Chapter Text
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“You don’t even like his music, I know you only bought that copy of Rolling Stone to jerk off to.”
Robin gives Steve a sideways look, entirely too knowing. They’re barely out of the pre-flight briefing and she’s already bandying around such accusations as Steve cannot believe. He lifts his chin with more dignity than he feels at that accusation and scoffs.
“I… sort of like his music.”
“Name one of his songs.”
Steve opens his mouth to protest, comes up entirely blank. He knows he’s listened to like, at least a few, but in his urgency to prove Robin wrong, his instant recall fails him. Chrissy, actually holding the dossier, a sheaf of neat white print-outs, giggles - traitor. She shuffles through them, reading as the trio walk towards the gate.
The succinct click of heels on glossy tiles echoes in the quiet corridor, overhead lights gleaming from polished hand rails and fittings. Outside, the runways are dark, spotted with the intermittent glow of red and yellow lights, the brief swathes of powerful floodlights. Steve can see Robin restraining herself from making a ‘see’ gesture at his silence, her hands occupied with wheeling both her own and Chrissy’s carry-ons.
“I don’t have to prove myself to you.” Steve is lying, he definitely has to prove himself to Robin. This is him spectacularly failing to do so. Her snort of laughter is clear agreement.
They reach the departure gate to find the usual keen traveler already camped out in a less than comfortable looking bank of seats. A family cluster also occupy one spot, a harangued balding man arguing quietly with a toddler about their apparent energetic desire to climb atop the benches like a jungle gym. Steve suppresses his amusement and the trio smile politely as they pass, unclipping the dividing rope by the desk and heading down to the waiting aircraft.
The airplane is quiet, still smelling mildly chemically lemon post cleaning crew. The trio greet other cabin crew as they pass and Chrissy pauses to trade cheek kisses and some kind of gossip with Carol, who looks vastly unimpressed about something. Steve couldn’t begin to guess what it is this time, but he would pin his best bet on something to do with Tommy, Carol’s fiancé. He doesn’t know Tommy, nobody knows Tommy, but they have all heard enough about Tommy to last a fucking lifetime.
In a bid to avoid the same conversation again, he hurries to catch up with Robin.
They ascend the steps to first class and Steve takes point on tucking their cases neatly into the assigned staff bins without a word as Robin begins a pre-flight inventory check. He joins her after a moment, hip lightly knocking hers as they stand shoulder to shoulder. This close, he can smell the lingering apple scent of her shampoo and the fresher delicate touch of perfume spritzed on her uniform.
Robin pauses, turning and tugging Steve lightly to stand straight, fastening a missed button on his waistcoat.
“Messy,” she admonishes him, patting over the button and going back to her tasks.
“Like you can talk,” Steve teases, thinking of the chaos of their shared apartment - Robin does not believe in storage, not wardrobes, drawers, any of it. Not to say she doesn’t own it, he’s aware Chrissy manages to put away her clothes just fine. Robin rolls her eyes and indicates her immaculate uniform.
“Not at work though, dingus. There is a time and a place.” Steve rolls his own eyes fondly and adjusts his neck scarf a little, turning it to the appropriate angle - the knot sitting neatly front and centre over his throat. Sometimes, he curses the airline for being progressive and opting for a gender neutral scarf in the uniform instead of a normal tie, or no tie at all; he wouldn’t have minded that.
Chrissy appears in a little cloud of strawberry blonde curling hair and delicate rose scent, apparently having escaped her catch up with Carole.
“Did you-” Chrissy’s enquiring tone is sweetly confused as she turns on the spot.
“Your bag is already stowed,” Steve assures her with a glance and a smile. She leans in to ghost a kiss to his cheek, hardly touching.
“You’re my favorite, thank you.” Beside him, Robin makes an indignant noise.
“He’s my favorite friend, you’re my favorite favorite,” Chrissy laughs and Robin settles. Steve did not foresee his twenties having been spent as the third wheel to the two best girls he knows, but he doesn’t have the heart to resent them when they’re this fucking cute.
Busying themselves with preparing the first class cabin is a well worn routine. Does everything work, are all the seats properly equipped with appropriate safety measures and equipment, has anything gone missing, or gotten broken. It’s so familiar, Steve sometimes thinks he could check it in his sleep. Preliminaries done, he pauses to sip a drink whilst Chrissy and Robin trade their heels for flight ready matching flats. Robin groans a little in relief at the more comfortable footwear and Steve smiles a little.
“Never gets old,” he teases her. Chrissy laughs and taps her heels together like Dorothy, a quiet little click.
“Robin will always hate the heels, but they’re not so bad really. And they look so cute,” Chrissy sighs, admiring the glossy pair of heels in her hands before stowing them neatly in a hidden compartment. Steve hangs his jacket, then takes the girls’ too, tucking them neatly away. He smoothes down his waistcoat and tucks his drink into a safe niche so he can begin to pour welcome drinks for passengers.
Robin and Chrissy head down the aisles for a last check, to be sure each compartment is stocked with appropriate luxuries, each little kingly suite prepped and polished, awaiting passengers in air-conditioned anticipation.
Steve remains in the galley as the passengers begin to board, pouring drinks and arranging them on trays as Chrissy and Robin meet and greet, assist and serve the refreshments. The cabin fills with the soft hubbub of quiet conversation and settling noises as people get comfortable.
It’s long haul, overnight, and Steve finds these flights are usually the easiest overall, especially when you’re working in the first class cabin. Most passengers want to be left to their own devices in the sealed off little pods, barring food and drinks service, and the long flight means they all get a good split shift with time to doze in the crew quarters.
Swanning into the galley and setting down her tray, Chrissy’s expression is knowing, a fey gleam in her blue eyes that Steve has learnt to recognise as mischief and delight both.
“He’s in 1A, just so you know,” she teases Steve as she passes, scooping up a fresh tray and heading down the left hand corridor, the champagne effervescing in the delicate stemmed glasses as she distributes them..
“That’s my section,” Robin cuts in, appearing as she delves into a trolley in search of something specific. Steve stops her before she can head towards the aforementioned suite, steps in front of her.
“Seriously, please let me take it.”
“Don’t you have drinks to be pouring?”
“I’ve done them. I’m serious. I’ll fight you for it.” Steve narrows his eyes in challenge as he lifts his right fist before settling it into the palm of his left hand. “Rock, paper, scissors.”
“You are a child,” Robin huffs, but sets down the extra snacks in her hands nonetheless, mirroring Steve’s stance. Wordlessly, the pair raise their hands, a challenge issued and accepted countless times over the years, before smacking them down - once, twice, three times. Steve keeps his hand balled in a fist, sure in his conviction. Just as he knew she would, Robin flips out her first two fingers, splits them apart, and a thrill of victory skitters between Steve’s shoulder blades. Robin wrinkles her nose and Steve grins.
“You always pick scissors,” he teases fondly, scooping up the bag of gourmet popcorn and starting towards the corridor. “Which seat is this for?”
“No I don’t. And 1C, they didn’t like the flavor in their snack basket.”
“I get it, stick with what’s familiar.” Steve shrugs, beating down the smug little smile that’s tugging at his cheeks.
“What do you- I don’t-”
Steve fixes Robin with a look, raises one eyebrow in a knowing smirk, waiting for Robin to realize the implication of his words. He knows when it dawns on her, because it’s adorable how Robin’s face scrunches up in a caricaturish show of disgust, sticking her tongue out over her bottom lip.
“Thanks for letting me win.” Steve grins finally, whirling round once more to take the snack towards its intended destination.
