Or, the one inspired by a tweet Richard574941301 that reads: "people who want walkable cities dont understand the joys of staggering along the side of the highway high as shit on pills in the hot sun for 3 miles to get to a gas station to buy smokes"

Hi yes hullo, haven't posted on AO3 in literal years but I'm back bc the Steddie brainrot demands sacrifices.

obviously, i incorporated softDom!Steve into this fic bc everyone's always writing Eddie as the soft caretaker and Iiii just think Steve would be very good at the role. It's not his *favorite*, obviously, bc the man is submissive af, but still. Eddie's the one needing softness & comfort, so Steve gives him that.

dedicated to Shanice for being the best Twitter pal to bounce off Steddie ideas; she fuels my brainrot near daily. And also to Grey for writing my fave Steddie D/s dynamics *so* damn well.đź’—

Part 2 can be found on AO3: archiveofourown works/ 40912008 (lmao without spaces of course *hearthands*)

It should be said that Steve Harrington isn't ever looking for trouble these days, isn't ever intentionally seeking it out, but trouble often finds him in the form of Eddie Munson. Last week, it was Eddie tying up his hair, catching Steve looking a beat too long, and asking, "You want me to make you a pretty boy, too?"

The week before that, it was grinning at him over the D&D divider between Eddie and the rest of the Party and murmuring, "Y'know, I think you'd make a pretty hot paladin, Stevie. All heroic and strong and self-sacrificing."

It doesn't matter that Steve doesn't know shit about fuck and surely doesn't know what the fuck a paladin is - he flushes hot under his collar anyway because Eddie'd thinks he'd look hot doing it, being it, and so that's exactly what Steve wants to be. Later, in the familiar dark of his bedroom, he'd thought distantly that there's gotta be a name for that, a feeling, for wanting someone else to decide things for him and going with it like cool river water flowing over smooth rocks. He'd thought there must be a name for the feeling Eddie gives him in moments like those, where he feels warm and light and weirdly, strangely floaty, like he's only half-present in his own body as his mind drifts into space, dark and soft and filled with cotton instead of pinpricks of stars.

But goddammit, Steve doesn't go looking for trouble. He doesn't - no matter what the kids say about him being brave or heroic or a total badass, he doesn't like trouble and doesn't want it to find him. And yet, and yet, and yet, he sees Eddie walking along Route 84's main road where the cars whoosh on by, taking the straight-aways some twenty miles over what they should, and his heart's in his throat.

He watches Eddie walk through the tall grass along the highway, watches his sneakers squelch in the sodden, muddy earth left over from last night's rain and can't help but slow and pull over onto the shoulder. It's as Eddie's smiling at nothing and looking bleary-eyed and silly at the sun shining high overhead that Steve realizes he isn't sober, probably hasn't been for hours, and says simply, "...Christ, get in the car."

"Nah, 'm good, man." Eddie's eyes flicker closed and a secret smile curves his lips as he basks in the heat. "There's rainbows around the sun, you know that?"

And now Steve's exasperated as he slows to a dead stop and uses his most firm, insistent and threatening Dad voice if he ever had one, saying, "Get. In. The fucking. Car."

If Steve didn't know Eddie better, he'd think the little shudder that runs through him is from whatever drugs he'd done, taken? (what's the correct term for using shit stronger than weed? Hell if Steve knows) finally hitting their peak. But Steve's had his suspicions about where exactly Robin had found that rope in Eddie's trailer, and he'd thought he'd seen handcuffs over the wall above Eddie's bed when he and the older Party members had been over, so he thinks - he thinks, doesn't hope, because that's too dangerous, that that little shiver is from Steve using a very serious, no-fucking-arguments tone with him, and isn't that interesting?

It's also a thought Steve kicks into a box in his mind, down and away, for later in the dark of his bedroom. Because right now, Eddie needs a friend, needs someone to look out for him, not- not whatever the fuck Steve is thinking right now.

And now that that little moment between them's over, Eddie's bounds over to the passenger side door, hanging onto the roof of the BMW with one hand while swinging half of his body inside the car through the open window so he can look at Steve, a feral and almost delirious grin splitting his face when he amends, "Demanding, demanding, jeez."

