, and Harrington's humanising posts about how safe he felt with her around made her a fan favourite. Even though she was often the only thing standing between him and his adoring followers.

He'd seen three times caught on film she'd intercepted a weapon or projectile aimed at Harrington. One effortlessly caught out of the air, cool as anything. Then there was a guy with a gun who had been leg-swept to the floor, had his wrist snapped, and was disarmed in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it display of prowess. You could see on the video Harrington hadn't seen any of it. Busy leaning back into the crowd for a selfie at the barrier with a fan's phone. Her team carried that guy away, and she just fell back into step beside him. The third was definitely the most terrifying. Mainly due to the fact there were so many different views of the same event because it happened whilst Harrington had been singing one of his most famous songs. It looks like a fan rushes the stage, not uncommon, but as Harrington shuts his eyes to croon to the crowd under the spotlight, something catches the light in the fan's hand, and if this had been a movie, you'd swear this would be the singer's last scene. But it wasn't. From out of nowhere, Buckley's big black boot steps into the light and puts the assailant in a choke hold from behind. They were out for the count in seconds and pulled back with her into the darkness.

She gestures to a golf cart and stops him just before it. "We have to search you and your things. I can do it, or a preferred team member. Mr. H said it was imperative you were made to feel comfortable, but I do still have to check you aren't some weapon-wielding psycho. So we'll do it mid-way at the gatehouse." Eddie's eyebrows raise in alarm, fearing the worst. Jesus, how intrusive was this search gonna be? A smirk appears on her face, "Don't worry, Mr Munson, it's just a pat down, scan and bag check. I'm fairly confident I could incapacitate you before you pulled anything out of your ass." Her smile broadens, and it looks like she almost laughs.

Cleared by the search, he's returned his camera bag and taken to the house. House seems like a stupid word to use. It looked like a castle or fortress. It was huge. It loomed over the surrounding grounds, and Eddie felt tiny in its shadow. This place was light years away from where Harrington was in his life the last time they had crossed paths. The jealousy and loathing wake up in Eddie again, remembering the picture that ended everything.

He just didn't get it.

He had taken that kind of shot hundreds of times. It went viral. The fans loved it. It eventually ended up on everything from billboards to stamps, but initially, it was just a social media post with his handle tagged in the text beneath it for two months. Eddie has been on the precipice of exploding, and in a way, he got a taste. Marney was inundated with offers, so many he was booked solid for two years by the end of the month, and he is eternally grateful for Marney crossing every t and dotting every I on those contacts because not long later, everything fell apart.

It started when Harrington released his tour diary. The pictures Eddie had taken at that gig were included, as were the shots of hundreds of other photographers. Some of the lesser-known ones in the scene were experiencing the same thing as Eddie. Harrington's tour had garnered so much attention, and his fan base was colossal even before he struck his first chord. Everything that the tour touched had credit cards and offers thrust at it.

But something had singled Eddie out.

Harrington's team had sent him and Marney a copy each before general release, and before they'd even opened theirs, Marney got an email.

Harrington wanted to work with Eddie personally. Eddie couldn't believe his luck. Agreed straight away. But Marney had looked at Eddie's calendar, and he was already booked.

"Fuck Marney. This is crazy. Tell 'em, yeah, tell 'em the day we finish up all these, I'll leave myself free for any projects he has in mind." He'd almost foamed at the mouth with excitement. He and Harrington were blasting off into success at the same time, and he hated he couldn't give back to the person who gave him a boost and put his work in the eyes of millions.

Marney sent back the offer, and they'd popped a champagne bottle. Before she'd even poured a glass, her phone had buzzed again, and this guy's preoccupation with Eddie had begun.

Eddie sighs and just tries to remember the money as Buckley and her agents of pain guide him through the lavish foyer and corridors until he's in a reception room of sorts. A small circle of sophisticated chesterfields on one side of the room, a wooden bar in the corner and a massive table with chairs neatly tucked in all around it.

One of the team gestures at the armchair, and nervously, Eddie sits with his camera bag and portfolio on his lap. He wasn't so much nervous in that he was expecting something terrible. It was more to do with this place being so fucking daunting and that he had to get through this to get paid.

The door opens, and Eddie forces a smile on his face for his nemesis. But what walks through the door is something else entirely. Eddie stands up immediately, almost dropping his camera bag and portfolio to the ground as he does, but he gets a hand to them at the last second and carefully places them on the coffee table.

The man points at him and, in potentially the most monotonous voice he's ever heard, says, "Great, wonderful, you're on time. I like the cut of your jib already…." He lifts the file he's holding to his eyeline and readjusts his glasses, "Munson." Eddie extends his hand to shake, but the man looks at him, then his hand, and then moves to sit in one of the opposite chairs, leaving Eddie to bashfully lower his hand and sit down.

"Ted Wheeler," he begins, and Eddie raises a hand to stop him as he pulls out his dictaphone, places it on the table, and hits record. The man looks at him over the top of his glasses and lets out the most prolonged sigh Eddie thinks he's ever heard. "Ted Wheeler of Wheeler & Family, representing Grindbone Records." He almost sounds bored of saying it. His voice was verging on dreary, "Mr Harrington wanted to arrange this so we can ensure everyone is on the same page." He scoffs and rolls his eyes, and that catches Eddie off guard. Shouldn't this guy be kissing Harrington's ass? He opens a file, and inside is a photocopy of the contract he's already seen and signed, "Just so you are aware, the agreed amount of one hundred thousand dollars will be paid for by the record label on completion of the project, as documented and signed for here." He taps the paper between them, "The remainder of the money," he shakes his head in disbelief, "promised to you by Mr Harrington, will come from himself whenever you've agreed between yourselves. We have no part in-"

A crash from somewhere in the house makes Eddie nearly jump clean out of his skin due to how quiet and monotonous this guy's voice has been. The guy opposite is unphased. He simply sighs, rolls his eyes, folds his arms and leans back in his seat.

There is another crash and a livid, "Why didn't anyone wake me?" Something smashes, "Where is Buckley? SHUT UP!! I DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING EXCUSES!! GET ME ROBIN FUCKING NOW!!! ROBIN!!!"

Seconds later, Buckley and one of her minions run through the room they are in and through the door Ted had entered from. Eddie doesn't know what to do, so he sits awkwardly for a second as the shouting gets further away and becomes muffled before leaning across the table.

"Look, can I level with you?" Eddie says quietly.

"I suppose we may as well do something while waiting for the theatrics to finish." Ted sighs and doesn't move or even look at Eddie.

"I don't understand why I'm here. I signed the contract. I've agreed to what was asked. The residency doesn't start for a while yet. I don't get it." Eddie says in hushed tones, occasionally glancing at the door.

Ted laughs sarcastically, "Well, join the club, Sport." Eddie's beginning to wonder if he's got competition in the ranks of hating Harrington.