Suite 1A is the first on Steve’s right hand side, and though that’s not where he’s headed, he can’t help but slow his pace just a little, affect a certain languidness to his walk as he passes by the entrance to the luxurious seating compartment. Steve only sees him for a moment, well, only sees the side of the man’s face, the stretch of his arm extending down. He’s lean, hair a tousled mess of dark waves and curls, the skin Steve sees pale and decorated with ink. He catches a glimpse of a stubbled jaw, silken shirt and chunky silver rings. It’s not even the guy’s face and Steve still wants to swoon.
The thing is, Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson is a musician, a rockstar in the classical sense of the world, and he’s been Steve’s favorite jerk off daydream on and off since the first Saint Laurent campaign about a year back.
And Steve might not admire him wholly for his musical gift, sure, but he wouldn’t deny it. He’s famous in the edgy sort of way that doesn’t usually grace gossip rags, but causes a stir on red carpets, finding his fame as the charismatic guitarist in Corroded Coffin - not Steve’s thing, as much as he protested to Robin, but he does know the singles that charted - then rising in massive strides as the most sought after writer and session musician in the industry.
Steve remembers the Rolling Stone interview in snatches in his head as he smiles graciously and greets the passenger in 1C, dropping off the food.
Munson has worked with just about everyone, no matter the genre. People seem to want a little sprinkle of what makes him so captivating in their own music, and his particular brand of fairy dust has proven to be a key ingredient in chart success.
Robin is too fucking observant, though, because she knows why Steve likes him and it’s everything to do with Munson’s more recent career path - fashion.
Steve doesn’t know when or how it happened, though he’s sure fans out there have documented the man’s career trajectory, but Munson started appearing as this new voice in fashion, his outfits picked apart for trends and brands, and with it came the inevitable partnerships. He started turning up to big events dressed in his signature style but far more pricey, tailored one of a kind pieces, perfectly fitted, then he modeled for big fashion houses here and there, started popping up on catwalks as a guest model. The Saint Laurent campaign though- fuck. Steve couldn’t stand it.
Munson dressed up in these barely buttoned shirts and tight pants, his black and white visage decadently sat in a chair, knees indolently sprawled apart in a way that left nothing about the fit of those pants to Steve’s imagination - no need when he could see exactly what Munson was working with. Maybe that helped with the rockstar swagger, packing that in his skinny fit jeans.
Steve might have a copy of the pictures from that shoot saved on his phone, for personal reasons.
And now. Now Steve gets to spend time in Munson’s vicinity for the duration of a transatlantic flight. It’s gonna either cement his celeb crush further or utterly destroy it, he’s just not sure which it is yet.
Once back in the galley, Steve picks up a single glass of champagne from the tray, turns on his heel to make a beeline for Suite 1A. His pulse jumps against the cravat secured around his neck, and when he reaches the dark wooden doors - still open thank god - he taps on the wall with the back of his knuckles.
“Mr Munson? Your complimentary champagne.”
Eddie Munson looks up from his phone, and his dark eyes widen in surprise. “Jesus Christ.”
“Uh. Steve, actually,” Steve offers awkwardly, hand still raised where he’d knocked. As first impressions go, Steve’s sure he is decidedly not making a good one.
“I’m sorry,” Munson huffs, shaking his head a little. His curls shiver around his face and oh god he’s even sexier in person. Steve is never going to survive. “I just- wasn’t expecting…”
“A man?” Steve preempts, with the knowledge that he’s one of two male attendants who tend to work this flight, and that it’s usually all pencil skirts and heels. Not that he’d be particularly averse-
“No, no. Someone so- attractive.”
Has Steve died? Did he hit his head and this is all some concussion-induced fever dream? Did Eddie Munson just call him attractive?
Steve’s skin flushes scarlet, his cheeks tightening with heat. “I could say the same about you,” he dares say, before remembering the fizzing glass flute in his now lightly trembling hand. “For you.”
“Thank you very much, Steve. You can certainly come again.” Munson smiles devilishly, taking the glass by the stem. Have Eddie Munson’s hands always been this big? And those rings.
“Any time you like, Mr Munson. If there’s anything you need, just call.” Steve demurs with a curt nod, clutching at his professionalism with everything he has. “Enjoy your flight.”
And before Steve can embarrass himself further, he whips around and rushes down the corridor, through the curtain to the staff compartment. Robin’s there waiting, fixing her necktie as she takes her seat for takeoff.
“You look…”
“Like I just met the man of my dreams? Yeah.”
“That good, huh?” Robin asks with a roll of her eyes. Chrissy snickers from her seat a little way off. Steve sits heavily in his own, hands still shaking a little with adrenaline. He fusses with the seatbelt across his lap, clunking it into place on the third try.
“He’s…holy shit.”
-
Takeoff and ascent pass in a blur, with Steve’s mind pulsing in flashes of recollection. Eddie Munson had only spoken a handful of words to Steve, but they rattle like glass beads around his brain, clipping the sides and flashing in shades of adrenaline. There’s no way that really happened. Or at least, happened in the way that Steve’s mind is remembering it happened. So when, a little while after the seatbelt light has been flicked off, and a request comes through from Suite 1A for a double Chivas Regal over ice, Steve’s up off his jumpseat and back to the bar counter in seconds flat.
Steve fills the glass in record time, hands shaking a little as he puts it together. Chrissy kindly passes him the bottle, an amused little curl to her lips.
“He’s handsome,” she confesses, blue eyes wide and cheeks pink with her admissions.
“More than handsome, CC, he’s drop dead gorgeous. God. Did you see his legs in those jeans? And those boots?” Chrissy giggles, her ears touched with a pink flush in a way that assures Steve she also saw exactly what he did.
“Sexy.” She whispers the word like she shouldn’t, shaking her head a little as if to clear it. “And I am not looking - but you should.” She squeezes his arm before vanishing off with a little tray of refreshments to her own assigned passengers.
“Hot as hell,” Steve murmurs to himself as he fills the elegantly-cut glass and sets it on a little silver tray, whisking it along with him back to his new favorite first class compartment.
Steve’s arrival is met with a broad smile that dimples both of Eddie’s cheeks. Each smooth indent births a flurry of butterflies in Steve’s belly. God help him.
“A pretty glass and a pretty man to serve it. I’m being spoiled.”
Steve just bows his head, hopes to cover the blush blooming once again across his cheeks. “If there’s anything else at all I can do for you, you need only ask.”
“Are you this attentive to all your passengers, Steve?”
The sound of his name in Eddie Munson’s mouth is something he’s never going to forget. It’s richer, fuller than the eighteen-year-old whiskey he’s just served, and sure to make him giddier than 40% proof ever could. “Only the ones that flirt so well, Mr Munson,” Steve shoots back, knows he’s stretching the limits of professionalism.
Munson takes a sip of his drink, waves his hand dismissively, and for a moment, Steve thinks that’s his cue to leave. Until Eddie Munson swallows, and says, “Call me Eddie. We’re on first name basis now don’t you think, sweetheart?”
“Customer experience is at the heart of what I do, Eddie.” And Steve’s trying so hard to retain his composure, the saved Saint Laurent pictures burning a hole in his pocket, but it’s almost impossible when Eddie Munson - Eddie - has progressed from ‘Steve’ to ‘Sweetheart’.
“See, isn’t that nicer? Much more friendly?” Eddie asks, crossing one long, jean-clad leg over the other. He’s still wearing his boots: black leather with a satin-shined toe. And as his leg settles, Steve notes the unmistakable red sole. It’s scarlet, not crimson or vermillion.
