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It’s a warm spring day. The market is in full swing, and vendors crowd the street, hawking fruits and vegetables of every color and variety. Eddie’s carrying a loaf of yeasty bread in one hand, navigating down the crowded street with casual care.
Eddie walks past the tattoo studio and the hair-dressers–– he’s made enough bad decisions in both of those establishments to last a lifetime–– and past Robin’s freshly-opened coffee shop. The good thing about having settled in Chicago is that it’s the closest big city to where Eddie grew up–– excluding Indianapolis–– so lots of his friends have ended up nearby. Eddie would stop by to say hello, but Robin’s currently arguing with a delivery man over a large sack of coffee beans, and Eddie’s got bread to get home, so he continues on his way.
Eddie eventually makes it to his place. It’s charming, it’s got a blue front door. Eddie got it with his ex, who then promptly left him for a man that looked like Harrison Ford. Now Eddie lives a strange half-life with a roommate named Mike, and he doesn’t watch Star Wars quite as often.
Eddie manages to unlock the front door and push inside. He kicks off his boots in the little mud-splattered foyer and shouts out a greeting, “Mike!”
Eddie walks into his dirty kitchen. There’s stacks of unwashed dishes piled on the countertops, and a wilting bouquet of flowers in a vase on the breakfast table. Eddie puts down the loaf of bread and tries again. “Mike!”
He hears footsteps above him and then Mike appears, his hair spiked up in every direction, wearing only a pair of Spider-Man boxers. “Eddie!” says Mike. “Hey, could you help me with, like, an incredibly important decision?”
Eddie glares at the skyscraper skyline of bowls and plates that are stacked beside the sink. He debates washing them and then abandons the thought. “How important? More important than, like, canceling third world debt or something? ‘Cause I’ll warn you, I’ve only had one cup of coffee this morning so I’m not exactly firing on all cylinders.”
“More important,” proclaims Mike, smacking his palms against the banister. “I’m finally going on that date with Janine and I want to make sure I’m picking the right t-shirt.”
“What are the choices?” asks Eddie as he opens the bag of bread and puts two slices in the toaster. He’s humoring Mike–– he can’t recall Mike ever going on a successful date with a woman.
“Well…” Mike trails off, venturing back upstairs, presumably to try on one of the shirts. He continues speaking to Eddie, his voice echoey and faint as he moves around upstairs. “You know how the washer is broken?”
“It’s not broken, you just haven’t used it,” responds Eddie.
“Whatever! Point is, I don’t have any clean clothes.”
Eddie wanders over the fridge, looking for some jam. One jar looks strange, so he takes it out to inspect it. Written on the top, in Robin’s neat handwriting, is a label that reads, ‘Honey-soaked Apricots.’
“So, a few months ago Nancy gave me this bag of clothes that her crazy ex left at her place after she dumped him, and she wants me to take them to work, right?”
This seems perfectly reasonable, as Mike works at a Goodwill. “Yeah?” prompts Eddie.
“Well, I forgot to take them in, but I still have the bag! So, boom, more clean clothes. I just gotta pick one.”
“Make sense,” says Eddie. He ponders the honey-soaked apricots for a moment more, and then pops open the mason jar and sticks one of the sticky fruits into his mouth. Immediately he regrets it–– it’s like biting into a chewy brick of honey. And Eddie likes honey, but it’s overwhelmingly concentrated in this form. He’s spitting the offending fruit into the crowded sink when Mike trundles down the stairs in the most egregious shirt that Eddie has ever had the displeasure of laying his eyes on.
“First one,” Mike says, as if he isn’t currently wearing a crime against humanity. It’s a white t-shirt with a horrible looking plastic alien ripping its way out of it, jaws open, blood everywhere. Emblazoned above that spectacle are the words ‘I Love Blood.’
“Might be hard to project romance in that,” Eddie offers.
Mike nods in acknowledgement. “Fair enough.” He turns around and trundles back up the stairs. “You’ll like the next one better, then.”
Mike appears at the top of the stairs wearing another white t-shirt. A large back arrow points down at Mike’s crotch. The caption reads, ‘Get It Here.’
“How’s this?” says Mike. “Kinda funny, right?”
Eddie knows that Mike’s joking, but he still kind of wants to throttle the kid. Instead, he says, “there again, she might not think you have true love on your mind.”
Mike tsks. “Wouldn’t want that…” he says, and then trundles back up the stairs.
“So these shirts are Nancy’s ex’s?” Eddie asks. He can’t imagine prim and proper Nancy–– who he’s only seen one or two photos of–– going out with anyone who owned clothing of this… caliber.
“I’m assured that they dated very briefly,” responds Mike. “Like, really fuckin’ briefly.”
“That’s comforting to hear,” Eddie says. He retrieves a glass from the cabinet that at least appears clean and fills it with water, intent on getting something to wash out the honey taste in his mouth.
“True love, here I come!” Mike says, and then he comes bounding back down the stairs. The new shirt is covered in heart-shaped appliqués and the words ‘You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.’
Eddie considers the shirt as Mike poses goofily. It’s certainly the least offensive on the senses of the bunch. “Yeah, no, that’s perfect. Well done.”
“Thanks. Great. Well, wish me luck, then,” Mike says.
“You, uh,” Eddie starts. He pauses, takes a swig of water, swishes it around his mouth, and swallows it down. Delightfully, there is no more honey taste. Success. “You don’t happen to have any clean sweaters, do you? Or, like, a jacket?”
“I’ve got a coat that’s, uh… mostly clean,” offers Mike.
“Wear that, too,” says Eddie. He heads back to the fridge and stows the honey-apricots once more, then grabs a jar of jam.
Mike heads back upstairs. Eddie catches a glance and learns that on the back of Mike’s shirt, in big, bold letters, there’s another caption that reads, ‘Fancy a fuck?’
Well. Hopefully Mike will keep his coat on.
*
When Eddie heads to work a little later that day, he’s not expecting his life to change forever.
It’s a Wednesday. Eddie’s thirty-five. He’s wearing an old Iron Maiden t-shirt and well-worn Docs. He’s got his hair up in a bun, but escaped strands tickle the sides of his face incessantly. He hasn’t showered in two days, and it’s probably starting to become obvious. He’s not expecting anything life-changing to happen anytime soon.
Eddie owns what is technically a game store but what operates more as a nerd sanctuary. It’s got board games and TTRPG manuals crammed between dusty old Nintendos and retro Playstations, all topped off with trading cards and minifigures galore. It’s completely dorky, and Eddie loves it with his entire heart, and he’s in enough debt right now that the fear of losing his business creeps around Eddie’s vision sometimes like a suffocating, purple-y haze.
Eddie’s got one employee, Dustin Henderson, who is simultaneously the most optimistic and obnoxious person that Eddie has ever met.
“Metal,” mutters Eddie, his fingertips skittering across the bills and ledgers that litter his desk. “Very metal. Profit from major sales push: minus three hundred and forty-seven dollars.”
Dustin hisses sympathetically and adjusts his cap over his nest of curls. His hat reads, ‘Thinking Cap.’ “Yikes,” he says. “Want me to get you, like, a cappuccino or something? Could ease the pain.”
“I don’t think I can afford a cappuccino,” snorts Eddie.
“I get it. I’ll get you half a cappuccino. A demi-cappu,” Dustin says.
Eddie flounders for a moment, confused. “A what? What are you even saying?”
Instead of providing an explanation, Dustin just salutes and bolts out of the door in search of whatever the fuck a demi-cappu is. Eddie turns his attention back toward the bills and frowns, trying to make the numbers and words that swirl in front of his vision make sense.
A moment after Dustin leaves, a man enters the store. Eddie hears the bell over the door ring, signifying the entrance of a customer, but he keeps his gaze trained on the papers that cover his desk.
Another moment of contemplation passes, and then Eddie gives up, shuffling the papers together in a messy stack that he can hide inside his desk. After successfully stowing the offending documents, Eddie glances up and catches an eyeful of his customer.
It’s a man an inch or two shorter than Eddie, with broad shoulders and artfully floppy chestnut brown hair. He’s standing with his back to Eddie, perusing the Dungeons & Dragons paraphernalia. The clothes he wears are subtle but expensive looking.
“Can I help you?” Eddie asks, and then the man turns around, and holy fuck it’s Steve Harrington.
“No, thanks. I’m just looking around,” says Steve Harrington.
“Okay,” says Eddie.
Eddie isn’t exactly the most pop-culture-conscious guy, and he’d be the first to admit that. But it’s impossible for him not to recognize Steve Harrington. Steve is Hollywood’s quintessential leading man–– even if Eddie hadn’t sought to watch every Harrington vehicle that hit the market, he’d probably still end up seeing Steve in every other movie.
But Eddie has sought out to watch Steve’s movies.
Because Steve is a good actor, and he is very, very pretty, and Eddie appreciates a talented, pretty man.
Steve pulls a glossy hardcover campaign book from the shelf. Eddie can’t help himself, he says, “That book’s really not that good–– just in case, y’know, browsing turns into buying. You’d be wasting your money.”
Steve looks up from the book to Eddie. His eyelashes are an inky fringe that sweep across the tops of his cheekbones each time he blinks. “Really?” he says.
“Yeah,” says Eddie. He picks up a different campaign book that’s sitting on the lip of the counter and holds it up for Steve to see. “This one is good if you’re looking for D&D campaign books though. I’m pretty sure the dude who wrote this one has actually played D&D, which helps. There’s also a funny encounter with a kebab, if that sweetens the deal for you.”
Steve smiles at Eddie patiently, waiting for him to finish. Eddie feels like his heart might beat right out of his chest, and he wills himself to shut up.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it,” says Steve.
Eddie wants to say more, and he simultaneously wants to cut out his tongue so he’ll stop saying inane shit to the prettiest man alive, but he does neither as his gaze catches on the monitor that displays security camera footage from the back of the store.
“I’ll be right back,” Eddie says to Steve, and moves to the back of the store, approaching the only other customer in the establishment.
“Excuse me,” Eddie says to the man.
“Yeah?” responds the man.
“Bad news,” says Eddie.
“What?”
“We’ve got a security camera in this part of the shop.”
The man shifts from foot to foot for a moment and then says, “so?”
“So, I saw you put that book down your pants,” says Eddie.
A moment passes.
Finally, the thief says, “what book?”
“The one down your pants,” replies Eddie, gesturing to the man's pants.
“I don’t have a book down my pants.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Right. I’ll tell you what–– I’ll call the police–– and, what can I say? If I’m wrong about the whole book-down-your-pants situation, then I apologize.”
The thief sucks at his teeth and then says, “okay, what if I do have a book down my pants?”
Eddie considers this. “Well, ideally, when I go back to the counter you’ll remove the Pathfinder Campaign Setting: The Inner Sea World Guide from your pants, and either wipe it down and put it back, or buy it.” Eddie reaches forward and pats the thief on the shoulder once, comfortingly. “I’ll see you in a sec.”
Eddie returns to his desk and watches as the thief removes the book from his pants, wipes it on his shirt, and replaces it on the bookshelf.
Steve, who has observed all of this, stands by the counter. He’s tracing the embossed lettering on a book that details the inconsistencies in various editions of the Pokédex.
“Sorry about that,” says Eddie. He raps his knuckles on the countertop twice.
“No, that’s fine,” says Steve. His voice is measured and self-assured, and it makes electricity bolt down Eddie’s spine. “I was going to steal one myself, but now I’ve changed my mind.” Steve flips open the front cover of the book and spots the inky scrawl underneath the title. “Signed by the author.”
Eddie snorts. “Yeah, I couldn’t stop him. If you can find an unsigned copy, it’s worth an absolute fortune.”
Steve cracks a smile at this, and Eddie feels a bit like he’s looking at the sun–– it’s a smile that’s a little too bright and too cosmically beautiful for Eddie to feel worthy of looking at it.
Suddenly, the thief is there, standing right next to Steve, smiling wide. His smile is easier to look at as it feels significantly less cosmically lovely.
“Excuse me,” says the thief to Steve.
“Yes?” responds Steve.
The thief holds a scrappy bit of paper out to Steve. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Sure.” Steve accepts the bit of paper and snags a pen from the cup on Eddie’s countertop. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Rufus,” replies the thief.
Steve signs the scruffy piece of paper and returns it to Rufus. Rufus attempts to read it and apparently fails, as he asks, “what does it say?”
“Well, that’s the signature,” says Steve, pointing. “And above, it says, ‘Dear Rufus, you belong in jail.' ”
“Nice,” grins Rufus, seemingly pleased. And then he asks, without a lick of shame, “do you want my phone number?”
Steve blinks once, his eyelashes sweeping delicately across his cheekbones, and then says, “tempting, but no.”
“Fair enough,” says the thief, and then he leaves, the bell above the door ringing as he goes.
Steve hands Eddie the campaign book Eddie shit-talked earlier and says, “I think I’ll get this one.”
Eddie accepts the book and the cash Steve passes him, and rambles as he completes the transaction, “oh, right, well, on second thought this one isn’t that bad. Actually, it’s kind of a masterpiece, really. None of those silly kebab encounters you find in so many campaigns these days.” He adds the signed book on Pokédex inconsistencies into the shopping bag as well, saying, “I’ll throw in one of these too, for free. Very useful for starting fires, wrapping fish, that sort of thing.”
Steve looks at Eddie with an amused smile. Eddie contemplates setting himself on fire so he won’t be able to keep fumbling this interaction.
Their fingers brush as Eddie passes Steve the bag. Electricity zings through Eddie's fingertips, making him hyper-aware of Steve's touch.
“Thanks,” says Steve, and then he pulls away and breezes out of the store, easy as anything. He’s out of Eddie’s life forever. Eddie feels like he’s swallowed a rock.
Seconds later, Dustin returns with the coffee.
“Cappuccino as ordered,” he says, passing the cup to Eddie.
“Thanks,” says Eddie, and then, “I don’t think you’ll believe me when I tell you who was just in here.”
Dustin perks up. “Who? Was it someone famous?”
For some reason, Eddie clams up. He doesn’t know how to put the event into words. “No. No-one, forget it.”
Dustin takes a large sip of his chai and then muses, “It’d be kind of exciting if someone famous did come into the shop though, wouldn’t it? Oh, did you know–– this is pretty amazing actually–– I once saw Ringo Starr. Or at least I think it was Ringo. Might have been that guy from Fiddler On The Roof, you know, Toppy.”
“Topol,” corrects Eddie.
“Oh, yeah, that’s the dude–– Topol.”
Eddie tilts his head to the side, picturing Ringo and Topol. “Ringo Starr doesn’t really look like Topol though, does he?”
Dustin considers this for a moment. “No, well… he was pretty far away, actually.”
“So it could have been neither of them?”
Dustin purses his lips thoughtfully. “I suppose, yeah.”
“Not really a great anecdote, is it?”
Dustin shakes his head. “Not great, no, no.”
Eddie drains the last of his cappuccino. “Right. Well. I’m gonna get another one. You want another, too?”
“Yes,” says Dustin. “No, wait–– let’s go crazy–– get me an orange juice.”
Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, sure, knock yourself out, man.” He pats down his pockets, confirming the familiar weight of his wallet, and then heads out of the shop in search of coffee and orange juice.
