Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Steve didn't think he'd be starting over again at 40.

He thought he and Jon would be together forever. But then, almost 15 years together isn't a bad run, is it? And, they're still amiable with each other — united in the cause of raising Max (their stroppy, impossible, beautiful teenager) to be a lovely young woman.

And maybe that's all he can ask for at the end of the day.

"Well?" Steve pauses, waiting for Robin's response. "Do you think it's straight?"

Robin stands back and tries to level the frame with her hands one more time, unsure. She'd insisted they get the family pictures and art on the walls the day they moved in and not waited like her and Chrissy, for a 'free' weekend that ended up being a year and a half later. And also 11 PM on a weekday.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"You're the art teacher," he says with a laugh. "You tell me."

"Well," she plants her hands on her hips and bends backwards, trying to stretch out her back. "My back is killing me and my impending child just kicked me internally, so I think it's good enough."

"Yeah." Steve smiles. "Good enough."

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"Wow," Wayne says, looking over his shoulder. "Look at you. You've got three bedrooms, three trash cans, one for each room, and all of your mattresses are off the floor. Well done."

"I know, right?" Eddie tosses his hair over his shoulder. "We are determined for this place not to be a pit of disgusting boy germs with an expensive TV and a camping chair in an empty room. Instead, it's gonna be a place people actually want to spend time in. A gentleman's club, if you will."

"A gentleman's club? Is that right?" Wayne raises his eyebrows. "Does that mean you're quitting your vape pen?"

"I am actually," Eddie nods, sagely. "Because I put in a box somewhere and now I can't find it."

"Ah," Wayne nods back at him. "I see. Are these all yours?" he points to the LPs and records hanging on the walls.

"Some of them! Some of them are Jeff's and some of them are Freak's."

"And you've got no ancient armchairs that you found on the side of the road that are actually riddled with bed bugs and beetles?"

"No," Eddie says, pointedly. "That was one time. Gareth's mom is an antiques dealer, okay? I was inspired."

"I bet." Wayne smirks. "Is your mom coming this week?"

"Yeah, once she's done with the first stage of the new site. She's gonna make me some built-in bookshelves along my bedroom wall with string lights so they can be all lit up and pretty."

"Mhm. You've got permission to do that from your landlord?"

"Yes," Eddie says, knowing Wayne would ask something like that. He avoids a lot of scenarios and situations in life by wondering what questions Wayne might ask if he could see him right now. "Verbally and in writing by email."

"Mhm. Okay. You sure you don't need anything else? I brought the truck so we can run to the store if you want."

"No, we got it. Thanks, old man."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Max hears knocking somewhere outside the apartment, and then pulls her headphone out of her ear when she realises it's someone knocking on their door.

She looks through the peephole before she unlocks the door. He's…they're…? Someone young with dark curly hair, tattoos, piercings, rings and dark jeans.

Hm. Cool.

"Oh, thank god you're home. Hey. Weird question. You don't happen to have oven mitts, do you? I just moved in next door and I don't think we have any."

"Oh, yeah. I think my dad has some. Hang on." She leaves the door propped open while she walks into the kitchen and grabs the mitts off the wall.

"Here."

"Thank you!" he says, emphatically. "Thank you so much. I'll bring them right back I just need to take my pizza out of the oven."

Max isn't sure whether to wait and stand there with the door open or to close the door and wait for him to come back, but she pauses her music and decides to wait. She watches the guy fumble with his keys and then race into what has to be his kitchen. She can hear the oven door being yanked open and then the guy swearing as he pulls out the pan.

He races back through his apartment and out into the hall to return the mitts.

"Thank you so much, you saved my lunch."

"It's cool," Max says, shrugging.

"I'm Eddie, by the way."

"Max."

If he asks if it's short for anything the answer's no.

"Max, cool. Well." He gives her a little wave. "Thanks again."

She closes the door and locks it behind her. She puts her headphone back in her other ear and presses play on her music. Then she wonders why Eddie didn't just use a tea towel or something to take his pizza out of the oven.

Maybe he doesn't have any of those, either.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Hi!" Joyce says, when Steve opens the door.

"Hey, Joyce. Come in, please."

"I brought you guys some mac and cheese casserole, I hope that's okay. I brought cutlery and plates, too, in case you hadn't unpacked those yet."

"Oh, Max will love that. Thanks, Joyce." Steve tucks the dish next to his hip and locks the door behind her. "Did you want a quick tour?"

"I'd love one."

"So this is the entryway, obviously, and then the kitchen and living room are through here." He makes space in the fridge for the large dish covered in foil. "We're still figuring out where to put the dining table, but the girls mostly eat on their laps anyway. So, it's all coming together."

"It's a lot bigger than I thought it would be," Joyce says, looking around her. "When you said apartment I was a little bit, like," she tips her head from one side to the other and hums. "But this is so bright and comfortable."

Steve loves the space, even if he spends a lot of his time bumping into the furniture because his muscle memory isn't used to it all yet. But he loves the way his couch looks during golden hour with the light streaming in from all of those windows in the front room. He loves the way the fresh herbs look in their planter on his windowsill in the kitchen. He loves the high ceilings and the two offices in the little loft space upstairs. He loves it.

"Yeah. I looked at houses and," he shrugs. "There just wasn't anything I liked. There were lots of new, skinny builds but nothing with character."

"Yeah," Joyce nods. "Jonathan was saying you were looking at townhouses too, and Max didn't like any of them."

"Right, yeah. So then my estate agent suggested apartments, and this is technically two apartments in one, so there's plenty of space and we're not tripping over each other anymore."

They walk down the hall together. "So, this is Max's bedroom," he says, pushing open the door.

Max — his only child and his forever tomboy was pretty quick to unpack all of her stuff and make it her own. She displayed her skateboards and organised her comic books and soon her clothes were all over the floor. The display for her sneaker and snap back collection was still a work-in-progress, but they were almost there.

"Wow," Joyce says with a smile. "She's so grown up now."

"I know," Steve sucks in a breath. "Seventeen."

Max painted her walls a dark navy that Steve thought was very handsome. On top of that handsome navy colour, so many posters from so many bands — Nirvana, Metallica, Rage Against the Machine, Chappell Roan, Japanese Breakfast and Hozier. And that's not including the movie posters — a combination of skater films, 90's anime films Jonathan assures him are classics and some films Steve's not sure she's watched yet.

And on the last wall by her door, a section of chalkboard paint so she could write or draw whatever she liked directly on the wall. Steve's one rule? Nothing nude, lewd or rude. And in response Max wrote:

Killing in the Name Of by Rage Against the Machine, 4:13

What are the lyrics in "Killing in the Name Of" at 4 minutes and 13 seconds? FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME

Steve let it slide. He knows better than anyone to pick his battles with Max.

When Max was younger, he used to stand in her bedroom and look around him just to see if he could understand her better. But she talks to him more now than when she was 12, 13 and 14 so he doesn't have to do that anymore. Well, except he thinks she probably has a girlfriend, or at least a crush, but he's decided he'll let her come to him with that information.

"And then this is Cami's." Camille, or Cami, his kid sister, 20 years his junior, effectively ran away from their dad's house to ask to live with Steve when she was 11 and he was 31. It was complicated — Steve didn't really have the space for her in the house he shared with Jonathan and Max. But as it turned out, neither did his dad.

Apparently if you have an affair with the nanny and she has a child and you bring the child home, it doesn't matter how big your estate is, your current wife will be unhappy about it.

Funny how the world works.

Steve cannot believe his parents are still together, but his mom won't leave the house because it's hers and she didn't do anything wrong, and his dad won't leave for a unique combination of habit, his own eccentricities and his unwillingness to feel discomfort. So, Steve has stopped trying to understand because it's too much effort.

It was a long process to get Steve officially listed as her guardian because he didn't want to adopt her, but he also didn't want to get between his dad and his mom and make it seem like he was taking sides.

Not that he was entirely sure how he would be taking sides if he took care of Cami. But he had a vague feeling his mom might take it personally if he did anything other than pretend Cami didn't exist like she did.

So they ferried Camille back and forth from Steve's house to their dad's house to various estates around the world until she politely asked if she could stay with Steve.

Getting Cami out of her house was something his mom largely preferred, so it turned out Steve taking guardianship of Cami benefited all three of them.

"Oh, I feel like I stepped through a portal into one of Will's campaigns," Joyce murmurs. Steve could see why.

Cami's room wasn't done yet — she was still painting a mural on one of her walls, (a medieval forest scene with a unicorn, a hare and many trees and stars) with drop cloths gathered on the hardwood. But her shelves were mounted with all of her little apothecary jars, trinkets and curiosities, including a painted crow skull she won in a mutual aid auction, a lithograph painting of a candle burning and a two-headed duck named Quackers (he/him) and Cheese (he/they).

Her bed was a massive four-poster she'd found at an antique store, fell in love with and held in storage while she moved between college and Steve's place. It looked severe and imposing with its dark wood until she'd covered it in vintage quilts and silks and lace as fine as spider's silk. And then it looked like it belonged.

Apart from the hoard of plants all gathering around the window, ivy draping down the window frame, there wasn't much else in the room except for her three dress forms (one masculine and two feminine forms, one with a wider frame). They stood like sentries, watching over her bed. They looked just fine now in the daylight, but draped as they often were with test fabrics and half-finished designs, they did look a lot like three spirits or intruders entering through her window and had nearly scared Steve half to death on more than one occasion.

"And then this is mine," Steve says, stepping into the main bedroom.

Joyce whistles low and slow. "Nice bed." It is a nice bed — it's king-sized and his bedroom is big enough that the bed doesn't look like it was squeezed inside it.

"Thanks. Max was the one who suggested I get it, actually." She leapt onto it and spread herself out like a starfish, rolling from one end to the other and declared this was his bed. "Cami's making me some custom duvet covers right now, so it looks a little bare, but."

"And you got a private little balcony, too."

"It's just the right size."

"Perfect for," Joyce brings her fingers to her lips and mimes smoking a cigarette.

"Exactly," Steve smirks.

They've both been trying to quit for years, her after Lonnie left her as a single working mom with two kids. Steve's tried and tried and tried to quit since he restarted after he and Jonathan broke up five years ago.

"Has anyone been telling you to go on dates?" She asks, elbowing him in his side like she already knows the answer.

"Not too many people," Steve smiles. "Just Robin. And Jonathan, too."

"Mhm. Well, fuck 'em. Don't listen to them. If your kids are happy, you're happy. The rest of it can come later."

"Yeah," Steve nods. "It will."

The front door opens and Steve hears the familiar scrape and clatter of Max's skateboard along the wall.

"Max honey, Joyce is here," he calls, hoping his voice carries through the apartment.

Steve listens as Max seems to throw her stuff onto the ground and ambles towards them.

"Hi, Grandma," she says, throwing her arms around Joyce in a hug. Joyce raises her eyebrows at Steve and he raises his back.

She hugs now?

I know, she hugs now.

"Hi, sweetheart. How was school?"

"Iunno," she shrugs. She wraps her arms around Steve next and he does his best to savour it until she lets go.

"Hi. Joyce made a mac and cheese bake. It's in the fridge."

"Yesss!" Max says, drawing out the s for as long as possible, leaping back down the hall to go to the kitchen.

"See?" Joyce says, pointing with her chin. "As long as your kids are happy."

"Exactly."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"No, no, not that one," Eddie's mom says from behind him. "That one."

"Which one?" Eddie says, trying to see where she's pointing. It doesn't help that she's hardly five feet tall and Eddie has no idea about wood or grain or composites or whatever the fuck his mom is looking for right now.

Mona takes a laser measuring tape out of her tool belt and points with it. "That one."

"Oh! This one." He pulls on the plank of wood, careful not to get a splinter (he'd already done that once today, thank you) and slides it out from the pile. "It's a lighter colour than I thought."

"Yeah, 'cause we'll stain it," she laughs and blows a loose curl out of her face. She looks over her parts list for work and making sure she has everything she needs when she looks up and notices Eddie sitting in the cart.

"Eddie," she sighs. "C'mon. You told me you were too old for that when you were ten."

"Please?" And then Eddie does that thing. That thing with his eyes where they're all big and brown and sweet. She could never say no to him when he did that, for better or worse.

"Jesus, Eddie," Mona laughs, grabbing the cart. "Okay let me back up. We're doing this once, so it's gonna count."

"Yes, ma'am."

She doesn't give him a heads up, she just sprints until the cart can coast along all the way down the length of the aisle, gliding along the polished concrete. Eddie woops joyfully and throws his head back and laughs as they collide with a stack of mulch and fertiliser.

People turn their heads and a few cashiers look up from their stations, but only one staff member is brave enough to walk over once Eddie climbs out of the cart.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, dusting himself off. "It was just a… rogue cart situation," he skates one palm on top of the other, like it was taking off.

"…okay. You're okay, Mona?"

"Yeah, Bill, I'm good. Thank you." She turns to Eddie who is fruitlessly trying to smooth out the massive bags of mulch. "C'mon, trouble. Let's get your stain and get out of here."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you have warm lights or cool lights in your apartment?" Mona asks while she reads the labels of the wood stains.

"…yellow lights? Why?"

"Because the type of lighting will affect how it looks."

"Oh. Hey, why are carpenter's pencils flat?"

"So they don't roll off an uneven work surface," she answers him quickly, so she can get back to her original question. "Yellow? Like a warm yellow?"

"…yeah. Mhm. Yeah," Eddie says, nodding with the confidence of a man who has absolutely no idea what he's talking about.

"Okay, so then—" she stands on her tiptoes to reach the shelf. "This one should do just fine."

Eddie clicks his vape pen and checks their shopping list. He's blowing smoke over his shoulder when another staff member approaches them.

"I'm sorry, sir, you can't smoke in here—"

Sir? When the fuck did I become a 'sir'?

"Oh! My bad! Sorry, it's a bad habit. I'll stop, I'm sorry." Eddie puts the vape in his pocket and zips it up tightly.

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"I can't take you anywhere," Mona sighs, regarding him. "C'mon, let's go to the front."

"You reminded me of your dad back there," she says, watching him kick the wheel of their shopping cart as though that might help it work better.

"When? When I had a blatant disregard for other people and smoked inside?"

"No," she laughs. "In the cart. I dunno. It just felt like something he would do."

"Oh yeah," Eddie nods. "He was a real carpe diem kinda guy. Except… without the dark academia and impacting people's lives so deeply they stand on a table and pledge their loyalty to him."

"Am I supposed to understand this reference?"

"Wait, you've never seen Dead Poet's Society?"

"No, but I have heard of it and I've heard good things."

"Okay, that's the pick for the next Munson family movie night, then."

"You're on." Mona watches him put the cart away, running with in until he stands on the back of it, driving it until it crashes into the stack of other carts.

Yep. That one's definitely mine.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"GIRLS!" Steve calls from the hallway, car keys in hand. "I want to leave on time, please!"

"Coming!" They both call back, almost at the same time. Cami is often late, getting lost in the creative process of getting dressed, applying then reapplying graphic liner when she changes her mind, or plaiting her hair in a fishtail braid. But Max? She's usually ready to go before he is, kicking the baseboard with her sneakers and looking bored in the hallway by the time he gets there.

"What's going on?" he asks as he steps into Max's room, watching her dig through a laundry basket.

"I can't find my uniform," she says, and from the way her voice twists into something painful he can tell she's upset with herself.

"You promised me you had it three days ago."

"I know!" She says, pulling her long red hair out of her face. "And it's the one time I need the actual uniform."

"Where do you think it could be?"

"I dunno. Dad's, maybe?"

"Okay. Let me call him. Don't panic, okay?"

She flops onto her bed and screams into her blankets. Steve does his best to ignore the swearing pouring out of her mouth.

Steve pulls out his phone, scrolls through his contacts all the way to J then calls Jonathan.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Max doesn't have her uniform. Do you have it?"

"I think so. I thought she had another one?"

"She hasn't picked it up from her coach yet."

"Mhm."

Steve listens to the domestic static and rustle of Jonathan looking through his house for her uniform. "I got it. It's washed and everything."

"Okay, let me tell her."

He opens the door to her bedroom again and finds her trying to breathe deeply on her bed. "Your dad has it. He's gonna bring it."

"Thank fuck," she says, launching herself out of bed.

"Max!" Steve says, admonishing her. "Language."

Jonathan laughs louder than Steve thinks he should have. "I'll see you in the car park."

"Cami!" Max yells her name right outside their bathroom. "Let's go!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she says, fiddling with a black shawl draped over her midsection. "I was ready and then my rings got caught in my shawl. It's vintage, I don't want to pull a thread."

"Okay, Cami, I'll drop you off at your exhibition, then I'll take Max to her game. Max, you'll go home with your dad, then I'll come back for the end of Cami's thing, okay?"

"It's open all weekend, Steve," Cami says with a shrug. "You can come whenever."

"I know, but I want to hear your talk."

She tugs on Max's long ponytail. "When are you gonna let me braid this so it stays out of your face?"

"Can you do it in the car?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, but I don't want it to look girly."

"Braids don't have gender, dummy."

"They do in high school!"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Eddie finds himself at home on the couch in the middle of the day, bored out of his mind. Jeff's whole family is coming to town in a couple of days and Freak's girlfriend Paige is stopping by, too, so he feels like he's just waiting around until that happens.

Once Freak leaves, he should rub one (or two, or three) out before everyone else gets home and hopefully if he does that he won't wake up with boxers soaked from a wet dream the next morning.

He should make plans now, so that he's not in the apartment or the radio station for the entire week. He needs to get out of the house so that he's not interrupting family time or being pissed off when people are in his space.

So he does what any guy his age does.

He opens Grindr.

He scrolls by a few of his friend's exes because he's not sure if his friends are really friendly with them yet and then—

"Well, hello gorgeous," Eddie says, suddenly sitting up. "Loving father, loving friend and loving fag," he places his hand on his chest. "Be still my beating heart — oh and he's 40!" Eddie giggles, delighted.

"Okay, Edward. Focus, focus. The man created his profile… two minutes ago. We don't want to scare him off or overwhelm him," he crosses his legs. He starts typing out a message."We're going to be casual, and friendly and easy."

He opens Steve's profile photo one more time and sighs dreamily.

"…yeah, easy."

He wishes there were more pictures of him. He has questions — what does his nose look like in profile? Does he have a little more grey hair or is it just the streak in the front and the tips of his sideburns? What does he look like when he's smiling, like, grinning? How much chest hair is under his shirt? Is he shaved or not shaved?

"What's up with you?" Freak asks. "You're giggling like a perverted version of Tinkerbell over there."

"I found a 40-year-old man on Grindr," Eddie declares, as if it were his destiny. "He's a dad and he's looking for a long-term relationship. And he has a tummy."

"Show me." Freak takes a look at his phone and Eddie just hopes no weird notifications roll through while he's glancing at Steve's photo. Not that Freak would care, but still. He doesn't want to have to explain his notifications to his roommate — he's experimenting, okay?

"He doesn't have a tummy, dipshit. I have a tummy."

"My apologies, dearest Freak, I stand corrected. He doesn't have an incredible tummy like you do. But, I like his body."

"Hi, hey, hello, how are y-u-o," Freak echoes, with a laugh. "Oh that'll get him for sure."

"I didn't say yuo, did I?" Eddie leans over to reread his messages. "I did. Fuck!"

"Well, he replied anyway, so maybe today's your lucky day."

"He replied? Gimme that," Eddie holds out his hand. "This is very serious business, Freak, if you don't hand it over I'm gonna tell everyone you hate-crimed me—"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve sends Robin a screenshot of his dms with Eddie. Robin’s response is almost immediate.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON GRINDR???

"Oh," Steve removes his glasses to polish them with the corner of his shirt. "Is this… is this the wrong app?" He heads back to his messages with Eddie and decides he'll come to his own conclusions.

Is it really that bad?

No, but people can be weird. And it is a little cringe if you say you met your current partner on Grindr.

Cringe. Right. Okay, what are your tips, Eddie?

Be prepared for a lot of flakes — guys will ghost you all the time no matter what.

Any profile with a capital 'T' in the middle of the word like parTy uses drugs like meth

Don't take someone's word for it if they say they don't have STIs, a lot of newer strains can be asymptomatic and being on prep will not keep you free of infection

The block button is your friend and do not feel bad about blocking people for any reason.

There will be lots of nameless, grey-faced guys who are desperate for something 'discrete' but they're usually just gonna ask you for a dick pic :\

Chasers are a thing on here but (according to other trans man friends) they're pretty easy to spot

Lots of cat fishing — don't click links!

There are like, so many ads on this app it can be overwhelming but try not to take conversations off the app until you feel reasonably safe with the person you're talking to.

Filters are your friend — use them as much as you want, but if you're too specific you may not get anyone in your area 😔

Apparently it was better before (fewer ads, less free-but-also-pay our-subscription-fee shit) but idk I wasn't on it till I turned 18.

Steve smiles. This guy 's — Eddie's — tips are actually not half bad.

What, you mean you've been on this site for like 4 whole days?

SHUT UP I've been on this site for 6 months, I'm practically a veteran.

Yeah, with the amount of tips you have for rookies, you could be running a class on Skillshare or something.

Thank you, I'm glad someone finally recognises my skill set!

How many boyfriends have you found through Grindr?

Zero. But then I haven't found any boyfriends anywhere, so I don't have a success/failure rate to compare.