Then, before Steve can crow about vehicle safety and common fuckin' sense and the chances of becoming a goddamn door prize on Route 84, Eddie just fuckin' - squeezes the other half of his body through the window and settles into the seat beside him like it's nothing out of the ordinary, no sweat, totally normal, very-sober-person behavior. "At least buy me dinner first, I'm not that much of a manwhore."

Steve checks his mirrors as he pulls away from the shoulder and merges onto the road again, says, "Fuck that, I want dinner and dessert."

And Eddie, the absolute indecent and flirtatious fucker who doesn't know when to quit even when he's high, leans in close like he's got no concept of personal space at all, and murmurs, "Oh, do you now?" and his grin's all teeth, his eyes all heat.

Steve opens his mouth and closes it some three times before he remembers how words work again, and he's absolutely not a flushed mess when he finally says, "Seatbelt, now" in the same firm, insisting tone he'd used earlier.

And then, softer now, some subtle-but-sure fondness creeping through, he mutters, "Don't need you going through the windshield on me, not after we just got you back."

They trade endless banter as Steve drives, though he doesn't ask Eddie why he's high or on what exactly - Eddie does that himself, a hysterical giggle leaving his lips as he rummages around the pockets of his jacket and says that it was pills, Steve, three pills and they make everything feel warm, so fuckin' warm.

And Steve hadn't even thought about it before he'd reached out and over the center console to rest his hand over Eddie's forehead to check for a fever. He's warm, maybe overly-so, but not into feverish territory - at least not yet, anyway. "And you were…what, hitch-hiking along the highway to go buy more?"

And Eddie had nuzzled into the touch like a goddamn cat, grinning and closing his eyes at the barest smidge of affection anyone will give him. It tugs at Steve's heart and he'd hate it if he didn't so deeply understand - he's used to throwing himself at people who will love him, and if not love him, at least touch him until he forgets there isn't also love beneath the touch.

(Isn't that a heavy thought for the sober one of them? Jesus.)

"No, no, no, Stevie- wanted smokes, ciggies, but the gas station by my house fuckin'- they ran outta the kind I like, so~" He'd said it with all his usual theatrics and overdramatic posturing, waving his hands around and all. But it was the nickname that had Steve feeling like he's feverish all of a sudden, and it's hardly above sixty-five today, a cool breeze blowing in from the open windows and fanning around his face. "Embarking on a heroic quest for my rightful spoils of war, it was!"

Things easily lighten up again when Eddie inevitably teases him about his music taste, and if the seats were closer, Steve would shoulder-check him for it.

Instead, he says a quick, fond, "Oh, fuck off, would you?" but there's no heat behind it as they pull onto the street leading to Steve's neighborhood. Or really, his parents' neighborhood, not that they're ever around to actually do anything neighborly. Or parently.

"We've got Bowie, Blondie, Madonna, Wham, ABBA!-" Eddie groans as he rummages through Steve's cassette tapes, lit cigarette hanging loose from the corner of his lips, and Steve is not jealous of a fuckin' cigarette, but Jesus Christ, does he suddenly and achingly want his mouth right against the edge of Eddie's right about now.

"We need music, Steve, music!" He insists as he keeps sorting through Steve's collection for something decent (to his taste) to put into the tape deck.

"Aww, Jesus Christ, the fuckin' Smiths? Bro, that's the kinda music depressed people listen to." Eddie huffs a laugh and then continues, "Like deeply depressed kill-myself-and-not-leave-a-note kinda depressed, and you've got it all mixed in with sparkling bubble-gum-pop nonsense."

And then, his face scrunched up in utter confusion and disbelief, he looks at Steve and asks, "Who even are you?" like he doesn't know anymore.

Steve cackles at the second-hand mortification and clear disbelief in Eddie's voice over his tapes collection and teases easily, smoothly, "What, you don't want me to sing you to sleep and then leave you alone?"

Eddie blinks at him like a cat lost in the hazy, drugging warmth of a sunbeam slanting across a cold winter floor and murmurs, "I-you-wha?"