Louboutin red.
Steve’s about to compliment Eddie’s choice of footwear, when Snack-Snob from 1C appears around the wall of his compartment, pajamas and travel bag in hand.
“I’d like my bed made up now, please,” he orders as he passes. Steve nods, hits him with a now-instinctive, “Of course, Mr. Carver, right away.”, and Eddie smirks. He taps absentmindedly at the ring wrapping around his left nostril, and when Steve turns his attention fully back to him, as he’s so very desperate to do, Eddie raises his dark eyebrows in this entirely endearing ‘get a load a that guy’ kind of way. Steve clasps his hands together in front of his body, donning the mantle of professionalism once more, but there’s still a slight itching in his cheeks to bite his lip, to raise an eyebrow in return.
“Of course sir, I’m known for my friendly service.” He smiles, digging a short fingernail into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger when Eddie takes another swig of his whiskey, flicks his tongue out to catch a stray droplet that drips over the lip of the glass.
Eddie waits until the passenger is out of sight before continuing, his voice low and effortlessly enticing. “I bet you are, Stevie - and ‘sir’ is alright too.”
In the lowered, warm amber light of his compartment, Eddie’s dark mahogany eyes twinkle with something beyond Steve’s comprehension. But god, does he want to know.
“Whatever you prefer, sir.” Steve’s never been a ‘yes sir, no sir’ type in bed, not his scene. He’s rethinking that with an alarming alacrity in the wake of Eddie fucking Munson telling him sir is alright too. Steve would call this man just about anything, he’s pretty sure.
Eddie’s eye twitches in a wink, sending Steve on his way with a salute of his tumbler and a jerk of his head towards the suite behind him. With a soft ‘oh’, Steve wheels away, heading back towards the service quarters to fetch sheets, pillows and an eye mask for Snack-Snob.
The next half hour or so is snatched away by passengers wanting beds made up, clearing glasses and plates from pull-out dining tables. Steve doles out his services with a polite smile, armfuls of complimentary downy soft cotton pajamas and a mug or two of herbal tea for good measure.
With each journey past the very much still open door to Eddie’s suite, Steve finds his eye drawn to the man sitting back languidly against the cream leather seat - framing Eddie’s elegantly sprawling limbs, it looks like a throne. Every time, Eddie’s gaze flicks up to meet Steve’s own, fixing him with a certain intensity that speaks to far more than the fleeting moments of eye contact they are allowed.
He leaves Eddie’s bed until last, arrives with an armful of bedding and a light rap of his knuckles on the open door, as though Eddie’s dark eyes are not immediately trained on Steve, like he’d been waiting for more than the in-flight pillow, like he’d been waiting for Steve specifically.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’ll need to ask you to get up for just a moment so I can make this all comfortable for you.” Eddie stares at him, one dark brow ticking up beneath the mess of his fringe.
“Oh, all yours sweetheart, of course.” He stands and Steve is hit with the sudden realization that Eddie is taller than he thought, and it’s so hot that Steve immediately wants to increase the height difference by dropping to his knees. He suspects this would not be conducive to making the bed.
He tries to keep it professional. He really does. Some key ability to function may have departed him however, as he doesn’t fucking move, just stands there like a fool as Eddie mirrors him on the other side of the doorway. It’s the closest they’ve been so far and Steve inhales a steadying breath that undoes him instead. Eddie smells so fucking good it makes him dizzy. The cologne is rich, warm, amber and smoke. Steve wonders how it smells even closer, whether it would clash or blend with his own.
The moment lingers too long and Eddie’s plush mouth curls in a smirk.
“Sorry- forgive me,” Steve stutters, taking a respectful step backwards. Eddie matches with his own stride forwards, slipping into the narrow corridor of the aisle. Eddie’s arm extends to brace against the wall by Steve’s head and God fucking help him. Steve needs to make that bed. Now.
He ducks under Eddie’s arm and around him, bodies brushing in a chaste way that feels somehow indecent, busying himself with the finicky mechanisms of the chair to transform the space into a bed. Steve can feel Eddie’s eyes on him though, like a weight on his back. He imagines the press of a hand there instead, allows the arch of his spine to toe the line between excellent posture and the suggestion that he looks excellent on his hands and knees getting it blown out. Judging by the soft inhalation behind him, he hits the bullseye.
When Steve has plumped the pillow, smoothed out the wrinkles in the bedsheet, he pushes off the mattress and turns, finds himself eye to eye, or eye to nose, with Eddie Munson. This close, he can see the dark shadow of his stubble, the smooth ring hugging his nostril, and the frankly obscene bow of his top lip.
“Beautifully done, Stevie, you’re clearly a pro.” Somehow Steve does not think this was about his ability to make up a cabin bed.
Eddie leans forward a little, closing even more of what little space there is between them, and Steve finds his shoulders pressing back into the dividing wall to Eddie’s suite. Eddie’s eyes glint dark, smoldering, and it’s all Steve can do to hold his gaze without swooning. Eddie’s finger boldly touches the red necktie hanging down from Steve’s throat, playful and so close. He continues to speak, low and almost conspiratorial, “Y’know, I’m notoriously bad at sleeping on flights, Steve, I might need you to check in with a nightcap.”
“I’m sure I can do that, sir. I’ll be around to check on you when all the guests are settled.”
“You do that, sweetheart. I’ll be patient.” Eddie vacates the space in front of Steve with a little smile, allowing Steve to escape sideways, barely managing to keep his footing and not stumble. He can hardly look at Eddie as he sinks down onto the bed, kicking one foot up onto his knee to tug the laces loose on his boots. Steve wants to whine - even his fucking boots are hot.
Not entirely convinced he can say anything without making a fool of himself, Steve nods rapidly and hot foots it back to the little galley past the heavy curtain.
In the jarringly bright light of the crew only space, Steve crosses paths with Robin for what feels like the first time in hours. He grabs her elbow to pull her close, his eyes wide and a little delirious.
“He’s flirting with me.”
Robin has the gall to laugh at him outright, her freckled nose scrunching up.
“He’s not.”
Indignant, confidence swells in Steve’s chest, buoyed by the way Eddie has been talking to him, the way the man has been devouring Steve with his dark eyes. Melting somewhere in his core at the slightest press of a fingertip to the tie around his neck.
“I’m gonna fuck him.” Steve is manifesting his own words like a sixteen year old girl with a picture of her crush on a prom moodboard.
“You are not,” Robin hisses with what she must think is an air of finality. “He’s going to get off the plane and you’ll never see him again. I’ll buy you another copy of that Rolling Stone.”
“Then I’ll do it before he gets off the plane.” Steve shrugs, as if it’s the simplest conclusion. Because to him, it just might be. Clearly not having come to the same conclusion, Robin smacks his arm furiously.
“You slut. Steve no. You cannot do that!”
“Steve yes. I can. If you cover for me. It’s officially my rest break, so if anyone asks, I’m in my bunk with a copy of Rolling Stone. It’ll almost be the same thing. And anyway, you owe me.”
“In what way do I owe you?”
Steve gestures at the returning, petite figure of one Chrissy Cunningham as she carefully makes her way down the steep steps from the cabin crew bunks. One lock of her strawberry blonde hair has escaped her neat chignon. Instinctively, Robin reaches out to pin it back into place for her, looking disgustingly smitten.
“Okay fine, I owe you, but. But. This is a bad idea and you are asking for trouble and after this we are even. ” Steve bites his lower lip, fighting down a wide grin, then kisses her cheek and swans off to the bathroom, intent on fixing his still-perfectly coiffed hair. He locks the door behind him, leans back against it for a moment - god, he’s hitting all the clichés tonight - and takes a deep, grounding breath.