"Alright," Steve says, sighing and adjusting his glasses. "Be gentle with him. He's only a baby."

Eddie, I'm happy that I met you instead of some grey-faced guy who asks me for a dick pic and ends up being a transphobic bot who wants to steal my credit card info.

YEAH! My pleasure. I'm glad we met too!

I don't know if I'm your type or if you're my type, but I cannot see anything romantic (or even casual) happening between us. You're one year older than my kid and we're at completely different life stages. But I wouldn't mind being your friend.

I get that! I try not to go into conversations with brand new people with hook ups or relationships as an end goal anyway. I'd rather keep an open mind. I'd like to be your friend. :]

Alright, friends.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Dad?" Max's voice carries across the apartment. She bounds towards him and slings her arms over the lip of the window from the kitchen to the living room, hanging onto the counter.

"Mhm?" He has to stop doing that. He has to lead by example and stop mhm-ing her and yeah-ing her and what-ing her and actually reply and look her in the eyes. "What's up?" That's a little better.

"Can I go to that concert thing?"

The concert thing isn't a concert thing it's a punk…indie band mosh pit thing, and he's just not sure about it. Who would run a punk club for teenagers in an actual venue? He just…has questions, and he's not going to send his daughter into some venue he can't even find on Google maps until they're answered.

"I gotta talk to the organisers, honey."

"But it's teens only!" Max's protest is almost immediate. "No drinking, no drugs, it's just music and then I'll go home and be in bed by 11:30!"

"That's Friday, isn't it? Aren't you with your dad?"

"He's in Peru on assignment until the end of the month."

A quick check of Steve's calendar tells him she's right. She's a smart kid, and if she's checked the calendar then clearly it means a lot to her.

"I still gotta talk to them, okay?"

"Can you please hurry up?" she asks. "I wanna see if my friends can come."

"I will, I promise." They look at each other for a moment and Steve gets the feeling she wants him to call the organisers right now, but he won't. "You want pizza and a panini from Valentino's?"

"Yeah." She nods.

"Okay. I don't feel like going out. If you skate down the street to get it, are you good to bring it back?"

"Yep!" She's already pulling her sneakers on and grabbing her board.

"I haven't put the order in yet!" he calls, pulling out his phone.

"I'll skate around 'till it's ready!"

Steve sighs and pulls up their number. "Hi, can I get two pizzas and two chicken paninis, please?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"The 40-year-old wants to be friends with me," Eddie declares over his shoulder, to any of his roommates who can hear him.

"Maybe he can smell your desperation," Freak says back.

"Okay Mr. I-Eloped-With-My-High-School-Sweetheart-in-a-Graveyard-at-18, we can't all be as cool as you," Eddie replies.

"Who the fuck gets on Grindr to be friends with someone?" Jeff asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Leave the old man alone!" Eddie says, with more passion than he needs. "He's a single father and a working man."

"How do you know that?" Freak asks. "I thought you met him like an hour ago."

Eddie decides to ignore that. "At least he's not just asking 'Hung?' and expecting us to have hot, steamy cyber sex catered exactly to his kinks and preferences."

"Can we please resume our DnD session today before my parking runs out?" Jeff asks.

"We're waiting for Gareth," Eddie says, gesturing around him to the empty seat.

"You were waiting for Gareth," Gareth corrects, tapping his drum sticks on the door frame. "Sorry it took so long. I was stuck behind an accident." He flings the paper bag up onto the table. "But I have returned, and I bring empanadas and beer."

"Excellent news!" Eddie says, clapping his hands. "Now, gentleman, gentlethems and people too interesting for the gender binary, let us return to our studies at the University of The Whispering Veil and the Library of Despair…"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

I'm not surprised you met an 18-year-old twink on Grindr, Robin says, talking to Steve over the phone while they both do their laundry together. I'm just surprised you're friends with him.

I didn't say I was friends with him, Steve says, shifting his laundry basket onto one hip. I said I was friendly with him.

Why do I feel like you're about to mentor this guy through his first serious relationship instead of finding one yourself?

Steve straightens quickly, like her question was an accusation charged with static electricity and she just zapped him.

We've been talking for 6 minutes, when did you get the idea that I was going to mentor this guy through his first serious relationship?

Because it would be just like you to help someone out and ask for nothing in return except their friendship, even if you're the one doing the bulk of the work in that friendship.

Please, Robin, I'll go where I'm wanted. I'm not gonna compromise on what I want.

Yes, but why did it have to be Grindr?

I just searched gay dating app and it came up first. That and, Scruff, or something. And one for Bears. But Grindr's not that bad.

The reason I suggested Hinge! Is because you can set your parameters to be very specific so only people who have long-term relationships in mind will be able to see your profile. And there's lots questions about love languages, what you're looking for in a partner and you can ask questions to other people, too.

Okay, I'll download Hinge, but only so the stress of my dateless singledom doesn't upset your baby any further.

He really doesn't want to download Hinge, actually. One app is enough.

Download and use it, please. Baby Buckley will be able to tell the difference.

I'll do it as soon as I've folded my laundry.

Steve doing anything as soon as he'd folded his laundry was a running gag they'd had for years, ever since he'd had a kid he'd never truly finished his laundry.

Very funny, dingus. How's your writer's block going?

Very unfunny, but I let my publisher know I might need an extension because of the move and they were cautiously okay with that.

Have you written anything lately?

I've written plenty, Steve says realising he set his laundry basket down a while ago and hasn't picked it up since. But I don't like any of it.

What's the premise, again? It's Luca and…?

Steve loves Robin. She's the only person in the world who remembers the names of all of his characters from all of his books. She's his editor, but still. He has a catalogue of 14 books throughout their years together and she remembers everything.

His first book, Once More Unto the Breach, a romance between a knight and a prince was her first big job. Almost 15 years later they both have a theory that their publishing house didn't care about Steve or his book, so they stuck him with the greenest editor they had — but Robin's ruthless corrections of his grammar, her ability to see his narrative from a bird's eye view, even in the smallest scene, and her keen eye for detail were everything he needed to turn a story into a book. And she was everything he needed to turn an editor into one of his best friends.

Mateo.

Mateo! That's it. I was going to say Matt.

Yeah. The premise is they meet on a train and they don't speak each other's language, but they have incredible chemistry anyway. It's 1960's vibes with some epistolary elements. Lots of good food, good wine, good sex. Y'know.

You're still thinking about that pizza night that tiny village in Tuscany had, with your mom's friend who made that pizza. The local doctor guy.

The best pizza I ever had, you mean? Steve laughs. I have a lot of the elements of the story, I just… can't find Mateo's voice, I dunno.

Well, I believe in you, Steve. If anyone can find the romance in a story, it's you.

Behind him, Steve hears the door unlock, the chatter of Max and Camille and the slam of Max's basketball on the hardwood.

Hey, I gotta go. Max just got back from practice and she's flinging her ball around. Thank you, Robin.

Love you, Steve!

Love you too.

"Maxine!" Steve calls, loudly. "No bouncing your basketball in the house, please!" He hears her mutter oh shit before she grabs it and tucks it under her arm.

"Hey!" Cami says, tossing her keys into a vintage, iridescent shell-shaped dish that she found at a flea market. "How was your day?"

"It was okay. Have you both eaten?" He really hopes so because his back hurts and he doesn't want to have to stand and cook anything.

"Yeah, we grabbed sandwiches on the deli from the way home," Cami says.

"Oh, perfect." Thank fuck.

"How was your dad's?" Steve asks Max, who's already on her way to her bedroom.

"Weird, but okay!"

He decides he'll ask what weird means later.

"I bought some more cheese and crackers," Cami says, holding the little parcel of cheese in her hand like it's a precious item. "You wanna do some wine and cheese?"

Thank fuck.

"Absolutely. We'll make a board and then decide if we wanna do red or white."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve's not sure if coming to Rascal's, the new cafe across the street to write was too ambitious or not. He'd heard it was good from the girls, not just because they'd said so, but from the amount of Rascal's cups, napkins and thin paper bags in the trash.

But deciding to bring his laptop to a new cafe to work on a manuscript he'd been stuck on for weeks when he hadn't visited this cafe beforehand was maybe a little too ambitious.

It's loud in here — it's packed with people talking over each other, chairs are scraped across the floor and baristas are calling out orders to each other. There's people bringing trays of cups and plates and baked goods from the back and onto the floor and somewhere in all of that, the cafe is playing some kind of music over speakers but Steve can't tell what the song is.

He's trying to decide if he should have a latte or a dirty chai latte when he sees something — someone — out of the corner of his eye.

One look at him and Steve knows this guy sings in the shower. Loudly. He's nodding his head along with the music playing through his headphones and playing an imaginary guitar down by his hips, strumming the notes as the song plays. He's either oblivious to the fact that he's dancing in public, or he doesn't care. At least he's not listening to something on speakerphone with the volume up to 80.

He dips his head again, his long, dark curls bouncing around his shoulders. Steve swears he knows this guy but it doesn't feel like they've met before—

Oh.

It's Eddie.

From Grindr.

Steve takes out his phone and opens the app, ignoring all the unopened messages in his inbox.

Nice bandana. Are you flagging?

He watches Eddie reach for his phone and reads it and whips his head around, looking for Steve. He walks right past him, looking one way, then the other.

"Eddie?" The barista calls.

Eddie walks around the eating area, apologising each time he checks the booths and doesn't find what he's looking for.

"Extra large iced latte for Eddie?" The barista calls again.

Eddie heads back to the front door and opens it, stepping out onto the street. He looks left, then right, then left again.

"Extra large iced latte for Eddie…?" The barista continues to look at Eddie, wishing he would turn around.

Steve messages him again. Turn around. Steve turns around too, just in time to see Eddie's face brighten into a grin when he sees him standing in the queue.

"There you are!" Eddie says, coming up to him. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Have you been standing there the whole time?" He takes his headphones off and Steve marvels at the number of piercings in his ears.

"Yeah," Steve laughs. "You should…" he gestures to the counter, where Eddie's iced latte is gathering condensation.

"Oh! Yeah, thank you."

Steve reaches the front of the line and places his order. He decides on a dirty chai latte with a half shot because he doesn't need to be wired after 2PM and waits for his order. Eddie bounces on his toes, craning his neck to see if there's anywhere to sit.

"There's like, one stool at each end of the bar by the window and a high chair."

And just as they round the corner of the long coffee bar, two people get up from their booth and leave.

"Well," Steve looks to Eddie. "Did you want to join me?"

"Oh! I'd love to, but I don't wanna disturb you," Eddie says, glancing at Steve's laptop tucked under his arm.

"Oh, this was… aspirational." Steve huffs out a laugh. "I'm not gonna get anything done today."

"Then, yeah." Eddie smiles. "I'd love to."

"As a friend," Steve adds.

"As a friend," he echoes back, sliding into the booth across from him. Eddie scoops up the leftover cups and takes them to a bin of dirty dishes and an employee comes by with some cleaning spray and a cloth to wipe down their table.

"So, what were you listening to?"

"What was I listening to when?" Eddie asks, reflexively touching his headphones.

"When you were waiting for your coffee to be made?"

"Oh! Planet Claire, the B-52's. Y'know it's got that bass line that goes duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh, with the super long intro and all the build up and Kate singing with the synthesiser."

Kate. Like they're on a first-name basis.

"Wait, you know the B-52's, right?"

"Yeah, is that," Steve pauses to think. "The one where they think there's a girl from Mars?"

"Well, she isn't!" Eddie says, thrashing his head as he recites the song. "…'Cause she's from Planet Claire."

Steve smiles. Despite the wide gap of life between them and, perhaps against his better judgement, he finds Eddie charming. "So, have you lived in this area long? Is this your local cafe?"

"No, I just moved here a couple of months ago. What about you?"

"I just moved here too. This is my first time being in here, though I've heard good things about it."

"To first times," Eddie says, holding up his cup. "May they be good and fruitful and find us new friends."

They cheers and Steve takes his first sip — the coffee is good and now he suspects much of his disposable income will end up in the tip jar of this establishment. From the look on his face, Steve can tell Eddie feels the same.

"Holy shit. That's good."

"Yeah. So are you in college, working…?"

"I'm in the radio and television program at the tech college here part-time, and I am starting a new job next week, actually! The 10PM-1AM slot."

"Wow," Steve says, sitting back in the booth. "That's late."

"That's what everyone says," Eddie nods. "But that's okay. I'm a night owl and the guy who has that slot is retiring. So, it all worked out."

"Which station? If I'm allowed to ask."

"Oh, 108.9 STAR. It was recently just bought out, actually. So it's gonna be a lot more community-minded and like, local to the area, which is cool."

"Who bought it?"

"Lucas Sinclair and a couple other investors."

Steve smiles. "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time. I used to go to high school with a guy with that name. He was a couple of years below me."

"You think it's the same guy?" Eddie pulls out his phone and scrolls through his emails. "I think I have an email from him somewhere with a photo of him." He scrolls and scrolls until he finds it. "Here!"

Steve pulls out his glasses and polishes them before he puts them on. "Yeah. Yeah that's him. Wow."

God. Steve hasn't seen a recent photo of Lucas in a long time and the realisation that he hasn't seen him in almost 20 years comes upon him slowly and all at once.

"Do you want me to tell him Steve says hi?"

Steve shrugs. "I doubt he'll remember me, but yeah, you can tell him I say hi. The last real conversation I had with him, he was trying to decide between a board game club and basketball. I said he could do both."

"Wait, DnD?" Eddie perks up.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"That's so funny — that's how I got the job. He was on the panel and he said, 'you have ten minutes, so entertain us." Eddie grins. "I panicked and pulled a bunch of dice from my pocket and I told him to roll for initiative—" he rolls the dice onto the table for dramatic effect.

Except it falls off the table and Eddie scampers after it, putting it back in his pocket before returning to their booth. "…and then I ran them through an 8-minute campaign."

"And you got the job?" Steve asks with a smirk. He takes another sip of his drink, but it's so lovely he's determined to savour it for as long as possible.

"I did!" Eddie says, brightening. "One of the old guard asked me about the shirt I was wearing — a Judas Priest t-shirt — and told me to name five of their songs," Eddie says, roughening the edges of his voice.

"And I said my favourite is of course, Breaking the Law from the 1980 album British Steel, but honestly I think some of their best stuff is the least accessible — I love the brutal guitar riff in Painkiller from their 1990 album. I love the twin guitar solos in Hellrider in Angel of Retribution, released in 2005. But then I think Fever from the 1982 Screaming for Vengeance (expanded edition) is so clean and clear and the lyrics are so good! So, it really depends on my mood, but the great thing about their discography is they have something for every mood, so, then I got the job." Eddie laughs.

Steve can see why Eddie got the job. Not only does he love the music he listens to, he remembers specific details, facts and dates and he can rattle them off as casually as anything. That, and it feels like he can talk for hours, with or without an audience.

"That's also why I have the bandana," Eddie says, touching his hip. "In honour of Rob Halford, lead singer of Judas Priest, who was queer and basically wore his fetish gear on stage and then so did all of his hetero audience members." He grins.

"Do you know what it means, though?" Steve asks, tucking a smile into the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, you mean, like, the colour?" Eddie touches it. "Isn't it, like, S&M, or something?"

"Heavy S&M," Steve says, nodding. "Left is top, right is receiving."

"Heavy S&M?" Eddie's big brown eyes go just a little bit wider. "It is a little wild to think about all the big, tough, homophobic metal guys strutting around, flagging and telling the world they were into S&M."

"Sounds like the old guard in your interview was a part of that. I always thought the 'name five of their songs' thing was more of a gate-keeping asshole thing to do," Steve says. "Not a job interview question."

"Yeah, I thought so too! Lucas did tell me that someone came in wearing a Dio shirt and the same guy asked, what's your favourite song of theirs? And they said they hadn't actually listened to the band, they just thought it'd be a good shirt to wear to the interview, so that's why he asked." Eddie shrugs, pulling his shoulders up around his ears.

"Right," Steve smirks. "My daughter is really into metal, but I don't even know how she found it or got into it."

"How old is your daughter again? She's a teenager, right?"

"Yeah, she's 17. My guess would be she got into it through her dad, but it feels like a whole other world to me. I've tried listening to some of the music she likes and I don't always get it. Like, I wouldn't even know where to get started."

"Well, I mean, if you want to get started—" Eddie points to himself and tugs on his shirt. "I'd be happy to give you some recommendations."

"I'd be open to it," Steve says cautiously, taking another sip of his chai latte. "But I don't want anything like, super heavy or anything where I can't actually hear the lyrics."

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie nods. "No death metal, no super guttural vocals and nothing super industrial and grindy. What sort of music do you normally listen to?"

"Pop," Steve says, simply. "Doesn't matter if it's 30 years old, or 3 months old, I love it. I'm a very stereotypical gay man."

"Do you have any specific artists you like?" Eddie asks. Steve's not sure if Eddie's just asking to be polite, but he hasn't scoffed and rolled his eyes like Max does when his phone connects to the bluetooth in the car, so Steve takes a chance and pulls out his phone and scrolls through his daily mix.

He puts on his glasses. "I like Chappell Roan, Janelle Monae, Tegan and Sara, Janet Jackson, Dua Saleh, the Spice Girls, Victoria Monet—music like that."

"Beyonce," Eddie adds, waiting for Steve to nod before continuing. "Lady Gaga, Britney, Kylie, Whitney Houston, Billie Eilish, Michael Jackson, Rina Sawayama…?"

Steve nods between each name, his smile widening as Eddie continues. "Exactly, you got it."

"I think you'd be surprised, though," Eddie says, taking a sip of his iced coffee through a well-chewed paper straw. "I think you would like it more than you think."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "If you like a lot of classic rock 'n' roll, then you're gonna like metal."

"I like classic rock 'n' roll," Steve says, although it occurs to him that his and Eddie's definition of 'classic' might differ, but hopefully Eddie won't make him feel ancient, like Max does sometimes.

"Well, do you like hard rock? Pink Floyd, Deep Purple, Steppenwolf, Van Halen, The Kinks?"

Okay, so, from the 60's — classic rock.

"Yeah."

"And do you like some psychadelic rock? Like, Jimi Hendrix, the Doors, Grateful Dead?"

"Yeah, I love Jimi Hendrix."

"And do you like blues-y sort of rock, like The Rolling Stones, the Who, Jeff Beck?"

"Yeah, I've listened to the Rolling Stones."

"Yeah! So I think you'll love metal a lot more than you think, because all of those bands influenced like, what became the heavy metal style."

"Okay. I'll be cautiously optimistic, because when you put it in context, it makes more sense. But I'll save my official opinion until after you've sent me a playlist."

"That's fair! And tell me anything you don't like and I'll take it out and swap it for something else."

"A short playlist," Steve adds with a laugh.

"Okay, define short," Eddie says, sitting on his hands.

"I would prefer under 45 minutes. Maybe half an hour?"

"Okay," Eddie nods. "Okay. I can do that." Beside him, his phone buzzes. "…shit, that's my uncle. He needs me to go help him set up for the farmer's market that's coming up."

"Don't let me keep you," Steve says, smiling at him.

"I wish you could, though, is the thing, because I hardly asked anything about you — can we do this again sometime?" He asks. "Maybe after I've sent you the playlist and you've had a while to listen to it — no rush, obviously—" Eddie's talking quickly, determined to cram as many words in as possible before he leaves.

It's cute, in a way.

"Yeah. I'd like that," Steve says, finishing the rest of his coffee. "I'd like that very much."

"Okay. Okay. Okay, good. Perfect. Good." Eddie pats his pockets, then slides out of the booth. "Well, it's been— I've—yeah. Thank you." Eddie smiles and heads towards the door, but as Steve's getting up he realises Eddie's left his phone on the table.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?" Eddie says, looking over his shoulder.

Steve doesn't say anything, he just holds out his phone and waits for Eddie to see it.

"Oh my god, thank you, I'm so— Jesus Christ, thank you—"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Wait, shit.

Steve checks his phone to find a message from Eddie. And shortly after that, another.

I forgot to ask what you do for a living!

(I forgot to ask a lot of questions, actually, because I was rudely pulled away by Obligations)

I'm a writer. I write queer romance, primarily.

Could I read something you've written or would that be weird?

You can read whatever you want. But it is a romance, so, it's a love story with a happy ending.

Queer people need more love stories with happy endings.

I always thought so.

What would you recommend from your backlist?

What kind of stories do you like?

I love a good fantasy. I love a good sci-fi adventure, as long as it's a little camp. I like literary fiction and classics as long as I didn't have to read them in high school. I love horror!

The books I have close to that would be Fated to Fall and then the sapphic spellshop series. If you can't get those from the library, let me know.

Oh boys it's a werewolf and lumberjack romance LET'S GOOOO

Enjoy it and have a good night, Eddie.

Oh, I most certainly will.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

On the other side of the apartment wall, Eddie scrolls through his library's catalogue. He searches for Author > Harrington, Steve and then places everything he can on hold.

"Well, Steve. Let's see what kind of love stories move you so much you have to write them."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

the beginning:

His hunger brings him here again. Back to the cabin. Back to the place that smells like loam and pine and sap where the wild mint creeps through the front garden.

