Chapter Text
Robin Buckley was Steve Harrington’s introduction into the world of queerness. It didn’t take long at all for him to realise that he wasn’t as straight as he’d always thought he was.
Which is how he finds himself in Indianapolis one Friday night during the summer of ‘85, smudging eyeliner into his waterline in the car mirror, hair sprayed to the high heavens and navy polish applied painstakingly to his fingertips.
He’s parked a couple streets away from a bar he’s heard about through the grapevine, a place with people like him. A place where men can dance with men without turning heads and getting the shit kicked out of them. His stomach twists with nerves or excitement – he’s not totally sure.
Steve switches the light off in his car and fidgets with the t-shirt he’d taken a pair of scissors to, cutting it halfway up his midriff. He’s got on a pair of jeans that are just about too small for him, clinging to every curve and stretched tight across his ass.
Before he opens the door, he grabs the light blue hanky he’d bought just for this from the passenger seat. He considers it for a moment before firmly tucking it into his right back pocket. He breathes deep and steps out into the chilly night air.
If he thought the place had looked rundown from the outside, it’s nothing compared to the inside.
It’s dark other than the flash of coloured lights, and smoke hangs heavy in the air. The floor is sticky beneath his shoes, and dark paint is peeling from the walls.
It’s busy, patrons lining the bar and a heaving mass of bodies in the middle of the floor, dancing to the song blaring out of the speakers, slightly too much bass. Steve doesn’t recognise it.
He heads for the bar, slipping through the crowd, and waits for the bartender to finish up with the group he’s serving.
An older man leans over from his stool into Steve’s space, smelling of bourbon. He gestures towards Steve’s back pocket, and his face immediately burns hot.
“Bathroom?”
Oh. Fuck. That was… way faster and more forward than Steve had expected.
“Oh, uh. Um. No, thanks.” He stumbles over his words, hoping he doesn’t offend the man. But he just shrugs and straightens up, turning back to his drink.
Steve is grateful when he catches the attention of the bartender and can order a shot of vodka and a beer. He needs something to calm his nerves.
He scopes out the room, nursing his beer. A lot of the men are quite a bit older than he is, but there are a few guys who look around his age.
The song that’s playing now – Steve recognises this one, Bon Jovi, he thinks – fades out as it comes to an end, but another one doesn’t take its place. Instead, lights come up on the stage he hadn’t noticed tucked away in the far corner of the dance floor. The crowd turns and cheers, and Steve sits up a little straighter, intrigued.
A few men take to the stage, instruments in hand and a drum set at the back. The lead singer, Steve assumes, steps up to the mic, guitar slung at his side. He’s got wild hair, curly and even more voluminous than Steve’s.
Steve vaguely wonders what hairspray he uses.
“How are we doing tonight, Indy?” Wild Hair bellows into the microphone, voice rough, and the crowd hollers back with a cacophony of noise. “We’re Corroded Coffin and we’re here to shake things the fuck up, so, without further ado–”
He turns and motions to the drummer, who hits his drumsticks together before a wall of sound hits Steve.
They’re loud.
He wasn’t really sure what to expect, but he supposes with a name like Corroded Coffin, he should have known the type of music that was coming.
Steve downs the rest of his beer and another shot for good measure, and heads out onto the dance floor. He didn’t come all the way to Indy to sit at the bar all night, after all.
He’s not really sure how to dance to this kind of music, but he doesn’t have to think about it too much, just moving with the crowd of bodies surrounding him.
He thought it might be awkward and uncomfortable, being so close to complete strangers and moving in an unbridled way like this, moving with other men, but it’s nice. He doesn’t feel like Steve. In fact, he doesn’t feel like an individual at all. He feels like a part of something bigger.
One of the guys catches his eye, dances a bit closer, presses himself up against Steve’s back, grinding against him. It’s sweaty, the body heat all around them radiating, and pretty soon, Steve needs air. He slips away with an apologetic look, not sure which way it is to the stage or the bar or the door, just trying to navigate his way through the limbs and torsos.