Eddie collects the coffee from a hipster coffee shop on the corner–– why is it six dollars for a cup of juice? And why is it tangerine juice? What happened to good old orange? –– and starts to head back to his store.
He turns the corner and slams bodily into someone. The overpriced tangerine juice goes flying, spilling all down the front of the man that Eddie’s slammed into.
“Oh, Jesus!” says the man.
Eddie panics. “Oh, shitfuck, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help.” He pulls a bundle of paper napkins from his pocket and presses them to the chest of the man, trying to soak up the juice.
The man’s chest is very firm. Eddie looks up, finally catching sight of who he’s slammed into, and holy motherfuck it’s Steve fucking Harrington again.
Steve’s eyebrows are hiked up in exasperation. “Get your hands off!”
Eddie jumps back, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. The napkins fall to the sidewalk between them. “Sorry, sorry,” he says.
Steve looks down at himself and groans in frustration. His white shirt is now quite wet and orange and rather clingy. Eddie can see the outline of Steve’s nipple, and it’s making his mouth rather dry. “Look, I live, like, just up the street–– you could get cleaned up, if you wanted,” Eddie tells Steve.
Steve looks at Eddie like he’s grown a second head. “No, thank you,” he says. “I just need to get my car back.”
“I also have a phone,” Eddie continues. “In, like, five minutes you could get cleaned up and back on the street again. In the non-prostitute sense, obviously.”
Eddie is confident that his face has turned bright red, like a cherry tomato with a mullet.
Steve sighs, annoyed. “Okay. What does ‘just up the street’ mean–– give it to me in feet.”
“Like, fifty feet, maybe a little more.” Eddie points up the road at his little place. “That’s my place right there.”
Steve considers this. He looks at the blue front door. He looks at Eddie. He sighs heavily.
*
Eddie isn't prepared to receive guests today. Especially not famous actor guests.
“Come on in. I’ll just…” Eddie trails off. He toes out of his shoes in the foyer and rushes to the kitchen. While Steve is taking off his shoes, Eddie cleans. He kicks some muddy shoes under the stairs, stuffs an old unfinished pizza–– still in the box–– into the trash, and hides some of the dirty dishes in the cabinets.
“Sorry it’s not, like, clean,” Eddie says.
Steve wanders into the kitchen, clutching the bag of books he purchased from Eddie earlier in the day in one hand and a shopping bag from a high-end clothing store. Eddie takes the bag of books from him and puts it on the kitchen table.
“The bathroom is right at the top of the stairs, and there’s a phone on the table in the hall up there,” Eddie says.
Steve nods and heads up the stairs.
Eddie takes the opportunity to clean up. ‘Clean up,’ in this scenario, translates to attempting to hide the evidence of two dirty bachelors living in near-squalor by stuffing everything haphazardly into cabinets and drawers.
When Eddie hears the patter of Steve’s footsteps on the stairs, he looks up to find Steve wearing a trim burgundy suit with his orange juice-splattered sneakers.
Eddie’s mouth goes a little dry. “Do you want a cup of tea before you go?”
“No, thanks,” says Steve.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Orange juice?” Eddie says, and then, “no, probably not.”
He moves toward his fridge and opens it up, searching it for something suitable to offer Steve. “Something else, then? Coke, water, some disgusting sugary drink pretending to have something to do with fruits of the forest?”
Steve snorts out a laugh. “No, thanks.”
“Want something to eat, then? I’ve got these apricots soaked in honey–– I don’t know why–– because it stops making them taste like apricots and starts making them taste like honey, and if you wanted honey, you’d just buy honey instead of apricots, but anyway, they’re yours if you want them.”
One of Steve’s meticulously groomed eyebrows arcs up in amusement. He’s got two freckles on the apple of his left cheekbone, lined up one right next to the other. Eddie feels a bit faint.
“No,” Steve says.
Because he can’t help himself and he has no sense of self preservation, Eddie asks, “do you say ‘no’ to everything?”
Steve looks at him for a long moment and then says, “no.” Steve takes a moment to look at Eddie, like he’s cataloging Eddie’s features, committing to memory the planes of his face. Eddie’s cheeks go hot. “I better get going,” Steve says. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” Eddie says. And then his heart wins out over his head, and he continues, “and you’re lovely.”
Steve looks at Eddie, a little surprised. Eddie wants to bite his own tongue. He’s not known for being particularly suave or smooth-talking, and he’s truly put his foot in it this time. “Just taking my one chance to say it, because after you try out that terrible campaign, you’re definitely not going to be coming back to the shop.”
Steve smiles softly. Eddie feels melty and warm as butter, and also he feels quite acutely like an idiot.
“Thank you,” is all Steve says.
“Yeah, well,” Eddie mumbles, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “My pleasure.”
He guides Steve to the door, and it’s awkward and disjointed and it kind of makes Eddie want to bash his head against the wall a few times. Finally, though, he shows Steve out the door and says, “so… it was nice to meet you. Surreal, but nice.”
Steve nods at Eddie in response. Eddie closes the door on Steve and immediately a wave of self-loathing crests over him. “‘Surreal, but nice,’” he mutters to himself. “What was I thinking?”
He shakes his head in horror and starts to make his way back to the kitchen when there’s a knock at the door. Eddie calls out, “coming!”
When Eddie gets the door back open, it’s Steve standing in the doorway. “Oh, hi. Forget something?”
“I forgot my other bag,” Steve says.
“Oh, right,” Eddie says. He shoots into the kitchen and grabs the forgotten shopping bag, then returns and hands it to Steve. “There you go.”
“Thanks. Well…” Steve says, and then trails off.
They’re both standing in the small space of Eddie’s foyer. It’s their second time saying goodbye. A strange fog of intimacy settles over them in the silence–– they’re standing too close, but Eddie isn’t going to be the one to move away.
And then Steve Harrington does a wildly unexpected thing. He leans forward and kisses Eddie on the lips.
It’s a good kiss. Rather chaste, but Eddie hasn’t exactly been spoiled for choice lately, and it’s Steve-motherfucking-Harrington that’s kissed him so even if it was a bad kiss, he’d still be rather excited.
But it isn’t a bad kiss. It’s a rather good kiss. Firm but delicate, and Steve’s lips are soft, and holy shitfuck what is going on.
Steve pulls back gently, and he looks just as surprised as Eddie feels. They hover in that silence, looking at each other, feeling strange and dream-like, before Eddie breaks the silence. “Sorry for the ‘surreal, but nice’ comment,” he babbles. “Disaster…”
“Don’t worry about it,” responds Steve. He’s touching his lower lip almost unconsciously. “I thought the apricot and honey thing was the real low point.”
Suddenly, there’s a metallic clicking noise–– a key being inserted into a lock. Eddie panics. “Oh, my god. My roommate. I’m sorry– there’s no excuse for him.”
Mike unlocks the door and walks in. He doesn’t stop to spare Eddie or Steve a moment of his time, just saying, “hi.”
“Hi,” responds Steve.
“Hi,” echoes Eddie.
Mike walks past, unsuspicious, and heads into the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he says, “I’m just going to go and get some food, and then I’m going to tell you a story that will make your balls shrink to the size of raisins.”
Eddie is going to murder Mike. He doesn’t even care if he’ll get away with it–– some things need to be done, regardless of their consequences.
Steve clears his throat. “Probably best not to tell anyone about this.”
“Right,” Eddie swallows. “No one. I mean, I’ll tell myself sometimes, but… don’t worry, I won’t believe it.”
Steve laughs, and then leaves, touching Eddie’s hand briefly as he leaves. “Bye.”
The door clicks shut behind Steve. Mike wanders around the corner, eating something white out of a styrofoam container with a spoon.
“There’s something wrong with this yogurt,” Mike says.
“It’s not yogurt," Eddie informs him, "it's mayonnaise."
“Oh, well, that’ll do it,” Mike says. He eats another spoonful with relish. “On for a movie night tonight?” he asks. “I’ve rented an absolute classic.”
*
That night, Mike and Eddie watch Mike’s ‘absolute classic.’ It’s a romantic comedy, something Woody Allen-ish, and Steve Harrington is in it, because of course he is.
“Smile,” Steve implores his co-star. He’s the right blend of charming and eager.
“No,” replies his co-star. Her performance is a little more wooden, but she is quite pretty.
“Smile,” pleads Steve.
“I’ve got nothing to smile about,” responds the co-star.
“Okay,” says Steve. He wrings his hands timidly, and Eddie’s heartstrings strum out a melody. “In about seven seconds, I’m going to ask you to marry me.”
Steve’s co-star grins, delighted. Steve’s resulting smile knocks the wind right out of Eddie. It’s a sparkling, delicate thing. Eddie’s lips tingle, electric with memory.
“Imagine,” Mike says, shoving popcorn into his mouth. “Somewhere in the world there’s someone who’s allowed to kiss that man.”
Eddie nods, mesmerized by the television. “Yeah, he’s, uh, quite a knockout.”
Mike pelts Eddie with popcorn in response. Eddie remains a little dizzy with disbelief.
*
The next day, Eddie’s least favorite customer, Mr. Smith, meanders into the shop. Per usual, their conversation is unproductive.
“Do you have any books by Dickens?” asks Mr. Smith.
“No, this is a game store. The only books we sell are about games,” says Eddie.
“Oh, right,” hums Mr. Smith. Then, “how about that new John Grisham thriller?”
Eddie sighs. “Unless it’s about games, no.”
“Oh, right,” concedes Mr. Smith. After a moment, he continues, “have you got a copy of Winnie the Pooh?”
It is times like these that remind Eddie that he isn’t cut out for customer service. “Dustin!” he shouts. “Your customer!”
Dustin appears from behind a bookshelf, clutching a selection of dice. “Can I help you?”
Eddie, exasperated, wanders toward the shop window, hoping a bit of sunshine will help clear his head.
The street is crowded, per usual. A huge bus drives by, blocking the sunlight, and after a moment waiting for his eyes to adjust, Eddie realizes that a poster of Steve from his new film, Helix, covers the entire side of the bus.
Steve Harrington won’t leave Eddie alone, it seems.
*
Eddie is making tea in the kitchen a few days later when Mike comes down the stairs wearing scuba diving gear from head to toe.
“Hey,” says Mike, as if everything is normal.
Eddie swirls his teabag of chamomile around in his mug. He keeps the tea around for Robin’s benefit, but he had hoped that chamomile might soothe his frazzled nerves. Thus far, it seems ineffective. “Just curious–– why are you wearing that?” he asks.
Mike helps himself to one of Eddie’s teabags and starts to fix himself a cup. “Ah, well, great question. It’s a combination of factors, really. No clean clothes…”
“There never will be, y’know, unless you actually clean your clothes,” Eddie points out.
Mike nods. “Right. Vicious cycle. Well, I was, like, rooting around in your things, and I found this, and I thought–– cool. Kind of spacey.”
Eddie and Mike drink their tea on the rooftop terrace, passing the day. Eddie tries to read a book, but the words bleed together in front of his eyes. He’s distracted.
The plants up on the rooftop terrace are kind of shit, very wilted–– but the terrace overlooks the city in a rather spectacular way.
Mike still wears the scuba gear, including a pair of goggles.
“There’s something wrong with these goggles,” Mike informs Eddie.
“No, they’re prescription,” Eddie says. “So I could see all the fishes.”
“Neat,” remarks Mike.
A comfortable silence falls over them. Eddie fidgets with the corner of a page of the book, and then asks, “so, uh–– any messages?”
“Yeah, I wrote a couple down,” Mike says, sipping his tea.
“Two?” Eddie asks. “That’s it?”
Mike makes a face. “You want me to write down all your messages?”
Eddie closes his eyes in exasperation. “Who were the ones you didn’t write down from?”
Mike looks up, recalling the memory. “Ahm, let’s see… no. Gone completely. Oh, no, wait! There was one from your uncle: he says don’t forget lunch and also his leg is hurting again.”
“Right,” Eddie says, picturing Uncle Wayne. He calls to complain whenever he just wants to speak to Eddie. Eddie makes a note to return his call. “No one else?” he asks.
“Absolutely not,” Mike says. Then, after a moment, “though if we’re going for this obsessive writing-down-all-messages thing, some guy called Steve called a few days ago.”
Eddie’s blood freezes in his veins. He turns to look at Mike. “What did he say?”
“Well, it was genuinely bizarre… he said, ‘hi, it’s Steve,’ and then he said, ‘call me at the Ritz,’ and then gave himself a completely different name.”
Eddie leans forward in his seat. “Which one?”
Mike shrugs. “Absolutely no idea. Remembering one name is bad enough.”
Eddie ends up going inside and calling the Ritz’s concierge, because he has no self control. “Hello?”
The man on the other line has a brisk, formal voice. “May I help you, sir?” he asks.
“So, look, this is a weird situation. I’m a friend of Steve Harrington’s, and he called me at home a few days ago and left a message saying he’s staying with you.”
The Ritz concierge responds, “I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone of that name here, sir.”
“No, that’s right, I know that,” Eddie says. “He said he’s using another name. Problem is, he left a message with my roommate, which was a serious mistake.” He tries his best to hammer the point home, “imagine the stupidest person you’ve ever met–– are you doing that?”
Mike, who’s sitting at the kitchen table in front of Eddie, reading a newspaper, takes a moment to flip Eddie off.
“Yes, sir. I have him in my mind,” says the Ritz concierge.
“Okay, now double that. That’s the, well, the idiot I’m living with. He can’t remember the name––”
“Try ‘Flintstone,’” interrupts Mike.
Eddie blinks at Mike. “What?”
“I think he said his name was ‘Flintstone.'" says Mike.
“Does ‘Flintstone’ mean anything to you?” Eddie asks the concierge.
He hears typing for a moment, and then the concierge says, “I’ll put you right through, sir.”
Eddie’s heart ceases functioning in his chest. “Oh my god.” He clears his throat and then practices, “hello. Hi. Hi.”
“Hi,” responds Steve, sounding vaguely amused.
Caught, Eddie turns red with mortification. Luckily, Steve can’t tell that through the telephone. “Oh, hi. It’s, um, it’s Eddie Munson? We, uh… I work in a game shop?”
Steve laughs. His voice is a little grainy through the line. “You played it pretty cool there, waiting three days to call me back.”
“No, I’ve never been cool in my entire life,” Eddie says. “Mike, who I’ll stab to death later, didn’t give me your message.”
“Oh,” says Steve. “Okay.”
Eddie has no idea what to say. He doesn’t know what the protocol is here. Steve Harrington kissed him. He’s talking to Steve Harrington right now. “Could I, uh… I dunno. Come over for, like, tea, or something?”
“Yeah… unfortunately, things are pretty busy here,” he says. Eddie tries not to feel too devastated, and then Steve continues, “let’s try anyway. Four o’clock could work.”
“Right. Cool. I’ll see you then,” Eddie says.
“See you,” responds Steve, and then he hangs up.
Eddie clutches the phone to his chest. “Radical,” he says to himself. “Rock and roll. Super classic. Super chill. Chilly chill chill.”
From the kitchen table, Mike says, “you’re pathetic.”
Without ire, Eddie responds, “fuck you.”
*
A few minutes before four, Eddie gets off the bus and walks toward the swanky entrance to the Ritz. He’s got a small bouquet of yellow roses in hand. He’s dressed a little nicer than he’s comfortable with, and his shoes squeak with every step.