The bathroom lighting is harsh, unflattering, but Steve makes do as best he can. He untucks and re-tucks his shirt, smoothing down the small of his back where it’d creased over time, frets at the cravat around his throat. He can’t untie it, can’t do anything so brash as to flip open the top button of his shirt. He may be planning to seduce a passenger, but he’s not going to flaunt uniform regulations in the process.
In a fit of sudden panic, he unbuttons his pants and is glad to find that past-Steve was looking out for him and his underwear is neither embarrassing nor ill-fitting.
He makes eye contact with himself in the mirror.
“Go fuck a rockstar, Harrington. He’s just… an obscenely hot famous model musician. It’s fine. Totally fine. Do not fuck up this opportunity.”
His reflection seems unconvinced but willing, flushed pink cheeks and blown out pupils. He’s pretty sure he already looks like he’s desperate, might as well embrace it.
Steve exits the bathroom with little more decorum than he entered, approaching where Robin and Chrissy watch him with a mixture of judgment - Robin - and interest - Chrissy.
He passes them both, heads straight for the service counter. Steve reaches for the bottle of Chivas Regal once more, before pulling the ice drawer open and pinching a perfectly square cube, dropping it into the glass. The ice clinks on the fine cut crystal.
“I’m going to give Mr Munson a nightcap,” Steve announces, pouring another double measure into the glass.
Robin folds her arms across her chest and gives him a look.
“How long is the ‘nightcap’ going to take?”
“Until the customer is satisfied, Robin, you know I have a perfect service record.” Robin gags and Chrissy giggles, a quiet hum of agreement in her throat.
“He does,” she agrees in a whisper.
“I actually hate you.” Chrissy’s enthusiasm seems not to be rubbing off on Robin.
“No, you don’t,” Steve sings across his shoulder, sweeping open the curtain with a certain flourish. With the lights dimmed in the cabin, everything glows in a peachy haze, like the last light of summer sun over the horizon. On the ceiling and the floor, the faint glimmer of the lights mimic the stars - a touch Steve still finds charming, despite the years it’s been since he first saw it.
Eddie’s cabin door is open again, like he’s waiting for Steve. Each step reveals a little more of a modern take on renaissance beauty as the supine form of a decidedly relaxed Eddie is revealed. His curls are captured in a scruffy bun, tendrils he missed hanging in spirals on his neck and framing his face. Gone is the tight denim and silk, traded for soft pajama pants and a cotton tee, loose at the neck. His socks are, Steve notices, mismatched - a raspberry pink-red warring with a more demure gray stripe. It’s so jarringly human of him, that it bullies down a little of the anxiety welling up in Steve at the ridiculous move he’s pulling by leaning into all of this.
When Eddie glimpses Steve, he shifts, adjusting his position so he’s sat against the backboard of his compartment, long legs still stretched out. It makes space, conspicuously so. Steve lingers in the doorway, contemplates knocking, though Eddie’s already spotted him.
“Oh you read my mind, sweetheart. Clever boy.”
“I thought you might enjoy this, but if it’s not to your taste, sir…?”
“I’m sure it’s absolutely to my taste.”
Eddie reaches out for the glass, offering no opportunity for Steve to set it down. Instead their fingers brush as it’s taken directly from his own hand. Eddie sips the amber liquid within with a low hum of pleasure that shocks through Steve like electricity. “You are a doll, Steve, truly.”
“I always aim to anticipate the needs of passengers, sir.” Steve demurs, hiding his arm behind his back to prevent Eddie from seeing the curling of his fingers into a fist as the lingering tingle of touch still fizzes across his skin. “Is there anything I can do to help you sleep, Mr Munson- sorry. Eddie?”
Eddie smiles, mischievous and wicked, seems to consider for a moment before dropping his voice to a theatrical whisper. As he speaks, his nose scrunches a little at the bridge.
“See the thing is, Steve, the thing I usually do to help tire myself out - can’t exactly do that here.” Eddie tips his glass and salutes Steve with it before taking a lazy sip. After he swallows, he exhales with a wistful sigh. Steve knows he’s putting it on, but he’s enraptured all the same.
This is it, Steve is pretty sure, this is where they make the step to take this from suggestion to intention.
“May I ask what it is that you feel you can’t do, sir? I’m sure we- I can find a way to make it work.” Steve smiles back, all sweetness, but he dares to let a little hint of a knowing smirk edge into it. Eddie lifts one pale hand, rings gleaming in the low light, gesturing with a beckoning curl of his pointer finger for Steve to come closer. It hooks into Steve’s chest and almost unthinking, he does. Slowly, Steve finds himself leaning forward, following Eddie’s still crooked finger until he needs to brace his hand on the remnant of Eddie’s arm rest on the transformed seat.
Eddie finally stops playing games.
“Well, usually, Steve, I’d have a pretty boy bouncing on my cock to wear me out. I see a pretty boy but… I doubt that’s within your customer service remit.” Eddie whispers the sultry confession with a faux note of disappointment, a little sulking softness to his lips giving way to a fiendish smirk. Steve swallows hard at the implication, knows there’s no way to mitigate the heat rising from his chest and over his neck at the thought of being one of those pretty boys.
Steve wets his lips, suddenly too parched to breathe right. Eddie watches the movement of his tongue and Steve lets the words spill out.
“Well, sir, exceptions can always be made for our most valued guests.” Steve drops his knee just a fraction onto the mattress. Eddie’s conspiratorial smirk cracks, the veneer falling away to reveal a ferocious hunger beneath it. Ringed fingers curl into a fist around Steve’s red necktie and Steve fumbles blindly behind him to close the compartment door.
It shuts with a soft, reassuring, click.
📍
Eddie’s not normally a fan of long haul flights.
There’s nothing remotely interesting about being confined to a seat for a dozen hours at a time, no matter how luxurious the leather upholstery - a shiny, expensive cage is still a cage and he’s prone to pacing like a tiger when trapped.
He’d boarded this flight with the same soul-crushingly tired expectations as always, a little part of him that sounds a lot like Wayne bitching himself out for being so blasé about his extravagant lifestyle. It makes him wince.
The funny thing about the guilt is how quickly it had dissolved into insignificance when Eddie’s bored, roaming eyes caught an eyeful of a very firm ass rapidly moving past his cabin, encapsulated in the airline’s customary navy blue. He wasn’t quick enough, or enthusiastic enough at the time to sit up and chase the vision. Maybe it was the pilot? It proved a nice interlude to his boredom regardless.
Only later did the spectacular ass resolve itself into a person. Eddie made a mental note to thank Nancy for booking him on this particular flight at the first sight of flight attendant Steve. Fuck.
Eddie’s a sucker for a nice ass and a pretty face, and Steve is blessed with both in ample supply.
He’s easy to flirt with, as Eddie soon realized, receptive and playful and so deliciously embarrassed when Eddie lays on a little charm or suggestive tone.
Perhaps he should have been more surprised that it’s as easy as it turns out to be, but a little of him thinks it was inevitable from the first time their eyes met with such unexpected heat. Eddie cringes to recall how many times he’d found himself reaching down and adjusting himself in his jeans between Steve’s charming little visits.
He’d nearly popped a boner like a fucking teenager when Steve bent over to make his bed - now that was a little embarrassing. The bastard knew it too, Eddie was sure, the way he bent over so smoothly, then dipped his spine in that delicious arch. Eddie had pictured wrapping his hands around that trim waist and forcing the arch a little further. More tempting than any pill Eddie had ever been offered in an open palm.