"You don't know why I'm here either?" Eddie asks.

"Son, I don't know why I'm here." He says like he's absolutely over all of this already, "whatever all on the same page means." he mutters under his breath and checks his watch.

"OK, great. Well, that's just marvellous." Eddie says sarcastically and leans back in his seat, tapping his knees as he does so.

Ted turns to him and looks him over, "For a man getting paid a million dollars, you sure don't seem happy to be here."

"It's not that I'm unhappy," Eddie lies with a sprinkling of work laugh, sending him a big beaming grin, "I'm just confused as to what could be $900,000 worth of urgent."

"You should have held out another hour," Ted says, no humour in his voice.

"Pardon?" Eddie says in surprise.

"Probably would have been offered double, or he would have sent his jet for you," Ted states factually, looking at his watch again, and Eddie frowns. That didn't feel good. The feeling of being bought. Like he had a price. Which ultimately was true, but to realise that about yourself feels hideous.

"This happen often?" Eddie asks, knowing it's to lessen that gross feeling creeping over his skin. If other people were bought this way to do his bidding, maybe Eddie wouldn't feel so weird about it.

The guy chuckles heartily, "People don't say no to Steve Harrington in the first place. Well, apart from you, evidently." Ted looks him up and down with a slightly raised eyebrow.

That riles Eddie up inside. What the fuck is this asshole implying, exactly?

Then it hits him. This interaction, Buckley's comments about staying over, Steve's persistence, throwing crazy amounts of money, promotions, or promises of backing his projects, and up until this offer. He'd declined everything because Harrington had ruined his career, but no one says no to Steve Harrington because everyone jumps at the chance to say yes to Harrington, just as Eddie did initially. They think I've been playing hard to get.

Eddie whips his phone out rapidly.

Eddie: Marina…

Marney: Did you get there ok? Everything went smoothly I hope. Have a great day, very busy today babe. Speak soon xxx

She'd set him up.

Eddie: Don't you dare pull that copy and paste message in me!!

Eddie: Just one thing, all those times I said no, did you tell anyone why I said no?! 🤬

Marney: Of course not, because I don't burn bridges Eddie. I just told them….you were busy.

Eddie facepalms at the screen, and Ted grimaces, eyeing him worriedly.

Eddie: So no one here has any idea that he ruined my career? They think I did a job, and then turned down offer after offer for no goddamn reason?!!

Marney: It was for a reason. You were busy. I just didn't say with what. Besides, advertising yourself as someone with their dreams in the toilet isn't exactly the brand I'm building for you Ed.

Eddie's lips form a tight line, and his grip is so tight around his phone he is sure he is one squeeze away from crushing it. He closes his eyes and counts to ten.

He gets to six.

He hears a sharp inhale from the other side of the door.

Ted stands, so Eddie copies him, even though he'd rather not. The guy isn't royalty.

The door swings open. Buckley comes in first. Then, with a hack of a cough in strides Harrington, rubbing at his nose. Wearing some cliché rockstar garb, not what Eddie remembers and certainly not how he usually appears in the media or his work. Sheer shirt, lace-up pants, smeared eyeliner and dishevelled hair adorned with a few tattoos, piercings and excessive accessories. But Eddie smiles. Hugely. Almost laughs.

Harrington stops dead in his tracks. For a glimmer, he looks surprised but quickly falls back into himself. He pops his bony hip out to the side and runs a hand through one side of his obnoxious hair, looking Eddie over like he's got any place to judge him. But not even that can wipe the grin from Eddie's face because Harrington looks like shit. Like he hasn't slept in a year. Like he literally slithered out from under a rock. He looks like half the man in Eddie's old photographs of him.

Eddie grabs his camera, "Would you mind?" He says, gesturing to it.

Harrington smiles and shakes his head, "Not at all." He talks like it's too much effort to enunciate his words, more a mumble than anything, "How do you want me?"

"You don't have to pose. Sometimes it's more fun if it happens naturally, like a candid shot?" Eddie says, his fingers moving rapidly over the camera and lens to prepare it for the lighting and distance this room could offer him.

"A voyeur," Harrington smirks.

Eddie's instinct is to bark back at this guy's mocking of him, but he thinks about the money and Marney. About his ideas and the differences he could make. He forces a small smile and tries to be funny, "A wildlife photographer."

Harrington laughs. His ringed hand comes to his face as he brushes his bottom lip with his thumb and looks Eddie up and down again. It's making Eddie's skin crawl. He feels Buckley's eyes on him and reluctantly lowers the camera, "Maybe the more spontaneous photos aren't suitable for this project." Eddie offers to cut the tension.

"Are you him?" Harrington asks with wide, almost manic eyes, and Eddie isn't sure who the He is that Harrington is referring to, "You aren't one of his underlings, are you?" and it must show because he doesn't wait for him to answer, he looks to Buckley. She nods, and Harrington bites his knuckle at her before turning back to Eddie. "You have my permission to take as many pictures of me as you want. Whenever you want. However, you want." He croaks out quietly. Even the way he talks annoys Eddie, like speaking at a normal volume like an average person is beneath him. Eddie's eye twitches with repressed rage.

"Provided we have access to them all, before you publish any, of course," Ted interjects, and Eddie watches Steve snap his head in Wheeler's direction, his mood shifted on a pinhead. Almost a snarl on his lip, tensed jaw, and a piercing glare.

Eddie snaps a photo.

Ted shoots a look at Eddie, and Buckley stiffens her posture.

The shutter noise does something to Harrington. Not only does it pull him out of his rage, but Eddie sees him instinctively go for that iconic Harrington pose he's been doing since his modelling days.

He shifts his weight to one leg, a thumb in the pocket, pulling down his waistband further, as the fingers of the same hand splay out elegantly like a dancer against his hip and upper thigh, and he rolls back that shoulder. A minuscule bowing and tilting of the head, finding his light easily, before looking at the floor and flicking his eyes straight back up to the lens, a subtle pout on his lips.

Eddie takes another photo.

Everyone relaxes.

Well, everyone except for Eddie, who is starting to get the sinking feeling that not only is Harrington insane, but this whole place might be, too.

"Show me," Harrington demands, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, already extending his hand and approaching Eddie.

"Mr Harrington, I don't have time for this." Ted sighs, exasperated, and gestures to the seat next to him. Harrington rolls his eyes, clenches a fist, and turns to sit in the armchair.

Eddie releases the breath he didn't realise he was holding and sits down.

Once seated, Eddie tries to keep most of his attention on the rep, reviewing contract details they have all already read and signed. He occasionally acknowledges Harrington out of civility, but every time he finds his gigantic pupils are already boring into him, his leg bounces, his rings tap against the arm of the chair, or he fidgets some other way.

