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They speculate, of course they do.
But no one knows.
Corroded Coffin’s third album, Red Rise, hits big.
Goes viral in a huge way, far beyond the process of smaller venues giving way to venue tours, to arenas and TV appearances, live lounges. The album amplifies everything and people begin to speculate even more.
Because when the lead singer looks like Eddie fucking Munson, conspiracy groupies are wont to gather.
Everyone kinda wants him, Eddie.
They want to taste him.
When he’s on stage and his chest is bare and he’s dripping sweat and he spits his drink out into the audience in a fine spray and they go fucking wild, screaming till it hurts, until there’s hardly in any air left in the arena and he laughs, smiles, winks at the girls nearest, tongue out.
He’s a phenomenon, he’s a one man cult.
His tattoos, his scars, the way he sings about love that catches like thorns in the skin, hurts the good way.
And he’s notoriously private.
Except for a handful of incidents.
It’s the perfect storm.
There are so few appearances outside of shows. He won’t do publicity for an album, not even for a tour. Interviews are rare. He’s got this irresistible arrogance, like he couldn’t care less if no one showed up, and it’s an aphrodisiac because the less he talks about it, the more people go insane trying to get tickets, to find out where he’ll be.
And though it’s a band, though it’s Corroded Coffin on everything, they just call him Eddie.
The new Eddie download.
The Eddie tour.
The viral “Eddits” slowed to perfection, capturing his dark magic in stunning HD with his own music playing in the background.
Hardcore fans will talk about the band. They’ll discuss CC’s greatest hits and argue about Monolith Tied versus Caved because those are the real fire-starter topics for heated debate among those who feel like they need intellectual reasons to enjoy the music. The girls obsess over his chart and the gays won’t hear shit about him being anything but violently queer.
When Eddie gets arrested in Chicago for a bar fight, the three camera clips that caught him landing the actual blows went nuclear on TikTok.
In hyper high definition, everyone wants to see him land the right hook, they want to see his face, the pure glare of chaos and complete lack of fear because he’s wild, Eddie Munson is, didn’t you know? Couldn’t you tell?
He’s the rough and tumble boy from trailer-trash origins, the High School drop out whose voice makes everyone a little wet between the thighs.
And this is where the other guy, whose wrist Eddie had in his free hand while fighting, becomes the subject of permanent scrutiny thereafter.
His name is Steve Harrington.
Eddie’s friend, goes to shows, hangs out.
No one knows more. Guy has no socials, even though he could, he could easily get one point five in less than a month, people are that desperate to know about him.
He’s a nobody. He’s normal.
But now people start noticing that he’s always sort of there. In old videos of concerts, especially smaller ones before CC hit the big time, he was there.
Never on stage, never in any official capacity.
Just sort of… hanging around, watching.
Eddie has official pages, but nothing personal.
The band manager duo are Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers. Nancy handles publicity (what precious little he and the others will ever do) and Jonathan handles all band matters.
Nancy often speaks to the press, she’s fluent and personable but stern. Sometimes Eddie comes up behind her on the red carpet (where he is notoriously a menace) and grabs her, licks her neck. She rolls her eyes, gives him the barest hint of a death glare and he’ll back off, chuckling, hands raised and people just eat it the fuck up.
Red Rise breaks big, the band win awards.
Eddie, his team and the other members are up on stage accepting a shiny award, third of the night, and he lets each of them speak, gives the award to Gareth to hold. Eddie speaks last, after Nancy. His lips touch the mic when he leans in with a wolfish grin and a half lidded gaze, says, ‘I love you, Catch.’
The internet explodes.
Because speculation is all well and good.
But no one fucking knows who it is that Eddie Munson loves.
*
“Catch”
hurts
like
spice
you're on the tip of my tongue
and it's burning, but baby it’s nice
cuts
like
ice
i never felt that before
your love is top shelf, worth the price
and it's strange
and it's new
you'll be me
i'll be you
last door on the left
look at me, tell me it's true
what's the catch?
where's the drop?
you gonna fuck me all night
show me skin I can bite
And it's never
gonna
stop
- Corroded Coffin
Red Rise is explicit.