Eddie approaches the elevator. Another man, well-manicured in a fashionable gray suit, follows him inside the elevator carriage. “Which floor?” Eddie asks.
“Three, please,” responds the suited man.
Eddie pushes the button. They wait for the doors to close together.
They both get out on the third floor. Rooms thirty through thirty-five are to the left, thirty-six to thirty-nine to the right. Eddie heads right, the suited man follows.
Eddie’s eyebrows pull together in confusion. He slows down as he approaches room thirty-eight. The suited man is still following him.
Eddie stops right outside the door for room thirty-eight. He points at the number and says to the suited man, “are you sure you…?”
“Yes,” says the suited man with confidence.
“Oh,” says Eddie. “Right.”
He knocks on the door and a vaguely familiar woman in a pantsuit opens the door.
“Hello,” says the woman pleasantly. “Sorry, things are running a bit late. Come in.”
She hands Eddie and the suited man slick sheafs of paper–– they’re press kits for Steve’s new movie, Helix.
The woman guides Eddie and the suited man into the waiting room, where there are a number of journalists waiting for their audience.
“What did you think of the film?” asks the woman.
“Marvelous,” responds the suited man. “Close Encounters meets Jean De Florette. Oscar-winning stuff.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
The suited man and the woman turn to Eddie for his opinion. He flounders for a moment and then settles on, “I agree.”
“I’m sorry,” says the woman. “I didn’t get down what magazines you’re from.”
“Time Out,” says the suited man.
Eddie panics. He looks around the room frantically until his gaze lands on the crystal coffee table, where a copy of Horse and Hound sits on display.
“Horse and Hound,” says Eddie. “The name’s Eddie Munson. I think Steve might be expecting me.”
“Okay,” says the woman. Eddie surmises that she’s probably Steve’s publicist. “Take a seat, I’ll check.”
Eddie and the Time Out journalist sit on the baby-blue arm chairs that line the waiting area. The journalist nods to the roses in Eddie’s hands. “You brought him flowers?”
Eddie goes for the cover-up. “No, they’re… for my grandmother. She’s in a hospital nearby. Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”
The journalist frowns sympathetically. “I’m sorry. Which hospital?”
Eddie’s fucked. He manages to sputter, “do you mind me not saying? It’s a rather, uh, distressing disease and the name of the hospital gives it away.”
“Oh, sure,” says the journalist. “Of course.”
Right in the nick of time, Steve’s publicist appears before Eddie again in a cloud of flowery perfume. “Mr. Munson?” she says.
Eddie hops up eagerly. The publicist leads Eddie through the maze of rooms to Steve’s suite. “You’ve got five minutes,” she says, and then Eddie’s inside the extravagant room and she’s shut the door behind him, and there Steve is. He’s standing by the window, surrounded by a halo of sunlight. Eddie feels a little light-headed.
“Hi,” Eddie says.
“Hello,” says Steve.
Eddie steps forward, brandishing his bouquet. “I, uh… I brought you these, but clearly…” he trails off. Larger and more extravagant floral displays crowd the room.
Steve rushes forward, accepting the bouquet. “Oh, no, these are–– these are great.”
The room is heady with awkward tension. Eddie is struck by how little he knows about Steve, and by the fact that the first and last time they met, they kissed.
“Sorry about not calling you back. The whole two-names thing was totally too much for my roommate’s pea-sized brain.”
“No, it’s a stupid privacy thing,” Steve says. “I always choose a cartoon character–– last time, I was Mr. Bambi.”
Eddie cracks a smile at this. He’s about to respond when Steve’s publicist enters the room, bee-lining toward a table in the corner that’s loaded with papers. The room is quiet.
After a moment, she asks, “everything okay?”
“Yes, thanks,” says Steve.
The publicist taps her pen against her bottom lip. “You’re from Horse and Hound magazine, right?”
Eddie nods.
Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, really?”
Eddie shrugs–– what else was he supposed to do?
The publicist settles in a little at the table in the corner. She’s taking notes on something.
The room falls silent for a moment. Eddie feels like he has to play the part. “So, uh, I’ll just fire away, then?”
Steve nods. He looks like he’s trying to hold back laughter.
“Right,” says Eddie. “Ah, well… the film’s great. I was just wondering whether you’d, um… whether you’d ever thought about having more… horses in it?”
Steve grins at Eddie. It’s like sunlight. “We would have liked to, of course, but it was difficult considering that the film is set in space.”
“Obviously,” says Eddie. “Makes total sense.”
Just as abruptly as she entered, the publicist leaves again. Eddie puts his head in his hands, mortified. “I’m sorry–– when I got here, they just put this press kit thing in my hand–– I didn’t know what to do.”
“No, it’s my fault,” says Steve. “I thought this would all be over by now. I just wanted to apologize for the kissing thing. I–– I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. I just… well, I wanted to make sure you were fine with it.”
Eddie’s heart has dropped into his stomach. “Absolutely fine with it,” he squawks out, like a liar.
The publicist breezes into the room again. “Remember that Mr. Harrington is eager to talk about his next project, which he’s shooting later in the summer.”
Eddie nods. “Oh, yeah, totally. Um. Any, uh, horses in that one? Or hounds. Our readers are equally intrigued by both species.”
Steve winces. “It takes place on a submarine.”
Of course it does. “Bad luck,” Eddie says. “Right. But if there were horses, would you, um, be riding them yourself, or would you be getting a stunt-horse-double-man-thing?”
The publicist leaves the room again. Eddie is quite certain that he is the precise color of a cherry tomato. “I’m a moron, sorry. This is the sort of thing that only happens in dreams, y’know, not in real life.” He pauses for a moment, and then clarifies, “good dreams, obviously–– it’s a dream to see you again.”
Eddie wants to cut out his own tongue. By some miracle, Steve looks a little charmed. “And what happens next in the dream?” he asks. Eddie recognizes it for what it is–– a challenge.
“Well, in the, uh, dream ‘dream scenario,’ I just… change my whole personality,” says Eddie, “because you can do that in dreams. And then I, um, walk across the room and I… kiss you. But that’ll never happen,” he finishes with an awkward laugh.
Steve’s eyes are wide and brown. He draws a little closer to Eddie. Eddie’s heart is a snare drum in his chest, pounding out a frenetic rhythm.
The publicist sweeps back into the room. Eddie considers smiting publicists as a whole.
“Time’s up, I’m afraid,” she says. “Sorry it was so short. Did you get what you wanted?”
“Nearly,” Eddie admits.
The publicist checks her watch. “Maybe time for one last question?” she says, and then leaves the room again.
“Right,” Eddie says. And then, hopefully, “are you busy tonight?”
“Yes,” answers Steve.
They look at each other for a moment, and then the publicist re-enters the room with another journalist in tow. Steve sticks out a hand for Eddie to shake, and Eddie obliges.
“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Steve says. And then, carefully, “surreal, but nice.”
“Thank you. You’re the Horse and Hound’s favorite actor,” he thinks for a moment, and then amends, “you and Black Beauty. Tied.”
Eddie leaves Steve’s suite rather disappointed and heads through the corridor to the door. He runs into the Time Out journalist on his way out.
“How was he?” asks the journalist.
“Wonderful,” answers Eddie.
The journalist nods, looking Eddie over, and then frowns. “Wait a minute–– he took your grandmother’s flowers?”
Shit. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s right.” He pauses, and then adds, “asshole.”
Eddie turns to go, but he’s accosted by the publicist, who says, “if you’d like to come with me we can rush you through the others.”
Eddie freezes. Fuck. “The others?”
Eddie ends up in an interview room with one of Steve’s co-stars, a forty-some-year-old man with incredible stage presence and a disarming demeanor. The actor warmly shakes Eddie’s hand as they sit in stools opposite one another.
“Pleased to meet you,” says the actor. “Did you like the film?”
“Oh, yeah, um…” Eddie sputters. “Enormously.”
The actor smiles. His posture is immaculate. “Well, fire away,” he says.
“Right, right,” says Eddie, “ahm–– did you enjoy making the film?”
“Yes, I did,” says the actor.
“Good. Any bit in particular?” asks Eddie.
“Well, you tell me which bit you liked most, and I’ll tell you if I enjoyed making that bit.”
“Uh… I liked the bit in space very much.”
The actor looks at Eddie, bewildered.
A few minutes later, Eddie’s talking with another one of Steve’s co-stars, a monolingual foreign actor and an interpreter. “Did you identify with the character you were playing?” asks Eddie.
“Te identificaste con el personaje que interpretabas?” translates the interpreter.
“No,” responds the actor.
“No,” translates the interpreter.
“Ah,” says Eddie. “Why not?”
“Por que no?” translates the interpreter.
“Porque es un robot carnivore psicópata,” says the actor.
“Because he is playing a psychopathic flesh-eating robot,” translates the interpreter.
“Ah, right,” says Eddie. “Yes, well, that’ll do it.”
A little later, Eddie’s sitting across from a girl who looks about eight years old. She’s chewing gum, and she’s got ribbons in her hair.
“Is this your first movie?” Eddie asks.
“No, it’s my twenty-second,” the girl responds. She blows a big pink gum bubble and pops it, chewing noisily.
“Of course it is,” says Eddie. “Any favorite among the twenty-two?”
The girl considers for a moment, then says, “working with Leonardo.”
Eddie hesitates. “Da Vinci?”
The girl looks at Eddie like he’s an idiot. “Di Caprio.”
“Of course,” says Eddie. “And is he your favorite... Italian director?”
When Eddie emerges from what feels like his own personal ninth circle of hell, he’s rather traumatized, and the corridor outside of Steve’s suite is still crammed full of camera crews.
Eddie doesn’t even have the chance to catch his breath before Steve’s publicist appears in front of him.
“Mr. Munson?” she asks.
Eddie is weary when he answers, “yes?”
“Have you got a moment?” she asks, which is how Eddie ends up following the publicist back to Steve’s quarters. She knocks on Steve’s door, Eddie hovering right behind her.
“Come in,” calls Steve from inside.
The publicist steps aside, gesturing for Eddie to enter. Alone. Eddie swallows once, hard, and obliges.
And then he’s alone with Steve Harrington again.
Steve’s wearing a white button up, and he’s rolled up the sleeves, exposing his forearms. Eddie is fascinated by the spray of freckles on his skin.
Steve clears his throat and says, “that thing I was doing tonight–– I’m not doing it anymore. I told them I had to spend the evening with Chicago’s premier equestrian journalist.”
“Oh, well, great. Fantastic,” Eddie says, a slow, delighted grin spreading over his face. And then memory hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh no, shitfuck motherfucking fucknuggets, it’s my sister’s birthday. Well, not, like, biological sister, but–– shit. We’re supposed to be having dinner tonight.”
“Okay,” says Steve. “That’s fine.”
“I’m sure I can get out of it,” Eddie says.
“No, I mean, if it’s fine with you, I’ll, you know, be your date,” Steve says. His voice is lilting, a little hopeful.
“You want to be my date,” Eddie echoes. “To my little sister’s birthday party.”
“If that’s all right.”
“I’m sure that’s all right,” Eddie says quickly. “My friend Lucas is cooking though, and he’s universally acknowledged to be the worst cook in the world, but y’know, you could hide the food in your pockets or something.”
“Okay.” Steve still looks delighted despite Eddie’s rambling. Perhaps he just has spectacularly bad taste.
“Okay,” Eddie says.
*
When Eddie and Steve arrive at Lucas and Max’s doorstep, the bitter scent of smoke wafts through the air.
“Should we be worried about the smoke?” Steve asks as Eddie rings the doorbell.
“Probably,” replies Eddie.
The door is thrown open by Lucas who turns back toward the kitchen without sparing a glance at Eddie or Steve. “Come on in,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Vague food crisis.”
Eddie enters the building, Steve following behind him. In the kitchen, Eddie spots Lucas waving an oven mitt–– something is definitely on fire. Max is in her wheelchair, observing Lucas with a wry smile.
“Hey,” Eddie says.
“Hiya,” says Max. She wheels over to him and Steve, saying, “sorry, the guinea fowl is proving more complicated than expected.”
Eddie laughs. “He’s cooking guinea fowl?”
“Don’t even ask,” says Max.
“Hi,” says Steve.
Max wheels a little closer, looking up at Steve inquisitively. “Hi. Holy shit, you look exactly like––”
Eddie cuts her off. “Max, this is Steve.”
Max looks at Eddie, flabbergasted. She indulges her shock and confusion for a moment longer before slipping into nonchalance. “Right.”
“Okay!” shouts Lucas from the oven. “Crisis averted!” He starts walking toward Eddie, Steve, and Max.
“Lucas, this is Steve,” Eddie says.
Lucas is looking at the bottle of wine in his hands as he begins to speak, “Hello, Steve…” and then he glances up and catches sight of Steve, and the rest tumbles from his lips unbidden, “Harrington–– have some wine.”
Steve chuckles. “Okay.”
The doorbell rings, and Lucas darts off to answer it, leaving Eddie, Steve, and Max in the kitchen. Eddie hears Lucas speak with whoever’s at the door for a moment, and then he rounds the corner with the newcomer.
“Hiiiiiiii,” drawls El, striking a pose. She’s wearing a poofy, very 80s party dress. And then she spots Steve and her entire demeanor melts into shock. “Oh, holy fuck.”
Eddie wants to crawl under a rock. “El, this is Steve. Steve, this is El–– she’s my little sister in all the ways that matter.”
“Hi,” says Steve with a little wave.
“Oh God, this is one of those key moments in life, when it’s possible you can be really, genuinely cool, and I am absolutely going to fail,” El babbles. Eddie feels for her–– he babbles when he’s nervous, too. El continues, telling Steve, “I totally and utterly adore you and I think you’re the most beautiful man in the world, and more importantly I genuinely believe and have believed for some time now that we could be best friends. What do you think?”
Steve looks quite taken aback. Finally he recovers enough to stammer out, “lucky me,” and passes El a small wrapped present. He brought a gift for El–– earrings–– and Eddie is certain that they are far more expensive than the art pens that he’s gifting her.
El accepts the gift, delighted. “Oh my god. You gave me a present. We’re best friends already.” She starts tearing off the wrapping paper. “Marry Eddie, he’s a really nice guy and then we can be, like, siblings-in-law, it’ll be rad.”
Heat creeps up the back of Eddie’s neck, and he tucks his head in embarrassment.
“I’ll consider it,” says Steve, laughing a little helplessly.
That doorbell rings again, and Lucas rockets up. “That’ll be Will,” he says, heading toward the front door.
From the kitchen, Eddie hears their interaction.
“Hello, Will,” Lucas says.
“I’m so sorry I’m so late,” worries Will. “Fucked up at work again, I’m afraid. Millions down the drain.”
They turn the corner and enter the kitchen. Will nods to everyone and then joins them at the table, where dinner is laid out.
“Will, this is Steve,” Lucas says.
“Hello, Steve,” says Will, sticking out his hand for Steve to shake. “Delighted to meet you.”
He doesn’t recognize Steve. Eddie lets out a sigh of relief. Will turns to El and hands her a present. “El, happy birthday to you!” He nods toward the present. “It’s a hat. You don’t have to wear it or anything.”
A few minutes later, Eddie’s refilling his wine glass by the sink. Lucas is grilling him relentlessly.
“You haven’t slept with him, have you?” asks Lucas.