Eddie tries his best to concentrate on what is being said, but there is nothing new here. Nothing that wasn't in the contract. He can feel the ire rise in him. He pushes it back down, thinking about the money, and smiles broadly at Ted, but the goddamn tapping and staring was distracting. So much so that it felt like it started getting louder than Ted. It's like his patience is being rapidly worn down by the human cheese grater that is Steve Harrington.

"I feel we're all on the same page here. Do you need me for anything else?" Ted says his tone is steady, but Eddie thinks he can detect the slight hints of disdain.

"He has to complete the project now?" Harrington mutters to Ted but doesn't take his eyes off Eddie, and unnerving doesn't cover it. Eddie does a bit of internal coaching. It's just ten pictures, and it's a million dollars. You could probably get most of them done in one day. You're on call, but you're not obliged to spend twenty-four hours a day with this creep. It's gonna be fine, then take the money and run the hell outta here.

"Yes, he's signed the contract. If he breaks it, it will go to legal." Ted answers and Harrington's shoulders relax a little, "But I doubt that would happen. He seems professional enough." he closes the file and gathers it up to stand. Eddie stands, too. He's more than ready to leave this place, go back to the hotel, have something very strong to drink and complain to Marney down the phone for an hour or two. "He was on time for a start," and Eddie feels that jab swing for Harrington, but he doesn't seem to have noticed it.

Ted walks towards one door, and Eddie quickly gathers his things and goes to leave out of the other, but he turns to find the door blocked by two of the security team. He turns to follow Ted through the other door, but a firm, gloved hand lands on his shoulder and stops him in his tracks. Buckley shakes her head once at him and pushes him back into his chair.

Ok, now he's fucking scared. Stuck in a room with this fucked up guy and his minions that seem just to do his bidding.

He looks up at Buckley, "The meetings over. I can go, right?" He swallows nervously.

"You can spare me five more minutes." Harington's fried voice, much closer than expected, commands, doesn't ask. Eddie nearly jolts at the sound like it was a jumpscare.

Ted turns back in the doorway and looks directly at Harrington, "That is unless Mr Munson finds his working conditions unsuitable, or if he were to sustain an injury that would prevent him from meeting his contractual obligations, then I believe we postpone, or the project is over." He turns his attention to Eddie like he can read his mind. Like he knows, he just thought about flinging himself headfirst into the coffee table to escape this impending shitshow. "We would have to, of course, investigate where the blame lies and then assess compensation for both parties." His eyes return to a clenched-fisted Harrington, "And it's such a lot of money we've invested, we'd have to recoup it from elsewhere in the business." For the first time ever, he witnesses Harrington shrink. He steps away from Eddie, not taking his eyes off the man in the doorway.

Eddie can sense this is a veiled threat of some kind, but Harrington just threw nearly a million at him to get here today. He could give them the hundred grand easily.

Ted nods, "Gentlemen." And closes the door behind him.

Harrington walks to the larger table, "You bring 'em?" There is a silence, and as Eddie looks at Buckley, she raises her eyebrows, indicating it's him being asked.

"Er, yeah. Yeah. Right here." He answers, holding up the portfolio to someone who isn't even looking at him.

"Set 'em out." Harrington taps his fingers on the massive table in front of him. Buckley gives him a helpful guiding hand towards the table because Eddie freezes. He doesn't want to get any closer than he has to. Leaving a good gap between the two of them, he starts laying out the photos from that first concert in equally spaced rows, ordering them chronologically through the show. He takes a few more steps away once he's done and waits.

"Pool house or guest room?" Harrington asks.

Eddie doesn't mean to, but he just blurts out, "What?" with a laugh full of nervous energy.

Harrington unrolls himself from his slightly hunched form and straightens up to face him, a small smile on his lips, "For tonight, did you choose the pool house or one of the guest rooms?" He looks him over again, and the intensity of it makes Eddie remember his school days. The sinking feeling before a bully is about to strike. "You look like a pool house kinda guy to me."

"Oh, um, neither," Eddie replies, and Harrington looks over to his head of security, his brows furrowed.

"Says he's not feeling too good. Would rather stay in a hotel." Buckley answers his questioning expression.

"Interesting," Harrington says as he steps closer to peruse the photographs.

There is a shrill, "Harry!! Where are you?" from somewhere in the building.

"Excuse me." He mumbles and leaves the room for a second before re-entering with a large group of people surrounding the table. Eddie looks around at them subtly. He recognises a number of them, relatively high-profile people. A few movie stars, a pop star, directors, the rest he doesn't know. The one that enters draped around Harrington's neck he recognises as a reality TV star, Heidi something, he doesn't remember.

Eddie knows he's getting paid a million dollars already, but the money potential in this room right now is making him feel very greedy. He resolves to try and relax. Maybe he could get something else out of all this.

Heidi swings around Harrington's neck like one of his long chains and leans over the photos, pushing a few of them out of line. It makes Eddie's eye twitch again, but he just lets it happen, "Wow, did you take these?" She bats her spider leg lashes at Harrington, who chuckles and points himself out on several of them.

"Impossible. He did," Harrington replies, nodding his head towards Eddie, and all eyes around the table fall on him. As unnerving as it is, Eddie forces a smile and gracious nod. Harrington turns to the table, "Munson Photography. He's working with me on the next set of gigs." There is a chorus of nods and approving noises as the crowd swarm over the photographs.

Heidi squeals and picks up a photo of Harrington strutting along the stage catwalk. The crowd lit up behind him, "Can I take this one?" She holds it up to Harrington.

"You'll have to ask the man himself, but prepare yourself for a no. He likes those." Harrington smirks at him as he answers her. There is a smattering of mutters around the table, and Eddie quickly leaps into action.

"You're welcome to it. It's just a print." He smiles at her, even rips one of the pockets out the back of the folder and puts the photo safely inside for her, "There you go." Harrington is observing him the whole time. He sincerely hopes this isn't a jealousy thing because he really had nothing to worry about. She was not Eddie's type at all. "We aren't called that anymore, by the way, but this is my agent's contact number if you want it." He pulls out a little pile of cards and drops them next to the pictures on the table.

She turns to Harrington, "Is your friend gonna be here later, Harry?" She asks, and there is a slight tone to it, a raise of an eyebrow, as she presses herself up against him, and his arm naturally falls around her waist.

"He doesn't wanna stay. He's a very busy man." Harrington says, grinning at Heidi. They fall into some sort of all-tongue, not much of anything else kiss, and Eddie busies himself lining up the photos again to avoid cringing. She whispers something to him. Harrington releases her and stands right next to where Eddie had been leaning over the images, readjusting them. His arm stretches around the back of him, and his hand grasps the back of the chair on the other side of Eddie, "Which ones your favourite?" He asks quietly, right next to Eddie's ear. He doesn't think he's ever felt more uncomfortable than right now.

