push me, sugar
written for @switcheddieweek day 5: 'non-verbal negotiation' + 'dancing' | 4.7k | M | modern college AU, musician eddie, swing dancer steve | ao3
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“GodDAMMIT!!!!” Frankie smacks the outside of his fist against the exposed brick wall leading to the green room, chest heaving.
Eddie catches him by the shoulders; scans his furious red face. “Whoa, whoa, hey. Hey! What happened?”
Frankie growls. Gareth and Jeff appear in the hallway behind him—Gareth close to pissed-off tears, Jeff translating their collective anger into English with a sigh like a buzz saw. “The scout hated us, man.”
What the fuck?
How??
“Is he fucking deaf?!” Eddie screeches. Gareth makes a strangled noise. Frankie knocks his forehead against the wall with a dull, metronomic thud. Son of a bitch. These kinds of hallways are meant for eyeing up the potential groupies at the end of a killer set, not for fucking…group lamentations for the dead, or whatever the hell’s happening here.
Beside him, Jeff leans against the brick, rubbing a knot in his neck. “He said we sounded great, but apparently we look like shit. ‘Zero fuckin’ stage presence’—his words; not mine.”
Gareth’s little sniffles promote themselves to an outright sob, and Frankie shoulders past them and slams the dressing room door behind him, the hollow-core panel doing nothing to muffle his scream.
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“Brutal,” Steve sucks his teeth in sympathy as Eddie shares the highlight reel during his shift the next morning. ‘Bruuuuutal,’ Robin mouths behind his back.
Eddie hides a smile in a sip of latte foam. “Delicious as always, my good man.”
Steve glows under the praise and steps out from behind the espresso machine to rest his elbows on the bar, the tanned, olive skin of his forearms in stark contrast with the white counters. Eddie’s not sure if he wants to pin those arms down or be pinned…
Jesus.
Best not to board either of those thought trains when it’s 9 A.M. and he’s wearing his tightest jeans in public.
He sends them both off from the station with an imagined choo chooooo!, retreating to the safety of his sulking. “Just sucks,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his hand. “Like—I mean, shit, man, I just want to play music!” He throws his other hand up and lets it land with a dull smack. “You know music? The reason people go to shows? To listen to music??”
Robin snorts at him in passing as she goes to grab a broom.
Unhelpfully, Steve says, “Sure, I guess, but. They do also go to watch it.”
Betrayal. Complete and utter betrayer-ing. Betrayance!!!
Eddie glares.
Steve laughs, “Sorry.”
“Whatever. I just don’t want to have to worry about my goddamn hips or whatever when I’m communing with my Sweetheart.”
Robin’s on his side of the bar now, sweeping around the self-serve station, and her eyes are twinkling with—well, Eddie doesn’t know what, exactly, but it feels like it’s about to be some seriously impish bullshit at his expense. “Steve,” she says meaningfully, and Steve answers, “Robin,” and there’s a whole ping pong match of microexpressions that Eddie tries and fails to interpret before he swivels toward Robin and goes, “Okay, turn the fucking subtitles on.”
Robin horse-laughs. “Steve can help you!”
Eddie turns back toward him. His cheekbones are starting to turn a real pretty shade of pink, like an oil canvas sunset, and Eddie can’t help but want to add a dot of red into the paint mix. “You some kinda hula hoop champ or somethin’?” he teases.
Steve’s blush deepens.
Success.
Beside him, Robin pipsqueaks, “Even better!!” She’s dancing some kind of goofy waltz with her broomstick, walking forwards and backwards in long strides, twirling it around and swinging her hips in an exaggerated awkward swivel.
Steve’s forehead hits the counter with a thud. “Rob-innnnnn,” he groans, straightening up and frowning flatly at her. He yanks the dish towel from his shoulder and whips it at her in disapproval.
Robin giggles.
Steve sighs so hard Eddie can smell the morning mocha on his breath. “It’s not funny!”
“Oh,” she counters with a long, snorting pfffft—lips clamped, face puffed like she’s about to shoot milk out of her nose. “I hate to tell you this, but it actually so totally is.”
“I’ll laser off my Scoops tat,” he threatens with a finger wag and a hand on his hip.
Robin gasps, “You wouldn’t dare!”