“That is a cheap question,” says Eddie, “and the answer is, of course, no comment.”
“‘No comment’ means ‘yes,’” proclaims Lucas triumphantly.
“No, it doesn’t,” says Eddie.
Lucas leans in conspiratorially. “Do you ever masturbate?”
Eddie snorts into his wine glass. “Definitely no comment.”
“You see,” grins Lucas, looking victorious. “It means ‘yes.’”
Eddie rolls his eyes and wanders over to the charcuterie board–– if he fills up on cheese, he won’t have to choke down as much burnt guinea fowl. Plus, the location of the charcuterie board allows him to eavesdrop on Steve and Will’s conversation.
“So, tell me Steve, what do you do?” asks Will.
“I’m an actor,” responds Steve. Eddie can picture his amused smile, the way the corner of his mouth tugs up and his cheek dimples.
“Oh, splendid,” says Will. “I’m actually in the stock market, so not really similar fields. I’m terrible at it, really. Wanted to go into fine art–– well. Ignore that. Always imagined that it was a pretty tough job though, acting. I mean, the pay is terrible, isn’t it?”
“Well, it can be,” agrees Steve.
“I see people I went to school with–– smart people–– and they’re getting by on seven, eight thousand a year. Seems like a hard life. What sort of acting do you do?”
“Films, mainly,” says Steve.
“Oh, that’s neat. Well done. How’s the pay in movies? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, the last movie you did, what did you get paid?”
“Fifteen million dollars,” Steve says.
Eddie chokes on his cheese and crackers.
Will coughs. “Right. Right. So that’s… fairly good. On the high side…” he trails off. “Have you, uh, tried the prosciutto?”
“Right–– I think we’re ready,” announces Lucas.
Everyone begins to move toward the kitchen except Steve, who draws Max aside, and El, who lingers, awe-struck, by Steve. Steve asks, “could you tell me where the…?”
“Oh, it’s just down the corridor on the right,” says Max.
“I’ll show you!” chirps El.
She leads Steve down the hallway toward the bathroom, and then everyone turns toward Eddie.
“Quickly, quickly–– talk very quickly–– what the fuck are you doing here with Steve Harrington?” Max asks.
Will turns pale as a ghost. “Steve Harrington?”
“Yes,” confirms Max.
“Like… the movie star?” asks Will.
“Yup,” says Max.
“Oh God. Oh God,” Will says, horrified. “I’m an idiot.”
El enters the kitchen like a droopy flower, a horrified expression on her face. “I don’t believe it,” she says. “I walked into the bathroom with him. I was still talking when he started unbuttoning his jeans… he had to ask me to leave.” She flops into her chair, wilting in shame.
El kicks Eddie in the shin when he starts laughing at her. “Ow!”
Later, when they’re back at the table trying to stomach Lucas’s cooking, Eddie leans over and asks Steve, “what do you think of the guinea fowl?”
Steve pushes around his fowl for a moment and then leans into Eddie conspiratorially. “I’m a vegetarian,” he admits, his voice barely cresting louder than a whisper. “I figured if I cut it up and pushed it around a bit, I could convince everyone I ate some.”
Max overhears this, and the laugh that she lets out is more of a bark than anything else.
After dinner, they sit at the table and sip at cups of coffee. El loads hers up with so much cream and sugar that it no longer qualifies as coffee. She’s also put on the hideous hat that Will gifted her, and she seems to be enjoying it, even if it is a knitted eyesore.
“Having you here, Steve, confirms what I’ve long suspected–– we really are the most desperate bunch of sad-sacks to ever exist,” says Lucas.
“Shame!” proclaims Will.
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” continues Lucas. “In fact, I think it’s something we should take pride in.” He holds the platter containing the final remnant of dessert, a corner piece of a fudgy brownie, aloft. “I’m going to give the last brownie as a prize to the saddest act here.”
Eddie turns instinctively to look at Will. “Will,” he says.
Will shrugs up his shoulders, which only serves to wrinkle his suit further. “Well, obviously it’s me, isn’t it–– I work in a job I don’t understand and I’m terrible at it, and everyone keeps getting promoted above me. I haven’t had a boyfriend since… well, ever, and the long and short of it is that nobody is interested in me, and I’m too afraid to do anything about it.”
“Unless I’m mistaken, your job still pays you a lot of money,” says Lucas, “while El here, she earns next to nothing flogging her guts out at Chicago’s seediest waffle shop.”
“I’m committed to my underappreciated craft,” bemoans El. “And I’ve got all that childhood trauma, and it’s unlikely that anyone will ever marry me as even I am beginning to find myself insufferable.”
“You see–– incredibly sad,” says Lucas.
“On the other hand, her best friend is Steve Harrington,” points out Max.
“That’s true, I can’t deny it,” says El with a helpless little shrug. “He needs me, what can I say?”
But Max is on a roll, and the words continue to spill from her lips. “And most of her limbs work, while I’m stuck in this chair all day and night, in a house full of ramps. And, to add insult to injury, I’ve totally given up smoking, my favorite thing, and the truth is… we can’t have a baby.”
Silence falls over the room, the jovial mood effectively murdered.
“Max,” says Eddie softly.
Max shrugs. “C’est la vie… still, we’re lucky in lots of ways, but… surely that’s worth a brownie.”
Lucas takes Max’s hand, smiles at her, and then turns back to face the table. “Well, I don’t know,” he says, “look at Eddie. Very unsuccessful professionally. Divorced. Used to be handsome, now kind of squidgy around the edges–– and absolutely certain never to hear from Steve again once he’s heard that Eddie’s nickname in school was Floppy.”
Eddie considers strangling Lucas. Steve laughs, delighted.
“Can’t believe you fuckers. At least I get the brownie,” asks Eddie, reaching for the dessert.
And then Steve says something very unexpected. “Wait a minute. What about me?”
Lucas looks at Steve, amused. “I’m sorry? You think you deserve the brownie?”
Steve shifts in his seat a little self-consciously. “Well… a shot at it.”
“You’ll have to prove it,” Eddie tells him. “This is a great brownie, and I’m going to fight you for it.”
“Alright,” says Steve, steeling himself. And then, “I’ve been on a diet since I was nineteen, which means I’ve been hungry for a decade. Everyone I’ve ever dated has been mean to me. Every time I get my heart broken it’s splashed across all the newspapers as entertainment. It costs me millions to get me looking like this––”
“Really?” interrupts a shocked El.
“Really,” confirms Steve. “And one day, not long from now, my looks will go, they’ll find out I can’t act, and I’ll become a sad, middle-aged man who looks a bit like someone who was famous for a while.”
The table goes quiet at Steve's vulnerability. Eddie fights the urge to reach over and place a hand on Steve’s knee in an effort to comfort him.
Then Max breaks the silence. “Nah! Nice try, gorgeous, but you’re not fooling anyone.”
The mood is instantly broken, and everyone breaks out into laughter.
“Pathetic effort to hog the brownie,” Eddie tells Steve.
Steve shrugs. His grin is sparkling. “Well, I had to give it a go at least.”
*
They leave a few hours later.
“Thank you for such a terrific time,” Steve tells Lucas.
Lucas graciously shakes the hand that Steve offers him. “Glad you could make it.”
“And I didn’t say it earlier, but I really do like your tie.”
The tie in question is pink and dotted with tiny flamingos. “Now you’re lying,” says Lucas.
Steve laughs. “You’re right. I told you I was bad at acting.”
Lucas laughs, delighted by this.
“Thank you for having me over,” Steve tells Max. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“Lovely to meet you too,” says Max smoothly. “I’ll wait until you’ve left before I tell Lucas that you’re a vegetarian.”
Lucas’s expression shifts immediately to horror. “No!”
“Goodnight, El,” Steve tells the girl who’s hovering eagerly beside him.
“I’m so sorry about the bathroom thing. I meant to leave, but I just…” she sighs and tries again, “Look, call me if you need someone to go shopping with. I know lots of nice, cheap places… not that money is necessarily…" She trails off again and then gives up, saying instead, “nice to meet you.”
She gives Steve a huge hug, and he’s gracious enough to reciprocate it. “You too,” says Steve. “And from now on, you’re my style guru.”
On Steve and Eddie’s way out the door, Will tries to save face, telling Steve, “I love your work!”
As soon as the door shuts behind them, a massive and hysterical scream is let out by all of Eddie’s friends. Eddie hasn't even finished putting his coat on. Steve’s fidgeting with his shirtsleeves.
“Sorry, they always do that when I leave the house,” lies Eddie.
Steve doesn’t look like he’s buying it, but he does look charmed, so Eddie accepts it as a win.
They walk down the street for a few minutes, Eddie casting indulgent glances at Steve, who is lovely and silvery in the moonlight.
Finally, Steve says, “floppy, huh?”
Eddie turns red. “It’s the hair, it’s got to do with the hair!”
Steve leans forward and tugs at one of Eddie’s curls. “It’s a little floppy. I like it, though.”
Eddie feels a bit like combusting. He gathers up his courage and asks, “Would you like to come… my house is just…?”
Steve smiles kindly and shakes his head. “Too complicated.”
Eddie pretends like that doesn’t cause a pang in his heart. “That’s fine.”
“Are you busy tomorrow?” asks Steve.
Eddie eyes Steve strangely. “I thought you were leaving.”
“I was,” says Steve.
They walk for a while longer. Their fingers brush with every other step, but Eddie can’t seem to gather enough courage to take Steve’s hand.
Steve stops them by a large gate that’s coated in ivy. “What’s in there?” he asks.
“Gardens,” Eddie explains. “The swanky apartment complexes near here have these mysterious little communal gardens in the middle of them, like little villages.”
Steve’s eyes sparkle in the moonlight, delighted. “Let’s go in!”
“Oh, no, that’s the point,” says Eddie. “They’re private villages–– only the people who live here are allowed in.”
Steve raises a challenging eyebrow. “And you follow the rules like that?”
Eddie’s grown out of his breaking-and-entering phase–– left that in his twenties, along with hard drugs–– but he’s willing to playact at rebellion for Steve’s benefit. “Hell no. Other people do, but not me. I just do what I want.”
He tries the gate once, hoping that luck will be on his side and it’ll be unlocked, but of course it isn’t. He tries to climb the gate, but he can’t get his footing right and he ends up stumbling back to the pavement. “Whoopsie,” says Eddie.
“What did you say?” asks Steve, laughing.
“Nothing.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said ‘whoopsie.’”
There’s a short pause. Eddie says, “I don’t think so. No one says “whoopsie,” unless they’re––”
“There is no ‘unless,’” interrupts Steve. “No one has said ‘whoopsie’ for fifty years, and even then it was only little girls with blonde ringlets.”
“Exactly,” says Eddie briskly. “So I couldn’t have said it.”
He tries to make it up the gate again, but he fails once more, and, unbidden, the word tumbles from his lips, “whoopsie.”
Eddie and Steve look at one another for a moment. Steve’s grin veers into the shit-eating territory.
“It’s a disease I’ve got,” Eddie lies. “It’s a clinical thing. I’m taking pills and injections and all that–– it won’t last long.”
Steve snorts and then turns to the gate. “I’ll give it a try, then.”
He starts to climb, and Eddie hurries to say, “be careful Steve–– it’s harder than it looks…”
But Steve’s already almost over the gate.
“Or it’s not,” corrects Eddie.
Steve lands nimbly inside the garden. He brushes his palms off on his thighs and says, “come on, Floppy.”
And now Eddie has to get into the garden. His dignity won’t accept anything less. He clambers up the gate with terrible difficulty, and still manages to stumble and fall the last few feet.
“What in the world in the garden could make all of that worthwhile?” he grouses to himself.
Eddie feels a hand on his jaw, and he meets Steve’s eyes. Steve’s closer than Eddie thought.
When Steve kisses him, it feels like the world has stopped spinning, like every beautiful thing has been distilled into the gentle press of Steve’s lips.
Steve pulls back just as gently as he leaned in, and because he can’t help himself, Eddie says, “nice garden.”
They walk around the garden, and it’s like a moonlit dream. Lights are on in a few of the apartments that line the garden, but the garden itself is empty save for Eddie and Steve. They come across a single, simple wooden bench.
Steve reads the inscription: “For June, who loved this garden–– from Joseph, who always sat beside her.”
Steve sits on the bench and smiles up at Eddie softly. Eddie isn’t sure what to do, so he shifts from foot to foot. “Come and sit with me,” Steve says finally, patting the bench beside him.
Eddie is happy to oblige.
*
Eddie rushes downstairs into the living room. He’s still wet from his shower, and he’s only wearing a towel. “Shit, fuck, motherfucking shitfuck. Have you seen my glasses?”
The last part he directs at Mike, who’s sitting on the couch, reading the comics section of the newspaper.
“Nope,” says Mike, popping the ‘p.’
“Shitfuck,” says Eddie, searching through their mess of a living room. Mike makes no move to help. “This happens every time I go to the movies. I’m out of contacts, and I can’t find my glasses anywhere. Average day, my glasses are everywhere–– everywhere I look, glasses. But the moment I actually need them, they disappear. It’s one of life’s real cruelties.”
“That’s compared to, like, earthquakes or testicular cancer, is it?” pipes Mike from the couch.
Eddie spies the clock and his blood runs cold. “Oh shit, is that the time? I have to go.”
He manages to get presentable and locate a suitable glasses alternative in a few minutes. When he sprints back downstairs, Mike hasn’t moved an inch.
“Thanks for your help on the glasses thing,” Eddie says.
“You’re welcome,” replies Mike with deep sincerity. “Did you find them?”
“Sort of,” responds Eddie as he heads out the door.
*
Eddie ends up watching the movie with his prescription scuba-diving goggles. Steve makes fun of him an appropriate amount, considering the circumstances.
*
After the movie, Eddie and Steve go to a rather smart Japanese restaurant. Eddie hasn’t eaten a lot of raw fish in his time, but he finds he likes it just fine if he soaks it in soy sauce.
“So, who left who?” Steve asks eventually.
Eddie figures the ex question was inevitable–– people usually ask him about his divorce sooner or later. “He left me,” Eddie says.
“Why?”
Eddie shrugs up a shoulder. “He saw through me.”
“Uh-oh. That’s not good,” says Steve.
“Not good at all,” confirms Eddie. “He saw right through me, and then he found a Harrison Ford doppelgänger to make do with.”
Steve pushes an avocado roll across his plate with a chopstick. “Oh, well, can’t blame him, then. Harrison Ford is a looker.”
Eddie nods sagely. “Absolutely.”
Suddenly, a voice interrupts them, “no, no, no! Give me Steve Harrington any day.”
They’ve been aware of conversation happening at a nearby table, but this is the first time that it has commanded attention. Eddie and Steve share a glance, both amused.
Another man responds to his compatriot: “I didn’t like that last film of his. Fell fast asleep from the moment the lights went down.”
Steve hides a laugh in the palm of his hand.
The first man speaks again, “Don’t really care what the film is like. Any film with him in it is fine by me.”
The second man argues, “no–– not my type at all, really. I prefer that other one–– the one who makes Meg Ryan have an orgasm in that diner.”
Eddie makes a face. “Terrible taste,” he tells Steve.
“You’d go for Billy Crystal over Steve Harrington?” replies the first man, incredulous.