Asher loves his lumberjack. He loves the way he smells and the way he doesn't hide his smell under antiperspirant like some men do. If he's working, like he's been working today, repairing his home, then he smells like sweat and buckskin and warmed wood shavings. His scent mixes well with the scent of the house — damp red pines, citrus and wood smoke.

Asher's spent his whole life with fairy tales of a young girl in a little red hood running off with a wolf. But he wonders where are the tales of the wolf and the huntsman running off together? Are they not two creatures of the same forest, drawn to the same creaking branches, the same sky, the same air?

🌲

"You cannot have a nap today," Kit says to himself, stifling a yawn. He sits on his bed and breathes in roughly though his teeth. He pulls off his boots, kicking his jeans to one side and crawling out of his shirt.

"You slept in this morning and it's 7PM." He collapses into bed all the same, the joinery of the bed squeaking under his weight. His whole body relaxes bit by bit and it feels easy to rut against the worn fabric of his sheets. He could've anticipated this — he's been wearing his plug all day so if he really wanted to rest he would've removed it. But it feels too good to take it out just yet. He feels greedy, but he often feels greedy and wearing the plug feels good, feels grounding, it feels like it belongs inside him.

Like of all the things he could be, this is what he was meant for. This is

"Would you like to share what you're reading with the class, Mr. Munson?" Eddie's instructor, Mr. Carter says, letting his voice carry through the auditorium.

"Oh!" Eddie perks up, undeterred by his apparent transgressions. "I'm reading a book called Fated to Fall by Steve Harrington. It's a queer romance novel between a lumberjack and a werewolf, and so far I feel like the writing is very poetic and I think it's getting me out of a reading slump." Eddie holds up the book and gives everyone a moment to admire the cover.

The look on Mr. Carter's face tells Eddie he wasn't looking for a response — just the cessation of his activity, but unfortunately his instructor asked him about a queer romance novel with fantasy elements, which are all things he loves.

And he has a tiny, itty bitty crush on the author. Just a little bit. And maybe, just maybe he's masturbated to this book like six times but it's a very sexy romance book, okay? So it makes sense. It's a compliment to Steve's writing.

"Yeah but." A classmate of his looks over her shoulder. "Are they gonna do it when he's like, fully a werewolf? Do you think?"

The class rustles with laughter, shifting in their seats.

"Great question, Astrid. I don't know. But I hope so."

The class laughs louder and Mr. Carter waits with well-worn patience, knowing it's not worth fighting for quiet, but waiting for it instead.

"…thank you for that very relevant update," he says, determined to move on. "Have you started working at 108.9 STAR?"

"I have!" Eddie says, putting his book away. "I am on the 10PM-1AM slot. I'm doing a lot of behind-the-scenes work right now, but in time I'll have my own little section in the slot. And when that on air sign switches on the hairs on my arms go up and then it's go time."

"Alright, good work." Mr. Carter glances around the room and waits for one more student to put their phone away.

"So, today we're going to continue on from last week and discuss story-telling fundamentals and how that differs from news and journalism communication styles. And then, for those of you in the Radio and Television stream, I want you to think about how that applies to you and what unique style you, and only you, can bring to the airwaves." He pauses and looks over to Eddie. "You with me, Eddie?"

"Absolutely," he says, saluting the man behind the lectern.

I am so with you. I am not thinking about Asher's wolf cock stretching Kit's hairy hole at all.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve doesn't realise he's been staring at the wall in his office, trying to write, until his mom calls him around lunchtime for their usual weekly phone call.

Hi, Steven, my darling, how are you?

"Hi, Mom. I'm okay. Thanks for calling — I lost track of time and it's probably time for me to start on lunch. How are you?"

I'm well, thank you, darling. Isabel is just making lunch now — she's making an oxtail and yam and barley stew for your father, but I'm having orcchiette with smoked mussels and a little bottarga cheese.

"That sounds good. How's your course going?" His mom is training to be a sommelier and flies to Paris every once and a while for her exams. She's almost done.

It's going well — we're starting to pair wine together with different dishes now, so it's all coming together. How's your book?

"Mm. I'm still stuck, but I'm going to do some research to see if that gets me somewhere."

You know I'm happy to look over anything any time, if that would be helpful.

She is — or was — an art dealer by trade and has helped many of her artist friends write their memoirs in years past, so it's not as though she doesn't have relevant experience. But there would be nothing more mortifying than his own mother reading his hedonistic 1960's romance novel that will have at least one public sex scene.

"Thank you. I have to prove to myself that I've still got it, but I might send you some scenes and you can pick the wine for different characters."

I'd love to, darling. I'll read whatever you send me, always.

Steve gets up and checks the fridge then realises the sandwich he'd saved from the deli yesterday is gone. He checks the whiteboard on the front of the fridge and sees a note from Max: hi! stole your chicken & pesto! love u xoxo

"Shit. I think Max stole my lunch," he laughs. "Okay. I'll go gets some groceries."

Oh darling! That's too bad. Do you want me to send Isabel over? She can make some food for you and Maxine.

His mom is about the only person in the world who is allowed to call Max 'Maxine', but Steve suspects she gets away with it because of the little French lilt to her voice she inherited from her grandmother. That, and she lets Max do whatever she wants.

"No, Mom, I'm okay. I only have a few things to pick up." A lie, but it's easier than telling his mom he doesn't want Isabel to come over because he just doesn't want people in his house. He starts a grocery list, beginning with the items Cami and Max wrote on the whiteboard.

Oh, yes, and you'll have to tell me when Maxine is available to come to Courchevel with me. The Bernards are getting married so the Chateau will be open. She can go snow-boarding and bring a friend, if she wants to.

"Is it coming up soon? I'd just have to check with Jonathan to see what days he has her and then you can organise everything."

It would be in six months, I think. I'll send you and her father the dates. You're welcome to come as well, of course.

It's funny how much can change in five years. Jonathan went from being your Jonathan or your partner to her father or Maxine's father in a matter of days and Steve doesn't think his mom has said Jonathan's name since.

"Thank you for the offer," he says. "But I have to lock myself in my office until I finish this book, otherwise it'll never get done." That and he has a great time on vacations with his mom, but he often feels like he needs a vacation from his vacation.

Of course, darling. I understand. But you must make time for yourself, also. Am I allowed to tell people you're single yet? I made a friend in my glass blowing class and she has a son who is a lot like you — he's a custom cabinet maker. He's transitioned and he has two dogs and a little boy. He seems very sweet.

"Mhm. Well," he thinks. His mom has wanted to set him up with blind dates for years, and though he trusts that she wouldn't set him up with someone completely incompatible, he does want some say in his dating life. In fact, he wants as much say as possible.

"I'm downloading an app called Hinge in the next few days, so once that's set up then you can tell people to look for me on there."

Oh, yes I suppose it's all online now, isn't it. Will people be able to find you on there?

As long as they're compatible and they both accept each other's matches. But his mom doesn't need to know that.

"Yeah, they'll find me." He looks over his grocery list one more time. "Okay, mom, I gotta go grocery shopping before I'm starving. Talk to you soon?"

Of course, you go eat. Love you, darling and give my love to Maxine.

"Love you too, Mom."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

rat pack ratbag bad boys who used to be in a band

6:10PM

g-bear (gareth, esq.): hey eddie how's the magical date

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): ohhh yeah that's right

eddie (faggy gentlerat): help it's so bad

g-bear (gareth, esq.): why, what's going on?

eddie (faggy gentlerat): he has informed me that if!

eddie (faggy gentlerat): if!!!! we were to date seriously we would have to date around his mtg schedule bc he has many tournaments coming up

jeff (king jeff): how much money does he spend on cards a month do you think

eddie (faggy gentlerat): idk but i've been told i am not playing to a very high standard

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): ???????

eddie (faggy gentlerat): his ex broke up with him bc, and i quote 'he didn't understand my magic needs' and was jealous of a BOARD GAME

g-bear (gareth, esq.): CONCEDE, man! for the love of god CONCEDE!

eddie (faggy gentlerat): i'm trying 🥲

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): have you tried asking him to do something else with you

eddie (faggy gentlerat): yeaaaaah he said my conversation was interrupting his 'flow'

jeff (king jeff): brb inventing a family emergency to get you out of there rq

9:01PM

eddie (faggy gentlerat): BROTHERS!! i am fREE the fire alarm went off in his building and i booked it so fast

jeff (king jeff): HELL yeah

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): come home to us, dearest edwart

g-bear (gareth, esq.): and if you're going by the mini mart place can you buy me some starburst

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Et voilà, your custom duvet cover is ready," Cami says, sweeping her bat-wing sleeve in the direction of his bedroom.

"Oh, Cami."

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.

"It's lovely."

When they were first unpacking, Steve discovered a whole collection of t-shirts from pride parades, walks and other queer souvenirs he found in his travels. Some of them were nearing 20 years old, barely any of them fit and many of them had yellowed collars and stains underneath the arms.

Cami said, Leave them with me, I'll turn them all into a keepsake. She'd dropped a few hints while she was working on something, making sure that he was okay with her cutting them up to reuse and from the way she talked about it, he thought it would be an art piece for her portfolio.

Instead, she made him a whole cover, stitched together with his old shirts. The ones that didn't fit but that he held onto for sentimental reasons. But then those sentimental reasons were tucked away in a box.

And now they're part of something beautiful and displayed properly in his bedroom.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it," he says, rubbing his nose the way he does when he gets emotional. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah?" she grins. "I thought I would start with the Names Project / AIDS Quilt Project ones in the middle because they go with the theme, and then there's your Enjoy Boys. The Real Thing in the style of the Coca-Cola logo, and your Le defile de la Fierté pride shirt from Montreal, the one from Sydney Mardi Gras, the Gaywatch crop top, the sissy boy shirt, the leather university shirt from Seattle and there's the pride shirt Max made with fabric paints when she was little."

"Next to the Crayola True Colours one from 2005," Steve says, pointing. "That one was in Buffalo, I think, and all of the Kellie McCarthy AIDS Walk ones — the Read My Lips one that I found in a thrift shop once, and all the trans pride ones." He touches the fabric carefully, as if it's an artwork and not his 15 year old t-shirts all stitched together. And maybe it is art. Textile art, and a tapestry of memory.

"Oh, and you have to flip it over," Cami says, grabbing one of the corners. They flip it together and Steve barks out a laugh. There's a selection of his more x-rated shirts — one Tom of Finland, one of a man fisting another man, the one with the naked cowboy that he got in Chicago, the one raglan t-shirt from Back Street Philadelphia and his white t-shirt with the little blue bear, Baines Montansier Vincennes, from the baths in France.

"So you have a family-friendly side and an adult side," Cami grins at him.

"I love it, thank you," he says, pulling her into a hug.

"Do you really?"

"Yes, I love it."

"Well." She looks around the room, assessing the furnishings. They don't look very much alike. Cami has her mother's dark hair , fine cheekbones and her sweet button nose finished with a dusting of freckles. But Steve and Cami do share the same eyes — same shape, same colour.

"I thought your room needed something a little more…you."

"You're right. It did, thank you."

Across the apartment, Max opens the door and declares that she's home. Steve and Cami both laugh and struggle to flip his blanket back over again.

Max stops just short of the doorway and peers in at them both, trying to stifle their laughter and failing every time they look at each other.

"….weirdos."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Did you want to meet up for coffee again? I'd like to get to know you instead of drowning you in conversation about a music genre you don't like 😬

Yeah, I'd like that. Same place as last time? Also, it wasn't that bad.

Rascal's it is! Their coffee is beautiful. What time?

Does 10:30 work? 3 days from now?

"Fuck," Eddie says out loud. "I forgot he's an old man that's probably like, just before lunch time for him."

Yeah, that works.

"God, why did I say that?" Eddie asks no one in particular. At least the cafe is close by and all he has to do is roll out of bed and walk across the road.

You've used Hinge before, right? Most of my friends haven't used it.

Yeah, I'm on it! I can help you set up a profile.

Perfect. I'll see you in a few days.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Eddie Munson doesn't have many enemies. Capitalism, heteronormative church pastors who sat backwards on chairs and promised him his mom's drug addiction could be healed by the power of God's word alone, and the price of snacks at the concession stand at the movies. Which is also capitalism technically, but still.

But his current and most pressing enemy right now? Foam. FOAM! A simple combination of soap, water and air. He thought attending a foam party at his local queer club would be playful, whimsical and maybe even a little sexy. Instead the air was humid and damp, but cold, and he was overstimulated from the roar of the fan, the creak of the plastic tarp, and inflatable plastic used to contain the foam. That, and all of his friends had fucked off for the night.

Jeff had to leave early because he had class the next day, Gareth left early with some bear (presumably to 'get some', as the kids say), and Freak never attended in the first place. He and his girlfriend Paige were looking forward to having the apartment mostly to themselves, so Eddie didn't want to go home yet. And, and! He'd paid the exorbitant price of $25 just for the pleasure of having foam being blasted with fucking soapy bubbles at ceaseless intervals.

So, he was stuck in this club, dancing to music he didn't particularly like, with people he didn't really know, while people paired off all around him and reminded him that he was very, very alone.

That's another fucking thing about foam parties. The sex. Don't get him wrong! Eddie's a sexy guy. He loves sex! Sex is great. But getting a quick handy under some bubbles on a tarp on a sticky club floor isn't the pinnacle of romance for him. And sure, some people aren't looking for romance when they come to a club with a dress code that's more of a suggestion than a requirement, but by the way people are shouting into each other's ears to talk, Eddie feels like there's more barriers to intimacy here than benefits.

And is romance really dead? Really? Like, really? Are we sure nobody wants flowers anymore? Are we sure nobody wants handwritten letters, a custom playlist or breakfast in bed? Are we really sure? And if we're sure, how are we sure, like what research has been done because Eddie would like to have a word—

"…hey, dude." A voice says beside him. "I don't mean to be mean but you're like, bringing down my vibe right now."

"Oh," Eddie says, surprised and blinking himself back into focus.

That's another thing. He's pretty high on poppers. He likes to use them when he goes out dancing sometimes because they warm up his limbs and keep everything loose and easy. It's also harder to care if they're playing a song he hates.

They make him horny, too, but not in the way he thinks other people get horny. He gets horny in like a 'my sexuality is a spectral succubus being walking outside of my body' way, not a 'you better put that fist in my ass till i can feel you in my throat' way.

"Sorry," he says, clearing his throat and unsure of his inner monologue was actually an outer monologue. "Sorry I'm just thinking aloud."

"Are you okay? Like, do you have people?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, nodding. "They're over there," he says, gesturing in the direction of his apartment. "Thanks, though."

"Okay. Have a good night, man. Take it easy."

He opens his jar of poppers, closes one nostril and inhales sharply. He holds it in until he feels like a cheap Valentine's chocolate with a fragile outer shell and a caramel centre. He climbs out of the tarped area filled with foam and heads towards the bar.

Eddie knows he should not, absolutely not mix alcohol and poppers but surely people have had like, a sip of something and survived, right? He could have like, half of one drink and be fine, right? Like, an itty bitty shot? Right?

He waits in the queue for the bar and almost feels like giving up and drinking out of the taps in the bathrooms when he realises the line's moved and it would take more effort to abandon the line and go to the bathroom anyways.

A girl stands in the other line, parallel to him and touches her shirt, looking at him and nodding approvingly.

"Me?" he looks down at himself. He's wearing a wet suit that goes down to his knees a sleeveless shirt with a fanny pack that's tucked under his wet suit to keep all his shit safe and a couple of chains with some of his favourite buttons and pins.

She's wearing a pretty cool outfit too — it's a one piece swimsuit but it has bones on it in the shape of her skeleton that glow in the dark and then a longer skirt with fringe that moves with her when she walks.

"What's your name?" Eddie says, leaning close to her.

"Cami! What's yours?"

"Hm?" he asks, wanting her to repeat herself.

"You!" She says, pointing to his chest. "Your name?"

"Oh, Eddie!"

"Hi, Eddie!"

"I'm gay, by the way," he says, holding up his hands. "I'm not gonna… do anything I'm just… hi."

God, words are so fucking hard right now.

"I know, right?" Cami says and Eddie jolts a little.

Right. So, anything he thinks aloud… he also possibly says aloud. Fuck.

"Are you here on your own?" he asks, looking around for anyone that might be her friend.

"Yeah." He understands what she says mostly by the fact that she nods. "But it's okay, I'm on my own all the time. What about you?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "What made you come here?"

She shrugs. "I have a friend that works here, but they're not on shift right now. But when I got here the bouncer asked, like, why I was here."

"What do you mean?" Eddie says, frowning. Fuck, this place is so fucking loud and he just wants to talk to this girl who is so fucking cool. He totally remembers her name.

"When I got to the door he asked me all the usual questions, I paid the cover and then he said, why are you even here? And like, looked me up and down."

"No fucking way," Eddie says, shaking his head vehemently. "No fucking way they did that to you."

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "I'm used to it. It's okay."

"No, that's not okay. Like, are you gay? Doesn't matter. Why would they say that?"

"I don't know what I am," she says, into his ear. "It's like, a question mark for me."

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "So fuck them. You paid money, you have valid ID, what's their problem?"

Cami laughs and it's nice to see her smile. She's dark-haired and has fucking sick eye make up and when he stares in her eyes he swears he's seen that pretty colour before.

"Nice eyes," he says. "Not flirting," he swipes the air with his hands. "But you have really nice eyes."

"Thank you," she says, smiling brightly. "They're my favourite feature."

They make it to the front of the line somehow, and the bartender asks Eddie what he wants to drink.

"Oh!…uh," Eddie blinks. Shit, words are hard. "Um...uh, just—I—uh…"

The bartender looks like they are about to skip over Eddie if he doesn't pick something soon. "Do you want what you had before?" they ask.

"Yeah," Eddie says, nodding. He has no idea what he had before, but if he had it before he probably liked it, right? "Yeah, thank you." The bartender tells him the price and Eddie taps his card on the machine thingie.

"What did you get?" He asks Cami, while they wait.

"A vodka lime and soda. You?"

"I have no fucking idea," Eddie says. She laughs again, her teeth luminescent under the black light.

"Shirley Temple," the bartender says, pushing one towards Eddie.

"Oh, is this for me?"

"Yes," the bartender says, nodding. "That's what you had before."

"Thank you," Cami says, grabbing Eddie by the shoulder. "We're gonna go find somewhere to sit down now."

They sit on the edge of the stage, by the service entrance, where the speakers are more of a din than a one way street to tinnitus.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a fashion student," Cami says, into his ear. "I make clothes and art. You?"

"I'm in a radio and TV program. And I have a job in radio. I just started like, two weeks ago."

"Congratulations," she says, and they cheers together, except a little of Cami's drink spills on the floor. "Shit, sorry, I'm a little drunk."

"That's okay," Eddie says. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah!"

He takes a sip of his Shirley Temple and holy shit past Eddie was onto something. Hydration is a great fucking idea. Revolutionary, even.

They do things that don't require a lot of talking, then. They compare rings and compliment each other on their piercings. Cami has some sick tattoos that Eddie loves — he only has one set of bats from a flash sale at a studio around his birthday, but he has so many plans to get more. Time passes and Eddie feels like he probably—

And then, in what feels like a good omen for their friendship, the foam machine turns off. It looks like the staff do their best to troubleshoot why the foam is dribbling out bubbles instead of spitting them across the space like they were before. But Eddie sort of wants them to take their time.

"I'm glad I came out," Cami says, smiling at him. "I'm glad we met, but the music they play here is so," she wrinkles her nose. "I'm not really a pop person."

"No, no, no same!" Eddie says, gesturing to his pins. "Like, it's fine, but, like, it's fine, y'know?" Woah, slow down there Shakespeare.

"Exactly. They need to play some music."

"What's music to you?" he asks.

"Iunno, like, My Chemical Romance, or, Nirvana, or Lebanon Hanover, or A Certain Ratio, something like that." She shrugs.

"I love A Certain Ratio!" Eddie says, grabbing her shoulders. "I love All Night Party! I love Nirvana, I love My Chemical Romance!"

"Dude," She waves her hand. "MCR like, saved me. Like, my teen years were rough but MCR was there for me, like I felt so, fuck, I can't think of a word, but it's like, validated, but like, artistically! When I first heard their stuff."

"What was your MCR song?" Eddie asks. "Like, if you had to pick one."

"Ghost of You," she says. "What about you?"

"When I was a young boy," Eddie sings, rather than saying the title. "My father! Took me into the city! To see a marching band!"

"He said son! When! You grow up! Would you be! The saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned!" She sings back to him.

They sing the song to each other, holding each other's hands and tossing their heads back so they can sing the lyrics as loudly as possible.

"Okay, that's it, I'm asking the DJ to play something else," Eddie says, getting up. "Wait, do you like Rage Against the Machine?"

"Yeah," she nods. "But you don't have to do anything for me—"

"No, no," Eddie shakes his head. "This is for me."

She watches Eddie climb onto the DJ's area and beg them like a child begging to have dessert before dinner. But the way he's grinning when he runs back suggests he might've been successful.

"They said they'll do it for 4 songs, because they think the foam machines will be up again soon."

"Oh, oh my god, okay." She downs her drink and Eddie grabs her hand and drags her onto the dance floor, or what's left of it. When the piano trills the opening for Gerard Way's song, every former scene kid, every goth wallflower and every freak joins them in the crush. And so, for 4 songs, the tarp covered in deflating soap suds becomes their pit.

