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“Stop moving.”
“I’m not moving!”
“You are. Stop fidgeting. You’re gonna fuck it up.”
Steve sighs, which jostles his shoulders again and makes Eddie huff behind him.
“ Steve .”
“Okay, okay, sorry!” Steve says, concentrating extra hard to keep his muscles still and his body unmoving. It’s a little difficult when the bristles of the paintbrush in Eddie’s hand glide across his bare skin, just soft and featherlight enough to tickle.
“What are you even painting?” He questions, unable to keep himself from asking. Eddie hadn’t told him his plan when he’d first laid Steve out and gathered his brushes — just instructed Steve to stay still and let him paint, he’d see soon enough. But Steve is curious , and it’s been almost an hour now.
Steve carefully tips his head to the side and presses his cheek against his folded arms, trying his best to catch a glimpse of Eddie where he sits atop the backs of Steve’s thighs, bent over his canvas in concentration. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, like it always does when he’s focusing hard enough, and a piece of hair dangles against his cheek, escaping the bandana he’d tied it back with.
“I’m painting an essence,” Eddie answers cryptically, and he draws the brush in a broad stroke, low on Steve’s back.
“An essence?” Steve repeats. “An essence of what?”
“An essence of you,” Eddie says simply. The brush dots Steve’s upper back now, light little taps.
Steve doesn’t know what that means, but he’s looking forward to finding out.
The paint feels cool against his skin, the brush tickling enough to draw goosebumps to the surface. He lets his eyelids flutter shut as the soothing strokes lull him into that peaceful place in between half-awake and half-asleep.
Eventually, the feeling of the brush disappears, and the soft graze of a fingertip down the nape of his neck has Steve blinking himself back to the floor of Eddie’s living room.
“Mm, you finished?” He asks, syruppy.
“All finished,” Eddie confirms, voice low and close to Steve’s ear. He presses a soft kiss to the tender patch of skin just beneath it.
Steve stirs, lifting himself up onto his elbows, gearing up to finally stand, but Eddie stops him.
“Hang on,” he says. “Don’t move yet.” His weight shifts off of Steve a little as he leans away to grab something from the coffee table they’d pushed out of the way. But then he’s back, and his knees squeeze lightly around Steve’s hips as he rises onto them and hovers over Steve’s back.
Steve hears the familiar click and whirr of a polaroid camera. Ah.
“Okay, now I’m done,” Eddie says, patting the side of Steve’s leg before clambering off of him. “You can get up now.”
He sets the polaroid camera down and turns back to Steve, offering him the hand not wagging the developing photo through the air to help him up. Paint streaks up his forearms and smudges the tips of his fingers, and Steve smiles to himself as he takes Eddie’s hand and lets himself be hauled up.
He’s careful not to jostle his back too much as he moves. He doesn’t want to ruin the painting. Especially before he’s had the chance to see it himself.
When Steve is finally back on his feet and facing Eddie again, he spots another smear of paint above his right eyebrow and resists the urge to try and scrub it away with his thumb and a little bit of spit. He can already see the twisted up face Eddie would make if he tried that.
Instead, Steve makes grabby hands at the polaroid. “Lemme see it,” he says.
But Eddie holds it out of his reach, giving it a sidelong glance and shaking it a little more. “Not yet, it’s not done developing,” he tells Steve. “Be patient.”
“I’ve been patient,” Steve complains, drawing his eyebrows together and pushing his lower lip out in a pout.
“If you’re that eager to see it, I do have a mirror in my room, in case you’ve forgotten,” Eddie says, amusement crinkling around his eyes and the corners of his mouth . “Or, y’know, there’s one in the bathroom too.”
Steve perks up. “Of course I’m eager to see it,” he replies and doesn’t waste another second, moving down the hallway towards Eddie’s door at the end like a man on a mission.
He pushes it open and flicks on the light and stalks right up to Eddie’s dresser, where the mirror hangs on the wall right above. His guitar covers most of the mirror, but Steve is very careful as he nudges it out of the way, just enough so there’s room to see his reflection. He turns so his back faces the mirror, and twists his head, craning his neck to see.
When his eyes land on what Eddie has painted, his breath catches.