“Nah,” says the second man. “I’d go for Steve–– have you seen him? He’s absolutely gagging for it. Do you know that in over fifty percent of languages the word for ‘actor’ is the same as the word for ‘prostitute?’”
The man’s companion lets out an ugly laugh. Steve seems to wilt, his twinkle dimming. Eddie’s stomach turns.
The second man continues, “Steve is your definitive actor–– someone really filthy you can just flip over and start again.”
Raucous laughter spills from the other table. Steve sinks further into himself.
Eddie stands suddenly, slams his hands on the table, and says, “right, that’s it.”
He walks around the corner to the table housing the shit-talking men. They’re all middle-aged in fancy suits, balding and too self-absorbed for their own good. “Sorry to disturb you––”
“Can I help you?” interrupts one of the suited men. He should give in to his baldness–– the toupee he has affixed to his head isn’t fooling anyone.
“I guess we’ll find out. I overheard your conversation–– wish I hadn’t, frankly–– but I did, and I just think, you know…” Eddie watches as the men’s eyes glaze over. He knows he isn’t cutting an imposing figure. He tries to summon up a bit of younger Eddie–– the version of him that sold ket and lived for mosh pits and metal bands–– but he isn’t sure if he quite manages it. “The person you’re talking about is a real person, and I think he deserves more respect than having you assholes drooling over him.”
The toupee man looks at Eddie like he’s bananas. “Oh, fuck off, man. What are you, his dad?”
Steve materializes at Eddie’s side, sweeping him away without being recognized.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie tells Steve.
“No, it’s fine,” says Steve through clenched teeth. “I love that you tried. Time was I’d have done the same.” They keep walking through the restaurant until Steve pauses and says, “in fact, give me a second,” and then he bee-lines to the suited assholes’ table. Eddie follows.
“Hi,” chirps Steve.
“Oh my god,” says the toupee man.
“I’m sorry about my friend–– he’s very sensitive,” says Steve.
“No, look, I’m sorry…” begins the toupee man.
Steve cuts him off. “Please, please, let’s just leave it there. I’m sure you meant no harm, and I’m sure it was just friendly banter, and I’m sure your dicks are all the size of peanuts. A perfect match for the size of your brains.” He smiles at the suited men winningly, and Eddie’s heart swoops in his chest. “Enjoy your meal. Apparently, the tuna’s really good.”
*
Eddie walks Steve back to the Ritz as Steve panics.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I really shouldn’t have done that,” he repeats to himself, like it’s a mantra.
“No, you were awesome,” says Eddie.
“I’m stupid and irresponsible and–– god, what am I doing with you?” Steve says.
“I don’t know,” Eddie admits. He bites back the rest of what he wants to say: I’m lucky to be here, though. I think you might be the most wonderful creature on the planet. I think I’m totally out of my element. I think you’re going to break my heart.
“I don’t either,” Steve says.
They make it to the entrance to the Ritz, and Steve stands there all lovely and nervous, wringing his hands. “Here we are,” he says. And then, after a moment, “do you want to come up?”
Eddie’s heart leaps in his chest. Gently, he says, “there seem to be a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t, so.”
Steve nods. “There are lots of reasons. Do you want to come up?”
Desperately. Eddie nods, and Steve smiles.
“Give me five minutes,” Steve says, and then he’s breezing away. Eddie watches him go, standing alone on the sidewalk. He feels like he’s on the precipice of something huge. He counts down the seconds, staring at his watch, willing time to pass faster.
*
“Hi,” Steve says when he answers the door.
“Hi,” replies Eddie. He leans forward and kisses Steve gently on the cheek. Steve turns a little pink. “I can’t believe I get to do that,” Eddie says, a little dazed.
Steve bites his bottom lip, and Eddie notices the tension Steve is holding in his body for the first time. “You’ve got to go,” Steve says.
Eddie blinks, confused. “Why?”
“Because my girlfriend, who I thought was in London, is actually in the other room,” Steve says.
Blood rushes in Eddie’s ears, layering a white-noise fog over the entire situation. “Your girlfriend?” Eddie repeats.
Steve nods. “Yeah.”
And then the girlfriend in question drifts into view behind Steve. She’s gorgeous–– another movie star, Eddie recognizes her from her Oscar acceptance speech. She’s in a plum-colored silk robe that hides little of her figure.
“Who’s this?” she asks, and her voice is as clear and high as a bell.
Eddie clears his throat. “Room service,” he manages to squawk out.
“How are you doing?” asks the girlfriend. It’s a rhetorical question. “I thought you guys all wore those penguin coats.”
“Well, yes–– usually–– I’d just changed to go home, but I thought I’d deal with this final call first.”
“Oh, fantastic,” smiles the girlfriend prettily. “Could you do me a favor and bring up some really, really cold water?”
Steve stands off to the side, curling in on himself like a burning leaf. Eddie feels like he’s swallowed a hot coal.
“I’ll see what I can do,” says Eddie.
“Still, not sparkling,” clarifies the girlfriend.
“Absolutely,” says Eddie, “ice cold still water.”
The girlfriend says, “unless it’s illegal for you to serve liquids below room temperature–– I don’t want you going to jail just to satisfy my whims…”
“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” says Eddie.
The girlfriend giggles sweetly and then adds, “if you don’t mind, maybe you could also adios the dishes and empty the trash, too?”
“Right,” Eddie says, gritting his teeth. And he does just that–– scoops up the used plates and heads over to the trash can.
“Really, don’t do that,” panics Steve, spreading his hands wide. “I’m sure it’s not his job.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the girlfriend. “Is this a problem?”
“Uh, no,” Eddie says. “It’s fine.”
“What’s your name?” asks the girlfriend.
Eddie flounders for a moment before settling on, “Um… Will.”
The girlfriend produces a five dollar bill from seemingly midair and slips it into Eddie’s hand. “Thank you, Will,” she says, and then turns to Steve. “Hey–– nice surprise or nasty surprise?”
“Nice surprise,” says Steve.
The girlfriend throws her arms around Steve’s neck and plants one on him, right on the lips. Eddie averts his gaze and pretends his heart isn’t crumpling like a tin can.
When the girlfriend pulls away, she says, “Liar.” She then turns to Eddie and tells him conspiratorially, “He hates surprises.” Back to Steve, “what are you ordering?”
“I haven’t decided,” Steve says quietly.
“Well, don’t overdo it,” says the girlfriend. “I don’t want people saying, ‘there goes the famous actress with the big, fat boyfriend.’”
And then she wanders off, leaving a sour taste in Eddie’s mouth.
“I should leave,” Eddie says.
Steve just nods.
Eddie swallows and continues, “this is a really strange reality to be faced with. To be honest, I didn’t realize…”
He trails off, because what didn’t he realize? He knew, realistically, that this wouldn’t last. That they were from different worlds. He didn’t expect it all to end so suddenly though, or so completely.
“I’m sorry,” says Steve. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“I think ‘goodbye’ is traditional,” says Eddie.
“What if I don’t want to say goodbye?” asks Steve. His voice is thready and a little desperate at the edges.
“Well, then you don’t say goodbye, and I end up leaving anyway.”
*
Steve doesn’t say goodbye, but Eddie still leaves because someone has to.
*
Eddie takes the bus home. He feels numb more than anything else.
He gets home, and he sits on his bed, and he feels empty. There’s a gnawing hollowness inside him that’s threatening to sink him.
Outside his bedroom window is a huge poster of Steve, advertising his new space film, Helix.
*
Eddie sees Helix in theaters five times. Apparently, Steve’s fantastic in it–– he’s a favorite for Best Actor at the Oscars.
You could hold a gun to Eddie’s head and he still wouldn’t be able to tell you what the plot of the film is.
*
Eddie sits on the couch, nursing a mug of tea that’s long gone tepid, staring out the window. They’ve changed the poster–– it’s no longer Steve.
Mike comes thundering down the stairs, clad from head to toe in tropical prints. “Come on, open up, this is me–– Mikey!” Mike says to Eddie, plopping down beside him on the couch. “What’s got you down?”
“There’s, um…” Eddie starts. He takes a sip of tea, makes a face at its temperature, and then continues, “there’s this boy…”
“Aha!” exclaims Mike. “I’ve been getting a dude vibe. Good.”
“He’s someone who can’t be mine, and it’s as if I’ve taken love-heroin–– and now I can’t even have it again,” stammers out Eddie. “I’ve opened Pandora’s box, and there’s trouble inside.”
Mike nods. “Yeah. Yeah… tricky. Tricky. I knew a girl at school named Pandora. Never got to see her box though.”
Eddie frowns. “Ew. Go to jail. Do not pass go and do not collect two-hundred dollars.”
Mike claps his hands together and makes a solemn face. “Yeah, that’s fair. Not my best moment.”
“Probably your worst moment. Deeply unhelpful and gross.”
“I’ll give myself a time-out.”
*
They’re at Robin’s coffee shop after closing. Eddie’s drinking a coffee with some Irish courage in it. Lucas, Max, and Robin are to his right, Dustin and Will are to his left.
“You didn’t know he had a girlfriend?” Lucas asks Eddie.
“No,” says Eddie. “Did you?” Everyone clams up and averts their gaze. Eddie groans, defeated. “Fucking hell, I can’t believe it–– my whole life ruined because I don’t read People magazine.”
“Let’s face facts here, Eddie,” Lucas says. “This was always a no-go situation. Steve’s a god, and you know what happens to mortals who get involved with the gods. I know you had a fucking Greek mythology phase.”
“They get totally fucked over,” Eddie says miserably.
“Every time,” says Lucas. “But don’t despair–– I think I have the solution to your problems.”
“Really?” Eddie says, looking to Lucas for wisdom.
“His name is Theo and he works in the contracts department. The hair, I admit, is unfashionably frizzy–– but he’s bright as a button and kisses like a nymphomaniac on death row,” Lucas says. After a moment and a faux-crossed look from Max, he amends, “allegedly.”
“Jesus christ,” sighs Eddie.
*
Lucas and Max introduce Eddie to a wide array of suitors. Eddie tries his best.
Eddie’s standing next to Lucas in the kitchen when the doorbell rings. Eddie tries to hide how uneasy he feels.
“Try,” implores Lucas.
Eddie nods. Lucas heads off to answer the door. Eddie’s still feeling pretty queasy. He can’t help but overhear the door opening and a voice–– presumably Theo–– saying, “I got completely lost–– it’s really difficult, isn’t it? GPS and everything, I find there’s too many settings.”
Lucas and Theo reach the kitchen, and Eddie sees Theo for the first time. He’s a solid head shorter than Eddie, and Lucas wasn’t lying about the hair–– it sticks out in a manner that reminds Eddie of a fried egg, or perhaps Albert Einstein.
“Theo, this is Max, my wife,” says Lucas. Max gives a little wave.
“Oh, hullo,” says Theo. “You’re in a wheelchair.”
Max snorts. “Great observation skills, buddy.”
“And this is Eddie,” says Lucas, diverting the conversation.
“Hello Eddie,” says Theo. “Lucas has told me everything about you.”
Eddie hopes his voice doesn’t sound as scared as he’s feeling. “Has he?”
Theo spies a bottle of wine on the counter and gravitates toward it like a moth to flame. “Oh, yes please.” He grabs the bottle with one hand and Eddie’s arm with the other and says, “come on, Eddie-kins, let’s get wasted.”
They try again later, with a different boy. This one is named Kenzie, and he’s some sort of rock climber that El knows.
Max holds up a platter of whatever highbrow fowl that Lucas has chosen to butcher tonight, offering it to Kenzie. “Want some, uh, woodcock?”
“No, thank you,” says Kenzie. He’s got scary-good posture. “I’m a fruitarian.”
“I didn’t know that,” pouts Lucas, his woodcock remaining untouched.
Eddie clears his throat and turns toward Kenzie. “And, ahm–– what’s a fruitarian, exactly?”
“We believe that fruits and vegetables have feelings so we think that cooking is cruel. We only eat things that have actually fallen from the tree or bush–– that are, in fact, dead already,” says Kenzie crisply.
Eddie tries his best to keep a straight face. “Right. Right. Interesting stuff.” He points toward the carrots and prompts, “so, these carrots…”
“Have been murdered, yes,” says Kenzie.
Lucas looks entirely bewildered.
Eddie fights back laughter. “Murdered? Poor carrots. How beastly.”
They try again once more. This time is the worst, because this time he’s perfect.
Beside Eddie sits Ross. Ross is an ex-punk who now runs a bakery, and he’s got powdered sugar behind his ear, and he’s incredibly charming and very much so Eddie’s type.
“Delicious coffee,” says Ross.
“Thank you,” says Lucas–– he’s in a foul mood because he burned dinner. “I’m sorry about the lamb.”
“No, I thought it was really, you know, interesting,” Ross says kindly.
“Interesting means inedible,” comments Eddie.
“Really inedible–– yes, you’re right,” says Ross, digging his elbow into Eddie’s side. Eddie darts away, laughing. It’s all going very well.
Eddie walks Ross to the door after dessert-and-coffee concludes. Eddie doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he keeps them shoved deep in his pockets.
“Well, maybe we’ll meet again,” says Ross.
“Yes,” says Eddie. “That would be… great.”
Ross kisses Eddie on the cheek before he leaves. Eddie’s heart makes a noise that sounds like windows rattling in a storm. He shuts the door and heads back into the living room where Max and Lucas are waiting.
“Well?” prompts Max.
“He’s perfect,” Eddie admits, his shoulders shrugged up. “Completely perfect.”
“And?” says Lucas.
Eddie makes a gentle, exasperated gesture, then says, “I think you’ve forgotten what an unusual situation you two have–– to find someone you actually love, who’ll love you–– the chances are… always miniscule. Look at me–– not counting, you know, him–– I’ve only loved one person in my whole life, and it was a total disaster.”
“That’s not fair,” says Max.
“He married me and then left me quicker than you can say ‘Indiana Jones,’” Eddie says, dropping down heavily on the couch. “I think I’m being plenty fair.”
Max wheels over to him and pats him comfortingly on the knee. “I think you’re being a self-hating, indulgent bastard. And I think that the beauty of love is that it is a disaster. Anything worth doing is worth fucking up.” She pats him one more time, firmly on the kneecap, and asks, “do you want to stay the night? You can sleep on the couch.”
Eddie blows a curl out of his face and nods. “Why not–– all that awaits me at home is Mike Wheeler.”
So Eddie stays the night. Through bleary eyes, he catches sight of Lucas carrying Max up the stairs, the two of them giggling about something delightfully mundane. When he does sleep, he doesn’t dream about Theo.
*
Eddie heads home the next morning a little ruffled from his night away. Once he’s returned to the refuge of his kitchen he chugs a glass of water and starts to brew some coffee. While the coffee is brewing, he showers. He’s halfway through shaving when the doorbell rings.
Eddie answers the door to find Steve Harrington in dark glasses. His hair is a mess, and behind the shades, his eyes are tired.
“Hi,” says Steve. “Can I come in?”
Eddie is suddenly very aware of the fact that he is wearing Power Rangers boxers and an old Metallica t-shirt with a noticeable hole in the collar. “Uh, sure, yeah. Of course.”
He steps to the side and Steve enters, beelining to the kitchen. Eddie shuts the door and follows Steve.
They end up at the kitchen table, where Steve tells Eddie everything.