It's not anywhere near a set, but Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance, All Night Party by a Certain Ratio, Killing in the Name of by Rage Against the Machine and Nirvana's Tourette's feels like a moment of triumph for Eddie.

And sniffing poppers while moshing and thrashing his head? An excellent adult activity. Call it headbanging fag enrichment.

The giant fans roar to life once more and Cami collapses against Eddie, giggling. "I think I need to—" she gasps for air, reeling. "I'm drunk," she says, grabbing Eddie's arm to hang onto him. "I think I gotta go home. I'm done."

"Yeah? Me too, I hate those fucking machines," Eddie helps her out of the slippery foam and onto steadier ground. It takes them longer than they'd both like to get their stuff and to get changed, but they stumble out onto the street, holding onto each other for balance.

"So, where are you?" Eddie looks around. "Can I walk you home just to make sure you get home safe and everything?" The sensible part of his brain, which has been noticeably absent for the night, says he doesn't actually know where she lives, but he's gonna get this little goth fairy girl home if it's the last thing he does.

"Oh, no, that's okay." Cami waves her hand. "It's just the apartment building across the street and up there. The brick one. I'll be okay."

"Wait, the one with the big mural? The yellow and blue one? That's like…" He makes a series of hand gestures.

"On the one side?"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah, that's it. Why?"

"I live there too," Eddie nods. "In the same building, I mean."

"Woah," Cami says, quietly. "We're like… twins."

"Separated at birth," he says, back to her.

"Do not even joke about that, oh my god." She laughs.

They stagger home together, arm in arm, promising that they will text each other every day, that they'll make a super special secret club for just the two of them and that they'll be the best of friends.

Except Eddie forgets to get her number and she forgets to add him on anything and neither of them remember anything beyond getting in the elevator together.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Okay, Eddie," he looks himself up and down in the mirror. "We're meeting up with a friend. So we are going to look friendly, and approachable, and chill."

He's wearing nothing fancy, actually. A pair of lighter wash jeans tight enough on his hips to show the white band of his underwear, a ratty old Metallica t-shirt that he has trouble taking off and Wayne's distressed aviator jacket from a million years ago.

He braids two loose pieces of hair that always hang in front of his face so he's not tempted to play with them. Then he changes out some of his earrings and swaps his chunkier necklaces for something a little more delicate. He doesn't want anything super heavy or distracting and he's worried he'll chew on his jewelry if it's something he knows he can fidget with.

"Alright." He checks himself in the mirror one more time and makes sure all of his tags are tucked in. "Now, listen here you," he pulls on his waistband and talks directly to his dick. "You behave. Be good. I do not need to be going to the public bathroom for an emergency jerk off session in the middle of my hang out time. Okay? This is a friend thing."

He has a whole plan.

He'll arrive just a little early and bring Steve's book — which is really fucking good by the way — and then Steve will saunter over all handsome and perfect and he'll be delighted by Eddie reading his book and ask how Eddie's enjoying it. And then Eddie will say some things he remembers from high school English class before he used it exclusively for D&D planning sessions. And because Eddie's decided they're both old souls, wandering the earth looking for romance, they'll have an engaging, entertaining conversation where they'll both lose track of time in favour of each other. As friends.

So colour him surprised when he's locking up at 10:20am and he sees Steve mere feet away from him.

"Oh." Eddie says, smiling. "Hey."

"Oh." Steve smiles back. "Hi."

"Sorry," Eddie says, with a sweep of his hands. "You can tell me to fuck off if it's not appropriate, but do you live there?"

"Yeah," Steve says, tucking his keys away. "This is my new place. Is that yours?"

"Yeah."

"How are you liking it?" Steve asks. They step into the elevator together and the space fills with the warm, soft scent of Steve's cologne. Eddie has to will himself from sniffing the air like a cartoon creature following the scent of a pie cooling on a window and shoving his face in Steve's armpit.

"It's great! It's my first time on my own, in my own place, but I have a couple of roommates. Yeah, it's good."

They exit the elevator, cross the street and Eddie's heart traitorously skips a beat when Steve pulls him close so he avoids stepping on a broken beer bottle. When they arrive the place is humming with activity, and Eddie's worried, once again, that there won't be anywhere for them to sit. They queue together, side by side.

"Your earrings are different today," Steve says, admiring them. Last time it was all gunmetal silver and black titanium. A horned Baphomet, a dagger hanging from his lobe, little spikes and a bat hanging from a chain. Now it's all white gold and pretty pieces flecked with opal and mother-of-pearl. A moon and stars, little hoops, a key and a snake perfectly nestled into the curve of his ear.

"Hm?"

"Your earrings are different today than when we first met."

"Oh, yeah!" Eddie shakes out his hair and tucks it behind his ear. "A lot of these are my mom's. She works in construction, so she never wears them anymore. They're more feminine, but I didn't want them just sitting around in a jewellery box, y'know?"

"Yeah."

Just as they finish ordering, three friends leave a booth and Eddie dives for it, coffee and all.

"I brought your book, by the way," Eddie says, pulling the well-thumbed library copy out of his bag. "I was totally gonna read it 'till you got here and everything."

"Oh yeah? What do you think so far?"Steve is well aware reviews are for readers, not for authors like him. But it always means a lot when someone like his work and from the look on Eddie's face, it looks like he wants to be asked.

"Uh, dude. I love it, obviously. Trying to get all of my friends to read it with me because I need other people to know that I haven't stopped thinking about Asher stealing Kit's jockstrap and chewing on it like—" he looks off into the distance and shakes his head in admiration. "It's so good."

"I'm glad you like it. It came out in a time where there were lots of like, fluffy romcom type romance books coming out, which was fine, but I wanted something with a little more body and a little more grit."

"It does feel really masculine, which is so," Eddie bites his lip looking for the right word. "I want to say refreshing, but it's better than refreshing, like, it's so much more compelling to read a gay romance written by a gay man."

"I thought people would be weird about Asher, the trans masculine character, being the only being in the book who transformed into a werewolf," Steve says. He sits back in the booth and drapes his arm over the side in way that Eddie decides is impossibly handsome.

"In what way?"

"I thought some people might decide that I was implying trans people were more animalistic or something, but I stuck with it because it's the way I felt the story had to be told. And as soon as I published it, furries started sending me the most heartfelt emails and the wildest fan art, so." He takes a mouthful of his coffee. "It found its audience."

"Speaking of finding your audience," Eddie says, lifting his eyebrows in a way he hopes Steve finds endearing and not completely cringe. "Dating apps?"

"Oh, right, yeah." Steve takes out his phone. "I got my kid to pick some photos for me, so we have those to work with, but then my friend Robin was telling me there's like, prompts?"

"Okay, perfect. I was worried I was the only person giving you advice, but since you already have some pictures in mind, then all we have to do is match them up to the prompts you want to use."

"Yeah, I guess I'm just having trouble thinking about what that looks like. Like, I've seen the app, but I can't really picture what my profile will be when it's done."

"Did you wanna browse through mine? To give you an idea?"

"Yeah, actually, that would be helpful. Do you mind?"

"No," Eddie says, unlocking his phone. "Go ahead." He prays that his group chat doesn't send any weird messages for the next few minutes, or, god forbid, updates on your friendly friend date with the old man, who you're friends with.

Steve flips through Eddie's hinge profile, and sees his profile photo under the prompt 'Rate my fit'.

Eddie's wearing a white t-shirt, dark jeans and a navy motorcycle jacket with doc martens with what look to be harness buckles around the toe and ankle. The motorcycle jacket looks old — vintage — with some of its patches fraying at the edges. Eddie's also wearing lots of leather, red leather cuffs, leather fringe earrings and a red leather collar around his neck with a d-ring.

"So, you don't get to pick a profile photo?" Steve asks. "It's just whichever photo goes first?"

"Exactly, yeah, so I usually try to pick a prompt that's sort of general, so I can put whatever profile photo I want." Eddie nods.

"Nice jacket," Steve says.

"Thank you," Eddie nods. "It was my dad's. I've had some people say, like, oh it's too bulky, I can't actually see you under there, but then when I tell them it belongs to my dead dad they back off pretty quick."

"Well, your dad had beautiful taste in clothes."

"Thank you," Eddie says. "I think so too."

"Do you get questions about the collar?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, I got a lot more than I thought I would, actually. And then I looked it up and I was like ohh it doesn't just mean like, hot, or sexy."

"Yeah," Steve laughs. "It is usually a sign of commitment with some dynamics attached."

"… which is why everyone was asking if I was really single," Eddie nods, sipping his iced latte. "Or if my owner knew I was on this app."

"Yeah."

Then, there's a text prompt,

I want someone who: will help me plan my Halloween costumes in MARCH

"I put a lot of photos with my prompts. Not everyone does, but I've been more successful matching with people if I have more photos."

"Makes sense. So you can add a photo and then, like, a caption." Steve tucks his glasses into his shirt and Eddie has to work harder than he'd like to think beyond his chest hair.

"Exactly."

The dorkiest thing about me is:

Eddie's at a ren faire, fully decked out in medieval clothing with puffed sleeves, an open, ruffled shirt and a feather in his hat. He's holding a lyre and grinning brightly, scrunching up his nose.

As seen on my mom's fridge:

Eddie's recreating a childhood photo. He's propped up on someone's hip like he's a kid, reaching for a knife they're trying to use. In his other hand, he holds the original photo from when he was a baby.

"Is this your uncle?" Steve asks. "The one you were talking about?"

"No, that's Benny, his husband. They got together when I was, mmm, 9, maybe? That's us recreating one of my mom's favourite photos of us on my 18th birthday."

"Cute."

My musical talent:

Eddie's the first in a mosh pit of a darkened venue, throwing back his mane of black hair, the tips of it almost white from the lights on the stage.

Unusual skill:

Eddie's holding a tiny black kitten by the scruff of its neck and pointing to a car, smiling proudly.

"What's the context for this one?" Steve asks.

"Oh, the kitten one?" Eddie takes another sip of his coffee and hopes the ice rattling around in the cup isn't too obnoxious. "I think the caption says something like amateur kitten rescuer. I was walking my friend back to their truck when we heard mewing, and we looked and looked and finally I found it in the engine compartment, where it was trying to keep warm."

"And the cat's okay now?"

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "I called and asked about it, and someone adopted it and called it Truckie."

"Truckie?" Steve echoes. "That's so cute."

"Oh, I think you're coming up on the poll and the video now. This is like, the deep cuts section of my profile."

I pick the topic, you start the conversation:

Which spiderman needs to be pregnant? (there IS a right answer)

original 60's cartoon spiderman

tom holland

miguel o'hara

We're the same type of weird if:

The video plays and Eddie's on the side of a chain link fence, with his friends calling for him to get over. He runs at it and climbs up, only one of the chains on his jeans gets caught when he's trying to climb over to the other side. He falls to the ground, swears tumbling out of his mouth. Officially without his jeans, he starts wheezing with laughter, boxers and all.

"People often tell me that this one is a little too weird, but I refuse to remove it. They need to know what they're in for."

And one final text prompt,

I feel most supported when: people say they love me and they mean it

"And you made it to the end," Eddie says, sliding his phone back and feeling so grateful that nobody in the group chat messaged him.

"I used to have a voice note about what geeky things I liked and I got a lot of compliments on my voice for that one, but I change my profile every once and a while — maybe like once a season.

"I also had a photo of me and Wayne and my mom all together. But I took it down because I have a lot more piercings now, and I looked like a baby in that photo for some reason."

"For some reason?" Steve echoes, with a smirk. "The reason being you're still a teenager?"

"Well when you put it like that," Eddie smiles. "I used to have a photo of me and my dad in matching bike leathers, with him wearing that leather jacket except everyone would ask like, who's the blond hottie? and it's like, he's dead!"

"Not exactly the conversation you want to be having with someone you're just barely meeting," Steve says, with a nod. "I'm sorry about your dad, by the way."

"Thank you. I also had a photo that was like cook with me! But all of the comments I got on it were like, oh my god, what if you like, cooked for me and then I did that a few times, but then I just started to feel like someone's personal chef, so, I stopped. I had a photo of me and my battle jacket, because it had a lot of political ideas and patches on it that I liked, but that was a little too intimate, in a way, so I took it down after a while. Does that give you an idea of where to start?"

"Yeah, it does. I'll show you the photos and then decide what goes where."

The first photo is Steve in a burgundy, wine red tuxedo, his arm around two other people. His tie is loosened and his hair is that perfect blend of well-groomed and tousled, where he began the day with perfect hair but oh no he had such a good time he forgot to touch it up—

"Okay, this is already a strong contender for a profile photo. You can see your face really well and you look gorgeous, so I have no notes." Eddie holds his hands up.

"Thank you. This one is from a couple of years ago, I think." Steve adjusts his glasses and nods. It's a photo of him and Robin with their arms around each other, walking through some trees shedding their leaves in the autumn.

"Who's this?"

"This is Robin," Steve says.

"Ah, your BFF. Perfect. If you want, this would go well with one of the BFF text prompts, and then people would get a more complete picture. Where is this?"

"Oh, Robin and I have one week a year where we go travel to a different city and just spend time together. It's lovely. This one is in Montreal."

"People love travel photos. I don't know if it's like, a really good conversation starter or if it's more aspirational, but travel photos do really well."

Not that Eddie, a poor college student would know that from experience, but he's heard things.

"Okay and then is this one the protest photo…?" Steve asks himself. "No, it's the pride one, from 2012. It's older, but it's one of my favourites."

There's a photo from a pride parade years ago, where his daughter is really little and Steve is carrying her on his hip. He's pointing and trying to get her to look at the camera, but she's tired and her little face is smudged up against his collarbone.

"This one is so cute," Eddie says. "The little rainbow on her cheek." He clutches at his heart. "I know you said it's older and generally it's a good idea to have recent photos — but if you feel like this one is you, then you should include it."

"Yeah, I will. Okay, this is the protest one. My baby sister took this one."

Steve's carrying someone on his shoulders and even though Eddie can't read his sign because it would be all the way above his head, but he can see some of the signs either side of Steve and from the scraps of their words and colours Eddie can tell Steve's a radical man.

"This one's a good choice," Eddie says. "You can choose your politics from a drop down menu and the options are like liberal, moderate, conservative and other, but I find the definition of liberal can vary so fucking widely depending on who's answering it."

"Yeah, my daughter said hopefully this one should weed out the incels and transphobes."

"And she's right!"

"This one is just off Whitehaven beach, I think. My mom and I were celebrating her birthday and I'd just finished a book."

"My god," Eddie says, studying the photo for a beat too long. "The sand is beautiful." Steve is beautiful too, sun-kissed and shirt half open to his navel sitting on a beach with white sand and bright blue water beside him.

"Yeah, I think it's some of the whitest sand in the world. I got very sunburnt the first day I was there, but it was worth it.

"And then my baby sister suggested this last photo." In it, Steve is throwing a toddler in the air, arms stretched out ready to catch her.

"This is so good. We could use this for one of those like, hidden skills or unusual talent prompts but it can also be about how you're a great dad."

Steve wants to protest and say that he doesn't think he's a great dad. He feels like he fucks up all the time. He often feels like he's one eye roll, one forgotten promise or one you're not old enough for that away from disaster. But things haven't been as bad as they were when he and Jonathan broke up. So, maybe he's doing okay.

"That, or that I'm really good at throwing toddlers into the air."

"Exactly!" Eddie says, smacking the table for emphasis. "Okay, tell you what. You can fill out all of the personal information about me stuff, and then let's start on the My BFF's take on why you should date me prompt."

"You know what, I have a thing Robin wrote me like 4 years ago. I saved it here somewhere, that'll be her answer. Let me grab it…"

My BFF's take on why you should date me: because you spend so much time writing love stories for other people, and you do it with such care and devotion — but you deserve your own love story with someone who adores you

My love language is: a charcuterie board

Teach me something about: staying in bed on sunday morning

As seen on my mom's fridge:

Steve in a burgundy, wine red tuxedo, his arm around two other people. His tie is loosened and his hair is half neat and half messy. He looks gorgeous.

The key to my heart is:

Steve with little Max on his hip at a pride parade. He's pointing and trying to get her to look at the camera, but she's tired and her little face is smudged up against his collarbone.

My happy place:

Steve and Robin in Montreal in the Autumn with orange, yellow and brown leaves around them.

I connect to my community by:

Steve attending a protest with someone (Max) on his shoulders. The people around him are carrying cardboard signs and placards with radically left-leaning slogans.

Instead of grabbing drinks, let's:

Steve on a beach, with a shirt unbuttoned to his navel, surrounded by white sand and bright blue water.

My greatest strength:

Steve throwing a toddler in the air, arms stretched out ready to catch her.

"What do you think?" Eddie asks. "Are you happy with it?"

"I mean, it looks okay. But whether or not it works remains to be seen."

"True, but I have faith. OH!" Eddie points to Steve like he remembered something he had to tell him. "After a few months, Hinge will hide some of your best matches behind a paywall, but if you delete your account and the app, it should reset."

"Thanks for the heads up. Oh, I meant to ask you," Steve says, scrolling through his messages. "Do you know anything about this, like, this event or who runs it?" He slides his phone across the table.

"Oh! Pit Practice. Yeah, my friend Emily runs it. It's in a community theatre and it started out as, like, a space for her younger siblings and other kids to practice school walk outs, making signs and other protests. And then the kids started having these dance parties afterwards and Emily was like man your mosh pit etiquette fucking sucks. Do I need to teach you how to do that too? And they were all like, YEAH! So."

"Okay. And all of the people that attend are under 18?"

"Except for the volunteers, yeah. They're all vetted and everything. It's good fun."

"Okay. So Emily wouldn't mind if I called her?"

"No, no, not at all."

"Okay. Well. My kid wants to go but I wasn't sure, so, thank you."

"Will you be a cool dad now, if she can go?"

"If parenting has made me sure of one thing," Steve exhales. "It's that you're never a cool dad."

"Wow." Eddie nods. "What a world-shattering truth."

Steve's phone chirps and he picks it up to read a text from Cami.

Can you come pick me up? My car has a flat tire and it'll be at least an hour for a ride share somehow.

"Oh, I'm—I'm sorry, Eddie, it looks like I have to pick up my sister."

"Family calls," he says and salutes Steve. "And you must answer, of course."

"Thank you, again, this was helpful. Maybe we'll see each other again sometime?"

The weird part about all of it is that it looks like Steve wants to see him again. Which, like, he hoped would happen, right? He hoped Steve would be so entertained by him that they'd remain friends, even if they couldn't be anything romantic (which made sense, by the way).

But he thought maybe Steve would hang out with him once or twice, not out of pity but out of some sense of over-measured generosity, like oh I said I'd hang out with him, so I need to hang out with him three times before they can gradually fade out of each other's lives.

But it seems like Steve enjoys hanging out with him. Him. Eddie. The guy who had daddy issues and mommy issues and still accidentally calls his uncle 'dad' sometimes. The class clown until he was too annoying in high school. The guy who was told by his fellow students that he 'took up too much air time' in one of their workshops.

Him. Eddie.

He figures there's a limited amount of time left before Steve realises that he's a total fuck up with a threadbare sense of self that feels like it's mostly bravado and aesthetic at this point.

But what the hell? He may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

"Yeah, sure. Any time."

rat pack ratbag bad boys who used to be in a band

1:45PM

jeff (king jeff): attention all rats, we have hot dilf exiting the cafe. i repeat, we have the hot dilf exiting the cafe

g-bear (gareth, esq.): flying my fag flag at half-mast rn in mourning

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): hey can someone please check that i changed the laundry over to the dryer

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): also, why is a 40 year old hanging out with an 18 year old? doesn't he have like, shit to do?

eddie (faggy gentlerat): plEASE leave me aLONE he smelled so good i am bereft

g-bear (gareth, esq.): ah yes, your friend who smells good. what did you even do on this friend date anyways?

eddie (faggy gentlerat): we set up his hinge profile

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): HINGE PROFILE??? so you talked all about dating

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): while not dating

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): simply unhinged

eddie (faggy gentlerat): YES! you either get it or you don't!

eddie (faggy gentlerat): it was, in fact, hinged, also.

jeff (king jeff): i do not get it. :\

jeff (king jeff): if he's mean to you i will enact crime upon his person, btw.

g-bear (gareth, esq.): is that why you're watching the cafe to confirm signs of life from our faggy gentlerat?

jeff (king jeff): yes

jeff (king jeff): … he just flipped me off

eddie (faggy gentlerat): and i'll do it digitally too🖕🖕🖕you CREEP <3

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): consider your gentlerat status REVOKED for being so rude

g-bear (gareth, esq.): guys be easy on him you don't know what he's going through (mourning the end of his friend date with the old man)

eddie (faggy gentlerat): gare-bear gets me 🥲

g-bear (gareth, esq.): fag4fag solidarity 🤝🫡

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"What are you thinking about?" Robin asks Steve. They're sitting in the waiting room of her doctor's office for the doctor to give her an ultrasound.

Chrissy's not here because she sliced her hand open cutting a bagel earlier that morning and is currently across the road in the ER, waiting to be seen by a doctor. Robin wanted to cancel her appointment, but this is one of the few appointments she'll have with her actual OB because it's her 20-week scan—

— it also doesn't help that she has health anxiety OCD and so the idea of skipping or rescheduling one scan makes her want to dry heave (and, sometimes because of morning sickness, actually vomit, which is also one of her fears).