It’s dark, thematic and heavy. There are undertones.
In rare interviews, Eddie sometimes wears this broken handcuff as a bracelet and it sparks a frenzy of speculation about BDSM, about the content of his songs. He wears rings on all his fingers, they’re chunky silver, gothic and heavy. He’s got a chain around his neck, never takes it off.
His ink is impressive. Two full sleeves, his entire back covered with bones and ragged wing. Black out style for night sky and white ink for the stars and the moon that sits between his shoulder blades.
The album is overtly sexual and the one song that everyone talks about is Catch.
Because interwoven in the heavy bass, the drums, the guitar and Eddie’s voice, there’s something new.
Someone is moaning.
It’s breathy, soft, high but distinctly male.
The outside of an awards show has the band talking to journalists on the carpeted area before going inside. Gareth Marshall is polite, he answers questions about their music and is generally considered to be the sane one.
‘The speculation is rife tonight, Gareth, would you tell us whose voice talents we hear in the background of Catch?’
He smiles, closes his eyes and says nothing for a beat, unflappable and professional. Eddie is behind him, causing absolute mayhem by invading the interviews of others and avoiding his own.
‘No comment,’ he says after a beat just as Eddie flings himself around his bandmate, kisses his cheek. Gareth chuckles, arm around Eddie’s waist.
‘No comment what? Oh, was it a naughty question?’
The interviewer is sensible of the opportunity.
‘It was, but I don’t know if you’re up to answering, Eddie,’ she teases gently and Eddie’s tongue runs around his mouth from the inside, dark eyes crackling with all that velvet energy.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I was just asking Gareth about the rumours of it being him creating the ambient soundscape for the song Catch.’
It’s not what she asked; the push is clever. She gets promoted a few months later.
Eddie’s smile is wicked and secret and it’ll be everyone’s profile picture for months. ‘Are there rumours?’ he asks and now his attention is all on this woman, his stare, his focus. He’s got this way of looking at people like he’s in love with them. Handsome pining, confident adoration and utter indifference to the effects he causes once his attention wanders away.
Eddie gets hold of her rounded mic, pulls it close. ‘What do you think, Leslie?’
And his semi-suit is all messed up, his collar rucked, his cheeks red, buttons undone more than halfway down his chest. He wears ankle boots with skinny jeans like a bratty boy who’ll only look halfway decent for a funeral. He’s got the broken handcuff and the rings and the chain. He’s got eyeliner on.
He’s got a fucking love bite in the pale column of his throat on his left side and utter mischief in his eyes.
‘I think,’ she says, lets him take the mic completely out of her hand, he’s the interviewer now, he holds it to her lips. ‘It’s maybe someone special we don’t know about, making all those lovely noises.’
‘How special do you think?’
‘I’d guess very.’ Gareth listens patiently, expression mostly neutral but there’s something amused beneath it. She goes on. ‘And it doesn’t sound like something added in post, the vocals are almost intertwined with yours.’
‘Like someone’s in the recording booth with me?’ Eddie asks calmly, but oh, his eyes are a wildfire of dark glee and Gareth politely extricates himself, pats Eddie’s shoulder and walks away.
‘You could say that,’ Leslie says, holding up well considering. ‘Do you have any comment on the matter?’
‘Only if you ask me outright.’
‘Who was moaning in the song, Eddie?’
He’s looking right at her when he whispers, ‘The one I love.’
*
A very blurry, grainy photograph appears on a completely unknown Instagram account.
It’s a dark room, TV on behind Eddie, who’s bent over, face down, shoulders curved. Unmistakably him from the tattoos, they’re uniquely him and his hair is loose, it’s covering a lot.
At first glance it looks like he’s kissing something.