Somehow, until Steve - shit, perky, pretty Steve, with that ass Eddie could bounce a goddamn quarter on - settles his knee on the edge of the little airplane seat mattress, Eddie is still half convinced it will all end with flirtation. A placating smile and a tight-lipped ‘Goodnight, Mr. Munson.’
But then Steve is so close, so dangerously and deliciously close and Eddie goes for broke - nobody ever claimed he has good impulse control, or that he makes wise decisions; that’s what he pays Nancy a small fortune for, after all.
Eddie’s done many things, increasingly outrageous things, over the span of his career. Many unbearably obnoxious, fist-bitingly rockstar things. But he’s pretty sure he’s never done this on a commercial flight.
“Well, sir, exceptions can always be made for our most valued guests .” The low polite purr of Steve’s voice slinks over Eddie in pure heat and Eddie’s control slips from his fingers like the reins of a wild horse. He gives into the obscene urge he’s fought down for hours to tug on the obnoxious little red neck tie, curling the fabric into his ringed fist to lightly encourage Steve in, entreating this stupidly beautiful man to stop holding back.
“Lock the door, sweetheart, and show me just how valued you think I am.”
Steve crawls forward to straddle Eddie’s lap like it’s easy, those obscene thighs spreading to frame Eddie’s legs - Eddie wants to strip him, to bite those thighs and mark them up with a love letter in glorious red and purple. Steve shifts his weight with a soft little intake of breath, like it’s a surprise to feel Eddie beneath him. Eddie’s already interested cock twitches against the loose cotton of his pajama pants and Steve’s next shift is more deliberate. He bears down a little in Eddie’s lap, sinks more of his weight over Eddie’s thighs until they’re almost pressed entirely together. Steve must surely be able to feel the growing firmness stretching against cotton. No hiding here, he thinks wryly.
They’re not going to fuck on the plane, Eddie decides, more than a little reluctantly. Not because it’s a line that Eddie won’t cross, - he’s not sure there’s all that many of those left - but because if he’s going to do it, he’ll do it properly. Eddie wants to take his time fucking Steve, or else not at all.
He considers for a moment the potential merit of fucking between Steve’s thighs, demanding a tight slick channel of them instead, but he thinks that too would be a sight he’d be remiss to waste in a dimly lit, cramped airplane cabin.
“Can’t ride me here, Stevie. Not when I bet you make such pretty noises,” Eddie grits out, despite the protests in his soul to just have his wicked way with Steve right here and now.
“I can be quiet,” Steve whispers, as though that’s the only reason Eddie might be withholding. Their foreheads touch together in a moment of intimacy, surprising in how natural it feels. Up close, he thinks Steve’s eyes are prettier than low airplane lighting can really do right by.
He slowly splays his fingers on the warm breadth of Steve’s shoulder blades - it feels obscene that a man this pretty can feel so strong and broad beneath Eddie’s exploring hands - and he indulges the urge to stroke down Steve’s back to reach the holy grail that is a firm handful of Steve’s perfect tight ass in each hand. If it wouldn’t be too loud, Eddie would ask if he could spank him.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re very good, darling. Maybe I can’t be good, because I want to smack this lovely ass until it’s as pink as your face right now, ‘cause if I get my cock inside you I am not going to be able to play nice, sweetheart. I’m going to want to wreck you.” Eddie noses lightly at Steve’s cheek, the heady flush of it warm. Steve suppresses a whine, lips brushing Eddie’s chin and his slightly stubbled jaw, and Eddie can’t help but smile. “You like that? Good boy, I hoped you might.” Eddie squeezes both hands, enjoying the plush give of Steve’s ass.
“How about we save that, Stevie, until I can spread you out on some expensive hotel sheets and take you to pieces. Loudly. How about for now…” Reluctantly, one of Eddie’s hands lifts so he can cup Steve’s warm cheek in a facsimile of tenderness, dragging his thumb over the swell of Steve’s lower lip. “...you show me what you can do with this pretty mouth, clever boy?”
Steve sighs, perhaps a little frustrated, but there’s still a hint of something devilish that glints in his eyes, like calling to like. A wicked sweet smirk picks up one corner of his pink lips and Eddie is enchanted by it. Proper, polite, polished Steve, just as degenerate as Eddie behind closed doors.
Steve shuffles backwards, settles on all fours, sat back on his heels a little. For a moment, it’s wordless, all eye contact, Steve sliding one slow palm up the mattress beside Eddie’s hip. Steve pauses, waiting for permission to touch - already playing the part with perfect obedience and god it has Eddie rock hard already - and Eddie tips his chin up with just the lightest touch of fingertips.
The energy crackles between them, but Eddie would never forgive himself if he didn’t ask.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the excellent customer service, sweetheart but…you sure?” Eddie whispers, gives him a chance to back out. Hopes that Steve won’t, but has a suspicion that he will. Eddie wouldn’t reproach him for it, of course he wouldn’t. But the disappointment would be sharp.
Steve tilts his head into Eddie’s touch, and his thumb presses lightly against the fullness of Steve’s bottom lip. With rapt intensity, Eddie bends his thumb, flipping Steve’s lip downwards to expose the shining cushion of pink flesh. Steve’s tongue flattens, pushes out between his teeth, and licks up and over the pad. Eddie can’t help the widening of his eyes, the throbbing of his cock as Steve flicks a tiny, teasing swipe across the tip of his thumb. Eddie brushes gently over Steve’s lips, across the flat of his tongue, before Steve tips his chin up a little to speak.
“Very sure.”
Eddie watches, entirely enraptured. Is there something in the water on these long haul flights or did he somehow please some deity? He doesn’t know either way, but he feels like he must have done something right to find a guy this pretty and this slutty just by accident.
He can’t help wondering if Steve is actually this way in bed every time or if the delicious, needy subservience is just a byproduct of playing along with their impromptu in situ roleplay. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie as he braces himself on one hand, uses the other to sweep over Eddie’s thigh and up, up, oh fuck.
“You look so pretty on all fours,” Eddie muses breathlessly, as much to himself as to the man kneeling over his legs.
“Should see me without the uniform.” Steve’s tone has taken on a husky tone, intimate and smooth.
“I’m counting on it.” And Eddie is, he’s been imagining getting Steve in the excessively large bed waiting for him in his suite in Paris the entire time they’ve been flirting and he isn’t planning on giving up that vision any time soon. Pretty boy deserves to get fucked ‘til he’s drooling and whining on a bed with a mattress so soft and thread count so high it feels like lying on clouds.
Eddie wonders what to do with his hands, whether to help Steve out or let him do it himself. Eddie shifts where he’s half-sitting, half-laying down. He’s not sure if it’s the inappropriateness of it all, the risk of getting caught, or the tight-assed, pretty-faced man kneeling over him; maybe it’s a filthy combination of the two, but Eddie’s already hard and straining against the fabric with every passing second that Steve’s fingertips brush over him.
They’re surrounded by strangers, facing down the chance of being overheard at any moment, but Steve takes his time, acts like there’s nowhere else he ought to be. He slides his palm up over the head of Eddie’s cock and back down in languid, lazy strokes, even the dual layer of Eddie’s underwear and pajama pants no barrier for the heat and sure touch.