"Remember when you drank so much water for your first ultrasound appointment, and then you had to pee so bad on the way there you started crying—"

"And then we pulled into a preschool who were having a fire drill at the time and so I started to cry even more?" Robin adds, continuing the story. "And then I got to this office and I started crying again because I thought I'd ruined my ultrasound?"

"But it turns out they tell you to drink so much water in case you don't drink any water at all, ever," Steve giggles.

"No laughing," she says, elbowing him in his side. "Ultrasound rules, remember? No laughing or I'll piss myself." She clears her throat and Steve can tell she's nervous from the way her leg bounces. "Do you think Baby Buckley will be okay?"

Steve would love to reassure her, but he can't. OCD is a beast and no amount of reassurance or comfort would help. In fact, it often makes it worse. "We'll see what the doctor says."

"Fuck you," she says quietly and squeezes his hand. "I cannot believe how unhelpful you are. I cannot believe you don't remember much about the ultrasounds Jonathan had."

"I remember we cried when we heard Max's heartbeat. But he only had two because it was a healthy pregnancy. That, and he was in denial about the fact that he was pregnant at all for a little while."

Her doctor steps into the waiting room. "Robin?"

"Oh my god," Robin says, following her. "I love your hijab."

"Thank you," she says, smiling. "It was a gift from my sister. Chrissy can't make it today?"

"She cut her hand open trying to cut a bagel in half. So she's in emergency room right now, we're gonna see her right after."

"Oh no! I hope she's okay."

"This is Steve. He's Baby Buckley's uncle."

"So nice to meet you. We're just in Room 8 today."

Robin keeps talking about all kinds of things — art, recipes, the things she's going to eat when she's no longer pregnant, finally using the coffee passport Chrissy bought for her birthday right before they found out she was pregnant — all the way down the hall and onto the bed, where the doctor is laying tape measure across her stomach.

"Okay, your fundal height is 20 centimetres or 7.87 inches, so that's perfect. So, now we're gonna do your ultrasound. It's a little more detailed than usual, and I'll be looking over baby's major organs. I'll also be looking for any major genetic disorders, too. If the baby's in the right position, would you like to know the sex of the baby?"

"Please, that would be great. Could you put it in an envelope, though? I'd like to find out at the same time as Chrissy."

"Of course, yeah. We can do that. So, let's apply this gel and then we can listen to your baby's heartbeat." The doctor adds blue gel to Robin's stomach and spreads it around with the wand.

And then Steve hears a sound he hasn't heard in over 15 years. The thud and rush of the quick little heartbeat of a new baby. It sounds like it's underwater and, in a way, it is, and that only makes it feel even more surreal.

It touched his heart then, when Max was a baby, and he's touched that same way now. He has no way of knowing if it's true, but he feels like his own heartbeat quickens in sympathy. The tears come to his eyes easily when he realises his platonic soulmate, his family, his best friend Robin, is going to be a mom.

And she's going to be the best mom ever.

"Oh my god," Robin says, pulling a tissue out of her pocket. "I cry every time." She reaches for Steve's hand and squeezes hard.

"Me too," Steve says, dabbing his eye with his sleeve.

The doctor talks about how it's one of her favourite parts of her job and all Steve can think about is how lucky he feels to be here.

"So now I'm going to do lots of different checks and I'll let you know if I see anything concerning, okay?"

"Okay," Robin says and squeezes Steve's hand hard. He knows the doctor's silence is hard for her, but she would feel awful breaking her focus on something — someone — so important.

"Okay." The doctor turns back to Robin. "So your baby's spinal cord, their bones, and brain all look normal. And then some of the other major organs like the heart, kidneys and tummy areas also look as expected."

"Okay," Robin nods and turns to Steve. "That's good, right?"

"Yeah, that's perfect." The doctor turns the lights back on again. "And I'll give the super secret file to the baby's uncle," she says, handing Steve a folder.

"Thank you."

"Your placenta and blood flow look really healthy, too, so we have no areas of concern. Obviously, we can't test for everything at this stage, but with the information we have, both you and your baby are healthy. You're halfway through your pregnancy!"

Robin and her doctor have a conversation about things they can test for at later stages, just how much bleeding is too much vaginal bleeding and how she needs to book her whooping cough vaccine.

"Okay." The doctor says, getting ready to leave. "So, I'll see you in 2-3 weeks."

Robin pays her co-pay and books her next appointment just as Chrissy calls her.

"Chrissy said she thinks she'll be about another hour and then she'll be discharged. Would you mind waiting a little longer until she's done?"

"No, not at all. Did you want to get lunch?" Steve asks. "I remember you said there's a Vietnamese place in the cafeteria that's nice."

"God, please," Robin says. "Let's see if I can find it again from here—"

"Did you want me to order for you?" Robin asks, while Steve grabs a seat.

"Yeah, please, I'll have anything." He won't have anything, he'll have what he usually has. But she knows him well enough to order for him.

Actually, he really feels like bánh mì, even though he's normally more of a vermicelli bowl guy.

Robin gets into the queue and Steve pulls out his phone and checks his messages. There's nothing urgent from Max and his publisher hasn't checked in with him yet. He's scrolling through Hinge when he sees a familiar face — Eddie.

He matches with him and Eddie reciprocates a minute later.

Hey Eddie

Hey! How's Hinge treating you?

Better than Grindr. How are you?

I'm okay. I'm in my professional communications class right now.

I'm so BORED.

Go back to class, Eddie.

Yes, Mr. Harrington 😉

Actually, can I ask you for some music recommendations for Max?

Fire away! What recommendations are you looking for?

I want some recommendations for more left-leaning metal bands. I'm concerned about some of the politics of the frontmen from the classic metal bands she's listening to. It's less the musicians themselves and more the people she might meet who are also fans of them.

Got it! Send me some screenshots of her favourites and I'll do my best. 🫡

Thank you, Eddie.

"I got us both bánh mì and lime sodas," Robin says, setting the plates down. "Is that okay? I know you're more of a vermicelli bowl guy but they looked really nice. I got one for Chrissy too, whenever she gets here."

"That's perfect," he says. "I was hoping you'd order me that." Steve smiles at her.

"I cannot believe that was my last ultrasound, like, I'm only five months in. Four more months is a long time."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Steve asks.

"No, I want to talk about anything other than being pregnant or Baby Buckley, because it's all anyone ever asks me about," Robin says. "I'm beginning to feel like I'm a farm animal expecting a prize-winning baby and the whole world is a bunch of farmers."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"How's your new place?" she asks. "Have you run into Jonathan lately?"

"No," he says, sitting back in his chair, sighing blissfully. "I haven't seen him at the grocery store, or the pharmacy, or at the local gay bar sitting at what used to be our table, or a movie where he's taking a date. The only time I see him is when Max is involved." Which is exactly how he likes it.

"Oh, are you still okay to take up my position on the pride board committee thing? Chrissy wants me to take it easy for the last half of this pregnancy, so, that will be one more thing off my plate."

"Yeah, of course. Can you send me the meeting invitation again?" he asks, scrolling through his phone. "I had it here but—"

"Yeah, I'll send it through. How's your writing?" she asks. "How are Luca and Mateo?"

"Oh, god," Steve shakes his head. "You want to talk about work?"

"I'm not on leave from work yet," she says, pointing at him.

"Well, it's rough. I'm trying a different approach. I've sent a few snippets to my mom — she's gonna give them some wine to drink and then I'll do some more research around the era and the atmosphere and I'll see what happens after that."

"I feel like you had the same thing with the 1950's lavender scare book, right? Fellow…what was it called? With Hawk? And the Catholic trans man?" Robin scrunches her nose.

"Strange Bed Fellows?" Steve offers. "Yeah, I guess this does feel a little like that."

He was completely stuck on how they were going to get back together until he started listening to 50's music — then the floodgates opened and he was able to finish the book in a couple of months.

"But in that case, I just had to figure out how to bring them back together after circumstances made it seem impossible. So, it was more like a plot puzzle. This time it's like, I don't know who these guys are."

"Yeah, like, you're used to letting the characters lead you through the story, but if you don't know them, then where are they taking you?"

"Exactly," Steve nods. "That and I keep getting tagged in these biker boys theory videos and they're just—" He rolls his eyes.

Before the second chance romance book he wrote in 2020 took off and became a bestseller, Steve had a very loyal audience of readers who adored his biker boys series — it was projected to be a 3 or 4 part series, but there was a 6 year break between the first and second book, which gave the audience so much time to speculate. The bookish side of the internet was creating the most intricate theories of who the new love interest would be, the possible plot beats and how long it would take Steve to finally finish the series.

The fanfiction was cute, and the fan art was beautiful, but some of the fan theories just pissed him off.

"Well, don't listen to them. They can write their own biker romance if they want. Besides, this is the romance for your biker gang president, right?"

"Yeah, so it's gotta be someone perfect, but also, someone nobody expects. I feel like I wrote myself into a corner."

"Right, and this is your president's story, so nothing but the best for the old man."

"Exactly."

"Well, as your editor, I am always ready to any draft you send my way. But as your friend, I also support your keeping any drafts from your impatient audience out of spite and pettiness."

"Thank you." They cheers to Steve's old man finding his one true love one day and then Steve realises he hasn't given her an update.

"Oh, I'm on Hinge, by the way."

"And how are you finding it?" Robin asks,

"You were right," he says, nodding. "It is much better than Grindr."

"Can I see your profile?" she asks.

"Of course, I need the best friend seal of approval," he says, unlocking his phone for her.

She scrolls through, looking at his photos and gushing over the one of him and little Max, the two of them in Montreal and nodding approvingly at the answers to his questions, especially the BFF's take on why you should date him.

"Okay, well." She passes his phone back to him. "As long as you stay away from 18-year-old twinks and you don't settle for anything less than exactly what you want."

Steve doesn't say anything and tries to hide it by sipping his lime soda instead.

"You are staying away from the 18-year-old twinks, right?"

"Romantically? Yes," Steve says, nodding slowly.

"Romantically?" Robin echoes. "Oh my god, Steve."

"He's into metal music. So I asked him for recommendations for metal bands that don't have frontmen who vote Republican or believe that vikings are a superior race of people," Steve shrugs. "I know Max can separate the art from the artist, but I don't want her making friends with a bunch of incels in training."

Robin pauses for a full minute. "…okay, that is an acceptable communication."

"I'm glad I have best friend sanctioned communication with one 18-year-old twink," Steve laughs.

"Oh, There's my love!" Robin says, waving her over.

Chrissy waves back and comes over to their table, hugging them both to say hi.

They chat about lots of things, the chaos of the morning because of Chrissy's injury, Max and Cami and how Baby Buckley's nursery is almost ready.

"Oh! I meant to ask you," Robin says. "Did you and Jonathan ever decide on like, who was Dad and who was Daddy or, like, Dad and Papa or, like, was there a different title for each of you?"

"No, actually," Steve says. "When she was really little, Jonathan was Dada and I was Dad but she grew out of that. We thought about it and we tried to do it but Max would just use Dad for both of us. It's funny, though, 'cause we can tell which Dad she's asking for. If she, like, lengthens it a little bit in the middle, like, Da-ad, that's Jonathan, and then if it's like, Dad! that's me."

"Oh that is so funny," Chrissy says. "We were thinking of like, Mom for Robin and Mama for me, but I also want the baby to pick, so we'll see what works."

"Okay," Robin says, placing her hand on the nondescript envelope on the table. "The suspense is killing me. Please." She hands the envelope to Steve.

"Oh! Are we gonna learn the sex of the baby?" Chrissy claps her hands. "This is so exciting."

Steve decides not to keep them in suspense. "You are having…" He eases the paper slowly out of its envelope. "A baby boy."

"A boy?" Robin echoes, incredulous.

"Oh, wow," Chrissy says, smiling so wide. "That's so cool."

"I'm gonna be a boy mom?" she asks the universe in a quiet voice.

"Maybe," Steve says. "Maybe not. Are you telling other people?" He asks. "Or does this stay between us?"

"We're not telling anyone until after the baby is born," Chrissy nods. "Robin really doesn't want everything Baby Buckley owns to be saturated in one colour."

"A boy?" Robin repeats, swallowing. "In this economy?"

Chrissy squeezes her knee with her good hand. "And you're gonna be a great boy mom."

"Well, then I feel so lucky to be included," Steve says, warmly. "Thank you so much."

"Of course you have to be involved," Robin says, rolling her eyes. "The baby's middle name is gonna be yours."

"Mine?" Steve asks, looking from Robin to Chrissy and back again. "Like, Steve? Steven?"

"Yeah," Chrissy says, smiling brightly. "We haven't decided on the first name yet. We like a lot of Ro— names, so Robbie, Rowan, Ronan, but we decided on your middle name. If that's okay."

"Of course that's okay, oh my god." He promises himself he won't cry, but, like anything to do with Baby Buckley, that feels like a futile exercise. His best friend is having a baby and the baby is going to share his name.

"Aw, Steve!" Chrissy gets up from her chair.

Robin gets up too and puts her arms around Steve. "I told you I loved you," she says. "And I meant it, too."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

When Eddie agreed to cover Gareth's shift, he thought it'd be a pretty easy job. Gareth works at a local, non-profit movie theatre and he's covered for Gareth before, especially when he has gnarly period cramps.

But this time it isn't just downloading a film onto a laptop from a hard drive, entering a password in so they can access the file and pressing play. They're playing Michelle Yeoh's 1985 classic Hong Kong action film Yes, Madam!…on the almost-original 35mm film.

Gareth's coworkers were nice enough to splice the film together for him already, so, thankfully, all he has to do is slot the reels in in the right order. But still — he heard the audience groan when the showrunners and organisers suggested that the film might be too delicate to play all the way through.

"Okay, Eddie," he says to himself, loading the first reel in behind the trailers. "Don't fuck this up."

The audience cheers as the poppy synth music from the opening titles, followed by the screech of tyres and the rapid blast of gunshots. "Oh, hell yeah," Eddie says, quietly.

But about half an hour into the film, he starts to get restless, bouncing his knee in his chair and wishing he had something to do. So, like any 18-year-old teenager with suspected ADHD, he checks his to-do list looking for something to do while he has to stay intensely focused on the film and loading the next reels.

He sifts through a jumble of to-do lists with items like:

figure out student loan situation

BUY HOT PEPPERS

fill rx for drugs

credit card?

auto-pay rent deposit thing

actually correct change for laundromat bc their change machine is fucked

choose a topic for week 4 assessment for journalism class

text mom back to confirm dinner

PLAN BENNY'S BIRTHDAY DINNER!!!!!

decode that fairy girl voice note thing ????

take photos of apartment before you move in so you can get your security deposit back

One item does stand out to him:

metal playlist for steve! nothing super grindy and ~30 mins long

Now that? That he can do. Or, at least work on while he's waiting for the film to end. He starts to scroll through his many playlists with titles like EPIC metal shit, kickass guitar solos, slutty metal for sluts, goth / experimental / metalcore, metal recs from your MOM, sick breakdowns for your mental breakdown and chill metal for road trips he starts to put together a list.

"Okay," he clicks his tongue while he scrolls, wishing he had another screen so he could leave the list up while he browsed through his music. "Holy Diver by Dio is absolutely number one, and then…"

"Hey!" Someone calls from the audience. "It's upside down!"

Eddie perks up and looks up at the projector screen. The movie's playing, there's two men arguing over a game of pool, but the picture is upside down. "…shit, shit, uh…" He fiddles with the very delicate film, and turns it around. He feeds it through again and the audience cheers when the film starts up again, right way up this time.

"Thank you!"

"…nailed it," he says to himself. To settle himself after that adrenaline rush, he goes back to his playlist for Steve. "I want to include Roots by Sepultura, but I feel like that'd be too much for him." He tries to think of his mom's music collection — the album art of the tapes and LPs and then CDs to see if he's missed anything. He'd made a metal playlist for Wayne years ago — he didn't get rid of it, did he? Though, Wayne's much more into blues, folk and country than he thinks Steve is, but maybe it could give him some inspiration. If only he knew where he put it…

By the time the credits roll, he has a list for Steve that's seven songs and 32 minutes long.

Holy Diver by Dio

Paranoid by Black Sabbath

Master of Puppets by Metallica

Master of Reality by Black Sabbath

Number of the Beast by Iron Maiden

Painkiller by Judas Priest

Rust in Piece by Megadeth

He doesn't like that there's two Master of — songs together, because he doesn't want Steve to get confused, and he needs to listen to it for at least a week before he can decide if it feels right. But so far?

"Not bad for a first draft, Eddie," he says to himself. "Not bad at all."

He leans back in his chair and exhales. "The only other question is," he says, whispering even more quietly than before. "Is can I jack off in here without anyone else noticing? Or would that get me arrested?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Hey," Jonathan says, when Max opens the passenger door to his car. "How was school?"

"Fine," she shrugs, takes off her headphones and tugs her seat belt on. "Can we get fries before practice?" She cranks the volume on his car's speakers and Straight to Hell by The Clash starts to hum through the car.

Good taste, kid.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "Your dad doesn't have dinner plans for you or anything?"

"Nope," she pops the 'p' on her response for extra emphasis.

"Is he picking you up after practice, or did you want me to drop you home?"

"Can you give me a ride?" She asks. "I think Dad's on a date or something."

"A date?" he echoes, doing his best not to sound too surprised. Steve hadn't mentioned anything about him dating again. Not that Jonathan had any right to that information, necessarily.

But he was always open with Steve about when he was in the dating pool again, because he knows Max can take time to adjust to anyone who isn't himself or his two primary partners.

"I'm guessing you don't know anything about it, huh?"

"No?" she says, like it was stupid for him to even ask. Jonathan had no idea a single word could sound so ornery, but then Max surprised him a lot in that regard.

"I picked some pictures for his profile, that's all."

"Well, I'm sure he appreciated that," he says, nodding. Max rolls her eyes and looks like she might throw him one of her signature whatevers but she keeps her mouth shut.

"Do you want a hot dog too? Or just fries?"

She's staring intensely at her phone, so she doesn't respond.

"Fries? Or fries and a hot dog?"

"Hm? Hot dog, please."

"There's my sweetling, draped artfully across the bleachers," Argyle says, sitting beside Jonathan. "How're you? How's the progeny?"

"She's good," Jonathan says, watching Max run from one side of the court to the other, calling out to her teammates. "Apparently Steve's dating again."

"Oh yeah? That's cool, man," Argyle says, nodding. "You did always want him to move on and find The One that he was looking for."

"Yeah, I did."

They hold hands and sit in companionable silence while Argyle scrolls through Hinge. "Oh! Hey. I found him."

"Oh, can I see?" Jonathan holds out his hand.

He flips through his photos and feels the same stab of longing he always has when he looks at Steve. Like, maybe they could still make it work, but at the same time, he never felt truly worthy of Steve's love anyway. So, maybe that's what he really wants to do — pay back his debt.

Argyle, sensing the slightest change in Jonathan's mood, like he always does, puts his arm around his shoulder.

"Love you, muchacho."

"Love you too."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve's nervous for his first date since he got out of his long, long-term relationship with Jonathan. The guy he's going on a date with also has a J name, but he's easy to talk to, a physiotherapist with a full-time job, and it seemed like they had good chemistry. At least, digitally.

The date has two stages — browsing for second hand books in an older neighbourhood and then dinner at a tapas bar. So, after a video call with Robin where she helps him pick what to wear — a dusty pink button-up shirt, pants and a gold chain — he's feeling a little more confident. He thinks it's a little like riding a bike or something. He has to stretch his date muscles again, but he'll get there.

How bad can it be? He wonders while he locks up his apartment.

He gets there 15 minutes early, because he wanted to be sure he had a parking spot. The bookstore is lovely — it's one of those spaces where the bookshelves are heaving with books in rough categories (fiction, lit. fiction, mystery, sci-fi/pulp and non-fiction) but Steve can tell all of the shelves have been thoroughly picked over. He sends a text his date, just to check they're still meeting up for 7:30.

He finds a bizarre 1950's book about lingerie construction for Cami, a copy of some lesbian pulp fiction for Robin and then a copy of The Carnivorous Lamb by Agustin Gomez-Arcos for himself. It's a queer classic, and he feels like it might help him inform Mateo's character, if he's lucky. He sends another text to his date and lets him know that if he arrives at the restaurant before Steve, he can grab their table.

He pays for his books and chats with the owners and once they realise he's an author they invite him to do a book talk or a reading and he says he'll give them a call. They chat for a little while longer until he realises he's been in this one bookstore for 45 minutes.

He sends another text to his date, waits another 15 minutes and, even though his date's read his previous texts, there's no response. He sends a message to Robin.

Hey. I think I got stood up.

Oh my god NO how DARE they!

I still have a reservation for that Spanish tapas place at 7:30, though, if you're free?

Steve, Baby Buckley and I would LOVE to go to dinner with you.

Steve and Robin arrive right at 7:30, and Steve is told that his reservation is already claimed, which is weird because he's not late and he didn't cancel it. He and Robin look at each other.

The waiter at the front promises he'll find them a table inside in 15 minutes. They take their drinks (two beautiful and expensive mocktails) on the patio and then move inside.

"Now, how many of these tapas can I combine to satisfy my weird pregnancy cravings, do you think?"