The truth is, none of them anymore. The whole memory is tainted, but he plays the game, "The one with the curtain call." He says quickly, "Excuse me." He says politely with a smile and tries to wiggle out of his situation, but Harrington's arm is firmly still in place. He could just vomit.

"You like my friend Heidi?" Harrington whispers as the others talk amongst themselves for a little while.

Eddie knows what he's getting at and honestly wouldn't have thought someone as arrogant as Harrington to be into that, but he plays dumb, "She seems like a lovely lady."

Harrington lets out a small, quiet laugh, "Mmhmmm, she is. She's pretty friendly, too, as are her girlfriends. There are so many of them. You'd be helping me tonight if you got to know them." He adds, bumping his hip against Eddie's.

"Yeah, they all seem nice." Eddie agrees, hoping it will end this stupid conversation.

His bloodshot, dilated pupil eyes lock onto Eddie's as he tries to escape, "Point your favourite out to me, Eddie."

His stomach churns as the command catches him off guard, "What?" He exclaims a little more loudly than he means to, and soon, all eyes are back on him.

Harrington's grin widens, "The photograph, Eddie."

He overly enunciates his name. Eddie swallows hard and obliges, pointing it out. Harrington leans over him to get a look, pressing his arm into Eddie's back. He hums, shifts a little and then locks his gaze with Eddie again, "Are you gay?" He asks bluntly, and the table erupts with laughter. The only people not laughing are Eddie and Harrington, though he is wearing a smile, and Eddie is wearing several shades of natural blush.

Eddie was out and proud. These days, it wasn't anything to hide, but something about this interaction made him want to crawl into a hole and disappear forever.

Heidi thumps Harrington's arm, "Don't be a dick, babe. You can't just out people. It's very un-pc! Leave him alone." She reprimands him, and he laughs mischievously, wrapping her back into his arms and finally tears his eyes from Eddie's.

Today, he'd arrived here, loathing Harrington. Now, his insides were a boiling cesspool of putrid hatred for him. He's beginning to question if this is worth a million dollars. He thinks about Marney. He reminds himself he wouldn't be able to make this amount of money in his lifetime probably. He could upgrade his kit, buy a house, buy Wayne a house, support local charities, shit, and start his own charity project. He takes a very subtle deep breath by bowing his head and letting his hair hang in front of his face, collecting himself quickly. Then, he straightens up and beams at them all, "Well, that isn't really relevant to either of our projects, so forgive me for not answering."

All eyes return to Harrington, and he huffs out a laugh and looks around the table, "It was only a question. But you know what, maybe it's not that. Maybe he just thinks you girls are a bunch of sluts, and Mr Munson here has much higher standards."

"I can assure you, it's not that," Eddie says, picking up the photos and filing them away.

"Oh, you don't mind a slut then?" Harrington laughs loudly, and the people around the table join him. And that is the last straw.

What was this guy's problem? He'd been begging Eddie to work with him again for years, and when he said yes, he paid nine times as much to get him here the next day. Had he simply done that to get Eddie back for saying no? Had he paid nine hundred grand to get Eddie in a room to belittle him in front of others? Is that the level of Ego he was dealing with here? Though fuming with annoyance, Eddie remembers to keep it civil. Otherwise, they'd look at him as the bad guy.

"It's my job to capture people and moments, maybe tell their story, but judge them? No." Eddie shuts his file and feels the jovial atmosphere disappear with its contents. He looks up and around the table. Everyone is looking at Harrington again. The smile has wiped from his face, and his eyes are cast down slightly, "There's plenty of people out there already eager to do that. I don't need to add to their number." Harrington's eyes flick back up to his for a moment but look away again, and Eddie feels the power has shifted. He can't resist picking up the metaphorical boxing gloves Wheeler left behind and taking a few jabs himself. "When someone with enough influence judges someone loudly enough. It's easy for others to gather their pitchforks en masse, ready to raze everything to the ground."

He collects his things and sees Harrington returning to being a little hunched over the table. He waves the others out with a flick of his hand. Eddie goes to follow them, but this time, Harrington stops him himself. He doesn't look Eddie in the eyes, doesn't touch him directly, just pulls on the bag strap to stop him, "I get carried away sometimes." He mutters out. Eddie's insides are still swimming with anger, but he can hear and see the unspoken apology.

That might have been one of the three authentic interactions between them today. One when he asked if Eddie had to do this. Two, when he asked if Eddie was gay, and now this. The rest of it was very much a show of sorts, for whom Eddie wasn't certain. Whilst the first two had only thrown gasoline on the fire, that was his hatred for this guy. That last one was a handful of sand.

He puts it down to having behavioural problems himself as a kid. Getting things wrong and not often getting a chance to make up for them. Then, being judged and labelled over it. That is probably why he hated this Harrington situation so much. His dad wouldn't console him when he got duped by people time and time again because he'd give them room to apologise. His dad had said he was a pushover or a doormat, but Wayne said his kindness wasn't a weakness. He just needed to be more savvy about how much he let those people back in.

"See you in two weeks, Mr Harrington," Eddie says, an unspoken iota of forgiveness.

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Songs that inspired this chapter:

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madaboutmunson · 3 months

Text

Let me hear you speaking just for me - Part A

This was a pretty long chapter so I've split it in two just for ease of reading :)

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 7a

Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Eddie gets the chance to interview Steve for his book.

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only.

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip; stobin; platonic stobin; platonic with a capital P;

Word Count: 5.9K ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He'd thought about it. Digging his heels in again. Demanding to fly commercial. So that he wouldn't end up trapped on there with Harrington and whatever set of groupies he was going to use for in-flight entertainment. But Marney had said he was willing to give the entire flight time to Eddie's project.

Eddie had been collecting candids and quotes and diary entries for years now from bands that only played their local bar to multi-platinum artists. His hypothesis was this. Money can buy luxury, and it can make things easier. It can push people to succeed or keep pushing on, but nothing moves a musician more than the music itself. All he had to do was gather the evidence, lay it out nicely, and boom! Perfect coffee table book. Though he loathed Harrington, he wasn't stupid. His fans would buy Eddie's book simply for the exclusive shots and interviews. And Harrington had just given him a whole hour, no questions asked, apparently. Maybe it was another masked apology for their meeting?

Like his therapist has said to him repeatedly, he didn't have to forgive him, but if he could find a way to let go of all this anger towards a stranger, he could find a little more peace. The world was a tough enough place as it is.

After all, how much should Eddie be allowed to hate the guy if he doesn't even know what he did? And after the last two weeks, Eddie has been wondering how much control Harrington has over the asteroid bombardment that happens to things pulled into his orbit.