Steve plays along with Eddie's flustered tone and the gauzy, still-day-dreaming look in his eyes and quietly sings the second verse to Sleep without really being asked, without really thinking about why, "Oh c'mon, you don't know? Sing to me, sing to me, I don't want to wake up on my own anymore…"

Eddie shakes his head and says just as soft, "No, man, 've never heard it before" and Steve reaches for one of the cassette tapes in the guitarist's hands, murmurs something about showing him, and Eddie leans his head back into the headrest and closes his eyes, mumbles a comfortable, sleep, "No, fuck Morrissey. Like it better when you sing it."

And Steve is glad Eddie's closed his eyes so that they don't have to talk about the obvious flush on his face, the one that'd started under his collar and creeped up his neck and lingers there now, because Eddie fuckin' Munson wants to hear Steve sing a suicidal love song about someone wanting to die in their sleep with a lover's lullaby being the last thing they hear.

He knows he's fucked because the first thing he says is, "Okay." And the second thing he says is, "Can you walk inside, or do I have to carry you?" as they pull up to his house, the engine idling as Steve parks in the driveway but doesn't shut off the car.

He thinks he sees that secret barely-there smile on Eddie's face again as he murmurs, all melodramatics and a hand to his forehead like he'll just faint if he tries to move, "Definitely can't walk, legs are terribly broken, guess you'll have to carry me."

He's acting like a widower being told of her husband's sudden and terrible passing in a vintage movie rather than, well- Eddie. Except, he's also acting completely, perfectly, and utterly like Eddie.

Steve lets out a fond, exasperated pffft before he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns the car off, shoulder-checks the metalhead sitting shotgun, and hooks one hand under the back of Eddie's knees as he wraps the other around his waist. He doesn't have to worry about unbuckling Eddie's seatbelt in this position because the fuckin' dork had never put it on, which makes peeling the door open and carrying him up the driveway that much easier.

Or at least it is until Eddie opens his bleary eyes, casts a slow gaze around and says softly, thickly, "Steve, I don't…live here?"

And Steve laughs and says without heat, "Yeah, well, I'm apparently stuck being the goddamn babysitter, again, since you're high off your face, so." more so he won't have to think about the twinge of something, soft and warm and sudden, that'd swooped low in his stomach at the thought of Eddie staying here, living here, with Steve and just…never leaving. (He couldn't think of a damn thing he wanted more than that, for someone to show up for him, stay, and never leave. And when did a vague and shifting someone very suddenly and clearly morph into Eddie Munson?)

Eddie leans his face against the crook of Steve's shoulder and pretends to be asleep in his arms as Steve walks up the drive, but Steve doesn't miss the secret, soft smile on the guitarist's face again when Steve mutters under his breath, "At least you're cute." and carries him inside, shutting the door closed behind them.

It's later, much later, when Steve's got a cool washcloth over Eddie's forehead, a bucket sat by the couch, and a throw blanket draped across his body, that Eddie tilts his head towards Steve and asks, "The song?"

And Steve's forgotten, doesn't know what he means, so he furrows his brows and echoes, "The song? What song? The one by Kate Bush that Max probably can't stand by now?"

Eddie smiles with his eyes closed, soft and drowsy, and murmurs quietly, "No, the one from earlier, 'bout singing someone to sleep."

Then, his face screwing up in something like disgust, he accuses, "You were gonna let Morrissey serenade me into dreamland, which is just sinful and nonsensical and rude, Stevie."

Steve laughs, loud and full in the too-quiet house, and then says, "Oh, please. I've fallen asleep to that voice and it really isn't half bad."

Eddie grins at him, mutters something about examining that later, and then promptly leans up and over the bucket to violently throw up. Steve leans against the warm line of his body and strokes soothing circles on his back all the way through it, murmuring nonsense, calming things he hopes Eddie won't remember later, like it's okay, get it all out and we'll clean you up later, honey, it's okay and no, shh, the carpet doesn't matter, you do, ask me if I give a shit about shag rugs.

Steve kneels in front of him when there's a lull in his retching and says calmly, softly, "'m gonna run you a bath, okay? Just- gimme a second and I'll be right back, honey." And then, almost out of earshot as he sprints to the bathroom just down the hall, "Don't lay down and drown in your own vomit or so help me, Eds, I'll bring you back to life just to kill you again!"