Steve looks over the menu and shrugs. "Wanna find out?"

And then he looks up.

His date is sitting in the restaurant in the corner. With someone else. They're staring into each other's eyes and holding hands, a bottle of wine between them.

"He's here." Steve says.

"Hm? Who?" Robin looks up. "… wait, your date is here?"

"Yeah. He's behind you. Don't turn around. He's on a date."

"With someone else?" Robin wrinkles her nose, incredulous. "I'm going to adjust my bag on this chair and turn around very carefully," Robin says, quietly, twisting around to look at the guy. "Has he seen you yet?"

"Oh he's about to," Steve says, with a smirk.

They don't talk for a few minutes until the guy looks up and sees Steve. His entire face seizes up in surprise and then falls once he realises who he's looking at.

Steve gives him a casual wave with two fingers and nods a smile.

He and his date pay for the bill, even though his date is wondering why they have to go so quickly when they haven't finished yet—

—and then Steve's date is gone.

"Who's idea was it to come here?" Robin asks. "Yours or his?"

"Mine," Steve says, simply. He wonders if he should block the guy. But then he's a little curious as to what he might say.

"Okay, because I was going to give him a speck — a single speck — of grace and say maybe he'd gotten the days mixed up, or something, if this was his regular spot. But it's not, so I hate him and I hope that a minor to moderate inconvenience happens to him every day for the rest of his life."

"I love you," Steve says to Robin.

Their waiter approaches him. "Do you need a few more minutes with the menu?" he asks, taking out a notepad.

"Oh, um, yes we do, but I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about some of the dishes on the share plate section?"

"Of course, which ones were you looking at?"

"I'm just looking for ones that have any sort of like, pickle, olive, brine-y, umami sort of flavour, does that makes sense?"

"Yeah, totally. I can make some recommendations."

Robin and the waiter talk back and forth for a few minutes, deciding between serrano ham or smoked duck, steak bites or beef cheeks and piri piri prawns or spicy mussels.

Fuck him. Fuck him and enjoy dinner with your best friend.

"Cheers," Steve says, lifting his mocktail and touching the glass to hers. "We're getting dessert."

"Oh, yes we are," she says, nodding. "Cheers, Steve. I love you."

"I got you something, by the way." He opens his tote bag from the bookshop and looks for Robin's book.

"Did you? That's so sweet of you."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Eddie has a very complicated relationship with the farmer's market. He loves the farmer's market because that's where he'll find his uncle Wayne and his husband Benny most weekends. He loves saying hi to everyone who's known him since he was a kid and stealing a million free samples, but the farmer's market?

She is a cruel mistress and she is not kind to his wallet.

And she's being especially cruel today because he has to buy a bunch of extra shit to cover up the carrot cake ingredients that he's gonna use for Benny's birthday cake. He and Wayne are planning a surprise party for him, so he's been testing cakes over the last little while and he thinks a carrot cake will prevail. Benny's grandma's strawberry shortcake would be the real winner, but nobody's been able to figure out her recipe for over 50 years.

He stops to adjust his grip on his reusable bags when he sees Benny's stall. Benny's stall started out as a semi-retirement project that sold dry baking mixes, like Benny's grandma's famous biscuit recipe. Then, he added cornbread, a buttermilk pancake mix, brownies, cookies, a coffee cake, an apple crumble mix and a peach cobbler mix. Add in a few seasonal pancake recipes (one for Easter, one for autumn and one for Christmas) and some homemade jams and his semi-retirement project turned pretty serious.

Then, it expanded into spice blends, dry rubs and marinades, gourmet mustards, speciality garlic and hot sauces from different craftsmen, and his semi-retirement project turned into a whole job, and Benny's stall (called Benny's) became an institution in the farmer's market.

He's about to say hi when he realises neither Wayne nor Benny have noticed him yet. He watches Wayne bring Benny a coffee, and before he can totally ask his question, Wayne nods, like, yes, your coffee already has sugar. Wayne does the same to Benny, frowning while he answers a question Benny already knows the answer to. And it's not just that, it's the way they touch each other with such a casual gentleness, built up over the decades they've been together.

Eddie wants that. He wants someone whose every touch is tender, someone who can communicate with him through a single look, and someone who knows him so intimately. He wants a person. He wants his person. And it's hard, in a way, to be dating and be as young as he is and looking for that one person.

But he is. He can't help it. Even if he is too young to know what he wants.

Wayne whistles loudly, waving Eddie over. "Eddie, c'mere!"

Eddie tries to wave but he's holding onto like four bags, so he just nods and comes over, setting his stuff down on the counter. "Hey, how's it going?"

"Not too bad." Benny says, already reaching for the bags. "What did you get?"

"Oh, lots of stuff. I got some fancy Spanish tuna from the jar man, good sourdough, some eggs, lots of produce — some carrots 'cause I wanna make a carrot top pesto, and of course, some very fancy ice cream from Mark's."

"Oh yeah?" Wayne asks. "What flavours?"

"I got the Buttermilk Cookies 'n' Cream, the Saturday Morning Cereal one, Espresso Tiramisu, and the pine tree and pine nut caramel one."

"Careful of that coffee one," Wayne says. "Last time you had some you were wired into next week."

It's true — the last time he had the Espresso Tiramisu one on his birthday he felt like he'd had enough caffeine to send him to space and back.

"What, no salted caramel with goat's milk?" Benny asks, astonished.

"No, they'd sold out already," Eddie says, pouting. Except he totally did have some salted caramel with goat's milk ice cream. They had sold out of it — Eddie would know — he bought the last pint of it. And, thankfully, the owners of Mark's were nice enough to hide it in an Espresso Tiramisu container and everything.

Benny tsks disapprovingly — not at the owners specifically — but at the idea that he might have to live in a world without his favourite ice cream in it.

"Did you know he hasn't even started planning my birthday?" Benny asks Eddie, pointing at Wayne with his thumb over his shoulder.

Wayne shrugs, hands in his pockets. "I got time."

"Time? You got a week," Benny looks pointedly at Wayne and then back at Eddie. "Hey, we should have a family phone call soon. We wanna hear about your radio thing."

"You got it," Eddie says, nodding. He picks up his groceries again, grateful he had a moment to set them down before he has to haul it all home. "But I should get back before my ice cream melts."

"We'll see you later," Wayne says and comes around the counter to give him a hug.

Eddie leaves the farmers market with his favourite playlist blasting through his headphones for his walk home and he feels like — just this once — everything is finally going to plan.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve thinks if he stares at his immovable word count anymore his eye will start twitching again. So he decides to take a break, even though he hasn't been able to do the work that he's actually wanted to do. He's been doing research for his 1960's Italian novel but he half-wonders if he should just start a new work entirely, rather than fighting with this one.

He decides to go downstairs to the main floor to check his mailbox (and mark a bunch of mail as return to sender) and maybe to Rascal's to buy a sandwich for lunch. And instead, he finds Eddie outside his apartment digging through his shopping bags and patting his pockets.

"Shiiiiit…shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit!"

"Hey," Steve says. "What's up?"

"Oh, hey," Eddie stands up, blowing his hair out of his face. "I think I forgot my keys."

"Oh, shit. Are you gonna be able to get in? Do you need me to call the property manager or anything?"

"No, one of my roommates is on their way right now but I have this stupidly expensive ice cream for Benny's birthday coming up and it's melting because I was already carrying it home and it wouldn't matter except if it melts then I can't buy any more until after the party—" he inhales deeply, entirely conscious of the fact that he's just unloaded his problems into Steve's lap as though Steve were his dad and not his next door neighbour.

"—but it's okay, it's my fault. I forgot my keys. So." He shrugs. "It's okay."

"…do you want to borrow my freezer? Till your roommate gets back?" Steve points to his still-open apartment door. "

Eddie can't help the way his shoulders sag with relief at the generosity of Steve's offer. "Could I? Would you mind? Just for like, half an hour? You can totally say no."

"No, no," Steve shakes his head. "Please, it's fine. Come in."

"Thank you," Eddie says, gathering up his groceries. "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much I owe you the biggest favour of all time."

"Max?" Steve calls down the hall.

"Hey," she says, reappearing from her bedroom. "That was fast."

"Yeah, I didn't go yet. This is Eddie, he's our neighbour. He got locked out so he's gonna hang out here for a bit. Is that okay?"

Max shrugs, leaning against the wall to hide her shyness. "That's okay."

"Oh! Hey!" Eddie says, pointing to Max. "Pizza Girl!"

Steve looks at Eddie for an explanation. "It was like, the day after we moved in and we didn't have any hot pads or oven mitts or anything, and I'd just made pizza so I knocked on this door and Max gave me some oven mitts. She saved the day."

"Oh," Steve says, smiling. "I didn't know you'd met before."

"Ran into each other." Eddie says, taking his groceries to the kitchen counter. "…wow it is so fucking beautiful in here, what the fuck," Eddie mutters. Max smirks, knowing that her dad isn't going to admonish Eddie for swearing like he does for her or even her friends sometimes.

"…that and I did see Max skating around with a pizza one day, so in my mind I was like, Pizza Girl." He puts the ice cream in the freezer and breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Steve, so much, you seriously saved my ass."

"That's okay," Steve says. "Happy to help."

Steve realises that he can't leave to go get lunch because he doesn't want to leave Max alone with Eddie. It's not that he doesn't trust Eddie with Max — he wouldn't have invited him in if he didn't — but Jonathan hasn't met Eddie. And because of the way Jonathan dates multiple people, they have a rule between them that Max doesn't get left alone with an adult the other parent hasn't met yet.

It's complicated, but he'd be a hypocrite if he didn't honour it. So, it means lunch will be a while, and considering it always takes Max at least an hour to realise she's hungry, she'll be starving by the time he gets lunch.

"Lunch will be a little bit longer," Steve says, to Max. "Is that okay?"

She shrugs, which doesn't tell him anything.

"Oh, lunch?" Eddie says. "I can do lunch. I have lots of stuff. If that's okay?"

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. He already looks at home in his kitchen, funnily enough, unpacking all of his things and setting them out on the counter. "We don't want to steal your groceries."

"Yeah, totally. These are all surplus groceries that I had to use to conceal my true purchases from Benny. It'll be my way to repay you for saving my ice cream and then we're even. Though, I have wanted to make carrot top pesto for a while. Also, did you know — and this is wild — carrots are sweeter in the wintertime because they use sugar to keep themselves warm?"

No, Steve didn't know that but he's still hung up on how an 18-year-old has an interest in carrot top pesto.

"What did you get?" Max asks. She lopes over to the kitchen and stands beside Eddie with a confidence Steve doesn't often see when it comes to strangers.

"I got Spanish tuna in oil, from the jar man, some pickled pepperocini, some lemon, shallot, rye bread, cheese — so we can make some sick ass tuna melt sandwiches. Does that work?"

"Yeah," she nods. "That works."

"Oh," he looks around like he's just remembered something. "Do you want to swap pronouns?"

"She/her," Max says, biting her lip. "But, like, in a dyke way. You?"

"He/him, but in like, a fag way," he says, mirroring her.

"Cool."

"Excuse me," Eddie says, looking at Steve's pot rack hanging above the stove. "Are those copper pans?" he asks, his voice dropping low.

"Yeah," Steve says, with a smile. "They're my mom's. She gave them to me as a gift when we moved in."

Never mind that she rarely ever used them herself in favour of her own personal chef.

"Beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, no notes," Eddie says.

"I like your patch," Max says.

"Oh yeah?" Eddie looks at his jacket. "Which one?"

"The Ghost Rats! patch is cool."

"Thank you! It is a favourite of mine, though they're one of my favourite bands, so."

Steve is quietly surprised when Max continues the conversation all on her own. "Are you excited for Skeletà?"

"Oh, dude," Eddie shakes his head like he's received a revelation. "I am on the edge of my seat I cannot wait till it drops."

"Same."

"Most people like red onion in their tuna salad," Eddie says, changing the subject entirely. "But I'm more of a shallot guy myself," Eddie says, neatly chopping the little red vegetable. "And I like to let it macerate in some lemon juice."

"Macerate?" Max echoes.

"It means… to sit and soak. The acid from the lemon juice will pickle the shallot a little bit and soften the flavour. Make sense?"

"Yeah."

Steve wouldn't interrupt this conversation for anything.

"To make a good tuna melt sandwich you should try to get tuna pieces in oil rather than water. Water is fine, but I find oil retains the flavour and texture better—"

They keep going, talking back and forth, with Max often asking why they're including pickled hot peppers or why he holds the knife the way he does and gets different jars from their fridge for the sauce.

"Where'd you learn to like, cook and stuff?" Max asks.

"Cook and stuff?" Eddie echoes, gently teasing her in a way Steve feels like few people ever can.

"I started working in restaurants when I was 14 'cause I wanted to go to concerts and my family couldn't afford to buy those tickets. So then I busted my ass on tables and washing dishes till I could afford those tickets. And then my boss put me behind the grill and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Cool."

They continue, working in tandem, adding kewpie mayonnaise, hot sauce, horseradish (which Max seems particularly skeptical about) green onions, celery and dill pickles (at Max's behest).

Steve does his best to watch from a safe distance, because he loves to watch his kid do anything but he knows she hates him watching her, even if she isn't doing anything serious or intense or stressful.

"How's our mixture coming along? Oh, it's looking good," he says, grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer. "Let's taste and see if it needs anything else."

Max tries it too, though she's a little more tentative than Eddie is. She is a picky eater — or was — until she started going on vacation with Steve's mom. But Steve has to learn to let go of the 8-year-old who would only eat oatmeal, pasta with meat sauce, fries and mac 'n' cheese from one particular brand. She's not his little girl anymore, but it's more than that.

She needs to be out from underneath the security of his shadow to grow into herself. Nobody knows she's a picky eater in a remote village in Tuscany. Nobody knows she's a picky eater when she sits alone in an airport waiting for a connecting flight. Nobody will know she's a picky eater when she goes to college, or, not at first anyway. Eddie doesn't know she's a picky eater, so he's encouraging her to taste it, just like he would with anyone else.

"It needs something, but I don't know what."

"Salt," Eddie says, trying a forkful. He tosses in a generous pinch. "Try it now."

"Mhm. It's good."

"Okay, so now, if we just butter the bread on both sides, then we can fry it until the cheese is melted."

"This pan?" Max asks.

"That works."

"Hey Dad?" Max asks.

"Yeah? What's up?"

"Can we make a list of the ingredients? So I can make this for El?"

Ah. There it is. The ulterior motive she so loved to conceal from him but was often forced to show her hand at the last possible moment.

"Of course, yeah."

"Hi!" Cami calls, as she comes home.

"Hey Cami," Steve says. "This is Eddie, our neighbour. Eddie, this is—"

"Oh my god!" She says, pointing to him and dancing a little in her shoes. "It's you! Mosh pit guy!"

"Oh my god!" he says, grinning wide. "Dude, I thought you were like, a fairy witch that disappeared after the clock chimed at midnight."

Cami sets her stuff down and looks at Steve to explain. "He—okay." It takes her a beat to think about how she wants to tell this story, because she doesn't want Steve to worry about her, even though any danger she might've been in has long since passed.

"We were out late at the same club one night and we met and hung out. And I'd had a little too much to drink. I wasn't wasted," she says, immediately wanting to clarify.

"No, you were not wasted at all," Eddie agrees.

"But I was a little inebriated," she says, pinching her fingers together.

"You hit your limit," Eddie nods.

"Exactly! And then he walked me home."

"He walked you home?" Steve asks, looking between the two of them. "You walked her home?"

It's not that he doesn't believe Eddie incapable of something like that. But to hear that Eddie changed the course of his night, taking pains to take care of this girl who he'd just met—

It wasn't just nice. It wasn't just kind. It was… beautiful. Eddie was a beautiful boy with a beautiful soul.

"Oh, totally!" He waves his hand. "I mean, we live in the same building so it felt like fate. And I don't know that I would've made it home without your help," he says, gesturing to Cami. "Because I was like," he makes a series of wild hand gestures.

"We were friends when we left the club but after the walk home we were like, best friends," she laughs.

"No, we were making friendship bracelets and t-shirts and we were developing our own secret handshake and everything," Eddie grins.

"And then I woke up with a bad hangover and I wrote like, find the mosh pit guy on my to do list above my bed."

"And! I had an incomprehensible voice note with a thousand pauses about a fairy who spins in a mosh pit," Eddie says energetically.

"Well," Max says, eating a spare piece of cheese. "Now you can cross it off your list."

"Yes! It's so cool to see you again," Cami says, taking both of Eddie's hands and squeezing them. "What are we making?"

"Lunch! Tuna melts. Do you want one?"

"I would love one."

"Steve?" Eddie says, looking at him with his eyebrows raised. "Sandwich?"

"That sounds perfect, Eddie, thank you."

"So what we'll do," Eddie says, whispering to Max, deep in a conspiracy. "Is give him the first one that's all pretty and perfect and then we'll get the ones at the end that are super crispy and cheesy. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Max grins.

Eddie's phone bleats obnoxiously in his pocket. "Not now, telecommunications device," he says, disapprovingly. "I don't need to know that my roommate is home. I'm having lunch with my friend Steve and his family."

"My dad isn't your friend," Max retorts. "Is he?"

"Ask your dad," Eddie says, carrying the plates to their little dining room table.

"Dad?" she says, looking from one to the other. "Are you friends? 'Cause I thought you were neighbours."

"Yeah," he smiles. "We're friends. And neighbours."

"But—" Max pauses. "You're like, total opposites."

"And don't opposites attract?" Eddie asks the universe.

"Yeah, but like, romantically." Max wrinkles her nose. "It doesn't count for friends."

"Doesn't it?" Eddie wrinkles his nose. "Who says?"

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "Says who?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Robin has specific three ringtones, one for her wife, one for her work and one for Steve — if anyone else calls her she usually ignores it completely.

The opening from Geri Halliwell's 2003 cover of It's Raining Men trills out of Robin's phone, which means one thing and one thing only: Steve is calling.

"Hey, Steve, I was just thinking about you."

Oh really?

"Well, I was thinking about you and Max and crying, more accurately."

Aw, what were you crying about?

She can hear the gentleness in his voice and she knows he's not asking out of obligation, but because he's kind.

"Just, like, I don't know," Robin closes the door of the fridge with her hip and sighs.

"You finally got together with Jonathan after years of will-they, won't-they, and then he finds out he's pregnant with this drummer's baby after a one-night stand. He finally realises he's pregnant and you've only been together two weeks, and," she blinks, holding back tears. She wishes the pregnancy hormones would ease up because she's so tired of feeling so raw and emotionally overwrought all the time.

"You said yes to Jonathan and Max. And that's incredible. And then 13 years later, you split up and you're still her dad. Still! There are not many men out there who would do that, Steve."

She's my kid, Robs. I held her when she took her first breaths in this world. She's my kid. She'll always be my kid.

"No, no," she rubs at her eyes with her sleeve. But the longer she goes without her medications for her depression, her anxiety and her OCD, the more agitated she feels. She knew pregnancy would be difficult, but she wasn't quite ready for the turmoil that awaited her.

"That's exactly it. Not many parents would remain parents to a kid who wasn't theirs after they've broken up with the kid's parent. Family friend? Maybe. Lifelong support? Maybe. A phone call away? Maybe. But not a dad. You're a dad, Steve, and it just— it just makes me really happy to know that Baby Buckley has you in their life."

I love you, Robs. I love you and Chrissy and especially Baby Buckley. I can't wait to see all of you together as a little family.

"Oh you'll be there. You can have a front row seat, if you want. By the way, did you call with something in mind, or just to catch up?"

Oh my god. He laughs wetly. I can't even remember. I think I just wanted to hear your voice. How are you?

"Speaking of 17-year-olds," she says, sighing. "What is going on with you and that twink, Steve, be honest."

Okay, so, he's not 17, he's 18. And we're just friends! He came over the other day because he locked himself out and he made us these gorgeous tuna melt sandwiches. And, and, and! I have to tell you—

"Tell me what?" Robin asks, already anticipating what he might say.

He walked Cami home from a club one night when she was drunk and brought her home safe and everything.

"Oh," Robin pauses. "When? Are they friends already? She is his age and everything."

Only recently. They met that night at a club, walked each other home and then they met again when Cami came home.

"Oh," Robin says, again. "Well that's nice of him. I feel like Cami needs friends that are…steadfast and ready to accept her just as she is and it sounds like he's one of those types of people."

They're so cute together — and Max likes him too. Eddie and Max actually had like, a whole conversation at the dinner table.

"Hey!" Robin says, warning him. "Don't call him cute. I don't need you getting infatuated with a teenager."

I am not infatuated with him Robin. Steve laughs, which Robin thinks is probably a good thing. He's a friend — I was the one who said we should be friends and I'm keeping it that way.

"Can you send me a photo of him? I think I've seen one photo of him from that screenshot you sent, but I need more information."

Yeah, give me one second.

She gasps out loud when she scrolls through the photos. "Steven Robert Sébastien Harrington!"

What? What? What?

"He's a pretty boy in a band t-shirt! In several band t-shirts! Oh, absolutely not."

Oh my god, Robs, c'mon. I already said he was my friend. I just moved here — let me make a friend, okay? It's the queer community, I'm bound to meet him eventually.