After just a fraction shy of too long, Steve makes this little soft noise high in his throat as he shimmies Eddie’s pants down over his thighs, clocks the outline of him through his boxers. Eddie can’t help a thrill of smug satisfaction at Steve’s face, charmingly shocked in the low light.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Eddie teases, shifting in a deliberate manner that lifts his hips just a fraction, the bulge of his cock momentarily closer to Steve’s flushed face. Eddie wants to bury his fingers in the still-perfect smooth sweep of Steve’s brown hair and yank him down to grind against him.
“Yeah- you’re…” He stumbles over the words, tongue sweeping over the lower lip Eddie wants to bite down on. It’s almost endearing how quickly Eddie’s cock has left Steve apparently speechless.
“Mm-hmm.” Eddie takes pity, decides to help Steve, tucking thumbs beneath the waistband of his underwear and easing it down until his cock is free, the blood-flushed head sheened with precome. He watches Steve’s tongue slide out again and he’s pretty sure it’s not a conscious action. He lightly circles the base with his thumb and forefinger to move his cock a little. Steve’s eyes follow and Eddie smirks. “You can take it all though.”
Eddie sounds sure, and he is, because whether it’s god-given talent or Eddie helping him get there, he wants to feel the tip of Steve’s nose pressing against his groin.
“Uh-huh.” Steve sounds dazed and God help him, Eddie likes it.
“What’s that? Speak up sweetheart.” It’s not mean yet, Eddie’s tone still a lazy croon.
“I can take it.”
“Good boy,” Eddie hums contentedly, idly stroking up to the head and back down. Steve’s eyes follow the movement, then widen a little. Eddie knows what he’s noticed - the silver metal, skin-warm, through the head of his cock and at the base. He’s not expecting it to be what propels Steve forward finally, the tip of that pink tongue sliding curiously over the barbell through the head. It’s a tease, but Eddie is patient, indulges the exploration. “You like them sweetheart?”
Steve simply responds with a wet hum of agreement, apparently unwilling to take his mouth off Eddie to reply. Eddie chuckles, a dark rumbling thing, as Steve’s plush lips stretch around the head of his cock, tongue pressing and sliding as he moves.
“Look at you taking my cock so easily, you’re just a slut for it, huh?” Eddie jeers quietly, though Steve’s still only just sucking and lapping at the tip. He wants to test Steve’s boundaries, get a sense of what makes his breath hitch, what makes him moan and whimper. At Eddie’s words, Steve whines somewhere high in the back of his throat, and draws back, trails of spit still connecting his lips to the pink head of Eddie’s dick, and by the glassy, half-fucked expression on Steve’s face as he lifts his gaze to meet Eddie’s, he thinks he’s pitched it just right. Eddie cards his fingers back through the perfect coif of Steve’s hair; the locks are textured, clearly held in place by some product or other, and Eddie takes some selfish pleasure in splitting up the strands, mussing them with his fingertips. “Now, you ready to use that mouth properly?”
“Yes, sir,” Steve obliges, humming in surprised contentment when Eddie gives an encouraging tug at the back of his head. He drops his face back down, lifting Eddie’s cock away from his stomach and sliding loosely curled fingers down and back up the length, spreading the slickness of his leftover saliva.
Eddie watches with rapturous attention, admiring the way Steve’s soft mouth eases down over him eagerly, taut pink obscenity, a pornographic balance to the sweet dark fan of his lashes, the heat of whisky brown eyes watching Eddie. Eddie drags his thumb over two delicate moles on one hollowed cheek, indulging himself to press a little, feel the obstruction to his cock inside Steve’s mouth.
Maybe Eddie should fly long haul more often.
Steve is filthy, messy, so fucking into it, a hedonistic mindlessness in the way he lets the spit work up and slide down Eddie’s cock. It’s disgusting, grossly unnecessary, the way it’s wet on Eddie’s balls and his thighs. And then Steve lets Eddie’s cock slip from his mouth to lap it up. Eddie groans.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “Messy aren’t you, pretty boy? But so conscientious on the clean-up.”
Steve seems to preen under Eddie’s attention, and Eddie can't help but think of how much more praise and pleasure he wants to dole out on this pretty pretty slut that sucks cock like it’s all he wants in the damn world.
The light praise seems to be all the incentive that Steve needs to seek out more. Eddie feels the slick tight heat of his mouth as Steve’s head drops lower and lower still in his lap, sinking down until he’s taking Eddie all the way into his throat.
Fuck. Eddie narrowly avoids smacking his head back hard against the backboard behind him, suppressing a low groan. Instead, his fingers clench in Steve’s hair.
He can fucking feel the puffs of air coming from Steve’s nose as he holds himself there, swallowing around Eddie’s thick cock pressing into his throat.
God, Eddie could fall in love with this mouth.
“Taking me so well, Stevie. Doing such a good job,” Eddie whispers, voice a lover’s croon, his voice low and rough in that way he knows guys seem to enjoy.
It’s a pipe dream, an imagining worthy of a cheap porn tape, but he imagines for a moment that he could drag Steve off his cock, take him to the plane bathroom and bend him over the counter. Airplane bathrooms aren’t big enough for him to bend Steve over the counter, but he knows the one in his hotel room in Paris will be.
He’s not sure if it’s a mistake, lines blurred with the distracting presence of the man’s mouth on his cock, but Eddie makes a mental note to tell Steve the name of his hotel and the number of his room.
But right now, he’s too busy burying his hands in the man’s thigh hair, soft beneath the slight firmness of hair product on top, grasping fistfuls as he pushes Steve backwards.
Steve slides off with a wet gasp, and sits back on his heels over Eddie’s shins. Eddie leans back almost casually against the backboard of the compartment, gazing at Steve. Steve whose pretty eyes are glassy, welling with unshed tears, lashes pinched together into little dark points. He’s flushed, lips swollen, pink and shining where he’s dragged himself up and down the length of Eddie’s cock.
When Steve blinks, a little shining bead slips from the corner of his eye, catching in the low lamplight of the compartment.
“Christ, look at you,” Eddie breathes, already entirely taken by the fucked-out look on Steve’s face.
Eddie sits up a little, yanks Steve towards him by the hair, follows his words with a drag of his tongue over Steve’s slick lips and up across his cheek, catching the tear, salt blooming on the tip of his tongue. His grip loosens on the back of Steve’s head a little and Eddie leans back against the wall again, breathing hard.
With a lighter touch, hardly needing the encouragement, Eddie lazily guides Steve towards his groin, fingers curling around the base of his own cock so he can lightly tap the slick head against the sinful temptation of Steve’s lower lip.
“God, you really want this don’t you?” It’s a little mean, Eddie can’t help it; a delighted, sweet condescension. “Gold star service, Stevie.” His words are praise and mockery all in one breath.
Steve just whimpers, so Eddie shushes him, pushes his cock back into the inviting heat. Steve seems to like it, the way Eddie controls it, the way he’s a little mean.
“Shhh, people are sleeping, sweetheart.” Steve tries to whimper again, but it’s caught between the wet, slippery sounds of Steve sliding his tongue around Eddie’s cock. The stifled sound vibrates down his shaft, coaxing his impending orgasm ever closer. Eddie marvels once more at the flutter of Steve’s thick lashes as Steve sinks down and down and down onto his cock, nose brushing the wiry curls at the base.
Somewhere beneath the attitude and the bravado, Eddie finds that even after all these years of success and exhibition, he’s still not entirely used to being the kind of guy that beautiful boys like this are desperate to fuck.
And Steve is so fucking desperate.