Arm of a chair maybe.
But when it’s brightened and contrasted, sharpened, it’s very clear that’s not what he’s kissing.
Also that he’s not actually kissing anything at all.
He seems to be deepthroating someone all the way down. Lips stretched, mouth open, the picture becomes more grainy the brighter it gets but it’s pretty clear what’s happening.
The recipient of all that attention is the one taking the picture, everyone thinks, and the caption just says, Daddy.
The Instagram account is deleted the day after but the picture lives on forever. People make art of it, they sketch it by hand and sell prints on Etsy. It even makes the news in various places.
CC’s team are tight lipped, they act like it’s not happening. No comments, nothing to see here but a sold out tour.
But see, in the picture, there’s something else.
A glimpse of a wrist, of the person - guy - who’s taking the picture. And he’s wearing the other handcuff bracelet.
Eddie and the crew do a few pop-up gigs in smaller venues. Steve Harrington is caught standing stage left, watching him perform.
But Eddie doesn’t kiss him when he goes off and there are no pictures of them together except for the bar fight.
Tickets to the USA tour sell out in minutes.
And the speculation becomes obsession.
*
Chrissy Cunningham is a country singer smash hit. She’s beautiful and talented and she’s got a reputation for wild nights. She and Eddie are friends. He gives her piggybacks sometimes, on rare occasions when they’re seen together shopping in public. He’s openly protective of her, won’t let press get near her unless she says it’s fine.
She calls him Pocket and he calls her PomPom.
They won’t explain why and anyone lucky enough to get a few seconds with Eddie on camera won’t waste time asking inane questions about the superstar. Their relationship is heavily debated, causes a ton of drama in the fandoms who are mostly split. She gets a lot of hate and he won’t stand for any of it.
‘She’s my best friend,’ he says precisely once to the only person stupid enough to ask and the look on his face… no one asks again after.
But it’s Chrissy who makes the first slip.
She’s a little drunk in a post award interview and Eddie was with her, but he’s pulled aside by Nancy for a second, who whispers something to him.
Whatever she says has Eddie immediately looking around, nodding and leaning into whisper something to Chrissy.
She gasps, blinks and says, ‘Steve?’
They leave quickly, but footage is scrutinised and analysed a million times over.
And a few days after, someone gets wind that there was a car accident downtown. That a BMW registered to one Steven James Harrington was totalled in a wreck. He was hospitalised, but not badly hurt.
Eddie is spotted smoking outside the hospital.
A general consensus forms.
But unproven, rumours do little more than make people rabid for confirmation, for solid information.
*
Six months later Eddie has a new tattoo on his neck.
It’s a key.
CC release a new album.
It’s called Laces.
The cover features a person.
From the mouth down to mid back from behind, it’s a grayscale photograph of a man half turned toward the camera. His Adam’s apple casts a little shadow.
He’s got this smattering of moles and freckles.
It’s him. It’s Steve Harrington.
People are sure.
What very few pictures anyone has of Steve show at least a few moles on his neck. People are making side by side comparisons of his mouth, looking at hair length, shoulder shape all of it. Serious detective shit.
And like Red Rise, there’s this one song where someone is moaning, but this time, it’s Eddie’s name.
The song Gel Effect is a huge hit. There’s a radio edit that cuts the worst of the swears, and only lets the mystery person moan Eddie’s name once. The full version is longer and it’s a love letter to blindfolds and roadtrips, it’s violent and romantic and the drum solo absolutely smacks. TikTok circulates a slowed version that goes completely viral.
And everybody knows who it is on the cover now.
They think they must know who it is moaning, Eddie in a way that’s entirely unmistakable.
The photo of Eddie deepthroating someone resurfaces for renewed scrutiny. The thighs he’s leaning on are mole-freckled, they’re lightly dotted just like the album cover model.
The girls do Steve’s chart and the gays rejoice.
The album is their biggest yet.
People know now.
But that doesn’t stop them from speculating.