“They were taken years ago–– I know it was…” Steve trails off. He takes off his glasses, and Eddie can see that his eyes are red from crying. “But I was poor, it was right after my parents kicked me out, and this kind of thing happens a lot–– that’s not an excuse–– but to make things worse, someone was filming me as well. So what was a stupid photo-shoot now looks like a fucking porno. And… the pictures have been sold and they’re fucking everywhere.”
Eddie’s hands clench into fists underneath the table.
“I didn’t know where to go,” Steve says. “The hotel is surrounded. I know it’s been months, but…”
“You can stay here,” Eddie says.
“Thank you.” Steve smiles at Eddie, then rubs at his eyes. “I’m just in Chicago for two days, but, god, with all these newspapers everywhere, it’s the worst place to be.”
Eddie’s never seen Steve so shaken. He doesn’t know what to do–– frustration bubbles inside him, because he doesn’t know how to fix this for Steve.
“They’re such horrible pictures,” Steve mumbles, dragging his fingers through his hair. “They’re so grainy… they make me look like––”
“Don’t think about it,” interrupts Eddie. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s focus on the little stuff first–– do you want tea? Coffee? A bath?”
“A bath would be great,” Steve admits.
So Eddie draws Steve a bath, and then he makes an elaborate egg-and-toast breakfast when Steve bathes.
He’s on his second cup of coffee when Steve appears, freshly-clean and smelling of pine needles and sandalwood, dressed in an oversized white t-shirt and flannel pajamas pants. He’s carrying a thick sheaf of paper. Eddie’s never seen Steve more beautiful. It makes him kind of want to scream and kind of want to gnaw at the leg of a table.
“You made breakfast,” says Steve, his tone conveying his delight.
“I did,” says Eddie, gesturing to his spread. “Bon appétit.”
Steve plops down in the chair next to Eddie and begins to unceremoniously inhale the food.
He’s dotted with little moles and freckles–– there’s one right on his collarbone that Eddie has to avert his eyes from. There's something truly mesmerizing about his skin.
“I’m really sorry about last time,” Steve says when he pauses from inhaling his jelly-smeared toast. “She just flew in–– I had no idea. Actually, I had no idea if she’d ever fly in again.”
“Nah, it’s all good,” says Eddie. “It’s not often that one has the opportunity to adios the plates of a major Hollywood star. It was thrilling for me.”
Steve snorts out a laugh around a mouthful of toast.
“How, um, how is she?” Eddie asks.
Steve looks at the table when he answers, “I don’t know. It… it got to the point where I couldn’t remember any of the reasons why we were together.” Eddie watches as Steve traces the grooves of the table, dragging the pad of his finger across every divot and stain in the wooden surface. “And you… and love?”
“That’s an interesting question without an interesting answer,” Eddie says.
They’re quiet for a moment, and then Steve says, “I… I have thought about you.”
Eddie’s heart seizes in his chest. “Oh, no, no–– no. You don’t, uh, you don’t need to do that.”
“Anytime I’ve tried to keep things normal with a person that’s normal–– it’s been a disaster.”
“I appreciate that, yeah, absolutely,” says Eddie, waving his hands. He spots the thick sheaf of paper that Steve has with him and tries to swiftly change the subject. “Is that the new movie you’re doing?”
Steve falters for a moment and then says, “oh, yeah–– I start in LA on Tuesday.”
“Do you want me to go through your lines with you?”
Steve’s face crumples with gratitude. “Could you? It’s all talk, talk, talk.”
Eddie holds out a hand. “Hand it over.” Steve obliges. Eddie flips through the first few pages. “Basic plot?” he asks.
“I’m a difficult but brilliant junior officer who in about twenty minutes will save the world from nuclear disaster,” Steve recites.
“Well done you,” says Eddie.
They practice Steve’s lines together. After they’ve finished breakfast they move out to the terrace and practice some more in the sunlight.
“‘Message from command. Would you like them to send in the HKs?’” reads Eddie.
Steve paces by the railing, trying to recall his lines. “‘No, turn over four TRS’s and tell them we need radar feedback before the KFT’s return at nineteen-hundred–– then inform the Pentagon that we’ll be needing Black Star cover from ten-hundred through twelve-fifteen’–– and don’t mention how many mistakes I made in that speech or I’ll pelt you with olives.”
Eddie takes one of the olives in question, pops it into his mouth, eats it, and then spits out the pit. “‘Very well, captain–– I’ll pass that on straightaway.’”
“‘Thank you.’ How many mistakes did I make?” asks Steve.
“Eleven,” says Eddie.
“Damn,” says Steve. “‘And Wainwright…’”
“Cartwright,” corrects Eddie.
“‘Cartwright, Wainwright, whatever your name is, I promised little Jimmy I’d be home for his birthday–– could you get a message through that I may be a little late.’”
“Certainly. And little Johnny?”
Steve pauses in his pacing. “My son’s name is Johnny?”
“Yeah,” says Eddie.
“Well then, get a message through to him too,” says Steve, waving a hand dismissively.
“‘I’ll do what I can, Captain, but I can’t promise anything,’ and, uh, Cartwright goes,” says Eddie, setting aside the script. The scene is over.
Steve gravitates closer, plopping down in the chair across from Eddie. “What do you think?”
“Totally gripping,” says Eddie. “I mean, it’s not Jane Austen, it’s not Henry James, but it’s gripping.”
“Nerd,” says Steve. “Of course you managed to read old lady books in between getting tatted up and playing D&D.”
“Hey!” protests Eddie. “I’m allowed to contain multitudes!”
Steve laughs, and then asks, “you think I should do Henry James instead?”
“I’m sure you’d be great in Henry James,” says Eddie. “But, you know–– this writer…” he looks down at the script and notices his mistake. “Writers. They’re pretty damn good too.”
Steve raises an eyebrow challengingly. “Oh, sure–– I mean, you never get anyone in Wings of a Dove having the nerve to say ‘inform the Pentagon that we need Black Star cover.”
“And I think the book is the poorer for it,” says Eddie crisply.
Steve smiles his biggest smile of the day, and Eddie finally feels like he’s helping.
A little later, when they’re inside at the table, Steve points at a poster that’s hanging on the wall behind Eddie. “I can’t believe you have that picture.”
Eddie turns to look at his print of Chagall’s La Mariée. “You like Chagall?”
“I do,” says Steve. “It feels like how being in love should be. Floating through a dark blue sky.”
Eddie nods and turns back to Steve. “With a goat playing the violin,” he says.
“Of course,” Steve responds. “Happiness isn’t happiness without a violin-playing goat.”
Eddie hears the front door unlock, and then Mike breezes into the kitchen carrying three boxes of pizza.
“Voila!” Mike announces. “Hawaiian for Eddie the Banished, sausage and mushroom for me, and Carnival Calypso for the King of Chicago–– pepperoni, peppers, and a little more pepperoni.” He places the boxes of pizza in front of their respective owners with a flourish.
“Fantastic,” says Steve.
“He’s a vegetarian,” Eddie informs Mike.
Mike goes bedsheet-ghost white. After a moment of panic, he says, “I have some parsnip stew from last week. If I peel the skin off, it’ll be perfect.”
*
Later that night, Eddie and Steve nurse beer bottles in the living room. The only light comes from the television, which basks them in a blue glow. There’s a movie playing, some action flick with excessive explosions, but neither of them are paying attention to the screen.
“You have big feet,” observes Steve.
Eddie’s got his feet up on the coffee table. He flexes his toes in his socks and says. “Um, yeah. Guess I always have.”
Steve takes an innocent sip of beer and looks at Eddie from underneath his inky eyelashes. “You know what they say about men with big feet?”
Eddie’s heart thunders against the cage of his ribs. Carefully, he says, “no. What’s that?”
“Big feet, large… shoes,” says Steve primly.
Eddie roars with laughter.
*
A few hours later, they’re both eating ice-cream out of the tubs–– Eddie’s got Chunky Monkey, Steve’s got Phish Food. The television is still on, but they’ve given up the pretense of paying attention.
“The thing that’s so irritating is that now I’m so strict when it comes to nudity clauses,” Steve says, licking at the back of his spoon.
“You actually have clauses in your contract about nudity?” asks Eddie.
“Definitely,” says Steve. “‘You may show the dent at the top of the artist’s buttocks–– but neither cheek. Or if there’s a stunt bottom being used, the artist must have full consultation.’”
“You have a stunt ass?” Eddie puts his spoon down, incredulous.
“I could have a stunt ass, yeah,” says Steve.
“Would you be tempted to go for a slightly better ass than your own?” Eddie asks.
“Oh, definitely,” says Steve, digging his spoon into the tub of ice-cream. “I would. This is important stuff.”
“That’s one hell of a job. What do you even put on your passport? Profession–– stunt ass.”
“It’s a well respected profession,” says Steve.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you could totally do your own ass stunt work,” Eddie says.
Steve snorts. “Oh, I know. I have a great ass,” he says, and then takes a huge bite of ice-cream. Some spills and dribbles down the front of his shirt, and he pouts comically. “Aw, boo.”
“You spilled,” Eddie points out.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Steve chucks his spoon at Eddie, and Eddie dives out of the way, laughing.
*
They go to bed around midnight. Eddie sets Steve up on his bed, and makes the couch up for himself.
He walks Steve to bed because he’s a gentleman and also because he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.
“Today has been a good day,” Steve tells Eddie. “Which under the circumstances is… unexpected.”
“Well,” says Eddie. “Anytime, I guess. Um. Well, time for bed. Or sofa-bed, for me.”
“Right,” Steve says.
They stand in Eddie’s small hallway for a moment, looking at each other. And then Steve leans forward, kisses Eddie gently on the cheek, steps into the bedroom, and closes the door behind him.
Eddie feels electric all over. His fingertips buzz like he’s touched a live wire.
Eddie doesn’t even bother trying to sleep–– he lays awake under his duvet, shifting every so often on the couch. He stares at the ceiling.
He lays there, and he waits, and he waits some more. He begins to understand the definition of ‘yearning.’
Nothing happens, and then nothing happens for a while longer. Eddie gets up off the sofa decisively. He sits back down again. He gets back under the duvet.
Everything is quiet, and then, in the darkness, a stair creaks. There’s someone there.
Eddie sits up. “Hello?” he calls, hope smoothing the corners of his voice.
Mike rounds the corner, wearing a fuzzy bathrobe. “Hello. I was wondering if we could have a chat.”
Eddie flops back down on the couch, groaning out a frustrated, “ugh, Mike.”
“I don’t want to interfere or anything, but… he’s split up from his girlfriend, right?”
“Maybe.”
“And he’s here, in your home.”
“Yes.”
“And you get along very well.”
“Yes.”
“Well, isn’t this a good opportunity to… you know?” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“Mike. For Christ’s sake–– get a grip,” Eddie says.
“Right. Right. You think it’s the wrong moment. Fair enough,” he says. “Your loss.”
“Go to sleep, Mike,” Eddie groans from his place on the couch.
“Roger that,” says Mike, and then he turns on his heel and slips back into his room.
Eddie slides back into the dreamy atmosphere of the empty, quiet living room. He considers trying to sleep when he hears more footsteps on the stairs. “Oh, please fuck off.”
The voice that responds does not belong to Mike. “Okay, sorry.”
“No! No, wait.” Eddie rockets up from his place on the couch to find Steve standing at the top of the stairs. “I… thought you were Mike. I’m glad you’re not.”
Steve pads down the stairs. He’s changed out of his ice-cream splattered shirt into one of Eddie’s old Corroded Coffin t-shirts. Eddie’s mouth goes dry at the sight.
Steve stops about a foot away from Eddie. His fingers are worrying at the hem of his shirt. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” Eddie replies.
“What are you doing up?” Steve asks.
“I couldn’t sleep,” admits Eddie. “What about you?”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Steve says.
They're close enough now that Eddie can feel Steve's hot breath ghosting across the planes of his face.
Gathering his courage, Eddie lifts a hand to cup Steve’s jaw and guide his head over to the left. He takes a step closer, and they’re now only millimeters apart. Eddie leans in and presses his lips to the ivory column of Steve’s throat, listening as Steve’s breath hitches in his chest. Eddie uses his other hand to slip the neck of Steve’s shirt down, exposing more of Steve’s skin so Eddie can kiss his collarbone unhindered. What a miracle it is to touch this man’s skin.
“Eddie?” whispers Steve.
Eddie looks up at Steve, and he’s struck by who he’s with, who he has the privilege of touching. “Wow,” he says.
“What?” asks Steve.
“Nothing,” Eddie says. He presses a light kiss to a freckle on Steve’s jaw, and then continues, “I’m grateful that you have such spectacularly bad taste.”
Steve howls with laughter until Eddie kisses him deeply with one hand on Steve’s jaw, the other on his waist, reeling him in. Eddie decides that Steve tastes best with laughter on his lips.
*
Eddie and Steve go upstairs to bed, and it is like a dream. It’s a dream when Eddie carries Steve up the stairs. It’s a dream when Eddie drops Steve on his bed and Steve hits his tailbone on the way down and complains about it as Eddie goes to shut the door. It’s a dream that Eddie gets to press Steve into the mattress and kiss and touch Steve until he’s begging for Eddie to fuck him.
It’s a dream that while Eddie is searching in his nightstand for lube, Steve shucks off his pajamas, so when Eddie glances back over at Steve he’s completely naked, bronze all over, waiting for Eddie to hurry up.
Steve cocks an eyebrow. “What are you looking at?”
Eddie scoffs. “You, obviously.”
"Well, get on with it," Steve says.
Eddie takes Steve apart using his fingers first, targeting that spot inside Steve that makes him gasp and try to draw his knees together.
Eddie pries Steve's thighs apart gently. "No, I want to see you."
Once Steve's just loose enough and begging, Eddie fucks into Steve with care, holding Steve's hips in place. Steve is hot and vise-tight around Eddie, and Eddie can feel how Steve's body is having to accommodate him.
"Eddie," Steve's voice is a broken-off sob.
When Steve comes, he rakes his fingernails down Eddie's back involuntarily, leaving behind angry red lines. The sting is what tips Eddie over the edge, and he finds his release buried deep inside Steve.
*
At about three in the morning, Eddie blinks awake. Still half-asleep, he soothes himself in the rhythmic breathing of the man beside him. They aren't touching much right now–– just at the knee and ankle–– but Eddie can feel the heat radiating off him.
Steve rolls over, still asleep, and tucks himself into Eddie's side, slinging an arm around his middle.
I love you, Eddie thinks. And then, fuck.
*
Eddie and Steve stay in bed late into the morning. Even after they wake up, they lay there, basking in the sunlight, covered only by the sheet.
“It still strikes me as, well, surreal that I’m allowed to see you naked,” Eddie tells Steve.
Steve snorts. “You and every person in this country.”
Dread trickles like ice water down Eddie’s spine. “Oh, shit, yeah–– I’m sorry.”
“What is it about the world and nudity? Like, how can you be that into nakedness?”
“Well…”
“No, seriously. Like, I’ve got the same parts as half the population. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.”
Eddie makes a thoughtful face. “Actually, I can’t really think–– let me just have a quick look…” he lifts the sheet and looks Steve over. “Just doing research,” he says, then drops the sheet. “Yeah, no, totally beats me.”
Steve laughs, pleased, before turning a shade more serious. “Rita Hayworth used to say, ‘they go to bed with Gilda, they wake up with me.’”