A day after their meeting, a grainy picture of himself leaving Harrington's house, hilariously labelled him as a mystery woman, had started making the rounds online. Some fans of his must have worked it out because a few days later, he started getting notifications from his old Munson Photography account, thousands of them asking the same thing. Was he finally going to work with Harrington? As the messages started to pour in, the fear that curled around his spine had almost induced waking nightmare recollections of his life falling apart around him. He didn't respond to any of them, but that didn't stop the barrage. If anything, it amplified the situation. Groups of people, girls mainly, positioned around his usual daily haunts. The studio, the coffee shop, the local bar, the laundromat, occasionally surreptitiously, one would snap a photo of him with their phone. He'd just repeat the amount of money he was going to get paid over and over in his head. He'd even had his bins and mailbox rifled through. Soon, they had him tracked all over, and he was extremely glad all his socials were already set to private. Requests appearing on his other social media profiles were all declined. He decided that if this project went well, we'd start up a new public account and dump all the Harrington in dribs and drabs and, hopefully, future stuff there, too.

Eddie wasn't sure if it was because he'd gotten laid recently, if he was excited to get back to doing what he loved, or if it was because he had a golden opportunity, but whatever it was, he wasn't feeling so concerned.

The driver had picked him up from the hotel, which was only a ten-minute walk away, but he supposed someone might have had a few questions if he had just strolled out onto the tarmac here. He'd been ushered to the plane immediately, which was odd because he could still see the pool of photographers waiting in their strategically placed pens. A few snapped at him as he boarded, which was pretty unnerving as he definitely preferred being on the other side of the camera. Luckily, Marney had advised him as such, and he'd taken a little more care of his appearance this morning. He turned down the idea of sunglasses this early in the morning, though they had been recommended.

Once inside, he'd realise Harrington wasn't early because he wasn't on the plane. So Eddie takes the opportunity to unpack his camera and head back down the stairs to the runway. He hides behind the staircase to avoid invading the other photographers' shots. He had access they didn't, but he didn't want to be a complete asshole about it. He said he'd be here on the hour, so Eddie sits on the Tarmac anticipating at least an extra thirty-minute wait, but much to his surprise, Harrington is on time with his team but bereft of groupies.

He steps out of the blacked-out windowed vehicle, again in the typical rockstar clothing you'd expect. Tight leather look pants, a sheer shirt and a knee-length jacket with faux fur trim topped off with swathes of accessories and a black set of wayfarers. Obviously, the specific items are slightly different, but Eddie wonders if it's almost like a uniform. A dark alter-ego of the all-American blue-collar guy who just happened to be good at playing the guitar, he portrayed on stage, on album covers, and inside exclusive magazine articles. Despite the predictability of his outfit, his behaviour is surprising. He opens the door, and someone from another car rushes over to him, then to the photographers and then back to Harrington, who nods, and the rapid shutter sounds ride the breeze around them.

Harrington shields himself at first, almost like he's trying to make a secret escape to the plane. Then, once at the foot of the stairs, he turns back, gets back into the car, re-emerges with a big smile, slow walk, and waves for the photographers, even stopping to pause and pose for a few shots as they shout his name repeatedly. The man is methodical. It makes Eddie wonder if any of the harassed-looking pictures he'd seen of Harrington were real at all.

Eddie takes a few shots from this angle. It might be cool for a reader to have the photographers in the frame for a change and then quickly rushes back up the stairs to capture him getting on the plane.

Once in position, Eddie feels a little strange, a twinge of guilt. Shouldn't he let the guy get settled on the plane before taking his picture? But on the other hand, he did have Harrington's permission to snap whatever he wanted. A flicker of humanising Harrington almost has him stand up out of his crouched position, but people are already boarding around him by that time. Buckley gives him a nod as she starts going over her extra checks. Harrington spots him in the aisle, and a half-smile pinches at his cheek.

"Hi," he says almost too quietly to be heard over the plane's noise and everyone else bustling around.

Eddie raises his eyes from behind the viewfinder, mirrors his smile, "Morning, Mr. Harrington".

"How do you want me?" He asks, gesturing around.

"Uh, just pretend I'm not here," Eddie replies, not tearing his eyes from the camera this time.

"Sure, I'll try my best." Harrington oddly responds and smiles a little wider, and soon enough, everyone is moving around like Eddie isn't even there. He finds a space tucked in between two back-to-back club seats so people can truly go about their business, but not a few minutes in, Harrington disappears through a curtained-off area. Eddie can see everyone settling into their seats, so he finds the nearest empty one and sits down, too.

He'd been on two private jets before one was owned collectively by a band, and the other was chartered by an artist when they first hit the big time. This was something else. Fully rotating and reclining plush seats, a meeting or dining table area, screens everywhere, and everything in whites and occasional thin stripes of pastel or chrome. For such clinical colours, it’s still quite soothing and fresh.

Everyone falls into their small groups on the plane, security in one section, PR in another, and some hair and makeup on standby.

Eddie quickly packs up his camera and tucks it away safely with the rest of his gear. This not being a commercial flight meant you didn’t have to wait for another hundred people to get going, and he’d been biding his time until one of the crew came past and reminded him kindly as they passed him an envelope.

Eddie rolls his eyes. It’s Harrington-branded stationery. Of course, it is. Apparently, a simple Post-it or lined paper would be too far beneath the guy.

Marney’s voice rings in his head. “Don’t fuck this up for us, Ed. Just try and enjoy this for what it is. A holiday to Vegas where occasionally you have to take some pictures, work your editing magic and come home an almost millionaire!”

He takes a deep breath to reset, closes his eyes, counts to ten, and relaxes. He looks at the envelope again. He tries to imagine it's not pretentious, just a little cute thing.

It’s a pale blue-grey, excellent quality feel paper. The border is embossed silver with a little guitar motif in one corner and a Unidyne-style microphone in the other. His name was penned in black ink in the centre. He opens it up and takes out the card.

See you in the sky.

He huffs, puts it back in its envelope and tucks it away in his hip pocket. Eddie puts on his belt as instructed and uses take-off to channel his frustration.

Eddie is not a nervous flier, but he digs his fingers into the arms of the chair and shuts his eyes all the same. Not for nerves, though, just to power through. He thinks about the money and how this wasn’t so hard. In fact, it was easy. It benefited him way more than Harrington. He’d get some general insights and team them with some exclusive shots, and the fans would throw their money at his project, even if Harrington was only a tiny section of it. He’d witnessed how they operated with other such media. When he had a cameo on a TV show or was part of a charity campaign, it was consumed by them to the point of assimilation, and once they’d bled it dry of him, he’d be in something or appearing somewhere else. It was a very smooth operation of drip-feeding fans, and he’d been doing it for years.