Steve’s hands slip onto the mattress beside Eddie’s hips, clutching at the sheets as he nudges Eddie’s cock once more past the boundary of his throat. Steve convulses in little shivers around the head, so very desperate to please, to take what Eddie is more than willing to give. The ripples of tightness, the breathless, humming sounds that reverberate from Steve’s chest through his mouth have Eddie careening towards release.
With a sudden yank at the back of Steve’s head, Eddie pulls him back only far enough to allow speech; the base of the barbell still presses against Steve’s full bottom lip. Eddie’s cock is sheened with spit, shining and slick and pink under the soft lamplight.
“Can’t make a mess, so I’m gonna come in that pretty mouth and you’re going to swallow,” Eddie encourages, arching his brow in a wordless question that Steve could answer if he disagreed.
“Ye-yeah. Please,” Steve whines, immediately jerking forward once more against the restraint of Eddie’s hand. Enthusiastic little thing, isn’t he?
“Please what?” Eddie growls, tugging at Steve’s hair until his head tips to the side. Eddie’s cock pushes against the corner of Steve’s mouth, his stretched pink skin the only thing keeping it from slapping back against his stomach.
“Please, sir. Wanna make you come,” Steve pleads, words a little muffled where he’s attempting to keep his lips on Eddie. Steve bats his lashes, and Christ , who is Eddie to deny him? Eddie shoves lightly at Steve’s head, pushes his cock back up into Steve’s mouth.
“That's a good boy,” Eddie whispers, draws out the words, watches his cock disappear until it’s comfortably buried in Steve’s throat. He picks back up his glass from where he’d placed it on the little shelf-table to his left, and takes an indulgent swig. Somehow eighteen years of cask-aging can be made all the sweeter by the tight heat of a pretty mouth. “Show me how bad you want me to fuck you, sweetheart,” Eddie urges as Steve swallows around him, spit dripping in a shining string from the corner of his mouth.
It takes a minute or so more of slick, perpetual motions before Eddie’s balls draw tight, and his skin begins to prickle.
“Fuck, baby, gonna make me come,” Eddie grits out, resisting the itch to screw his eyes tight shut in ecstasy - he can’t miss a second of this. Steve’s moans pitch up until he’s whining high in his throat, and Eddie distantly wants to hear them without the barrier of his cock in Steve’s mouth.
It’s already too loud though, too loud by half probably, and Eddie shushes Steve, hips bucking up. Maybe it surprises Steve, throws him off, but this time he gags, and it’s enough to pitch Eddie over the point of no return.
Eddie sinks his teeth into his lower lip, muffling his groan, body relaxing in a wave. He swallows the last mouthful of his drink, and Steve swallows too.
“Good boy,” Eddie gently coaxes Steve off him, amused at the way his gentle mouth still suckles at Eddie. It’s a little much, in the moment, though another time he might have let Steve keep at it until they could go again. “Enough, sweetheart.” Steve’s lips leave him with an indecent noise Eddie would like to record and mix into tracks.
Eddie’s fingers sweep over Steve’s no doubt aching jaw, tender and cautious. “So good for me, God, your mouth is something else clever boy, you did so well. C’mere.”
He tries to coax Steve up, surprises himself with how much he wants to settle him, look after him. It was a little more intense than he intended from an illicit blowjob mid-flight, and Steve seems misty, swimming in a mildly subspace-y haze. Eddie doesn’t know how familiar the guy is with the sensation, and even if he was, Eddie doesn’t forget aftercare, one-time hookup or not.
The click and hiss of a nearby door rumbling open slips through the slats of Eddie’s compartment, and Steve meets his eye with glassy concern. Sure, the risk of being caught was hot in the searing heat of the moment, but now, with Steve still hovering dazedly over Eddie’s legs, the reality of their situation sets in. Neither of them breathe, frozen perfectly still, as quiet, slipper-clad footsteps pad quietly towards and past the door. After a few long, mildly-panicked seconds, Steve seems to deem the coast clear.
“‘m okay. Gotta- work,” Steve mumbles by way of excuse, clambering up over Eddie’s knees and into the little space that’s left between the mattress and the sliding door. “Th- uh. Thank you.”
Eddie sits up, feels entirely ridiculous with his pants still around his thighs, but Steve’s already turning towards the door.
“Stevie, sweetheart, wait just a-” He can’t get his pants up, can’t do anything fast enough to stop Steve - pretty, dazed Steve with his swollen mouth and flushed cheeks, fuck.
“Get some sleep,” Steve murmurs to him distractedly, patting Eddie’s chest in a bizarrely reassuring fashion and vanishing through the sliding compartment door. It closes behind him.
Alone, airline pajama pants not covering his still spit-tacky, spent cock, Eddie can’t help feeling a little cheated.
He pulls up his pants, sinking back down to the bed. He can’t chase after Steve, not in the middle of the night on a damn airplane. But he can speak to Steve in the morning, before they land, fix this… whatever this even is.
If Eddie has his way, this ends with Steve in his bed in the suite waiting for him in Paris, sated and satisfied. If Eddie has his way, maybe Steve will even stay the night.
✈️
Steve cracks the door to Eddie’s compartment open, pokes his head out into the aisle before sliding between as small a gap as he can manage, guiding the slatted wooden door closed again behind him.
The heady taste of Eddie’s come still coats his tongue, and his ears are fuzzy as he walks back as casually as he’s able to the staff compartment. Fuck, it’s like he’s the one that just blew his load, not the one who just swallowed one.
Someone steps out of the bathroom into his path and Steve rakes a hasty hand back through his hair in a futile attempt to return even a little of its former careful styling.
Snack-snob, an eye mask resting against his forehead and monogrammed silk pajamas askew, makes an irritable noise and utters the least polite “Excuse me” Steve has ever heard, pushing past to head back to his compartment.
Steve is thankful that of all the passengers he could collide with post hook up, it’s the one with his head so far up his own ass, he apparently doesn’t notice Steve’s sex hair. Steve closes the few remaining steps between himself and the flimsy safety of the cabin crew galley and yanks the curtain back across.
His hair is, he’s sure, entirely beyond saving, at least until he can get a comb through it. With all the subtlety of a neon club sign, he crosses his hands in a feigned show of professional posterity over the evident bulge in his pants; he usually exhibits a little more composure after his hookups, but something in Eddie’s voice, in the way he’d moved his hands with such surety, the gentle dominance that whispered with potential for something far less gentle, it has Steve’s thoughts blooming in incoherent bursts.
Especially mind-numbing were the hasty moments of fondness afterwards; the soft, hushed words and the stroke of a thumb over the apple of Steve’s cheek. Eddie was… he was surprisingly sweet? It’s not what Steve expected from hooking up with a model slash rockstar, honestly.
Steve’s not sure what would have happened if 1C hadn’t risen for a midnight piss just then - what would Eddie have done? Cuddled him? It’s… well, it’s kind of a nice thought actually, Steve ponders, thoughts still syrupy with whatever spell Eddie Munson had cast with his perfect fucking dick.
And though he may not be acting like it, though he may not have the clarity of consciousness right now to really be sensible about it, Steve is still acutely aware that he is on a plane. He’s still at work. And that means, to Steve’s distant chagrin, that his boner is going to have to go entirely untreated - though thankfully his minor collision with Snack-Snob 1C has killed the majority of his remaining lust.
Steve’s scalp still itches with the phantom tug of Eddie’s long, ringed fingers as he stands dazedly in the midst of the galley. Apparently activating some sixth sense for Steve’s presence, Robin appears from around the corner, no longer in her jump seat. To no one’s surprise, she is still wide awake, fully dressed, the picture of decorum compared to Steve.