"This is from his Hinge profile, Steven. What are you doing matching with your friends on Hinge?"

The algorithm suggested his profile — I would've felt rude if I'd just swiped past him. We don't actually talk or flirt on Hinge. We text on the phone.

"It's not that I don't trust you," she says, not trusting him or the pretty boy in the band t-shirt. "It's that I want the best man humanly possible for you. I want Pedro Pascal in that Materialists movie but trans masculine, okay? I don't want you to settle."

I mean, I'd go for Pedro Pascal, never mind the character he plays. His love and support of trans people and open disdain for transphobes is hot.

"The point is, Steve, you always play the provider in every relationship and I know it's a roll you love, but I want you spoiled, safe and supported. Then you can blow each other's backs out all you want."

Excuse you, but Pedro Pascal has back problems, so I would be very gentle and not blow his back out at all. I would blow his mind, though.

"Oh my god. Do you think he's on Raya?" She asks, opening a new tab on her phone. "I feel like everyone would know that if he was."

What is Raya? Please don't tell me it's an app. I don't want to be on another app, Robin.

"It's a networking and dating app, but it's used by like, famous people and celebrities. They only admit a select number of people, but I feel like you'd make enough money to qualify," she says, scrolling through their FAQ page. "You're a New York Times best-selling author."

I don't want another app. If I meet Pedro Pascal it'll be in some seedy New York City or Chicago or San Francisco baths like God intended.

"Steve, I regret to inform you but the seedy New York City or Chicago or San Francisco baths you think exist closed down when you were like, 4, probably. They've now been gentrified into gyms that make you pay exorbitant fees and make you swear not to include anyone else in the background of your OnlyFans content."

Grindr assures me that seedy New York City or Chicago or San Francisco baths can and do persevere, even as those cities gentrify themselves into oblivion.

"Well," Robin sighs. "That is both disturbing and reassuring, which is all we can hope for in these times."

Did you want to go on a walk with me? I've decided to shelve Luca and Mateo's story but I don't want to be alone when the adrenaline of that decision wears off.

"Actually, I'd love to," Robin says. "Baby Buckley has just started hiccuping at night and it's been keeping me awake, but if I exercise enough during the day it's like he also gets tired… it's a whole thing."

Oh, Baby Buckley, I cannot wait to introduce you to the wonders of a healthy sleep routine.

Steve sounds affectionate and sympathetic without giving any unsolicited advice, which is what she needs right now.

"Meet by the bench? I can give you all the gossip on all the pride board members for before your next meeting."

I'll be there.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Eddie is spiraling a little bit.

He has at least seven assignments due in the next week and 3 separate exams before he's on break. He knows, logically, he needs to work on those assignments and study for those exams, but he also knows that if he looks at the screen of his beat up laptop anymore the thing might combust.

So, he put a call out on a couple of his socials to see if anyone wanted to hang out and got a response from his mom, of all people. (It's not that he wouldn't expect a response from her, but she works almost every weekend, except this one, apparently, which is also Independent Bookstore weekend.)

"Alright, so," he passes his mom a little cardboard passport with the names of some local businesses inside. "I think, if we're strategic about this, we can hit The Archive, Action Comics & Collectibles, Vinyl Planet and Meet Cute and then go for coffee at the end."

"Oh," she says, opening the passport. "I haven't heard of that last one."

"It's new, I think," is all he says before he climbs out of her car.

Eddie holds the door open for his mom and they're both hit with the smell of old bindings, worn pages and the sweet almond scent of books stacked on wooden shelves. They're browsing the newest stuff arranged in short piles along the long counter at the front, and Xian, the guy by the cash register, waves to both of them.

"Hi Mona."

"Hey Xian."

"Do you remember coming here with Dad when you were really little?" Mona asks Eddie. "It's okay if you don't remember."

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "I remember." It's one of the few very concrete memories he has of his dad. "He always spent a long time in the music section."

He and his dad used to hop in the car and go to the Archive just so he could check out their collection of music anthologies for different bands. He'd drop Eddie off in the kid's section downstairs on the main floor and then spend a while (like, a while) upstairs pouring over massive anthologies of different musicians.

It occurs to Eddie now that he was doing it because he couldn't afford such luxury items — coffee table books in slipcases with an accompanying CD and lyric sheets have never been cheap. And then once he'd finished either reading them or transposing some guitar chords so he could learn to play his favourite songs, he'd head back to the kid's section with an oh shit, yeah, my kid — and then they'd go home and Eddie would promise to never ever ever ever tell Mom his dad left him alone for that long.

Eddie remembers that being a theme, if he really thinks about it.

The Archive looks just the same as it did when he was a kid, with rows and rows of shelves that run almost the entire length of the building. The wooden floors creak audibly as though they are tired of shouldering their burden and in certain places, Eddie can swear the bookshelves are leaning towards each other, as though they might collapse in on themselves.

"I'll see you upstairs when you're done?" Mona asks.

"Yeah, I'll see you in a bit."

Eddie has the most fun picking through the random piles and stacks left at the end of the bookshelves, which is either stock yet to be shelved or books left by patrons who weeded them from their piles. He waves to his mom who already has a sizeable stack of what look to be sci-fi pulp novels and old classics and she laughs and does her best to wave back.

He takes his time and finds two pretty sick D&D books in their tiny TTRPG section. One Hoard of the Dragon Queen from 2014 (which is good because his old one is beat to shit) and somehow he finds an old-ass monster manual from 1979 (for $15!) It's got writing all over the inside but he knows his party is gonna be obsessed.

Then he slinks upstairs to the music section, to lose himself in those anthology books like his father before him…or something. He finds a bunch of tomes he can't possibly afford — 101 Essential Rock Records by Jeff Gold, a beautiful book about The Voyager Golden Record, an anthology of psychedelic rock and an anthology about David Bowie called David Bowie is the Subject.

When he looks up from his stack, his mom is nudging his foot with her work boot.

"Hey."

"Oh, hey, sorry," he says, checking his watch. "I was too absorbed in the family tradition."

"That's okay, sweetheart. Are you ready to go?"

When he gets downstairs, he knows he can't buy the 101 Essential Rock Records by Jeff Gold because he can't afford it right now — he's already spending enough on books today and he spent all that money on groceries for Benny's birthday and everything else. But it's so good that he doesn't want to leave it behind. It's got a two-page spread for each album, interviews with musicians and music producers about the album's impact and sometimes photos of special edition inserts and it has a whole section on Jimi Hendrix's personal record collection. This would be so good for all the essays he has to write and like, a reference piece for work because there's no way he can get many of these LPs anymore, or they're ridiculously expensive.

"Hey, Xian," Mona says, sliding her pile over to the guy behind the counter. "Just those ones, thank you."

Xian counts up the prices written in pencil on the first page of all her books. "Are you paying together or separately?" he asks.

"Do you need that one?" Mona asks Eddie.

"…yeah," Eddie admits, pained. He chews his lip fretfully and has no idea that he's made this exact face since he was about 3 and a half years old. "It would be for 108.9 STAR, or like, essays I would write for assignments."

"Okay," Mona says, tapping her books. "Add that one to the pile."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he says, setting the book down carefully on the counter. He pays for his two others and puts them in the random tote bag he grabbed when he was heading out the door.

"Can you pay me back?" She asks. "I don't need it back by any particular day." She reaches for her wallet so she can pay Xian. "But eventually."

"Yes," he nods emphatically. "Of course."

"Alright, trouble," Mona says, while Xian stamps their passports. "Let's go pick up your other D&D book."

They go to Vinyl Planet (the best place in the city for the finest collectibles), where Eddie picks up his special edition of Tome of Beasts, vol. 3. It has a wine red leather cover, goat skull etching and blue Celtic knot style details. It's even more beautiful in person somehow and it looks like it's full of crazy stat blocks.

"Oh yeah," he nods. "The Party is gonna love this one."

He finds his mom sifting through the older single issue comics, and, to his surprise, she's holding onto a few of them.

"You're getting into Batman?" Eddie asks, peeking at her selection.

"Yeah, well," Mona shrugs. "I liked that movie we watched for Munson movie night, so."

"The 2023 one with Robert Pattinson?"

"Yes, it felt like an old noir detective story, so I thought maybe I'll try a comic."

"Oh, then we have to watch Batman Returns around Christmas, I think you'll love it."

"You know," she regards him. "We started Munson movie night as a way to gather together and watch our favourite films, and somehow I feel like you are always the one picking the films."

"I would counter that accusation by asking you to fully and completely inspect the list, which details the film selected and which Munson suggested it," he says, coolly.

"While I, Edward Munson, may make the most suggestions out of any given Munson, all Munsons have had equal opportunities to inflict their film of choice upon the other. Any deviation from that schedule is because of major holidays or special anniversaries where exceptions are made upon a vote."

"Is this the part of the conversation where you insist you make the most suggestions because you've had the least time out of all of us to watch so many movies, or the part of the conversation where you say you're simply filled with so much joie de vivre that you can't help but overwhelm the spreadsheet with your own suggestions?"

"This is the part of the conversation where I insist Wayne is simply too easy-going and we must call a family meeting to ensure that everyone has the same number of suggestions in the spreadsheet."

"Oh, it's that serious?" Mona laughs.

Meet Cute is an adorable little shopfront, with a vintage sofa and a silk flower wall and an espresso machine behind the front counter. It's busy, but it's a happy kind of busy and there's no line at the counter. His mom browses along the tables, turning over the books to read the back, though Eddie can tell she's surprised to be in here.

"Hi, welcome in."

"Hey," Eddie says, coming right up to the counter. "I have an order for Eddie?"

"Oh, right," the staff member says. "The Steve Harrington guy."

"That's me," he says, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter top. He doesn't want to spend too long in here, because otherwise his mom will start asking very thoughtful questions like, Why are you buying 10 romance novels written by the same guy? and Can't you get some of these from the library? and Do you need to buy all of these all at once? What about work and school? because she cares about him and is interested in his life which is beautiful and touching until he needs her to leave him alone.

He could, of course, just wait a few days and pick up the books later but he's a sucker for gamefication and buying so many books at once will get him so many stamps.

The person behind the counter returns with all of Eddie's books in just a few minutes. "I'm sure you already know, but we weren't able to find three of his books, so we don't have the one published in 2011 and we're missing the third in the," she glances down at her list. "Spellshop series because it went viral on TikTok, and the BnB one, so those are still on back order if you want to buy them up later."

"Yeah, that's okay," Eddie reaches into his bag to grab Once More Unto the Breach. "I found one of them secondhand."

"Oh, that's great," she smiles. "Let me just mark your order as collected and then I'll stamp your passport."

His mom appears behind him and, to his surprise, slides a book onto the counter. "Just that one, thank you."

"Is that," Eddie blinks. "Bride by Ali Hazelwood?" he asks.

"Yeah," she shrugs. "She has another one coming out later this year and the wait to read this at the library is long."

"I didn't know you read romantasy," he mumbles, mostly to himself.

"Edward, darling, there are lots of things you don't know about me," Mona says, handing over her passport.

rat pack ratbag bad boys who used to be in a band

12:30 PM

eddie (faggy gentlerat): boys i have just learned that my mom reads romantasy, please keep me in your thoughts during this uncertain time

g-bear (gareth, esq.): like mother like son

eddie (faggy gentlerat): STOP

jeff (king jeff): shit my phone didn't charge can anyone pick me up from my exam in 2 hours?

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): i got you

jeff (king jeff): bless you freak 🙏🏿

g-bear (gareth, esq.): have you started studying yet eddie?

eddie (faggy gentlerat): god don't remind me

"So," Mona says as soon as they've sat down at a table with their coffee at Rascal's.

"What did you get?"

"I got uh," Eddie sifts through his pile. "A couple of D&D books, the Jeff Gold record book you so generously loaned me the money for, and um, these," he pats the pile of romance paperbacks in a paper bag next to him.

Please don't ask me about why I have 11 books by Steve Harrington, because then I'll have to explain why I have 11 books by Steve Harrington.

"Who's your new favorite author?"

Eddie takes a long sip of his iced latte before he speaks, nodding and swallowing. "Steve Harrington. He writes queer romances."

"Oh," she nods and raises her eyebrow in a that wise, intuitive, Mom-ish way that he dreads a little bit. "Is he a new favourite? I don't remember you mentioning him before."

Eddie rambles through the story of how he met Steve online and then how they met by chance and then he learned Steve was an author, so then he went to the library and borrowed a book and read it almost in one sitting—

"Cute," Mona says, grinning at him. "You have a crush on him."

"I had a crush on him," Eddie says, correcting her quickly. "Just a little one. And now we're just friends."

"Right," Mona says, taking a sip of her coffee. "And you're just a friend who buys all of his books from a specialty bookstore."

"Not all of them. Almost all of them. And, yes," Eddie says, more exasperated than he wants to be. "Because all of his books had to go back to the library at the same time and I was still reading them. It was very annoying."

Mona's whole face softens with familiar affection and she decides she'll stop embarrassing him on purpose for now, because she's sure she'll embarrass him by accident later, simply by virtue of being his parent.

"So, tell me about work. Are you getting ready to do your first show?"

"I am, actually," he says, pulling out his notes. "I have so many ideas—"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"So," Backwards Cap guy leans back in his chair. "If you want this relationship to go any further, I would need you to call me Daddy."

"…right," Steve says, flatly.

"Yeah." The guy nods.

"So," Steve leans forward a little and crosses his ankle over his knee, taking up more space in the chair than he did before. "Would that be all the time?"

"Oh yeah," he nods again. "Totally."

"So, when we're alone?" Steve asks. He waits for the guy across from him to nod before he suggests another option. "If we're at a play party? A dungeon?"

"Totally."

"If I call you at work?" Steve asks. This guy swore up and down that he was a total freak in their messages, so Steve decides to test that theory.

"At the gym? In the grocery store? In front of your parents? At a work Christmas party? In church?"

The blush deepens and blooms across his face until he has no choice but to change the orientation of his hat and pull it down over his eyes.

"Yeah, man, totally." He shrugs.

"Mhm," Steve lights a cigarette and gives himself time to smoke it before he decides the date is done.

Safe in his apartment, he sends a text to Nancy before he finishes the slice of experimental carrot cake Eddie dropped off the other day. He and Nancy have been friends for years — he was her lesbian awakening and he dated her around the time that he found out he was into guys and also was a guy himself.

She's a journalist now and writes columns that explore sex, sexuality and relationships. One of her first columns that did really well was an interview she had with Steve, where they talked about their (brief) relationship and how it formed into a no-holds-barred type of friendship that you can only find in the queer community.

He has always appreciated her candour, her sense of humour and her ability to be completely undaunted, even by the most unusual fetish or kink. That and her wife Barb is a butch leather worker in the community, so she's seen (and heard) a little of everything.

I just went on the worst date with a guy.

Well there's your first problem. You went on a date with a guy.

He said he wanted me to call him Daddy all the time.

OH I'm sure. What did you say?

When we're alone? At a play party? If I call you at work? At the gym? The grocery store? A work Christmas party? Church?

And?

He blushed and said, 'yeah man totally'. He's like 21 btw.

HAHAHAHA! Coward.

Oh my god. Where do you find these guys?

Hinge. He sounded appealing enough over text, I swear!

They always do.

Who's next on your list?

I don't know, but I'm gonna need to get laid soon because the idea that my ex is getting laid regularly by multiple people and I'm not fills me with the kind of resentment housewives carry for decades.

Make sure it's good sex.

Lots of praise if they're doing well.

Boo them if they're not doing well.

I'll report back after I've finished my love affair with this carrot cake.

Please do.

Later that night, Steve is loading his laundry into the dryer when he hears a familiar voice start to sing. It's a voice that's full of playfulness and mischief and warmth and he'd know it anywhere — it's Eddie.

Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Benny, happy birthday to you!

Steve stops what he's doing and listens, standing closer to the wall so he can better hear the unfamiliar voices.

I thought you forgot, you little shithead!

You? Never! Come have some cake and ice cream.

Wayne, did you know about this? Jesus Christ, the two of you, nothing but a pair of schemers—

It was his idea, not mine—

The music is turned up on the other side of the wall and Steve can't make out their voices anymore. But he can still hear their joy from the other side of the wall.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Hey," Steve says, when Max opens the door to his car. "How was school?"

"Don't," Max says, firmly. "Ask." She slams the door shut and yanks her seat belt across her body until it clicks in place.

"Okay," he nods and turns the volume up on their music a little bit. He knows from experience he shouldn't pry or offer his support right now — she's too prickly and sore to see that his questions come from a place of love and kindness.

He has to let her sigh and huff and lick her wounds, no matter how badly he wants to know what's going on in that heart of hers.

Their drive home takes a little longer than usual because of traffic and oddly enough, that seems to help.

"People are being dicks to El," she says, finally, leaning her head all the way back on the headrest.

"People are being dicks to El?" Steve repeats. "Which people?"

"My! Fucking!" She stops herself. "Sorry." She looks at Steve. "Can I swear? I'm frustrated."

"You can swear," he says, nodding. He's not sure how they got to this whole asking for permission to swear situation. He only meant to try to reduce her swearing so she wasn't swearing every other word, as he'd heard some other teenagers do. Instead, she feels like she has to ask him for permission to swear, which he doesn't like either.

They'll work on it.

"My fucking! Friends! Are being mean to El. Everyone is being mean to El."

"Mean in what way?" Steve asks.

El was born into a….Steve's not even sure what to call it, really. It's like a fringe religious group, somewhat similar to the Jehovah's Witnesses who believe in the End Times and somewhere called the Upside Down, which isn't hell but sounds pretty shit.

She was 'home schooled' for most of her life, had no friends and never uses contractions when she speaks, which leaves most people feeling disconcerted, even adults. When she was about 12, she ran away to a random diner in the middle of nowhere, wolfed down a burger and spoke about how her Papa was mean to her sometimes.

CPS was called and an investigation was conducted. She was taken into foster care and put into public school where the adults around her quickly realised she was well below many of the milestones that she was meant to have, through no fault of her own. That along with the fact that she struggles to read social cues, understand any pop culture references and her willingness to help made her a prime target for bullying.

Max was her first (and, Steve thinks) her only friend.

Then, for almost 4 years El went back and forth between foster care and public school and her Papa, until she was finally removed. She was placed, unconventionally, into the custody of the cop who responded to the call at the diner in the first place. She goes to school 5 days a week with a couple of half days where she's an apprentice at a hair dressing salon.

The bullying was really bad at first, but it seemed like the kids honestly just got bored of her. It seemed like things were going okay.

"My friends and I made this, like, pact," Max says, turning a friendship bracelet around and around on her wrist. "That we wouldn't be bitchy and we wouldn't leave anyone out and if we had a problem, we would talk it out. And we wouldn't be shitty to anyone just because they were different."

Steve doesn't say anything, he just turns the music down in the car ever so slightly.

"And the minute someone comes along who is actually different and doesn't immediately get all of our jokes and hasn't had the same experiences we've had, she can't fucking sit with us at lunch time."

"Yeah," Steve says, just to show her that he's listening.

"They never invite her to anything, they never include her in our plans, if she invites them to anything they're all too busy, or they cancel last minute, she's not allowed in the group chat and it's like—" She's upset now, wiping at her eyes with the corner of her hoodie.

It breaks Steve's heart that he can't just gather her up in his arms and kiss her until she feels better, like he did when she was little.

"What's the fucking point of that pact, then, if it means nothing?"

"Why isn't she allowed in the group chat?" Steve asks. He doesn't actually need to know the answer right now, but he does want to know their reasoning.

"Because they don't trust her enough with our private conversations, which are just fucking TikToks and us complaining about homework and the government," Max says, flinging her hand across the dashboard.

"Yeah," Steve nods.

"They say she makes them feel uncomfortable and how it's hard to talk to her because she doesn't act her age and how she's an energy vampire because of her trauma and it's like, if you just got to know her—" She's truly crying now, like the time she ran into a glass door when she was 6 and she started to cry before he'd even realised what happened.

"If you just got to know her like I know her then you'd see how cool she is."

"Yeah. She is a very good friend to you."

"Yeah," Max says, the inside of her lip bitten red. "And today when El came to sit with me at lunch, they got up and they left. All of them."

"Oh, sweetheart," Steve says. "I'm sorry."

"And they kicked me out of the group chat and then Amanda sent me this big long text about how they can see my 'priorities have shifted' and it's like, no they fucking haven't, because I still care about making sure people are included and I'm not gonna be shitty to anyone just because they're different."

Since when do 17-year-olds use such polished corporate speak? Steve asks himself. He pulls into their usual parking spot underneath their apartment building and turns off the car, but isn't in a rush to get out.

"Has this been going on for a while?"

"Yeah," Max nods. "Ever since the whole Carrie thing." People voted for El for prom royalty when she was 15 and then dropped a bucket of red paint on her.

"That's a long time to be carrying this, then." He wished he'd known. He wished she said something earlier. Maybe she had said something earlier and he missed it. Maybe she tried and it was too painful to talk about.

"Yeah. And now I feel like I have to choose between my friends I sit with every day, my friends on my basketball team and the friends I've known since I was like 9. But if they're gonna be this shitty then I don't wanna be their friend."

"Yeah." Steve just lets her exhale big, heaving breaths. He has to remind himself that this is good. What he doesn't want is for her to close up completely until they're back in therapy again and he's hoping the acid of her anger isn't burning her up from the inside.