“Who was Gilda?” Eddie asks.
Steve explains, “it was her most famous part. Men went to bed with the dream, and they didn’t like it when they woke up with the reality. Do you feel that way?”
Steve is soft and warm and honey-like in the sunlight. Eddie answers honestly, “you’re lovelier this morning than you have ever been.”
“Oh,” Steve says, touched. He looks at Eddie for a long moment and then leaps out of bed. “I’ll be back,” he says before leaving.
Eddie lies in bed for a while, watching dust motes filter through the sunlight. He’s acutely aware of every heartbeat.
Eventually, Steve returns with a tray of toast and tea, announcing, “Breakfast in bed! Or lunch, or brunch.” He puts the tray on the bed beside Eddie and then asks, “can I stay a bit longer?”
Eddie holds Steve’s gaze for a moment. “Stay forever,” he says.
“Okay. Damn, I forgot the jam,” says Steve.
The doorbell rings.
Steve looks to Eddie. He’s only wearing the oversized Corroded Coffin t-shirt and boxers. “You get the door, I’ll get the jam,” he says.
Steve heads to the fridge. Eddie pulls on some boxers and heads to the front door–– Mike probably forgot his key or something.
Eddie heads down the corridor and opens the front door.
Outside are hundreds of paparazzi–– an explosion of cameras and questions, of noise and flashes of light engulfs Eddie. The press seems to fill the entire street.
“Oh, fuck,” says Eddie. He slams the door shut.
“What?” calls Steve from the kitchen.
“Don’t ask,” replies Eddie, shaking his head.
Steve heads down the corner with no suspicion. “You’re up to something…”
“No, Steve, don’t––”
“What’re you hiding––”
Steve throws open the door, and the explosion of sound and light returns. In a split second the door is closed again.
“Oh my god,” Steve says. He’s crumpling in on himself, horrified. “And they got a photo of you dressed like that?”
“ Un dressed like this, yeah,” Eddie says.
“Jesus,” breathes Steve.
Steve marches into the kitchen, bee-lining to his phone. Eddie follows him. Steve dials a number, anxiety radiating off him in waves.
Eddie can hear Mike blithely heading downstairs to the kitchen. He’s wearing Superman-printed boxers and nothing else. “Good morning!” he says, throwing a thumbs up at Eddie.
“The press are here,” Steve says into the phone. “No, there are hundreds of them. My brilliant plan wasn’t so brilliant at all.” A pause, and then, “yeah, I know, I know. Just get me out, then.” He hangs up the phone and then murmurs, “dammit,” before heading upstairs.
“I wouldn’t go outside,” Eddie tells Mike.
“Why not?” Mike asks.
“Take my word for it,” says Eddie tiredly. He begins to climb the stairs, heading for his room.
Steve is getting dressed when Eddie finds him. “How are you doing?” Eddie asks gently.
“How do you think I’m doing?” snaps Steve.
“I… I don’t know what happened,” says Eddie.
“I do,” says Steve, beginning to pace. “Your roommate thought he’d make a buck or two telling the papers where I was.”
“That’s not true,” says Eddie.
“Really? The entire Chicago press just woke up this morning and thought, ‘hey–– I know where Steve Harrington is. He’s in that apartment with the blue door.’ And then you go out in your goddamn underwear!”
“I went out in my underwear,” comes a voice from behind Eddie. Eddie turns to find Mike walking past, looking horrified. “I thought you were joking. Oh, God. There are paparazzi photos of me in my underwear. What’s worse, it’s DC underwear. Not even Marvel!”
“Get out, Mike!” says Eddie. Mike makes himself scarce, and Eddie turns back to Steve. “I’m so sorry.”
“This is such a mess,” Steve says. “I came to you to protect myself against more shitty gossip and now I've landed in it all over again. For God’s sake, I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“You do?” asks Eddie. It’s a difficult moment, and a difficult thing for him to say, but he needs to define where they stand.
“As far as they’re concerned I do,” says Steve. “Fucking hell, Eddie. I’m not even out! And now tomorrow there’ll be pictures of us in every tabloid under the sun.”
“I know, I know–– but… just–– let’s stay calm,” Eddie stammers, spreading his hands placatingly.
“You can stay calm,” says Steve, seething. “It’s the perfect situation for you–– minimum risk, maximum publicity. Everyone you ever bump into will know. ‘Well done you, you slept with that actor, we’ve seen the pictures.’”
Eddie steps back, stung. “That’s unfair and you know it.”
“Who knows, it may even help business. Buy a book with kebab encounters from the guy who screwed Steve Harrington,” says Steve, and then he marches out of the room.
Eddie follows close behind him. “Now, stop. Stop, please–– calm down. I can make some tea––”
“I don’t want any fucking tea!” shouts Steve. “I want to go home.”
The doorbell rings, loudly and insistently.
“Mike!” Eddie yells. “Check who that is… and for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on!”
Mike pulls on a sweater and leans out of the upstairs window. He calls back down, “looks like a chauffeur to me!”
Eddie follows Steve from the kitchen into the corridor.
“And remember–– Mike owes you an expensive dinner. Or holiday–– depending on if he’s got the brains to get the going rate on betrayal.”
“That’s not true. And wait a minute, this entire thing is insane. Can’t we just try to, like, laugh about this, maybe? Seriously–– in the grand scheme of things, this stuff doesn’t matter. Why should you care what anyone else thinks of you?”
“Why should I care? Maybe, I don’t know, because my career relies on me caring?” says Steve.
“Okay, that’s fair,” says Eddie. “But still, all I’m asking for is a normal amount of perspective.”
“You’re right, of course you’re right,” says Steve. He doesn’t sound like he thinks Eddie is right. “It’s just that I’ve dealt with this shit for ten years–– you’ve had it for ten minutes. Our perspectives are very different.”
“I mean–– today’s newspapers will be lining tomorrow’s trash cans,” Eddie tries.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you know–– it’s just one day. Today’s papers will get thrown away tomorrow. No one will care about this soon.”
Steve’s voice goes ice-cold. “You really don’t get it. This story gets filed. Every time anyone writes anything about me–– they’ll dig up these photos. This will last forever. I’ll regret this forever.”
Eddie inhales sharply and takes a step back. That’s it, then. That’s the end.
“Right. Fine. I will do the opposite, if that’s alright with you. I’ll always be glad you came by,” Eddie says measuredly. Something heavy and dark settles over his heart. “But you’re right–– you should go.”
Steve looks at Eddie for a long moment. Eddie thinks Steve might say something else, but he doesn’t. He only opens the door, releasing the explosion of lights and sound once more. Outside are Steve’s team, including his publicist, his chauffeur, and two bodyguards. And then the door is shut, and they’re all gone. Everything goes silent.
Eddie finds himself at the kitchen table a while later, numbly eating leftover pizza. Mike sits across from him doing the same.
“Was it you?” Eddie asks.
“I might have told the pizza guy,” Mike says.
Eddie sighs. “Right.”
He puts his head in his hands, even though they’re covered in pizza grease. It doesn't matter. It’s all over now.
*
Six months pass. Summer turns to fall and then winter and then blooms into spring. El goes on a few unsuccessful dates. Eddie spends more time with Robin–– her coffee shop is struggling. Eddie works long hours at the store. He eats a lot of microwave burritos. He tries to avoid newspapers.
It’s a gray day in the store when Mike and El burst in. Dustin, who’s dozing off in the corner, jolts up at the noise of them running in.
“Have we got something for you!” says El. “Something which will make you love me so much you’ll want to hug me every single day for the rest of my life.”
Eddie’s eyebrows hike up in surprise. “Damn, okay. What’s that?”
“Steve Harrington’s phone number! You think about him all the time–– now you can call him!”
Eddie makes a face. “How the fuck did you get that?”
“Mike’s sister is his publicist,” El says, gesturing toward Mike. Mike is wearing a Hawaiian shirt that’s pattern with bananas today.
“Holy fuck,” Eddie exclaims, his mind racing. “That’s why I recognized her–– why the fuck didn’t you say anything?” he asks Mike.
Mike shrugs. “It never came up!”
El shoves the slip of paper with the phone number into Eddie’s hand. “There you go!”
Eddie accepts the paper hesitantly. “Well, thanks, this is, uh, great.”
“It is great, isn’t it?” muses El. “See you tonight.” She turns to leave, and then spots Dustin. “Nice shirt, Dusty-Bun!”
And then she rushes out, Mike in tow.
“Never should have told you that name,” grumbles Dustin. His shirt is emblazoned with an image of a test tube and the words, ‘If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate.’
Eddie considers the scrap of paper. The numbers bleed together as he stares at it. And then, carefully, he folds it and places it in the trash can.
*
They’re at Robin’s coffee shop, passing around a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream to pour into their coffees.
Max bangs on the side of the bottle of Baileys with her spoon. All the gathered friends–– Max, Lucas, Robin, Eddie, Dustin, El, Will, and Mike–– go silent. “I have a little speech to make–– I won’t stand up because I can’t… be bothered,” she pauses, waiting for a laugh, and then says, “laugh, assholes, I’m hilarious.” When she has received suitable laughter and praise, she continues, “Exactly a year ago today, this woman here started the finest coffee shop in Chicago.”
“Thank you very much,” says Robin, raising her mug in a cheers.
“Unfortunately, no one ever came here,” continues Max.
“A tiny hiccup,” Robin acknowledges.
“And so we must face the fact that starting next week, we’ll have to find somewhere else to get coffee,” finishes Max.
Robin’s brave face slips–– the dream is over, but she’s trying to hold herself together.
“I just want to say to Robin–– don’t take it personally. The more I think about things, the more I see no rhyme or reason to life–– no one knows why some things work out and some things don’t–– why some of us get luck, and some of us––”
“–– get fired,” finished Will.
Max turns to Will, shocked. “No!”
“Yeah, they’re shifting the whole outfit much more towards the trading side–– and, of course, I was total crap.”
The room is silent for a moment. Then, Robin proclaims, “so we go down together! A toast to Will–– the worst stockbroker in the whole world!”
Everyone raises their mugs to toast. Eddie takes a long sip and lets the Baileys wash over him.
“Any more announcements?” asks Max.
Eddie clears his throat. “Yeah–– I feel like I need to apologize for my behavior for these last six months. I have, as I’m sure you noticed, been slightly down lately––”
Lucas snorts. “That’s an understatement. There are dead people who are jollier.”
“–– but I want to make it clear that I’ve turned a corner and henceforth intend to be impressively happy,” Eddie says, and he almost believes it.
*
Two hours later. They’ve had a very good time. There’s been a chocolate cake. Lots of alcohol. Mike and Will started singing ‘Blue Moon’ acapella and that’s somehow devolved into them making out.
Eddie sits in the corner with Lucas, letting the liquor wash over him.
“So–– you’ve laid the ghost,” Lucas says.
“I think I have,” Eddie says.
“Don’t give a damn about the famous boy.”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“Which means you won’t be distracted by the fact that he’s back in Chicago, grasping his Oscar, and to be found filming most days in Jackson Park.”
Lucas puts down a copy of Chicago Tribune with a picture on the cover.
Gloom floods Eddie. “Oh God no.”
“So, not over him, in fact," surmises Lucas.
*
Eddie goes to Jackson Park the next day. It’s a beautiful day–– unseasonably warm, the sky is clear, and the cherry blossoms are in full bloom. It would be idyllic if there were less people. As it is, there are many people present–– a huge film crew and hundreds of extras dotted across the lawn and milling by the edges of the lake.
Eddie approaches a barrier that separates the set from the rest of the park and is intercepted by a security guard.
“Can I help you?” asks the security guard.
“Yeah,” says Eddie. “I was looking for Steve Harrington…”
“Does he know you’re coming?”
“No, no. He doesn’t.”
“I’m afraid I can’t really let you through then, sir,” says the security guard.
“Oh, right. I mean, I am a friend–– I’m not a lunatic, but–– no, you basically…”
“... can’t let you through, sir,” finishes the security guard.
And then, like magic, fifty feet away a trailer door opens and out steps Steve Harrington. He’s in a dark suit–– something Victorian with lots of buttons and a waistcoat and the whole nine yards. He’s got a cluster of people around him–– hair, make-up, costume, and an assistant who buzzes anxiously around. Steve walks a few feet, and then turns his head to talk to the assistant.
Eddie can see the exact moment that Steve catches sight of him. His face registers more than surprise, and the smile that he offers Eddie is a complex one.
Eddie offers Steve a small wave, because he has no idea what else to do. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here.
Steve heads over to Eddie, navigating around crew and equipment with his cluster following close behind. When he reaches Eddie, the security guard stands back a pace and his cluster holds back. Eddie and Steve are relatively unobserved, considering the circumstances.
“This is certainly… uh…” Steve trails off.
“I only found out you were here yesterday,” Eddie says.
“I was going to call, but… I didn’t think you’d want me to…” Steve sighs heavily.
The assistant steps forward and taps Steve on the shoulder, pleading, “Steve.”
Someone severe-looking is approaching with a clipboard–– judging by the assistant’s expression, it’s likely her boss.
“It’s not going well–– and it’s our last day,” Steve says to Eddie.
“Absolutely,” Eddie says. “You’re clearly very busy.”
“But,” Steve starts. He cuts himself off, takes a steading breath, and continues, “wait. There are things to say.”
“Okay,” says Eddie, because he was always going to say yes to Steve.
“Drink tea,” Steve instructs Eddie. “There’s lots of tea.”
And then Steve is swept away, four people touching up his hair and costume. From out of nowhere, Nancy appears, ushering Eddie toward the set.
“Come with me,” she tells him.
“You’re Nancy,” Eddie tells her. He looks her over–– she’s meticulously well dressed, not a hair out of place. She looks like she owns and consistently uses cuticle oil. “You’re Mike Wheeler’s sister?”
“Unfortunately,” Nancy says, and then, “are you a fan of Henry James?”
“This is a Henry James film?”
It looks like a complicated shot is being coordinated–– there are waves of extras being corralled and a huge moving crane. Eddie follows Nancy over to the sound deck, where a pleasant fifty-year-old balding fellow holds a set of headphones.
“This is Murray, he’ll give you a pair of headphones so you can hear the dialogue,” says Nancy.
“There you go,” says Murray as he hands Eddie the headphone. “Volume control is on the side.”
“Thanks,” says Eddie. He slides the headphones on and adjusts the dial.
Steve stands by the lakeshore with his co-star–– Eddie recognizes her, her name is Anna Scott. She’s wearing a tremendous velvet gown.
“They’re living in cloud cuckoo land if they think we’re going to finish today,” says Anna.
“We have to, I’ve got to be in New York on Thursday,” says Steve.
Anna rolls her eyes. “Oh, stop showing off.”
“So, I ask you when you’re going to tell everyone, and you say…?” Steve prompts.
“‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’” says Anna.
“And then I… right,” murmurs Steve. Steve shifts from foot to foot–– Eddie thinks he might be trying to recall his dialogue.
“Who was that guy you were talking to?” Anna asks Steve.
“Oh… no one, no one,” Steve says. “Just some… guy from the past. Bit of an awkward situation, I don’t know what he’s doing here.”
Eddie’s heart sinks. He’s heard enough. He takes the headphones off and puts them gently back down on the sound deck. “Thank you,” he tells Murray.