“I would.”
Eddie can’t even focus on the revelation that Steve has a tattoo somewhere(???!) because he’s too busy having a really, just—goddamn horrific moment of self-discovery over Steve’s pissed off gym coach vibes. Is he about to blow a whistle and start barking orders over here? Jesus Christ.
Behind him, Robin concedes, “Okay, I’m sorry! You know I love you, please don’t hurt my boy Butterscotch with lasers.”
“Be nice to me,” Steve squints in warning before he holsters the pointer finger.
Eddie reaches for his drink; mutters over the lip of his cup, “What the fuck is happening?”
The shop’s dead right now, so Robin swings up onto the bar chair beside Eddie and leans in all conspiratorially to inform him that Steve—yes, that Steve, Steve Harrington, the hot guy barista who’s maybe sort of Eddie’s friend in a regular customer kind of way, the dude currently blushing his ass off across the counter—is a regional champion fucking West Coast swing dancer.
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Half an hour later, leaning against the brick side of the building and sharing a post-shift cigarette with Steve, Eddie says, “I mean, it is kind of funny.”
“Oh, cool, so all my friends are assholes. Love that.”
Eddie huffs a laugh. Tries really hard to tune out the voice in his brain going friendsfriendsfriendsohmygod. “Only because I didn’t expect it. Not that it’s surprising, though. I mean, it goes with your whole…” He waves the hand holding the cigarette in Steve’s direction.
“My what?” He looks vaguely concerned.
Eddie shakes his head with a soft grin. “Just suits you, is all.”
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Steve’s fucking… so good at this. Holy shit. The way he glides across the dance floor, the way he perfectly directs his partner exactly where he wants her, makes her look weightless under his big hands, it’s uh—
It’s got Eddie’s internal narrator all glitched out, splicing Ye Olde English with braindead horndog internet shit until he actually hears himself think the words ‘prithee, good sir, what them hips do?’ and has to sit on both hands to keep from slapping himself in public.
He kind of can’t even believe what’s happening right now to be honest—he’s sitting on a thin vinyl cushion of a folding black plastic chair in what he thinks is a conference center but could be a non-denominational church? Maybe? Whatever, he wasn’t really paying attention when he drove in. He was a little preoccupied thinking about goddamn Steve Harrington, yeah, that Steve, Swing Dance Champion; didn’t even notice his favorite song playing over the van’s speakers until the riff at the six minute twenty-eight second mark.
And now somehow he’s watching the guy he’d been—Jesus, he’d basically been mentally doodling the guy’s name in hearts in the margins of his notebook with a pink feather pen and stars in his eyes—and now that guy is wrapping his huge hands around his dance partner’s slim waist and throwing her down between his open legs, feet planted firmly on either side of her as she goes down and around his thigh like a firepole. Her french-manicured hand trails over his inseam, and Eddie can see the direction Steve’s dick hangs, holy shit. Somebody set up a single tripod of DJ party booth lights at the dance floor’s edge, and it should be tacky as hell, but it’s painting Steve in all these gorgeous pinks and purples, the light shifting like a stormy sunset reflecting off a wave, Steve’s so handsome, and he’s rolling his hips like he’s—and Eddie can see his dickprint through his skin-tight jeans, and—
“Excuse me,” Eddie blurts to the three people seated to his left as he lurches from his seat and crouch-walks down the tightly packed row to the aisle as quick as he can.
*
Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face. Juts his chin at his scarlet-flushed reflection. He’s not gonna jizz his pants in public.
*
Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.
*
Eddie splashes—
“Ah, shit.”
His shirt’s getting wet.
“Shit.”
His bangs are soaked now, clumping into heavy spirals that splash fat drops all down his neckline. He reaches over and yanks a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser, squishing at his bangs and hoping he doesn’t dry out looking like a poodle. (Never fucking remembers to bring more hair product, never mind the fact that he’s apparently doing this so often that ‘never’ is applicable.)
There’s a hand dryer mounted on the wall, but it’s one of the older models; doesn’t have the little metal flippy thing to point the air up at your face—which has gotta be, uh. Unhygienic, right? Shit. Goddamn convenient at a highway rest stop, though, especially when you just finished a show at some middle-of-nowhere hick venue and you’re sweating your balls off and you don’t even care that you’re blowing hot air directly into your face because you’re too in shock from, like, getting away from that gig without getting hate-crimed and getting paid for it. So yeah. One of those would be awesome.