When he returns, Eddie looks considerably less high and leagues more miserable. Steve presses a toothbrush already loaded with toothpaste into his hand and says in that same firm, insisting voice, "Brush, you'll feel better."

He guides Eddie down the hall and into the bathroom with a gentle hand on his back, pulling away only to turn off the faucet once the tub's filled. He pushes up his sleeves and rummages around in the cabinet under the sink and asks smoothly, "You want bubbles? Epsom salt? Scented candles, maybe?"

And Eddie laughs and says, "Steve, what the fuck?" but his voice is wet, watery, like he might actually cry.

Steve backpedals immediately and gives a soft, calming, "Okay, okay. Nevermind all that for now, just-" And waves a hand towards the tub. "Go have a soak and I'll leave the washcloth at the edge of the tub for you, 'kay? Towel will be hanging on a hook near the door, unless you want two for your hair."

He's about to leave the metalhead to it, hand on the doorknob and one foot out the door, when he hears a barely-there voice behind him say, "Wait. Wait. Could you…"

Steve waits. He's patient and lets the words come to Eddie without moving, without breathing, afraid that if he does, it'll break the spell that's fallen over them. "Could you stay? Sing that song again, the one about sleeping?"

Now Steve turns around to meet Eddie's downcast gaze, crossing the space between them in two, three long strides and gently running a hand over the line of Eddie's jaw, tilting his face up to look at him, a soft smile curving his lips when he says, "Yeah, Eds. I'll sing whatever you want."

"Then sing me to sleep."

It takes a while, really, but also no time at all. One minute, Steve's turning around so Eddie can undress and get into the bath, and then he's sunk to his knees on the tile floor and massaging shampoo into the guy's hair with sure, gentle movements. It's as he's helping Eddie rinse out the shampoo and apply conditioner that Steve starts to sing, and it seems mere moments later that the guitarist's eyes go soft and hazy, like he's falling into a warm, wonderful dream.

"It okay if I wash this out now, Eds?" Steve asks in a soft voice between his singing, and Eddie gives a barely-there nod of his head as he starts to doze off in the warm, sudsy water. He'd been skeptical about a bubble bath, had protested that it was for fuckin' kids, Stevie, and he wasn't a kid, look at him. And Steve had shrugged a shoulder and said that if he wanted to take a damn bubble bath, he ought to take a damn bubble bath.

"Need verbal confirmation, love." Steve says as he runs his fingers through Eddie's hair, the conditioner a heavy lather of white foam over the messy waves. And then quickly, quietly, to hide the soft slip of a pet-name, Steve amends, "Water might be hot."

"Rinse 's good, Stevie." Eddie says as he relaxes back into the touch of Steve's hands, the firm pressure of his fingertips massaging Eddie's scalp, and Steve finds himself leaning forward to meet him halfway there.

So he rinses the conditioner out of Eddie's hair, soaps up a washcloth and helps him run it over the skin he can still reach above the warm water, and then sings him to just-this-side of sleep once he's all washed, rinsed, and clean. He wordlessly helps him into a towel and a fluffy robe he'd scrounged up from the depths of their bathroom closet too, and can't help but grin when Eddie whisper-hisses that he's totally stealing it later.

He wouldn't put it past Eddie to totally steal the robe later, were it not for the fact that it doesn't quite count as stealing if someone gives it to you instead.

But that's no matter. The metalhead falls asleep in Steve's bed somewhere between Steve singing him the first verse and the chorus, but Steve still chances a look at Eddie's face, serene and smooth in sleep, when he sings, "Sing to me, sing to me, I don't want to wake up on my own anymore…"

And if he presses a barely-there, lingering kiss to the side of Eddie's temple as the guitarist sleeps off the worst of the come-down, well…that's no one's business but his own.

my dudes, is it gay to think tender, kinky thoughts about one of your homies while they're high off their face, wanna be the lit cigarette hanging off the guy's lips, and literally run him a bath sing him to sleep like a lovesick lil housewife as he comes down from the drugs?

is it, or?

(The answer: yah it's gay as fuck, we love it here.)