It never will.
After all, Eddie remains aggressively private about his personal life and the lives of his band mates and crew. He’s mercurial on camera and authentic on stage.
But fans love to imagine.
*
“Gel Effect”
take the shards and make me a sign
let it run like lukewarm wine
(Eddie)
i know you ’re brightest beneath the sky
it doesn't hurt when you tell me to lie
(Eddie)
‘cause I lie for you
and you lie there, baby
i bend for you
and you bend for me, baby
you take and I bite
and I love and you like
and you're in my heart like a god damned shrike
go on and make
(Eddie, please)
me a sign
- Corroded Coffin
‘I like this one,’ Steve tells him, looks up from his phone.
Eddie leans over, makes a mess of it, he’s still tired from the gig, freshly showered and clumsy now his adrenaline is coming down. He blinks, squints to see, he should wear his glasses when it’s just them but he took his contacts out before the shower and can’t be bothered to find his glasses.
‘Which one’s you?’
‘The one underneath, obviously,’ Steve says fondly, zooming in. ‘See, look, they draw my moles so well.’
‘Is that my dick?’
‘Uh huh. Isn’t it great? I’m reblogging that one.’
‘You’re so weird about this stuff.’
Steve smiles, kisses him. ‘I think it’s cute.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘I’m appreciating great art.’
‘Of us, railing each other.’
‘I just think people are so talented.’
Eddie flops heavily in Steve’s lap, stares up at his boyfriend with quiet awe. ‘You’re talented too.’
‘I’m not, I don’t do anything like this.’
‘You’re talented.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘Oh no, don’t start this,’ Eddie warns, grinning and Steve finally puts the phone down, plays with Eddie’s hair. ‘You know it’ll turn into a whole thing.’
‘How shall I bear it?’ Steve whispers, mock distraught.
‘Oh, you want it, huh? You wanna get praised into subspace?’
‘Mmm, maybe.’ Steve bends to kiss him, soft and light, an invitation more than anything else. ‘Nobody does it like you.’
‘Nobody’s ever gonna,’ Eddie grumbles, pushing up on his elbows to kiss his boyfriend better. ‘You’re mine.’
‘I’m yours,’ Steve agrees, tossing his phone aside as they shift and melt into one another. Warm, liquid love in their veins and nothing to do but be together, this time is important to them, finite and precious. Some months they barely get to see each other for anything more than a few hours at the end of the day, crashing in a hotel bed together.
So being in their house, in their huge plush bed with their things scattered around and Eddie’s first broken guitar on the wall… it’s a beautiful, lovely thing.
Eddie rolls on top, reaches down to find Steve’s hands as he licks in deep and slow, his weight settling atop Steve who opens his legs in welcome invitation.
The rock star pushes Steve’s hands up, pins them against the Egyptian cotton bed sheets and then he bites his bottom lip.
‘I wanna love you till you’re full of me.’
‘I’m always full of you, baby.’
‘Not enough,’ Eddie insists roughly, rolling his hips, hard outline of his cock slotting perfectly against Steve’s own. ‘Can’t ever get enough of you, fuck.’
‘You’re so greedy.’
‘Definitely.’
They both know why.
Another tour looms.
Hard months of travel, security, rehearsal, sound checks, makeup, equipment. Eddie doesn’t drink anymore, not like those early years where their relationship pulled like a thread and almost snapped. No drugs either, he’s clean.
And it’s better, obviously. So much fucking better this way. He’s healthy, happy, he’s in control of himself.
But fuck if touring wasn’t just a little bit easier when he could get black out drunk every night.
Touring is hard.
‘I wanna show you to people,’ Eddie moans, pushing Steve’s waistband down, getting hands on all the hardness, the hot, thick arousal he wants down his throat again. ‘I wanna make ‘em so jealous.’
Steve makes a soft little sigh, cracked around the edges, thrusting up into Eddie’s one free hand.