He doesn’t have one of those. What he does have is weird blotches of hair gel water drying all over his shirt, so he crouches down into a half-squat that feels like he’s making fun of a flamingo and holds his shirt under the downward-pointing hot air stream.
And of course that’s how Steve finds him.
Of course this convention-center-slash-maybe-church doesn’t have a separate bathroom backstage for the performers.
And of course Steve looks…
Goddamn.
He’s all sweaty, but in a glistening magazine cover sort of way—sort of aspirational, you know? Like, you could have this too if you were athletic and hot and tan. His hair is ever so slightly damp at the roots and temples, but not enough to make it limp, if anything it’s just enhancing the sheen, and—
And Eddie’s just staring up at his breathless, sweaty, sort-of-friend-in-a-regular-customer-way like he’s—
“Did you spill something?”
Steve’s got a confused but kind almost-smile on his face as he gestures across his own shirt collar, a scoop from right to left like he’s fingerpainting on a necklace. At least Eddie can blame the hot air from the dryer for how flaming red his cheeks feel.
“Yeah, uh,” he stutters as he straightens up; underhands the wad of damp paper towels into the narrow hoop of the trash can. Half the napkins botch the landing and go sliding over the beveled hump down to the floor. “Shit.”
Steve laughs a little, but he bends down and grabs the small stack before Eddie can get there, rising gracefully and tipping them into the trash can without even looking. “You good?”
“Huh? Uh- yeah.” Jesus. “Yeah, man, I’m, uh. I’m,” he gives up and just starts nodding like a dashboard bobblehead, hoping Steve will get the message.
Steve grins wide, excitement taking over. He’s biting his lower lip, buzzing around the edges. “Sooooo? What’d you think?”
“You’re amazing.” It’s automatic, basically under his breath; maybe Steve didn’t even hear it. “I mean, uh-”
Well, hell.
There’s just nothing else to call it, is there?
“Yeah,” he laughs, owning it. “No, yeah, you were amazing. Holy shit, dude!”
Steve’s face does something incredible. Like, movie-magic compelling. Eddie doesn’t even know how to describe the shift; it’s just soft, and pleased, and endearing, and for a second he gets why so many poets describe their lovers like the sun.
“Really?” Steve asks. His voice… “Thank you. I’m really glad you liked it.”
*
Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.
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Five days after Eddie made a goddamn fool of himself at Steve’s dance night, they agreed to meet up for Eddie’s first official swing dance lesson, because Steve’s chem lab lets out early on Fridays and Eddie’s math class is over on that side of campus and Steve’s dorm building has a ground floor gym that “basically no one ever goes into, dude, don’t even worry about.”
“Are you sure about that?” “Yeah. Seriously, if anyone says anything, just say we’re doing shit for musical theater class or whatever.” “Musical th— are you in a musical theater class?” “No. I mean, I was in freshman year for my fine art credit, but—” “WHAT?” “What?” “Is there footage of this anywhere?” “Yeah, but everyone who watches it dies in seven days. It’s like The Grudge.” “I thought that was The Ring?” “....Okay, I was, like, pretty sure I knew the right answer before you just said that.” “Sorry.” “No, you’re good. Want to watch one of those after our lesson?”
That phone conversation’s been playing on repeat like a Sabbath record in his head for the last three days. He has no idea what he even learned today in math class. (Not that he necessarily has any idea on any other day. Fuck. He should probably take that Barb girl up on her weekly study group.) And now Steve’s building is coming into view across the quad, and anticipation moves like ants under Eddie’s skin, and he really just wants to run away screaming or at least hide around a corner and hit his vape until he calms down, but he refuses to be all loopy and uncoordinated in front the smoothest fucking dancer he’s ever seen, so—
So—
He squares up to the building like a gunslinger preparing to duel. Ever the wordsmith, his mind supplies: UGH!!!!!
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The lessons are going horribly.
The first time Eddie stepped on Steve’s feet, he was cool about it (relatively, anyway), because Steve had just served him a gracious ‘that’s okay’ on the silver platter of his soft grin and encouraged him to keep going, and it was fine; it was only the first night; Eddie would get there with more practice.