Steve’s back, once freckled with moles and marred with grisly scars, is now a— a masterpiece .
A beautiful night sky, a breathtaking display of northern lights and shimmering stars. An aurora borealis of his very own.
Paint covers nearly every inch of exposed skin, starting at the tops of his shoulders, moving down the backs of his arms, over the slopes of his shoulder blades, around the knobs of his spine, following the dip of his lower back, stopping just above the waistband of his shorts.
Swirling rivers of greens and blues and purples cascade across the canvas, vivid and unpredictable, rippling in an undeniably dazzling exposition. Little speckles of white line up with the freckles that dance across Steve’s shoulders. Stars , he realizes, so many of them lighting up the scene. The ribbons of color against Steve’s sides follow the lines of his scars, highlighting them in a way that makes them look… well, beautiful . Like that’s the way that Eddie sees them.
Steve feels choked up. Breathless. All words lost on him.
“ Eddie ,” he whispers, awed, reverent. He meets Eddie’s eyes through the mirror, but that’s not enough. He spins around to face him head on, and he opens his mouth to say something, anything . “It’s… shit ,” he curses when the words still evade him.
Eddie’s face screws up in confusion, a surprised laugh bubbling up. “It’s… shit?” He asks.
Steve’s eyes go wide. His hands fly up. “ No ! No! Fuck. That is not— I didn’t mean that this,” he gestures towards his back, “is shit. It’s not. At all . Fuck. The complete opposite of shit. It’s… it’s fucking beautiful , Eddie. I just… I don’t know what to say,” he admits. “I didn’t expect that.”
A shy sort of smile curls onto Eddie’s mouth, and his hand comes up to take hold of that loose strand of hair, twisting it around the tip of his finger in front of his mouth in that way he always does when he’s feeling particularly bashful. “So you like it?” He asks.
Steve takes a step closer, slipping his arms around Eddie’s waist, pulling him in. “Eddie, I love it,” he says as sincerely as possible. “I—” he blinks at Eddie, hit with this sudden strong, overwhelming, irresistible urge to spill his guts to him, and fuck, fuck , he’s going to. “I love you .”
Eddie’s breath catches this time, his eyes going round as he stares at Steve. “Steve…” He says, slowly, carefully. Unreadable.
For a brief moment, Steve thinks he might have fucked up. That he might have shown his hand just a bit too early. Messed up the whole play.
“You, uh, you don’t have to— you can just— don’t—”
“Steve,” Eddie interrupts, cutting him off before he can spiral too far down that rabbit hole. “Stop. Shut up.” There’s an affection to his tone, a certain sort of fondness, and he brings his hand up to fit against Steve’s jaw. “I just didn’t expect that,” he echoes.
And then a dimple pops, right there in one corner of his cheek, and then the other, and then Eddie’s face splits. “I— I love you too, Steve,” he tells him, and Steve’s heart soars .
A smile of his own breaks out across Steve’s face, and before he knows it they’re crashing together. Kissing like it’s the first time all over again. And it’s burning but gentle, eager but soft, impassioned and full of love .
Eddie’s hands come up to cup Steve’s cheeks, cradling his face like it’s the most precious thing to him. And, fuck, maybe it is . He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, and Steve loses himself to it.
One of Eddie’s hands strays, looping around his neck briefly before sweeping over the top of Steve’s shoulder and slipping down further, smearing into the paint.
“Eddie, Eddie , the paint,” Steve mumbles against Eddie’s lips, in between kisses. “You’re fucking up the paint!”
“I don’t care, I don’t care, I do not care ,” Eddie babbles into Steve’s mouth, already walking him blindly backwards towards his bed in the corner.
Steve laughs into the kiss, fingers skating beneath the hem of Eddie’s shirt, palms pressing into the warm skin of his back. He grabs at Eddie’s shoulders when Eddie dips him back onto the bed, staying close and draping himself over Steve as he presses him into the sheets.
Steve can feel the paint sticking to the sheets, flaking off and smudging everywhere . It’s going to be a god damn mess . And the painting on his back, for sure ruined.
But he doesn’t care.
He’s in love .
They have the polaroid, anyways.