He could disappear creatively for a year or two at a time. Didn’t have to offer up a song or tour, just be in the vicinity of a camera. The next thing you know, he’s everywhere again, people playing his old songs, or he’d show up for an appeal and be involved in a comedy skit once a charity target was met or get invited to an awards show. Eddie’s fingers grip tighter into the armrests. He’s so annoyed he knows so much about him, how he’s been haunted by him for so long.

Eddie desperately tries to channel peaceloving-remember-your-processes-Eddie, but unfortunately, he’s been shoved into a closet and locked in by bitter-venomous-Eddie, who whispers conspiracy and gorges on Eddie’s hate and anger.

This guy was a piece of work. Who does this kind of shit? He’s already agreed to the in-flight interview. He doesn’t need to send a fucking reminder.

He feels the bile rise in him again as he thinks about Harrington’s smug face as he signed the back of the note. He grips the arms of the seat harder as the plane is still in ascent.

He forces his mind out of its cesspool of hate, which honestly had a greased-up water slide down into it when it came to people like Harrington. He thinks about times and people when he has purposefully had patience. He even thinks about how they left their last meeting. Harrington should have apologised, but Eddie knew guys like him didn’t hand those out. It was beneath them to fully admit fault. And yet he had tried to excuse his behaviour, and Eddie had forgiven him in the moment. That helps him relax a little. Then, the idea comes to him.

Harrington is just a screaming child at one of his family portrait shoots. They only wanna do what they wanna do but will give a little, providing the bait is sufficient. This much had been proven. Once Eddie accepted the job, Harrington said yes to whatever he’d asked for. Maybe he’ll behave himself if Eddie is sweeter, less businesslike. He didn’t seem to like that Wheeler guy and clearly enjoys being fawned over. Eddie isn’t sure he could go that far, but he could play a softer role. After all, the more Harrington let him in, the more exclusive content his book had. And the more exclusive content in that one section, the more money it would make for Eddie.

His shoulders finally fully relax, and a small smile graces his face as the thought of potentially being completely set for life floods his mind. No more scrimping and scraping by. No more dingy apartments. No more sad little lonely life. He was finally going to be happy, and all he had to do was get through two weeks of occasionally snapping pictures. The rest of the time, he could hang out in his room, say he was editing or something, but just watch movies and luxuriate in whatever fancy hotel Harrington was happy to stay in.

As Eddie levels out, so does the plane. He opens his eyes back into a new patient version of himself, and the seat belt light blinks off.

“Mr Harrington will see you now, Mr Munson,” is said to him gently by one of the prettiest members of cabin crew he’s ever seen. Then he realises he knows him. It’s the guy from the airport hotel. Of course, Eddie would choose to have a one-night stand with a man who just happened to be one of Harrington’s selected crew!

“Oh…uh…hi,” Eddie says awkwardly, and the guy smiles back at him a little bashfully, “I didn’t know you worked for Harrington.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't at the time,” he smiles. Eddie quickly praises the heavens for name tags. Jesse. He looks at the floor and pretends to neaten up some things next to Eddie’s seat, “Not that you asked about my job, or much else for that matter,” the guy lets out a giggle and then presses his lips together, “Come along now, let’s not keep Mr Harrington waiting,” he beckons Eddie to follow him through to the next compartment of the plane. Eddie quickly gathers his equipment bags and follows him down the plane.

Eddie is close to sweating. This was awkward. He’d said he’d call the guy, but he didn’t. Just thought it would be what it was, and that’s it. But now… Jesus Christ… Now, he is wiggling down the aisle in front of him in a uniform that is so snug it leaves little to the imagination. Eddie thought the polo shirt hugging his chest was tempting enough, but this crisp white shirt was something else. He’s pretty confident he saw the outline of a nipple, but now all he can see is that sweet ass being hugged by the navy blue material of his suit trousers. He doesn’t remember much of this guy in the ways of conversation, but he does recall a few non-spoken things they both enjoyed. Eddie almost shudders pleasantly at the notion they might end up in the same hotel as one another and maybe… No! No way! You already mistreated him once , he reprimands himself. He’s not a plaything. He’s a person. So you either ask him out properly, or you forget this. And he is not about to date someone who works for Harrington.

Eddie can’t decide if the wave of horniness that just washed over him was better or worse than being angry. The answer to that comes very swiftly as they move through to where Harrington is.

Everything gets dimmer and darker, to such a degree that Eddie actually tears his eyes away from ogling the attendant in front of him.

The previous light interior is a world away from the private plane interior of Eddie’s teenage dreams that is laid out before him now. Everything is either black, charcoal, or dark wood trim. There is a small black loveseat sitting area to his left, deep like Chesterfields, and to his right, a big bar. Then, looking ahead, two big black executive club seats face one another against the window. He can see Harrington slumped in one, gazing out the window. But real distraction is behind him. A large bed already made up with velvet cushions, fur-looking throws, and the shimmer of silk or satin sheets underneath, all in black.

Eddie is way past teenage awkwardness, but this mixture of happenings might prove to be a little much for him as his eyes trail back over the attendant, who suddenly stops and turns around to give him an easy smile.

“You’re so lucky, Eddie,” Jesse whispers. Oh, Jesus Christ, he remembers his name. Eddie’s innards drop to a new level of cringing, “Not many people get to spend the whole flight with him, and never a man. He must be so excited to work with you. To sit and talk the whole flight?”

Jesse brushes down Eddie's clothes to neaten them up, like one of the proud parents at his photoshoots, before they send in the kids for their portrait. “The girls say he usually doesn’t spend much of his flights talking to anyone, normally preoccupied with some groupie, you know?”

Eddie’s eyes dart to the bed in the corner and then settle back on Jesse’s lips as he talks. He is trying to listen, but it is so difficult to concentrate, not when he’s talking about this, not when it’s this guy in his scandalously tight, unblemished uniform that Eddie can’t seem to stop thinking about ruining. “It’s hardly ever been a guy, let alone a gay guy. So I guess what I’m saying, Eddie is,” he gets a light poke in the chest, and he manages to lift his eyes to Jesse’s, “Don’t fuck this up for us, ok. He’s a very loud ally, considering his mostly conservative fan base. He’s helping,” Jesse’s eyes search his, and Eddie is starting to feel like maybe he doesn’t need to speak to Harrington at all. Perhaps he could get stuck in a bathroom, and Jesse would have to help him out or something. Jesus Christ, Eddie, keep it together. It’s just a cute guy.

“I’ll see you out there,” Jesse winks and moves to the side to barely let Eddie squeeze past, which he doesn’t mind in any way at all when Jesse’s hands guide his hips through the space, one of those said hands then give him a pat on the butt as he makes it past. Eddie sure hopes there is some kind of arctic-level AC he can blast himself with to cool down. Otherwise, a layer will have to go because it is so hot right now.

Eddie dons his family portrait pleasant persona. He puts his friendliest smile on and strolls over to what must be his seat with a cheerful pep in his step.