“How was Mr. Munson’s ‘nightcap’?” Robin asks, not looking up from her phone. She leans back casually against the wall of the narrow space, against the cupboard containing the chilling breakfast juices. She scrolls through her phone with little flicks of her thumb up the screen. Chrissy’s on the upper level, Steve assumes through his haze, actually taking her rest break while Steve was decidedly not taking his own.
“I- he’s…” Steve murmurs, can’t even grasp the words in his mind, let alone force them out of his mouth. He sinks down onto a jumpseat, folding it down as he puts his weight into it. Steve curls his fingers around the scarcely padded edge, digs a heel into his slowly softening dick in an attempt as subtle as he can manage to rearrange himself without drawing attention. Robin briefly glances up, and then fixes her suddenly wide-eyed stare on Steve’s still-flushed face.
“Fucking- Jesus, Steve.”
And yeah, Steve must look a mess. He’d not removed even a single item of clothing during his encounter, but he’s sure his necktie is not a little disheveled, his shirt and pants creased to all hell, and he doesn’t even want to think about his hair.
“Yeah.”
“I can’t fucking believe you actually fu-”
“I didn’t fuck him.” Steve cuts her off, his wits coming back to him with each passing moment away from Eddie Munson’s utterly overwhelming presence.
“You didn’t? You didn’t! Yknow I wouldn’t put a lot past you, but fucking a rockstar while you’re working? That would have been a new level of whore. Even for you.” Robin adds affectionately after a breath. “So you really didn’t?”
“I really didn’t. But I did choke on his cock.” Steve tries to keep his voice level and soft, mindful of the topic.
“You’re such a slut,” Robin hisses, immediately abandoning her phone into her pocket. “What is wrong with you? What if you got caught!?”
Steve wipes the corner of his mouth distractedly, though he knows he didn’t let a single drop escape, and he allows himself a little smirk. “I didn’t.”
Robin just glares, sucking her tongue over her teeth. Steve’s almost entirely lucid again by the time she speaks, though echoing around his brain are the low, rumbling groans as Eddie fucking Munson had come in his mouth. It’s admittedly a pretty distracting track to have on repeat. When she finally does speak again, it’s low, calculated and decisive.
“I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”
“At least I’ll die happy.” Chrissy appears, making her way down the narrow flight of stairs from the bunk level, so Steve shrugs, rising from his seat and slipping up the stairs in her wake, finding his bunk with a contented, entirely incredulous sigh. He lets his lids drop closed, sinking his head back onto the plump pillow.
Steve must sleep, because the next thing he knows, he’s being dragged metaphorically kicking and screaming to consciousness by Robin’s aggressively insistent swatting at his head.
“Wake up slut, breakfast orders are probably gonna start coming through in like half an hour,” Robin grumbles. Though there are the beginnings of dark circles beneath her eyes, she still looks unflinchingly put together; as does Chrissy, who’s leaning against the wall a little way away, cupping a mug of what Steve knows is green tea within her small, delicately painted fingers.
“Did you have a nice night?” Chrissy teases, with none of the evident aggrievement that peppers Robin’s voice.
“You could say that,” Steve sighs with a loose smile, pivoting upright and stretching his arms out across his body to loosen a little of the tenseness in his muscles. Chrissy looks around, as though concerned they’ll be overheard, and drops her voice to a theatrical whisper.
“Robin said that you…” She blushes, flicks her eyes down to her mug with a flustered smile. “Did you really?”
“Depends what she told you,” Steve shoots back fondly, stands to pull his carryon from the overhead compartment. He needs a new shirt, that’s priority number one. And to brush his teeth. Jesus.
Chrissy seems utterly delighted, wiggling on the spot.
“You have to tell me everything later, I want to know everything. ” Steve fishes out his toothbrush with a wink in her direction.
“I will CC, promise, we’ll get a bottle of rosé in that crappy cafe a couple doors down from the hotel, the one where the old guy gives us a discount.” Chrissy pouts a little.
“Don’t be rude about Jean-Pierre, Steve, he’s a sweet old man and he’s nice to all of us.”
Steve, already beginning to brush his teeth, speaks with a mouthful of toothpaste.
“He thinks you’re pretty. He old-man-flirts with you.” Chrissy tuts and wags a finger.
“I remind him of his daughter. You are awful.”
Steve laughs, spitting out minty foam into the little sink.
“I know.”
In no time at all, he’s descending the little stairs to help Robin in the galley, serving up food and drinks, providing steaming mugs of tea and coffee. Snack-Snob is mentally retitled as Milk-Snob when he complains that they don’t have cashew milk on the flight. Steve didn’t know you could milk a cashew, but he smiles through gritted teeth while Milk-Snob opines on Steve and the airline’s incompetence. It is a lengthy and boring complaint.
Steve is hardly able to take a moment after that, clearing breakfast and attending to passenger requests until the captain announces their imminent descent into Paris.
It’s come sooner than Steve anticipated, and from his jumpseat, buckling himself in place, Steve can only look a little longingly in the direction of Eddie’s compartment. He had hoped to at least speak with him again, maybe awkwardly flirt over the in-flight continental breakfast. But maybe it’s better this way? A clean end to a meaningless once in a lifetime hookup?
The flurry of beeps and movement as the airplane taxis in towards their spot on the runway is predictable, and the reminder to wait for the go ahead to turn on mobile devices or undo seatbelts goes entirely unheeded by most passengers.
It’s only after the other First Class passengers have disembarked that Eddie Munson saunters down the aisle, a black duffle bag in hand, and Steve’s heart smacks against his ribs. He hadn’t even seen Eddie since last night, was starting to convince himself he’d imagined the whole thing. But Eddie catches his eye and holds it, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smirk.
Yesterday’s silk shirt is forgotten in favor of a deep-cut v-neck sweater, darkest gray. Eddie still has his sleep-frizzed curls scrunched back into a knot at the base of his neck, and a pair of rounded sunglasses are perched over his hairline. Steve can’t help but wonder - if Eddie looks this good after a half-night’s sleep on an airplane, he must look otherworldly when well-rested.
In a number of sure-footed, heavy-booted strides, Eddie reaches Steve and Robin, still in their positions at the plane doors. Without a word of greeting, he leans in familiarly close, taking Steve’s hand as though he wants to shake it, instead slipping a square of paper into Steve’s palm. Did he just- did Steve just get tipped for an in-flight blowjob? Is that money? Oh god, he’s not just a slut, he’s a call girl now. An in-flight call girl. A lady of the night. He tries to clear his throat and nearly chokes.
Heedless of Robin’s proximity, Eddie leans in and whispers against the shell of Steve’s ear, sending shooting tingles down Steve’s shoulder, into his fingers. “Let me return the favor. I’ll see you at 7. Wear something nice.”
Wait. What?
Steve tucks the paper into his breast pocket without daring to look at it, mustering his best customer service smile. “Have a pleasant stay in Paris, Mr. Munson.”
“Oh I will, Steve.” Eddie grins, lightly tapping Steve’s name where it’s embroidered on his shirt just below his clavicle, directly over the spot the paper rests too. Then Eddie saunters off, heavy boots thudding on the metal gantry. It’s then that Steve realizes Eddie Munson might just have the flattest ass in human history. By no means does Steve want to grope it any less, but God, at least the man has a flaw.
Steve’s eyes follow the receding form of Eddie Munson as he exits the plane, feels the slip of paper searing a hole in his breast pocket. Robin clears her throat pointedly.
Steve turns to her, all mock curiosity, then grins at her stony expression. “I’m gonna fuck him.”