Finally, he breaks free, and finds himself off to the left side of the stage, staring up at the band. He gulps in the air, and it feels cool on his skin compared to the heat of the crowd.
He leans against the wall, watching Wild Hair’s fingers fly across the guitar strings.
The singer’s hair has fallen into his face, sticking to his skin and making him look even more dishevelled. Steve finds he can’t tear his eyes away from the man, mesmerised by his every move – the roll of his hips as he plays guitar, the way his hand wraps around the microphone when he’s singing, the flex of his arms all the way up to his shoulders, sleeves cut off to show an astonishing amount of skin.
And then Wild Hair looks down at where Steve’s standing, makeup dark around his eyes and a smirk flitting across his lips.
Shit.
Steve realises his already-tight jeans have just become a little tighter.
The band’s clearly popular with this crowd, but they don’t seem to be famous or anything, because other than some claps on the back and words of praise, they’re able to make their way to the bar uninterrupted and grab some drinks after their set.
Strange, because Steve could have sworn he’d heard of them before.
He heads the same way as well, parched and desperate for a drink. He orders another cold beer and leans, as casually as he can, against the bar. There are only a couple of people between him and Wild Hair, and his heart is beating out of his chest with anticipation.
Steve screws his courage to the sticking place and leans around the other patrons.
“You guys were really good,” he shouts over the music that’s back to blaring through the speakers. “Not usually my style, but I liked it a lot.”
“And what is your usual style?” the scrappy dude who was on drums leans forward to ask, a grimace on his face and voice dripping with sarcasm. “Wham? Madonna? Whitney?”
The singer cuts him off with a hand motion. “Hey – don’t you dare shit-talk Whitney! I will end you.” He turns to Steve. “Thanks, man. Glad to hear it.”
Steve bites his lip. He wants to keep this going, to flirt unabashedly and maybe even take this guy into the alley out back and push him up against the grimy wall. Or be pushed up against it. Either’s good.
But he doesn’t know how to do this with guys.
It can’t be that different, he thinks. Everyone wants to feel desired, spoiled and charmed. So he turns on his signature smile, with the added benefit of the tinted lip gloss Robin had lent him.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.
The guy’s friends seem to get the hint in record time, mumbling excuses and ‘ see you in a bit’. And then it’s just Steve and the curly-haired, hot-as-hell, good-with-his-fingers lead singer.
“Sure. Long island iced tea,” he says, and Steve can’t stop the surprise from flashing across his face. Wild Hair looks at him curiously, but his eyes keep flicking down to where Steve’s fingers are wrapped around his beer, like he’s imagining other things they could wrap around. Or maybe that’s just Steve’s horny invention.
“Just… not what I expected. Pegged you for a whiskey drinker or something.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem, hmm?”
The guy is leaning in closer and Steve has to keep reminding himself that they can do this here, that they aren’t going to get knocked out or called slurs. That they’re actually safe here to feel whatever the fuck they feel.
It’s… liberating.
Steve brings his lips to this guy’s ear, making sure he breathes against the shell of it just enough to feel him shiver. “You wanna head out back?”
Wild Hair doesn’t answer, just closes his hand around Steve’s and stands, drinks forgotten as he pulls Steve through the crowd of heaving bodies, towards the stage and down a little corridor to the right of it.
It’s even darker back here, only the glow of the emergency exit lights to illuminate them. Empty too, the rest of the band still drinking somewhere out in the bar. Steve’s grateful.
They turn a corner, and Wild Hair spins around, pushing Steve into the wall a little forcefully. It makes Steve gasp, and he slams his lips against the mystery man’s, unable to take it anymore.
He needs. He’s desperate for it.
He feels Wild Hair give a little tug on the hanky as he breaks the kiss. “You know what this means?” he asks playfully, but he’s confirming, checking.
Steve nods.
“You up for it?”
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, hardly believing his luck. Of all the guys here, he’s managed to get this one alone. And he wants Steve too. They don’t even know each others’ names, but they’re doing this.