“Mr Harrington?” Eddie calls out and gives a neighbourly wave.

“Less of the Mr, thanks. Makes me feel all business-y” Harrington smirks and beckons him over with two fingers. He doesn’t get out of his seat or even sit up straight. There is a slight wiggle of adjustment, but that is all.

Eddie sits down in his seat, smile still perfectly in place, for no one to see because Harrington hasn’t even looked at him yet. He’s staring out the window. A little weirded out, Eddie resolves to unpack his camera, dictaphone, notepad and pen onto the small table.

He glances over at Harrington again, who appears quite frankly bored as he looks out of the window, “So am I ok to start recording and set up the camera to frame you so that we can talk and I can randomly snap whenever?” Eddie asks, and that finally gets his attention.

“Sure, sounds good,” Harrington answers unbothered, looking out the window as Eddie sets up the equipment. During setup, his eyes met Jesse’s a few times, and he sent a wink or a quick pout in return, honestly turning him into a giggling middle schooler. Eddie doesn’t remember him being this obviously flirty last time. Maybe for the average person, this might be a bit too obvious or too much, but after all this time, Eddie needed that.

“What do you make of all this so far?” Harrington’s drowsy vocal fry reminds him why he’s here, and he feels almost like he’s caught with his pants down.

“Uh, it’s nice. I mean, it’s great, honestly,” he answers, still making some final adjustments to the tripod with his back to Harrington. However, his eyes still occasionally trail over parts of Jesse he could catch a glimpse of, “Yeah, very nice indeed,” he says absentmindedly.

Eddie rounds the tripod, fixes the camera in place, adjusts for the lighting and takes a test shot, but when he looks at the screen again, Harrington is gone.

“Let me see that one,” Harrington demands and Eddie snaps his head around to find himself at eye level with Harrington’s double-buckled belt. He casts his eyes up and backs up, pressing the button to show the last picture, and Harrington leans down to take a look.

Backed against the side of his seat, Harrington leaning into his space, teamed with the surprise of having a very sexy flight attendant nearby, Eddie's heart pounds fiercely in his chest. He wants to take a much deeper breath, but Harrington is so close he’d hear if he hadn’t already.

Harrington hums happily, “Fuck, you are good at what you do, aren’t you?” He chuckles as he straightens up and backs out of Eddie’s space.

Eddie tries to pull his professional self back to the controls, “You’d hope so, wouldn’t you?” He says with what he hopes is a charming laugh.

Harrington, already relaxed in his seat, smiles up at Eddie for the first time, “I guess I already knew that, though, didn’t I?” He swirls the ice cube around in the tumbler, delicately hanging from where his fingers grip the rim of it. He taps one of his many rings against the glass a few times.

Eddie watches a curtain fly open behind Harrington’s seat. Jesse appears again, seems to take a deep breath, and composes himself neatening his clothes and hair before walking over to them, “Mr Harrington,” Jesse says like he’s absolutely delighted and hasn’t seen him in years, “How may I servi- uh, help?”

Eddie bites his lips together to stifle his laugh at Jesse’s probably Freudian slip. Even though it is absolutely killing him not to poke fun, but he’s not an asshole. He’ll tease him about it later, maybe over text or, better than that, in person.

He hears the leather of the chair as Harrington shifts against it, and that causes him to raise his head to find him holding Jesse’s name tag on his fingertips, “Well, Jesse. Some drinks would be fantastic if you wouldn’t mind.” Eddie watches Jesse’s eyelashes flutter at Harrington and amusedly realises he’s not the only person trying to keep it together on this plane.

“Yes, sir. Right away, what can I get you?” Jesse says eagerly.

“Hmmm. Why don’t you surprise us, huh? I’m sure your taste is excellent,” Harrington lazily smiles up at him, and Eddie doesn’t miss the flush at Jesse’s jaw’s hinge. He turns on his heel and heads toward the bar, leaving Eddie and Harrington alone again, “He’s new.” Harrington’s voice pulls Eddie out of his daze, staring at Jesse’s body as he goes.

“What?” Eddie accidentally blurts out.

Harrington laughs and points a finger over his shoulder without looking back, keeping his eyes on Eddie, “The Jock. He’s new, so bear with him. He’ll get a handle on things in no time at all, I’m sure.”

It’s confusing to Eddie why anyone inexperienced would be allowed anywhere near Harrington as he watches Jesse fumble with a few things at the bar, “This his first flight? Working on your jet, I mean.” Eddie asks.

Harrington takes the last sip from his current glass and puts it down, “Doubtful, I’ve had him up here a few times. Maybe it’s you making him nervous?”

“Wh-why would I make him nervous?” Eddie tries to ask like it's the weirdest thing in the world, and it only makes Harrington chuckle.

“Or maybe it's the other way around?” he hums, raising an eyebrow and looking out the window.

Eager to get off this topic of conversation, Eddie changes the subject, “Nah. So I thought, you’ve given me this whole flight, but I’d rather get the most out of it. I’ve been told most people don't get this opportunity, so I do not want to squander it. So if I just reel off some topics I’d like to ask questions about, and if any are a no-go-”

“Eddie,” Steve rasps his name and turns to look him in the eyes, “You can ask me anything you want. I have nothing to hide,” he says, and Eddie probably thinks that's true. He’s probably answered every question someone could think of by now.

“Alright,” Eddie flicks through his notebook and glances back up at Harrington again, and he thinks maybe he looks better, not as exhausted, eyes not like saucers. He kind of looks like he might be human today. His eyes flick back to his notebook. He decides to start with the required questions for his book and then see where they go. As long as he has this answer, he has the quote for the page, “So how about how you got into music?”

Harrington doesn’t reply just looks at Eddie and then at the table between them. Eddie figures he hasn’t heard him and leans forward to repeat the question louder over the plane noise.

Harrington smiles and leans forward, too, which almost sends Eddie reeling back in his seat. Instead, he stays still, feels the heat of Harrington entering his space, and regrettably gets a waft of some fantastic cologne he’s wearing. Something leathery, smoky and warm, such a heady concoction that Eddie almost closes his eyes to enjoy it fully. But Harrington’s eyes urge his to follow them down to the table, where he reaches out and taps the dictaphone to record.

Eddie laughs nervously, “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” That nervousness from their first meeting rises in him again. He can’t mess this up. He doesn't want to impress Harrington per se, of course not, but he wouldn’t mind a stamp of approval to show all the other people who worship the ground he walks on so he can get more business and his life back.

“You mean this career or music in general?” Steve asks, tilting his head slightly as he slumps back in his seat, hand dangling between his spread legs. Eddie presses the button on the remote for the camera. The shutter sound goes off, but Harrington doesn't flinch.