But now he’s had practice. Now he’s been doing stupid little six-count steps in his living room for weeks, and tonight marks the sixth time that Steve has agreed to meet up with him for private lessons—and sure, Steve’s been kind of throwing him for a loop tonight by having him switch between dancing lead and following, but he thought he was starting to get it! At least a little bit! So when he somehow screws it up again and steps down right on Steve’s toes, he can’t stop the frustrated string of curse words that falls out of his mouth.
“Sorry,” he huffs, stepping back from Steve, rubbing his fists against his stinging eyes. Oh, god. Please don’t start anger-crying right now.
“Hey, it’s—”
“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” he snaps; instantly feels bad about his tone and the way Steve winces and flinches back the slightest bit. “Sorry,” he says again. “Sorry, just… Jesus. I fucking suck at this. Is your foot okay?”
“Mmhm.” He lifts his stomped foot off the ground, makes a show of flexing his toes inside his soft-top sneakers, rolling his ankle in a circle. As he steps back in to continue the lesson, his hands find Eddie’s waist, his elbows, gliding down his forearms to his wrists, holding both hands between their bodies.
Horrifically, Eddie sniffles. “Christ,” he laughs under his breath, keeping his head bowed, hiding behind his hair. Steve smells like cedar and citrus, and he’s probably making an unbearably kind expression right now, something tender and guiding and ‘you’re safe with me,’ and Eddie can’t bring himself to look.
“Hey.” Steve’s fingers find the underside of his jaw and press up until Eddie’s head lifts—gentle but insistent, just like all his moves when he’s in the lead. Jesus. Eddie was right about the face he pictured Steve making. “It really is fine, I promise. You think I’ve never thrown a temper tantrum in a dance class before?”
“Can’t really picture that.”
“Yeah, well. That’s because you never saw me in the god-awful costume I had to wear for my 7th grade tap dance recital.”
“Oh, my god.”
“There were coattails involved.”
Eddie snorts, and it’s a gross sound because his nose is still half-full of the tears he didn’t let fall, but whatever. He lifts his hands to Steve’s shoulders with a sigh.
“You want to go again?” Steve asks. “We can start that section from the top.”
“Honestly?” His thumb taps nervously at the shoulder seam of Steve’s t-shirt. “Look, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me here, man, I don’t want— shit, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dickhead, I just— I guess I’m, uh, feeling a little defeated here, Steve. And I’m also not sure what all of this has to do with the type of stuff I play on stage, anyway, you know? Like how does knowing how to do a sugar hop help me?”
“Sugar push.”
“Right, yeah, sugar push. But still, how is this—” He steps out wide from Steve, doing a sarcastic one-armed jazz hand before he reels himself back in. “ —applicable to doom metal? Do you even know what our stuff sounds like?”
Steve doesn’t answer, but his cheeks tint pink.
Eddie looks away; scrubs at the back of his neck. Goddamn, Steve’s one patient saint of a man. He can see their reflection in the full-length mirror spanning the wall to his left, and Eddie looks like a total asshole, his mouth twisted in a weird defensive grimace-smirk, his posture all slumped like a sulking teen goth who just heard they’re going on a family beach trip for spring break. And Steve’s just smiling away! Just as unbothered as can be, a radiant little cherub with his olive skin and blushing cheeks and chestnut waves, a Roman demigod of the harvest or some shit, the sunshiney little—
“Okay,” Steve laughs, snapping his fingers in Eddie’s face. “I have a new plan.”
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Steve slots in close to Eddie as the song starts—one thigh between his, belt loops almost catching. He plucks Eddie’s right hand up and starts to rock them gently, just getting a feel for it. “Oh, yeah,” Steve says when the first real riff kicks in, like he’s talking to himself, except his breath is hot in Eddie’s hair. “Yeah, this is a good tempo. Jesus.”
Eddie swallows. The hand at his hip pushes with more pressure until he takes a step back, and then another, and usually this is the part where they’d swing away from each other, but Steve stays pressed close, chasing Eddie’s thighs with his own, and he’s practically grinding against him to the music he wrote; that’s Eddie’s voice and Eddie’s guitar making Steve roll his hips like that, all slow and controlled, his breath speeding up a little.