‘Jealous yeah, but of me, not you.’
‘What did I say about starting shit, hmm? You want another picture to show the world how much I love you? How obsessed I am with you?’
The groan turns into a laugh, melts into a moan when Eddie thumbs the head of his cock and Steve must know he’s not kidding.
He wasn’t kidding before, was he?
You don ’t think I will?
Steve should probably have known better.
Or maybe he just really wanted the proof.
Either way, Eddie had been so happy to educate him.
It still turns him on, he remembers everything.
How thick Steve had been in his throat, the smell of his skin, the TV playing in the background, the feel of the crisp hotel sheets.
And Eddie had pleaded, just let me show everyone how much I love you, and Steve had agreed.
Took the picture, checked a thousand times that Eddie really wanted him to post it and then Eddie huffed, stole the phone and hit post himself.
Their love is loud behind the high walls they make and guard. Their love is like screaming in a booth; unrestrained and wild, but contained. Their bubble, their hideaway. The names they make, the ink they wear, the songs they write and the time they share.
‘No, wait, stop, sorry,’ Eddie says quickly, breaking the kiss. ‘Sorry, stay there.’
Steve sighs, but he’s used to it. Patiently waits as Eddie scribbles the words in his notebook by the bed, one of many and then closes it, comes colliding back with wet apologies and breathless love.
‘Anything else?’
‘Don’t be huffy, not my fault you inspire me so damned much, huh?’
‘Are you gonna fuck me or write a song about me?’
‘Both, always both. Are you gonna let me bring you on stage next time?’
Steve groans, loud and slutty. Eddie’s fingers graze his cock, too light to be anything other than teasing. Seeking to elicit a response, to play, to draw it out.
‘Baby, you know I’m shy.’
It makes Eddie crazy when Steve says that.
When his talented, beautiful, god-damned fucking magical boyfriend says he’s shy, goes all babygirl with the Bambi eyes and the legs that fall open and the pretty pout.
Eddie wants to kiss him on stage, he wants to wear his ring and make their own vows, he wants to fuck Steve where everyone can see but nobody can touch.
‘I wanna fuck you again while we record the next song.’
‘We’re gonna get caught,’ Steve gasps, his arms still raised, such a good boy until he’s not. ‘People already suspect after Gel Effect.’
‘I don’t care. I wanna fuck you and let the world hear how good I make my boy feel.’
‘You’re a slut.’
‘For you, I’m a whore.’
‘You want everyone to hear when I come? All wrapped up in your music and your voice?’
Eddie’s got three lube-slick fingers in Steve, they’re stretching and making ready because Eddie’s thick and Steve says it always hurts a little, but that he likes it a lot.
‘I want everyone to lose their fucking minds, knowing how lucky I am.’
‘I’m the lucky one,’ Steve tells him, gaze going glassy when Eddie rubs over the sensitive spot inside. ‘Have you all to m-myself, oh fuck, baby need you. Need you now.’
‘You need me?’
‘Always need you, you know I do.’
Eddie sucks a dark welt into the skin of Steve’s throat, draws off with a wet pop and rubs their cocks together, depriving Steve of what he needs, delaying.
‘Wanna use this as the single cover,’ he whispers, breath playing over wet, abused flesh. ‘Bruise. Love put in skin, blood near the surface, but not spilling.’ He guides his cock into Steve, kisses him. Licks in wet and messy, they kiss with open mouths and zero finesse. ‘Want everyone to see how much I love you, baby boy.’
Steve arcs his back, locking legs around Eddie’s middle.
‘Love me harder then.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Love me till I beg you to stop.’
‘Won’t stop for anything other than red, baby.’
Steve pushes himself down, he likes it so deep it knocks his breath clean from his body, he luxuriates in the extreme.
‘You wanna show me to everyone?’
‘Everyone.’
‘Want them to see I’m yours?’