“Let's start with this career and circle back, maybe?” Eddie says, tapping his pen on his pad, “I know you were successful in modelling and then made a move to music, but from your perspective, how did that come about?”

“You’ve done your homework on me, I see,” Steve smirks and Eddie kinda hates it. Still, something about doing this for his own project, his book, doesn't make him hate it quite as much, “Well, I was walking a red carpet for some awards event that I had nothing to do with, some film thing, don't remember,” he says blasé, “And someone was asking everyone what their secret talent was. I said I didn’t have one, that none of my talents were a secret,” he laughs at his own joke, “but the interviewer was pretty hot, and she pressed me a little, and I mentioned I played guitar.” He looks wistfully out the window, “She did a lot more than press me later.”

Eddie can’t imagine what it's like to be this guy. Does he just sleep with every woman he takes a shine to? Or is it all of the women he meets? He wonders how many have turned him down.

Eddie's gaze flicks to Jesse, who is finalising the drinks by garnishing him, and he’s thinking about if he’d get to engage in a press of his own later.

“Thirsty, Eddie?” Harrington asks with a straight face, “You’re welcome to anything you want, you know. Anything you can see, just help yourself, or ask our buddy, Jesse James, to get it for you. I’m sure he’d happily be of… service,” on that last word, Eddie sees something interesting, a smile of mischief maybe spreads across Harrington’s face. It’s then he realises Harrington hadn’t missed Jesse’s faux pax earlier at all and had been polite enough to overlook it. Eddie’s face breaks into a grin and a small laugh. He doesn’t want to laugh with Harrington, but he’s been keeping his amusement about it under wraps for so long now he can’t help himself.

“Here you go, gentlemen. Two old fashioneds,” Jesse says proudly and gently sets down the drinks. Eddie does not miss Jesse's sultry look when he bends down to place his tumbler beside him. Oh, he was going to find him later, that's for sure. He picked these drinks on purpose. Eddie looks down at his drink and notices the distinct lack of cherries and just the orange peel set in there. Jesse remembered.

As Jesse goes to leave, Harrington reaches out and taps him on the arm, “Is Mr Munson not permitted a little fruit with his drink, like I am?” He smiles up at Jesse, and Eddie watches Jesse full-on stall. Jesse loosens his collar a little with his finger, but his eyes stay locked with Harrington, and Eddie watches his lips press together as he swallows hard. Eddie feels his brow crease with annoyance as the realisation washes over him.

Jesse’s hot for Harrington!

The pep talk from earlier had nothing to do with Eddie being a rep for the gay community and everything to do with Jesse wanting not to be associated with a terrible flight for Harrington.

It’s not jealousy, he feels. It's something else as he looks between himself and Harrington. It’s alarm. They were nothing alike. Sure, they both had tattoos and were a little on the thinner side, but that’s not enough for a type, is it? But that was about it…they dressed somewhat similarly, but Steve was all designer. Other than that, nothing…except that they both had brown eyes and long lashes and…

No. No way. He was nothing like Harrington! His internal argument rages on whilst his face wears a slight frown and a smile.

If anything, Jesse was a variation of a younger Harrington before the lifestyle got him. Eddie screws up his face at acknowledging that, then looks between them nervously.

No. He doesn’t even like Harrington. That was dumb. His brain is just getting scrambled because he’s thinking about Jesse from two weeks ago. That was all.

“It’s actually fine. I don’t like the cherries anyway,” Eddie forces a smile over at them.

“Well,” Harrington looks surprised at Eddie, then beams at Jesse, “How about that? Must be your lucky day.”

Eddie watches Jesse steady himself on the side of Harrington’s seat, “It sure is!” Jesse replies with the biggest dopey grin on his face. Harrington looks happily back at him expectantly until the penny drops of Jesse, “Right, yeah. I’ll just be over there if you want me- need anything, I mean,” he quickly corrects himself and leaves them again. Eddie’s eyes wantonly trail after him as he does.

“I can put in a good word for you if you want?” Harrington’s voice disrupts Eddie’s thoughts.

“Ah, sorry, no. It’s-“ Eddie stumbles over his words in a fluster, “I think he’s more into you, from what I can see,” Eddie adds, eager to shift the spotlight back to Harrington.

“You think?” Harrington says, settling back in his seat, “Sweet.” He adds with a smile and turns back to the window.

“Wait, doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Uh, because you’re a straight guy, and he is clearly not. Most straight guys don’t like that.”

“Well, maybe I’m not like most straight guys, you know? Or maybe, as arrogant as it sounds, I’m just used to a whole spectrum of people having a thing for me?” Steve swirls his drink before sipping some, “It’s nice to be liked, you know?”

Hearing Harrington own his arrogance felt a little strange to Eddie. He’d half expected him to make some derogatory remark or for him to just brush it off. Ever curious, Eddie wonders if he could poke at that a little. Harrington did say he had nothing to hide and he could ask him anything.

“Do you often feel disliked?” Eddie asks very cautiously.

“More often than you’d think,” Harrington answers somberly, eyes still observing the skies, “But that’s just the price of all this, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, can’t please everyone, I guess,” Eddie adds, still curious but daren't pry deeper as he wasn’t after a chat show sob piece here. His comment gets Harrington to turn toward him with a patented half smile.

“No. You can’t. Even though it’s magically expected of you,”

“What do you mean?”

“Once you hit this level of being in the public eye, being allowed to err, to be human is taken away. You made a wise choice at the beginning, keeping private and off-socials, that I couldn’t,”

If not for his curiosity at this seemingly more vulnerable side of Harrington, he might be tempted to snap the air at him. Tell him exactly why he is off socials, and it has nothing to do with being wise and everything to do with his insane horde of fans.

Eddie can’t resist what a tasty morsel this might be for his book, Harrington and the Price of Fame. However, it feels sneaky, so he gestures to the dictaphone, “We’re still recording, you know,”

“I know,” Harrington says as his eyes cast to the floor and then back up to meet Eddie’s eyes, “Is this not the kind of thing you wanted for your book? Insight, exclusives, a tortured artist?” Harrington asks, looking away again, and Eddie feels a glimmer of pity for him. This must be his day-to-day, figuring out what people want from him and providing it so he can continue living this lifestyle. Eddie offers him another pass.

“Well, that's not the purpose of my book, and it is thoughtful of you to offer that up, but I’d rather it was just your truth, no agenda on my part. I mean, apart from one question, I need to know the answer to.”

Harrington looks him up and down, takes a deep breath, leans forward in his seat, drink in hand, elbows on his knees, “What question is that then?” he asks gently, which strikes Eddie as unusual.

“What does music mean to you?” Eddie answers pleasantly but watches Steve’s soft expression fall to something pained momentarily before his smile returns.

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Songs that inspired this chapter:

Stripped - Depeche Mode Come as you are - Nirvana

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