“No problem,” says Murray.
Eddie walks away. His moment of hope is gone. It’s a hard pill to swallow.
*
Mike finds Eddie emptying his collection of Steve Harrington films into a cardboard box.
“What’s going on?” Mike asks, chewing at a piece of jerky.
“I’m throwing out all these old movies,” Eddie says.
Mike frowns deeply. “No. You can’t toss those, they’re classics! I’m not allowing it.”
“Right,” Eddie says, slapping his palms on his thighs. “Let’s talk about rent.”
Mike drops to his knees beside Eddie, beginning to help stack DVD cases in the box. “Let me help, we don’t want all this shit cluttering our lives.”
*
The next day, Eddie is working on the accounts in the back room of his store when Dustin pops his head around the corner and says, “I hate to disturb you when you’re cooking the books, but there’s a delivery.”
Eddie groans, irritated. “Dustin, can’t you just deal with it yourself?”
“But it’s not for the shop, it’s for you,” Dustin says.
“Okay,” says Eddie, throwing down his pencil. “Tell me, would I have to pay a wet rag as much as I pay you?”
Eddie follows Dustin back to the front of the store. Dustin’s rubbing his hands together incomprehensibly–– he’s in a very good mood for some reason. Dustin stops just before the front of the store, letting Eddie walk past him.
Eddie enters the front room–– and there stands Steve Harrington. He’s wearing Levi’s and a white t-shirt and Eddie wants to scream.
“Hi,” says Steve.
“Hello,” says Eddie.
“You disappeared.”
“Yes–– I’m sorry, I had to leave,” Eddie stammers. “I… I didn’t want to impose or anything.”
“Well… how have you been?” Steve asks. He’s uncharacteristically timid, toeing at the ground. Every time he meets Eddie’s gaze it sends a bolt of electricity down Eddie’s spine.
“Fine. Everything’s been the same with me,” Eddie says. “Whereas you… awards, glory, the whole shebang.”
“Oh, no, it’s all bullshit,” says Steve. “It’s all bullshit, believe me. I had no idea how much bullshit it all was until I went through it, but it’s all bullshit…” Steve trails off. He clears his throat and then meets Eddie’s gaze with intention. “Yesterday was our last day of filming and I’m just off–– but I brought you this from home, and…” For the first time, Eddie notices that there’s a large package leaning against the bookshelf–– it’s big, three foot by four foot, and flat and wrapped in butcher’s paper. “I thought I’d give it to you.”
“Thank you,” Eddie says. “Should I…”
“No, don’t open it yet,” says Steve. “I’ll be embarrassed.”
“Okay, well… thank you,” Eddie tells him. “I don’t know what it is or what it’s for, but thank you anyway.”
“I actually had it in my apartment in New York and just thought you’d… but, when it came to it, I didn’t know how to call you, having behaved so… badly, twice. So it’s just been sitting in the hotel,” Steve says. “But then… you came, so I figured… the thing is… the thing is…” Steve keeps trailing off, the words seemingly stuck in his throat.
“What? What’s the thing?” urges Eddie.
And then the bell above the door dings as Eddie’s least favorite customer, Mr. Smith, walks in.
“Don’t even think about it,” Eddie tells him. “Go away immediately. Go away.”
Mr. Smith is taken aback and thus rendered completely obedient. He says, “right, sorry,” and then leaves.
“You were saying,” prompts Eddie.
“Yes,” says Steve. “The thing is… I have to go away today but I wondered, if I didn’t, whether you might let me see you a bit… or a lot, maybe… see if you could… like me again.”
Eddie soaks this in, then says, “but yesterday… that actress asked you who I was, and you totally dismissed me, I heard–– you had a microphone, I had headphones.”
“You expect me to tell the truth about my life to the lady with the loudest mouth on the continent?”
Dustin appears beside Eddie, and Eddie contemplates strangling him. “I’m so sorry,” Dustin says. “But your uncle is on the phone.”
“Can you tell him I’ll call him back,” Eddie bites out.
“I actually already tried that,” Dustin says, “but he said you said that before and it’s been twenty-four hours, and his foot that was purple is now a sort of blackish color…”
“Perfect timing, as ever,” Eddie grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “Hold down the fort for a second will you, Dustin?”
He heads to the phone at the back of the store, leaving Steve with Dustin.
“Can I just say, I thought Ghost was a great movie,” Dustin tells Steve.
“Is that right?” says Steve.
“Yeah… I’ve always wondered what Demi Moore is like in real life,” muses Dustin.
“I can’t say I know Demi all that well.”
“Oh, she wasn’t friendly during filming?”
“Well, no, I’m sure she was friendly,” Steve says, not unkindly, “to Patrick Swayze, who acted with her in Ghost.”
“Oh, right,” says Dustin. “Sorry. Never been stellar at the conversation kind of thing.”
Eddie returns then, a little uneasy.
“Anyway, lovely to meet you,” Dustin says hurriedly, moving toward the back of the store. “I’m a big fan of yours. And Swayze’s of course.”
Dustin disappears into the back room, and Eddie turns to Steve.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
“It’s fine,” says Steve. “There’s always a pause when the jury considers the verdict, right?” He shifts from foot to foot, clearly nervous.
“Steve, look,” Eddie sighs. “I’d consider myself a level-headed guy. Not often in and out of love. But…” he trails off, searches for the best words, comes up short, “... can I just say ‘no’ to your kind request and leave it at that?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” says Steve. He’s rattled, fighting to keep his voice level. The sound makes Eddie’s heart hurt. “Of course. I… you know… of course. I’ll just… be going then. It was nice to see you.”
Before Steve can make any move to leave, Eddie’s mouth is opening and words come flowing out. “The truth is… with you, I’m in real danger. It looks like a perfect situation–– but my relatively inexperienced heart wouldn’t recover if I was once again… cast aside, which I would absolutely expect to be. There are too many pictures of you everywhere, too many movies. You’d go and I’d be… well, fucked, basically.”
“I see,” Steve says. After a pause, he continues, “that really is a real ‘no,’ isn’t it?”
“I live in Chicago. You live in Beverly Hills,” Eddie says. “Everyone in the world knows who you are, my uncle has trouble remembering my name.”
Steve swallows hard and averts his gaze. “Fine. Fine. Good decision.”
A moment passes. Eddie’s skin itches with the effort of not touching Steve, of not reaching out to comfort him.
“The fame thing isn’t really real, you know,” Steve says finally. “Don’t forget–– I’m also just a boy. Standing in front of you. Asking you to love me.”
Eddie’s stricken by this–– he’s rooted to the spot. Steve kisses him on the cheek–– a whisper of a kiss more than anything else.
“Bye,” says Steve, and then he’s gone.
*
Eddie calls an emergency meeting. They meet at Robin’s coffee shop. It’s in the middle of being deconstructed, and the walls are cracked open like eggshells, exposing the wiring. Sawdust sits in piles on the floor.
“What do you think? Good move?” Eddie asks.
“Good move,” confirms El. “When all is said and done, he’s nothing special. I saw him taking his pants off, and I definitely saw some cellulite down there.”
“Good decision,” echoes Max. “All actors are total nutjobs.”
“Robin, what do you think?” asks Eddie.
Robin shrugs. “Never met him, never want to.”
“Brilliant,” says Eddie. “Lucas?”
“Absolutely,” says Lucas. “Never trust a vegetarian.”
“Great. Excellent. Thanks,” says Eddie.
Mike enters the building in a cloud of rainforest deodorant, a blushing Will in tow. “We were called and we came,” announces Mike. “What’s up?”
“Eddie has just turned down Steve Harrington,” says El.
Immediately Mike’s expression goes stormy. “You fucking idiot.”
Max, who’s been investigating the package that sits beside Eddie, the one Steve gave him. She peels back the butcher paper curiously to reveal the midnight blue of Chagall’s La Mariée. “This painting isn’t the original, is it?” she asks.
“Yeah, I think it is,” says Eddie, his heart sinking like an anchor.
“He said he wanted to go out with you?” asks Will.
“Yes, sort of,” replies Eddie.
“That’s nice.”
“What?”
“Well, you know, anybody saying they want to go out with you is pretty great, isn’t it,” stammers out a very red Will.
“It was sort of sweet, actually,” Eddie says. “I mean, I know he’s an actor and all that, so he can deliver a line–– but he said that he might be famous as can be–– but also… that he was just a boy, standing in front of me, asking me to love him.”
The words flood over Eddie’s rapt audience. They all eye him.
“Oh, fuck a duck. I’ve made the wrong choice, haven’t I?”
“Obviously,” says Mike.
“Lucas, how fast is your car?” asks Eddie.
*
They pile into Lucas’s vehicle, squeezing together in their best imitation of a clown car.
“If anyone gets in our way, we have small nuclear devices,” Lucas says.
“And we intend to use them!” proclaims Will from the back of the car.
“Where’s Max?” asks Lucas, looking around, confused.
“She’s not coming,” says El.
Lucas makes a face. “Fuck that. Everyone, make room! Will, with me!” He shoots out of the driver’s seat, rushes back into the building, and scoops up Max. Will follows, grabbing Max’s wheelchair and stuffing it in the truck of the car. Somehow, they make room in the carriage of the car and they head off in search of Steve Harrington.
Thanks to some legally flexible driving techniques, they end up outside the Ritz quickly. Eddie bustles into the lobby and beelines to the counter. “Is Mr. Harrington staying here?” he asks the concierge.
“No, sir,” says the concierge.
“How about Mr. Flintstone?”
“No, sir.”
“Or Bambi… or, I don’t know, Beavis or Butthead?”
The concierge shakes his head. “No, sir.”
“Right, right,” Eddie says. “Fair enough. Thanks.” He turns, despondent, and takes a few steps before the concierge stops him in his tracks.
“There was a Mr. Nemo in room one-twenty-six–– but he checked out an hour ago. I believe he’s holding a press conference at the Savoy before he flies to New York.”
“Thank you!” says Eddie, and then he sprints back to the car.
Luca’s hummer speeds through Chicago until it gets completely stuck at a junction and no one will let them through.
“Shit, shit,” mutters Eddie, casting frantic glances at his watch.
“Fuck this,” says Mike, and gets out of the car. He boldly stops the traffic, waving his arms frantically and flipping off the drivers that start laying on the horn. “Go!”
Lucas lays on the gas, and they leave Mike behind in the middle of the street. Will leans out of the window and shouts, “you’re my hero!”
Mike waves wildly in acknowledgement–– he loses concentration and nearly gets hit by a car.
After a few more minutes of panic-inducing driving, they pull up in front of the Savoy and Eddie leaps out of the car.
“Go!” howls Max.
Eddie obliges. He sprints into the building and makes his way up to the front desk. “Excuse me, where’s the press conference?”
“Are you an accredited member of the press?” asks the man at the desk.
“Yes…” Eddie says. He pulls a random card from his wallet, flashes it quickly, and puts it down.
“That’s a Blockbuster video membership card, sir,” observes the man at the desk.
“That’s right,” says Eddie. “I work for their in-house magazine.” He mimes quotation marks, “‘Movies are our business.’”
“I’m sorry, sir…” begins the man at the desk.
Suddenly, El is beside Eddie, pushing Max in her wheelchair.
“He’s with me,” says Max.
“And you are?” asks the man at the desk.
“Writing an article about how Chicago hotels treat people in wheelchairs,” Max says, raising a challenging eyebrow.
The man at the desk goes white as a sheet. “Of course, madam. It’s in the Lancaster Room. I’m afraid you’re very late.”
“Run!” El hisses at Eddie.
Eddie runs, searching from room to room for any sign of Steve or a press conference. At last he finds the room, and enters.
Unfortunately the room is huge and full of press. There’s rows and rows of journalists, photographers at the front, TV cameras at the back. Steve clearly gives press conferences very rarely, because this one is positively presidential in scale.
Steve sits at a table at the front of the room, Nancy beside him. She’s clearly marshaling the questions.
“You–– Dominic,” says Nancy, pointing into the crowd.
Dominic–– a journalist–– eagerly rises from his chair. “How much longer are you staying in Chicago?”
“No time at all,” answers Steve. “I fly out tomorrow.”
Steve’s expression bleeds melancholy. Eddie yearns.
“Which is why we have to round it up now. Final questions,” Nancy says into the mic. She points at another journalist in the crowd, and she jumps up.
“Does your decision to take a year off have anything to do with the rumors about your ex and her new leading man?”
Steve laughs good-naturedly. “Absolutely not.”
“Do you believe the rumors?” presses the journalist.
“It’s really not my business any more,” Steve says. “Though I will say, from my experience, that rumors about her… tend to be true.”
The crowd laughs, delighted at Steve’s levity. The journalists all scribble in their little notebooks.
The next journalist Nancy calls on stands directly next to Eddie. The journalist says, “last time you were here, there were some fairly graphic photos of you and a guy–– what happened there?”
“He was just a friend,” Steve says into the mic smoothly. “We’re still friends, I think.”
More titters from the audience, more scribbling in the notebooks.
Nancy looks out into the crowd and spots Eddie standing there, one hand tentatively raised. “You,” she says.
Eddie clears his throat and straightens his shirt. “Yes–– Mr. Harrington–– are there any circumstances in which you two might be more than friends?”
Steve looks annoyed for a moment, and then he looks into the crowd and his eyes land on Eddie. The room is silent but crackling with tension–– Eddie feels like a live wire.
Slowly, Steve leans in and says, “I hoped there might be–– but no, I’m assured there aren’t.”
“And what would you say if this… person…”
“His name is Munson,” helpfully supplies a journalist beside Eddie.
“Thanks,” says Eddie. “I just wondered if Mr. Munson realized he’d been a fucking idiot and got down on his knees and begged you to reconsider, whether you would… reconsider.”
Everything has come to this. Eddie’s breath catches in his chest, and his heart hammers against the cage of his ribs.
“Yes,” says Steve finally. “I think I would.”
“That’s very good news,” says Eddie. “The readers of Horse and Hound will be absolutely delighted.”
Steve’s smile is dynamite. He leans over and whispers something in Nancy’s ear, and then she says, “Dominic–– if you’d like to ask your question again?”
Dominic, the first reporter, stands from his seat, just as eager the second time. “Yes–– Steve–– how long are you intending to stay here in Chicago?”
Steve leans into the mic. “Indefinitely,” he says, and then after a moment, “or at least until we get bored.”
Eddie and Steve smile at one another. Suddenly, the press catches on to what’s going on, and the room explodes with noise and light as reporters begin asking questions and taking flash photography.
Eddie couldn’t possibly care less. As far as he’s concerned, the only two people that exist in the world are him and Steve.
*
Max and Lucas adopt, and Eddie has the privilege of being the most annoying godfather perhaps ever (he learns a few magic tricks to keep the kids entertained).
Robin and El open a hybrid coffee shop/eclectic craft store. Surprisingly, people actually frequent this business.
Will and Mike get together and, proving God is real, Mike moves out of Eddie’s place. Steve moves in the next day.
Steve wins two more Oscars. Eddie walks the carpet with him both times.
Sometimes, Steve and Eddie break into the communal gardens so they can sit together in the sunlight. Steve likes to play with the wedding ring on Eddie’s ring finger. Steve has a matching golden band.
They grow old together, and what a miracle that is.