Christ. It’s thrilling.
Wild Hair manoeuvres them so Steve is no longer pinned to the wall. Steve hears the metallic clink of a belt buckle, and his hands fly down in between them.
“Let me,” he says, chasing away the strangers’ hands as he unbuttons the jeans and shoves them down, sinking to his knees.
The hallway floor is hard and cold, just concrete, but he’s too distracted to care. He can see the hard line of the guy’s dick beneath the black fabric of his boxers, and he aches to touch. He’s almost afraid to, like it might shatter the moment, but he can’t help himself.
“Shit,” Wild Hair groans above him, and Steve almost groans back at the sound. He needs to hear more, needs to draw those sounds out of him.
He peels down the boxers just far enough to gain access, and dives straight in. He thinks of every great blowjob he’s had before, and puts his all into it, trying out the tricks he knows he’s liked before.
But mostly, he pays attention to the sounds coming from above him. A lick around the head gets a breathy moan, but sucking at the tip gets a gasp and a “fuck.” Going slow makes him whine, and digging fingernails into the man’s thigh gets the most beautiful little panting sounds.
Steve could do this all night.
Steve can feel the guy’s hips jerking forward in tiny movements, like he’s trying to stop himself but can’t completely. His breath gets shaky, and every curse that falls from his lips gets cut off with a groan or a gasp.
“Fu– Oh, shi– Chri–” Wild Hair mutters, tapping at his shoulder, but Steve stays put, wanting to be right there, wanting to stay until this stranger has ridden out his orgasm.
Steve manages to do pretty well, considering. But he’s sure he looks a mess. He can feel spit and come sliding down his chin, and he’s sure there’s some on the front of his shirt. Maybe he should have opted for Robin’s fishnet top after all. Although, she probably would have killed him after this.
He doesn’t really care all that much, chest heaving as he catches his breath.
“Holy shit,” Wild Hair finally says, still panting hard. “That was… fuck.”
Steve’s knees crack as he stands up again, stiff from the position he was in. He wipes at his chin and cheeks, the corners of his mouth. He must look disgusting.
“Christ, you look so hot,” the guy says, and huh, that wasn’t what Steve had expected to hear in this state. “Fuck, c’mere.”
He pulls Steve closer by the front of his jeans, quickly undoing the fly and sliding a hand down the front of his boxers. Steve’s so hard it hurts, and he knows it’s going to be over far too quickly. All he can do is let it happen as Wild Hair strokes him faster and faster, Steve leaning on him more and more until he’s barely holding himself upright at all, babbling nonsense against the bare shoulder in front of him.
He wraps a hand around the back of the guy’s neck, painted fingernails digging in. Wild Hair whimpers, hand stuttering, and Steve’s done for. He’s crying out and collapsing forward and scraping nails against skin for purchase.
By the time his legs can take his weight again, the stranger is tucking Steve back into his jeans, surprisingly sweet and gentle for someone he just hooked up with backstage at a grimy dive bar without even exchanging names.
“Thanks,” Steve murmurs as he steps back, straightening his clothes and running a hand through his hair. He feels a bit sheepish now, the reality hitting him. He can’t quite meet the guy’s eye.
“God, fuck, no, thank you,” Wild Hair says, sounding a bit flustered too. “That was… damn.” He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I, uh– shit, I gotta go pack up the gear with the guys…”
Steve can take the hint: they both got what they wanted and it’s time to fuck off.
“Yeah, yeah, ‘course,” Steve says, giving one last swipe of his face with the back of his hand, making sure he doesn’t look too obviously ruined.
He doesn’t really know how to end an encounter like this, what to say. So he just gives Wild Hair a final nod and heads back down the hallway.
He heads straight out to his car, ready to start the long drive back home to Hawkins. The night air is nice against his hot skin, sobering him up from the head-spinning experience inside. He breathes it in deep, letting it fill his lungs and bring him back down to earth.
Steve thinks he might make a habit out of this.