“Switch me,” Steve says.
Eddie’s ears ring. “Huh?”
“Yeah.” It’s raspy. Out of breath. He does something with his hips that sends a tremor from Eddie’s shoulder to the pulsing vein in his groin. “Yeah, switch me.” He guides Eddie’s hand down to his hip. “Take the lead.”
“Steve, c’mon.”
“You come on,” he teases, drawing back to meet his eye. “It’s your song, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He’s already nodding along to the drone of the bass; metronomic compulsion; goddamn, they crushed it on this part.
Steve must be feeling it, too—eyes closed, head bowed, a little smile at the edge of his lips. Their bodies roll in tandem still. “Okay, so perform it then,” Steve dares him, looking from under his lashes. “Pretend I’m the mic stand.”
Fuck.
Over the speaker, Eddie’s voice growls about wanting everything, and Eddie does; wants it so badly, whatever Steve’s offering. His hand drags from Steve’s hip bone to the trim dip of his waist, taking the thin t-shirt with him, exposing a slice of tan skin. Eddie doesn’t think he can get away with pantomiming licking the mic stand, but maybe…
“You chose every word,” Eddie sings along quietly, pushing his weight into Steve, leading him back across the floor, “that I’ve said…”
Steve shivers against him, and Eddie wants more of that; wants to make Steve take what he gives him, watch him go starry-eyed and moldable like clay—Christ, the art Eddie could sculpt at the altar of Steve’s body; the music he could make from all his soft, pretty sounds. Harsh, fluttering breath, the hitch of a syllable caught in his throat, the tacky click of a dry swallow when Eddie’s hand skims his rib cage to tease the outer swell of his chest. Eddie could brush a thumb over his nipple. Make it so casual it could be called an accident.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Steve pants, still coaching. “Flirt with me a little.” He works his hips against Eddie’s in a slow, filthy circle, one foot lifting to climb the curve of Eddie’s calf as he twists his fingers in Eddie’s belt loops, then arches his back and dips himself toward the floor with a gorgeous tumble of brown hair, damp at the hairline, the veins in his neck all exposed, swollen blue and bulging with the rush of his thudding heartbeat; his cheeks flushed cherry red.
Eddie bows over him. Holds him like he’s tipping the mic stand toward a crowd, one hand cupping Steve’s neck while the other wraps around his back to steady him, palm splayed wide over warm muscle. He drags his lips from the base of Steve’s collarbones to the bony jut of his throat, and the answering moan rattles his teeth. Jesus. He’s half-hard against Steve’s thigh, uncomfortably bent in his tight jeans, and his mouth is just— just open against Steve’s slightly sweaty skin, tongue tasting the salt there when he mumbles along with his own lyrics. “I’ll fuck up again.”
“Fuck.”
Eddie doesn’t know who moves first—couldn’t tell you much other than Steve’s moan was probably a G flat and was definitely going to haunt his wet dreams for the rest of his goddamn life. One moment his tongue’s catching on the stubble beneath Steve’s jaw; the next it’s tangled with Steve’s, squirming past wet, wide open lips to get behind his teeth, their faces tilted for a deeper angle, Steve’s sharp breaths hot against his cheek and upper lip. Steve tastes so fucking good, sweat and spit and citrus, and Eddie wants to swallow him whole.
When they break away, they’re both shaking, anticipatory tremor of a good, hard fuck that Eddie can feel all the way down to the arches of his feet. His ears are buzzing. He straightens up and brings Steve with him, and Steve laughs softly in the humid space between them, his forehead pressed to Eddie’s, their mouths still wet with spit.
“Damn,” Eddie smiles.
Steve’s lashes flutter. “Yeah?”
“Mmhm.” He tucks a strand of hair back into place behind Steve’s ear. “My regular mic stand’s really gonna have to up her game.”
Steve’s pleased, preening chuckles carry them all the way back to Steve’s dorm.
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So they fucked.
Sort of.
Mutual mouth stuff that kind of drove him crazy, made him hump his pillow like a wild animal just thinking about it later—the way Steve so easily flip-flopped between control and submission, seemed to like both just as much as Eddie does, kept throwing him the lead and then taking it back like it was just another dance lesson, smiley and flushed and so, so handsome…
But so what, right?