‘No, want them to see I’m yours, Stevie. Yours, fuck, god, you’re so fucking hot, wanna wreck you and wrap you up in silk and take pictures, you’re so beautiful.’
Steve’s entire expression crumples; pleasure in praise, it leaves him weak and red-cheeked and desperate as Eddie sets a slow, punishing pace, letting himself feel every inch as he fucks the man he loves.
‘’M not.’
‘You’re the most beautiful thing in the world. You’re the sun, the moon, all the stars. You’re breakfast in bed and a swimming pool with a slide,’ he swears, lips against Steve’s, chasing his pleasure but obsessed with generating Steve’s own first. He wants to spend hours inside him, wants to tie him up, suck his cock, love him, love him until they’re thirsty and tired and Eddie’s got a new song inside his heart. ‘You’re mine.’
‘I’m yours,’ Steve gasps, eyes rolling back when Eddie rubs his cock, wants them to come at the same time. ‘M’ all yours, and you’re mine. Always, always.’
The word is special.
Eddie never had always before Steve.
He only ever had sometimes. Or maybe. Or later.
Now he gets to have always, touch it, love it, lick it.
‘Marry me,’ Eddie pants into Steve’s skin. ‘Marry me, Steve.’
Steve sobs, clings hard, bliss and love binding together to make a shibari art form between them.
‘God, fuck.’
He comes first, clenches so hard it causes a kick-throb in Eddie’s abdomen, makes him go rigid and tight, seeing stars behind his eyes and all of them have the same name.
Eddie slams deep, comes hard, fills him up.
They share breath.
Kiss.
They’re always kissing.
The artwork gets that right at least.
And then Eddie draws back, swallows hard. He brushes Steve’s hair away, kisses his cheeks, his eyes.
He’s prepared to let it be something said in the heat of the moment, for his boyfriend - whose privacy and freedom mean so much to him - to sidestep it, if he wants. Eddie doesn’t mind. They say a lot of stuff during sex they don’t mean, like he’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t want him to actually knock him up, so like.
He’s ready for Steve to laugh, smile, roll his eyes.
They’ll always have each other, one way or another.
This way, that way. Rings or ink or boyfriends.
But Eddie just has this need to show Steve off. Even if it’s in secretive, blurry increments. Even if it incurs Nancy’s well-meant wrath, leaves Jonathan sighing with amusement.
They’re only here once.
Eddie wants to show how fucking lucky he is to have this man. He wants everyone to know, it makes him insane.
This man he loved since they spent that first night together.
When Steve was a bartender and Eddie was a relative nobody, just finished a gig for an audience of eight.
And he was sixty cents short of a beer.
And Steve let him have it anyway.
‘You can owe me one,’ Steve had said with a wink and Eddie had pretty much fallen in love right there.
How Steve had slid the beer across the surface of the bar, said, ‘Catch,’ and Eddie did. Caught it, took a sip.
How Steve had bitten his lips into his mouth in the ensuing lack of words, while Eddie squinted, brain working overtime. How Steve said, ‘Are you trying to think of pick up lines involving the word catch?’
How Eddie had groaned, laughed, said, ‘I am but they’re all terrible.’
Steve had smiled, shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t want that.’
And they’d never really parted since then.
Eddie only calls him Catch when he thanks him in secret in front of millions. Never calls him that here. It’s for declaring his love in that other world. It’s one of their games. It’s a thin glass barrier between Steve’s lingering desire for something resembling a normal life and Eddie’s full on desperation to brag about the man he obsessively loves.
He’s ready for Steve to say one day, because honestly, he would have married Steve after a week of knowing him and he would marry Steve the day before they die, he’ll wait forever.
Steve is the undertow. He’s the baseline.
He keeps them level, he makes home in heart and house.
So it’s maybe all the more delightful and surprising when Steve gets fingers in his hair, pulls hard to get more kisses and whispers, ‘You’d better have a ring somewhere nearby, then, Munson, so I can take a picture of my finger in your mouth to post.’
*