It doesn’t mean Steve owes him anything.
And yeah, he was really… Actually, he was almost disturbingly sweet about the direct aftermath. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever blown a guy in broad daylight without immediately being shame-shoved out the door as soon as they got the money shot, but Steve had asked him to stick around. Steve had made eye contact, had lazily cleaned them both up and taken his time getting redressed, his chest hair all puffed up, the dark brown curls turning gold in the shafts of sunlight through the blinds when he asked Eddie to text him details for his next show and promised he’d be there.
Whatever.
Everyone says shit they don’t really mean in the afterglow.
He fidgets with the loose threads at the hem of his shirt, shoulders bunched up to his ears, sweat beading in his peach-fuzz mustache. God, his hands are freezing. And also clammy. This was a mistake, right? He should just— fuck that scout, anyway! Eddie doesn’t have to do some literal song and dance to get peoples’ attention, he’s a goddamn musician, he could just—
“Hey!”
Steve comes jogging around the corner to the end of the grimy hallway, years of overlapped flyers pinned to the walls fluttering in his wake. The can lights overhead make him look like a runway model, and it’s kind of fucking unreal that Eddie got to put this guy’s dick in his mouth.
“Sorry I’m late, parking was a whole—whatever.” There’s definitely a weird story behind that pause that Eddie’s got to ask about later. “You ready? Feeling good?”
“Feeling like I might upchuck Cheetos on the stage carpet.”
“Yeah, don’t do that,” Steve jokes back, easy. His hands land on Eddie’s shoulders and gently push them down, fingers curling around the knots in the tense muscle, and Eddie deflates with a long groan; leans his weight into Steve; rests his chin on his shoulder.
“Forget the show,” he mumbles, nuzzling the crook of Steve’s neck. “Let’s just stay here and do this for an hour.”
Steve’s laugh sounds even prettier when it’s right in Eddie’s ear. “Nah, I paid a cover fee to be here. I want to get my money’s worth.”
Flat palms slide from Eddie’s shoulders down his chest then swing out to cup his waist, his hips. Steve tugs him in more firmly, lets Eddie feel the heat of him through his jeans. He’s wearing a great pair tonight—light wash, faded, tight at the hips and thighs; Eddie bets his ass looks incredible. “Ready to show me what you learned?”
His voice sounds like sin. Eddie doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s making fuck me eyes. He plants a wet kiss below Steve’s ear; slides both hands into Steve’s back pockets. “Sure am, big boy.”
The shuddering, drawn out fuuuck Steve whispers makes his head spin. God, he wants to fuck him. Or be fucked? No, definitely the first option—he wants to spin Steve around and shove him against the wall of flyers, make his breath hitch and his hair catch on the plastic ends of stray thumb tacks, make him moan so loud even the rustle of papers behind his back won’t cover the sound. He wants to suck hickeys over all his pretty moles and ruck his shirt up so anyone who walks past to get to the bathrooms will see him shaking under Eddie’s hands, the heaving quake of muscle under soft, thick body hair, flattening with sweat as he rocks helplessly on Eddie’s thigh. Fuck. Fuck. Eddie squeezes Steve’s ass through his back pocket, his other hand moving up to press into the small of Steve’s back, trapping him in place, grinding his hips just like Steve taught him.
“You’re perfect,” Steve praises.
“I had a great tutor.”
“Hey, asshole!!” They both jump at the noise; whip their heads toward it like spooked prey animals. Gareth’s stomping down the hallway looking like a pissed off kitten in his green flannel and leather cuffs. “Quit screwing around! Everyone’s waiting on you for sound check.”
Eddie steps back with a laugh, color flooding his face, but Steve looks so smitten that Eddie can’t bring himself to care; would happily make a fool of himself every day to see that expression.
The crowd’s loud now—rising sounds of a room filling up, the air getting humid with the buzz of shared anticipation. Eddie’s got this. Never mind the scouts, or the labels, or the world; he’s gonna put on the most metal concert in the history of Steve’s life.
He sneaks in one more kiss and dances them backwards down the hall, Steve’s laugh as he twirls like sugar crystals in a snow globe, falling around them forever, a magic spell for perfect luck.
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ty for reading <3