"Well, I'm sorry that's happening, Max. That sounds really hard."

"It is."

"Are you still going to Pit Practice?"

"Yeah."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"Yeah," she nods. "I still don't really know people yet. But it's cool."

"Well, maybe you can take El there. Change up your routine a little bit to see how that feels."

"Yeah."

He offers her his open hand and to his surprise, she takes it and squeezes it.

"Can I have chicken tenders now?"

"Yeah," he says, with a smile. "Sure. Let's go upstairs."

"And please don't give me any advice. You were a popular jock even if you were miserable and Dad was a weird, sad music kid."

"Well, maybe Auntie Robin has some advice for you."

"I'd rather handle this myself."

"Got it."

Max has been in her room for hours, blasting her music through her headphones and probably being the worst upstairs neighbour imaginable.

After a fairly unsuccessful text exchange with Jonathan, where they try to figure out if either of them knew if Max's friendship situation was this bad for this long, Steve goes outside for a smoke.

He tries not to smoke until after Max is asleep, or at least until after dinner, but he cuts himself slack today and takes a smoke break on the balcony. He can hear a familiar voice — Eddie's — drifting out from the open balcony doors.

"Where's my vape?"

"Dude, for the last time, I don't know."

"Please, man, can you help me? I have to go to work and it's before my whole show and everything."

"I've already looked like 4 times. Maybe this is a sign you should quit."

Steve sees Eddie's vape sitting on the little table on the balcony. He sends Eddie a text.

Your vape is on the balcony.

"Can you please just help me do one more sweep of the apart—Oh." Eddie steps out onto the balcony and grabs his vape off the table.

Eddie's roommate mutters an 'Are you serious?' and leaves to go to his room.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Thank you," Eddie says, putting his vape in his pocket.

"You're welcome."

They're about two arm's lengths away from each other, their two worlds almost touching, like they often do.

"Everything okay?"

Steve wants to tell Eddie, but it isn't really his story to tell. He won't use Max's name, but Eddie's not stupid — he'll put two and two together. But he needs to talk about it with someone who won't automatically want to fix it like everyone else in Max's life will.

"Were you ever bullied?" he asks. "In high school?"

"Oh yeah," Eddie says, rolling his eyes. "Oh look guys, the faggot's wearing nail polish again." He laughs in an exaggerated, mocking tone. "I was shoved up against lockers or shoved out of the way a lot. In gym class, they all avoided me because nobody wanted to touch me. I had to try to take a different route home 'cause otherwise they'd follow me in their car and yell and throw shit."

Steve clicks his tongue in disapproval. "That's awful. I'm sorry, Eddie."

"Yeah, but," he shrugs. "Fuck them, right? They're all trying to be influencers or spending hours selling bitcoin or deeply involved in MLMs, so, I feel like I won in the end."

"What would your advice be?" Steve asks. "If someone was getting bullied at school. And not just bullied by, like, people who don't like you, but by your friends."

"Fuck 'em. Make your own club, that's what I did."

"Yeah?"

"Yep," Eddie says, nodding. "I made t-shirts and everything. It didn't stop the bullying, but it did make me feel a little more, like, secure, I guess. And it was a nice visual cue — us vs. them, and the official monthly club meetings gave me something to do, and something to work towards."

"So, even if it was two people?" Steve asks. "That would be a club?"

"Mhm, exactly." Eddie nods. "A very exclusive club."

"Thank you, Eddie," Steve says, carefully extinguishing his cigarette out in an ash tray. "Can you do me one favor?"

"Yeah, what's that?"

"Can we pretend this conversation never happened?"

Eddie draws a little cross over his heart. "Promise. What conversation. I just got here." An alarm goes off on his phone and he checks the time. "Shit. I gotta go to work. See you later?"

"Yeah," Steve nods. "See you, Eddie."

That night, Steve knows Max isn't asleep. He isn't sure how he knows, but he knows. He's been able to tell ever since she was little. Jonathan had no idea how he knew but he just felt it in his bones, like he feels it now.

He'll call in sick for her tomorrow, if she asks him to. He decides to let her come to him and tries not to count the minutes until she does.

"Hey, Dad?" she asks, stepping into his room. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," he says, sitting up in bed. "Come in."

"I can't sleep."

"Yeah?" he pulls back the covers for her on the other side but she doesn't quite climb in. "Mind racing?"

"I guess."

"Do you want tea?"

"Mm. Can you make it with milk, please?"

He makes them both sleepytime tea and froths the milk, pouring it into two smaller matching mugs and walks back to bed. Max takes the tea and cradles the cup in both hands.

"Can I stay here?" she asks. "Just for tonight?"

"Of course, sweetheart," he says. "I don't mind."

"I don't really want to talk," she settles into the pillows a little. "But I don't want to be on my phone."

"Smart," Steve says, approvingly. He looks around the room for inspiration before he sees his dad's vintage radio sitting on the dresser. "Do you want to listen to the radio? We can't play it too loud, 'cause Cami's still asleep, but."

"Yeah," Max takes a sip of her tea.

Steve turns on the radio and flips through advertisement after advertisement. He realises it's been so long since he's actually listened to the radio that he doesn't know any radio stations.

Well. He knows one.

He switches the dial to 108.9 STAR.

"Welcome," A familiar voice says, in between sound effects of teenagers chatting, locker doors closing and a school bell ringing. "To The School of Heavy Metal, with me, your host, Eddie Munson."

"Wait, is that Eddie? Like, the guy next door?"

"I guess so."

Max looks at Steve in open astonishment then. Steve smiles. It's been a long time since he's been able to get her to look at him like that and he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of it.

"Where I'll prove to you that you know more about heavy metal music than you think you do." The atmospheric sounds fade and it feels like it's just Steve, Max and Eddie in the room together.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"But before we get into metal, I wanted to explore the music, the sounds and the audio engineering techniques that were used to inspire it. There were a lot of genres that inspired metal, but we're gonna start with hard rock. So, we have to go all the way back to the year 1964 when the Kinks released their iconic song You Really Got Me.

"Dave Davies, lead guitarist for the Kinks, was 17 years old and going through some serious teenage rebellion when his parents informed him that he wasn't allowed to marry his pregnant high school sweetheart at the time because she was too young.

"He was in his room playing around with a razor blade when he looked at his Elpico amplifier — a little green thing that was sounding rough and he thought he'd teach it a lesson. He slashed the speaker cone and when he linked his Elpico up to a Vox AC30, that created that signature distorted sound." Eddie plays the first 20 seconds or so of You Really Got Me and then pauses the song.

"Did you hear it? That sound was one of the first mainstream appearances of distortion, which had a major influence on many musicians and a massive influence on rock 'n' roll, punk rock and heavy metal.

"I can't talk songs that defined hard rock without talking about Helter Skelter by the Beatles. This iconic song is from their album 1968 The Beatles, also known as The White Album. This was, according to Paul McCartney, their dirtiest, filthiest, heaviest track. And he wrote it in response to Pete Townsend of The Who saying they'd just written their dirtiest, filthiest, heaviest track ever. Let's take a listen, shall we?"

Eddie lets the song play for about 40 seconds before he fades back in. "So you can hear the grunge, right?

"But where did the term heavy metal even come from? Lots of people believe that the phrase or the term 'heavy metal' came from Steppenwolf's 1968 smash hit Born to be Wild. And it comes from the verse, I like smoke and lightning / heavy metal thunder which is in reference to the songwriter, Mars Bonfire's first car, a secondhand Ford Falcon."

This time he starts playing the song at about 40 seconds in and lets it run until he finds a natural place to pause. "Apparently the first documented use of the words heavy metal were by William Burroughs in one of his stories, but I would argue that this heavy metal attitude came alongside the 1969 film Easy Rider which is a cult classic counterculture movie and really speaks to the rebellious, outlaw culture that gives us our signature look, our signature songs and our signature attitude.

"Next, I wanted to talk about the war cry that a lot of musicians do in metal. I think the person who did it the best was Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin, back in 1970 in Immigrant Song with his classic 'AHHHH-AHHHH-AH!'" Eddie plays the first 20 seconds of the song and then turns the music down again.

"What I wanna know is how many of us metal nerds tried and failed to recreate that in our bedrooms thinking we had that level of vocal control as Robert Plant? And let's not forget that John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin used a Moog synthesiser on Led Zeppelin's 1970 album and by the 1990's, synthesisers were used in almost every genre of heavy metal.

"Then, we have Smoke on the Water from the album Machine Head by Deep Purple in 1972, which, coincidentally is one of my dad's favorite songs. The song opens with one of the most recognizable guitar riffs in rock history, played by Ritchie Blackmore. Due to it’s simplicity, it is often an early riff played by beginner guitarists. It is, I believe, an inverse of one of Beethoven's famous Symphony no. 5." Eddie presses play and lets the song run for 30 seconds.

"And if we're talking about guitar-heavy songs, we have to talk about Eruption by Eddie Van Halen, the second track on his debut album. The 1 minute and 42 second instrumental guitar solo is widely considered to be one of the greatest guitar solos of all time. It popularized a technique called tapping, which is a two-handed technique of doing exactly that: tapping the strings up the neck. It had been a technique used in solos before but never to this degree.

"Eddie Van Halen said, in 1978: 'I remembered seeing people stretching one note and hitting the note once. They popped the finger on there to hit one note. I said: well, fuck, nobody is really capitalising on that. I haven’t really seen anyone get into that as far as they could, because it is a totally different sound. A lot of people listen to that and they don’t even think it’s a guitar. “Is that a synthesiser? A piano? What is that?”'

"So there you have it from the master of guitar himself. The sick thing about Eruption is it leads into his cover of — get this — You Really Got Me by the Kinks from 1964. You didn't think I would bring it all the way back, did you? Well, I did!

"To close us out, I have one final song as a building block from the hard rock genre. That will lead us into proto-metal and the metal music we know today. This iconic song is none other than Back in Black by AC/DC. This song is on their 7th studio album of the same name. It's gone platinum so many times that it's one of the 3rd best selling albums in the United States history. This album inspired Metallica's 1991 Black Album and went on to be a high water mark for the genre as a whole.

"What I love about this song in particular is it's so raw, so chewed up and also so blue-collar and it has so much energy for something that's so heavy. I also have a distinct memory of my dad singing yes I'm back, well I'm back, ba-aa-ack when he came home and my mom says I was transfixed." Eddie laughs.

"So, let's run this playlist from the top we've got: You Really Got Me by the Kinks, Helter Skelter by the Beatles, Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf, Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin, Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple, Eruption by Eddie Van Halen and Back in Black by AC/DC. Thank you so much for listening to School of Metal, this is your host Eddie Munson of 108.9 STAR. It is my pleasure to officially say, school's out!"

Eddie plays the sound effect of a school's bell ringing and, after a few seconds, presses play on his playlist and lets it run. After making sure the song is playing he takes of his headphones.

"Oh my god," he laughs, palm touching his chest. "My heart is like—" he touches his hand to his heart over and over, imitating its rapid beat.

"That's good," Lucky says. "Means you care about it."

"I do," Eddie nods. He really, really does.

"I have some feedback for you — nothing major, it's mostly all good, just some things you can work on. But I'll write up a little thing and send it to you later."

"Perfect, thank you," Eddie tries to breathe and remembers to drink some water.

"For now, enjoy it. It's out in the world now."

"I did. Holy shit. Thank you so much."

"No need to thank me, Eddie. You did all the work."

Eddie replaces his headphones and makes sure the rest of the songs play in order, along with the ads. The minutes flick by until it's time for his boss to go back on the air again.

"Alright, welcome back to our night owls, this is Lucky, and you're listening to 108.9 STAR—"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Eddie arrives exactly on time for this pride board meeting because construction downtown has taken his secret downtown parking spot which is evil and homophobic, actually.

"Hey," he says, stepping through the door. "Am I late? I'm so sorry."

The blonde person speaking doesn't look up from their phone. "…and we deeply respect the, um, sovereignty, lands, histories, languages, knowledge systems of First Nations…nations, thank you."

Eddie grabs the first seat he can and pulls open his laptop and looks across the table to see Steve Harrington sitting across from him. He's in a sleeveless white tank top with an open black and cream button-up shirt over the top. He's rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and he's wearing a little gold chain.

Steve looks down his glasses at Eddie, raises his brow and winks.

Eddie wonders, if in fact, queerness is just falling in love with your friends every day until you die.

God. I am such a fag.

He opens his laptop and raises his brows in an expression that says, Is it that bad?

Steve, still typing on his laptop, dips his head to one side in an expression that Eddie reads as Well, we'll see.

Eddie opens up Gareth's note-taking template for the pride board meetings, makes a new copy and takes a deep breath.

"Okay," The petite blonde looks up around the room. "If we want to do names and pronouns one more time, then we'll get started. I'll go first, I'm Everette and my pronouns are she/her, they/them."

"I'm Bernice, but I go by Wolf—" she laughs boisterously. "Darling," she says, touching the arm of the person beside her. "I almost said your name."

"You can take my name. You can take whatever you like."

"I'm Bernice, but I go by Bernie, and I use she/her."

"I'm Wolfgang, I'm sadly not Bernie, because if I was, then I would be just the most amazing human in the entire world. But I go by Wolfie and I use per/per/pers."

"Oh, stop!" Bernie says, swatting per arm.

"Hey, I'm Eddie, and I'm covering for Gareth today, and I use he/him."

Eddie's brain does what it always does when he meets multiple new people — he identifies them by an arbitrary feature and starts to forget their name entirely. Ever or Forever or whatever her name is Bottle Blond, Beatrice or whatever is Fancy Glasses and Wolfgang (like the composer, c'mon, he's got that one at least) is Twirly Mustache Person.

It's a bad habit and he knows he should do something about it but also it is always Future Eddie's problem.

And besides — he does know one person (other than Wolfgang, Twirly Mustache Person).

"Hi, I'm Steve, and I'm covering for Robin while she's having her first baby."

"Pronouns, Steve?" Eddie says.

"Hm?" Steve blinks. "Oh, sorry, uh," He takes a moment to think. "He/him."

"I wanted to note that pronouns are always optional in this space," Bottle Blonde says, in a tone that is somehow softly indifferent and accusatory at once. "And should be freely given."

"Oh," Eddie perks up."I didn't mean to speak for anyone, it's just— I know him."

"Yeah," Steve nods. "It's okay, Everette. We're friends."

Corvette or Eternity or Forever blinks. "Okay. Since we have some new members joining us, it feels like a good time to reaffirm our values. I care very deeply about every single member of the lesbian community, including political lesbians and those who have lost their way, and I hope they can find their way back to the sapphic community. I've done online advocacy for my community for a number of years, so this feels like a natural progression of my skill set."

Eddie's laptop pings with a notification from a messaging app — which is annoying because he swore he turned it off.

Because he's nosy and a bad person, he checks his messaging app anyway to see a notification from Steve.

How many years do you think is 'a number of years?'

"Sorry," he says quickly, muting it. "Sorry, sorry, please continue."

Since they were at least 13 Steve, c'mon. What exactly is a sapphic skill set, though?

Eddie looks at Steve's face and catches the briefest little smirk before he turns his gaze back to the table.

"You go," Bertie or Barney or Fancy Glasses says to Wolfgang.

"No," Wolfgang says back to her. "You go. I insist. Ladies first." They're holding hands and nudging each other, swaying back and forth.

"Alright," she says, rolling her eyes. Fancy Glasses talks about how she's an animal biologist or something, so she loves every queer creature, including animals and that's how she met her hunk Wolfgang, because per was a poor stray puppy desperately looking for a handler.

"Just so you know, hunk is a term used by the gay community, Bernie," Everette says, apparently trying to be helpful.

"Oh," she nods. "Yes, I know."

Eddie fires off a message to Steve.

What is going on rn?

I have no idea, I'm still figuring out which lesbians have lost their way.

Wolfgang talks about how he is currently engaged in his life's deepest vocation, which is in service to per mistress and goes into some serious detail about per daily duties. Eddie decides he might leave those more libertine details off the minutes, at least for this meeting.

He clicks over to his messaging app.

I am Uncomfortable. How do we bring back kink shaming?

Steve's response is swift.

We don't. Per would be into it.

HELP

"Eddie?" Everette asks. "What about you?"

"Oh," Eddie sits up straight, unaware of the fact that he would be called upon. "I'm just a gay man, here on behalf of my dear Gareth, who is chronically ill, and I'm happy to help."

"So you're continuing the radical tradition of accepting responsibility and caring for those who society has deemed unworthy of care," Steve offers.

"Exactly," Eddie says, pointing at Steve.

"And what do you do, Eddie?" Wolfgang asks.

"For work, you mean? I'm in school for radio and television studies, and I'm a late night radio show host at 108.9 STAR."

"I can confirm, it's a good show," Steve says, nodding.

"No way," Eddie can't help the way his whole face brightens in disbelief. "You listened to it?"

He shrugs. "Couldn't sleep. It was good."

"Okay, because I was gonna tell you that I made a playlist but if it isn't too much trouble I'd love to send you like a primer first—"

"Eddie, could I redirect your energy?" Everette asks. Eddie takes that to mean shut the fuck up, so he does. Verbally, at least.

Steve nods to Eddie and Eddie checks his messaging app.

A playlist on top of a playlist, you mean? Like your School of Metal one?

Exactly like that.

"Steve? What are your values?"

"Oh, um," Steve pauses to think. "I'm…looking to make the world a safer place for my butch daughter." He smiles.

"And you're a trans man," Everette says. "Is that correct?"

Steve blinks. "Yeah. That's right."

Why are they asking you if you're a trans man?

I truly don't know. Is there a points-based system I don't know about?

Why is she making a note of it…?

"And what do you do for work, Steve?" Fancy Glasses asks.

"Oh, I'm an author. I write queer romances."

"Good ones too," Eddie says. "I'm reading a prince and knight romance right now and it is," Eddie makes an okay sign with his hands to demonstrate his approval.

"Wait," Steve smiles. "You're reading another one?"

"Uh, yeah I am," Eddie scoffs.

"Oh, really?" Bernie looks delighted. "Wolfie and I will have to talk to you after. We are looking to publish some erotic non-fiction based on my memoirs and I would love some advice from a published author."

Eddie can see just from the subtle shifts in Steve's expression that he's had this question many times before. He awaits Steve's response with an unreasonable amount of excitement given the context.

"You know what," he reaches into a slim cardholder wallet and pulls out a business card. "My agent is probably the best person to give you that kind of advice. I'm stuck chasing deadlines right now."

"Oh thank you so much, we appreciate that."

Eddie types another message to Steve.

You were so ready for that one. Very smooth.

The help is there if they want it, but they'll have to do a lot of work beforehand. I don't think they're there yet. Most people love to talk about writing but few of them actually do it. Myself included.

"Well," Everette sits up in their chair. "I'm excited for Steve to join us the board for a short time because of his lived experience in the 80's, which was such a pivotal time our community."

Eddie can't help it. He barks out a laugh and meets her reproachful gaze. "Sorry, the way you said that it sounded like he is a queer elder or something. He's 40."

"I know," Everette says, primly. "I just thought he—never mind."

"Yeah," Steve nods, a smile pulling at his lips. "I was born in 1986, so I don't really know if I have the exact lived experience you're thinking of."

"What about anyone in your family, though?" Eddie asks. "Did they know anyone affected by HIV/AIDS?"

"Oh, that's a good question," Steve says. Eddie preens a little. He feels like he got a special commendation from his teacher in front of the whole class.

"My mom was an art dealer, so she knew quite a few artists who were ill at that time, I think."

"Wow," Wolfgang says. "It's heart-breaking but beautiful to think about. The creatives that we lost, but also the art that they made within that process."

"Yeah," Steve nods. "Heart-breaking and beautiful is a good way to describe it."

"Did she explain it to you? Like, in a way you could understand?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah, so I was… maybe 4 or 5, and Pac Man had come out a few years before that. So she showed me Pac Man and then talked about her friend and he had this virus that was eating away at his immune system like Pac Man was."

"Oh, that's so smart," Eddie says.

"And then when I was 9 or 10 I went to an arcade with my friends and saw Pac Man on an arcade machine and burst into tears." He laughs and Eddie thinks he looks impossibly handsome for a board room in a random downtown non-profit on a weekday afternoon.

"No! Oh, you poor baby."

"It's okay," Steve waves his hand. "It was a long time ago."

Eddie tabs over to his messaging app again.

Not that long ago.

True, but I don't think Everette was alive then, so it might as well be a hundred years ago to them.

Ah, yes, the ancient beforetimes, the mid 90's.

"Alright," Everette clears her throat. "If we could turn our attention to more pressing matters, I'd like to discuss the open mic night in Sappho's September—"

"But, Everette," Bernie says, adjusting her glasses. "We have the service week coming up soon and we still haven't figured out who will be chairing the dom panel."

"I know, but I'd like to prioritise Sappho's September first so that everyone's roles are clear before we start delegating elsewhere."

Eddie decides to avoid temptation and closes his messaging app like a good boy and focuses on taking notes for the meeting.

"So," Steve says, once he and Eddie are outside the building. "I feel like I need to process what the fuck just happened."

"I know," Eddie laughs. "Why was a 19-year-old believer in political lesbians chairing that meeting? Why did I have to hear about someone's very sexually explicit service schedule in a board meeting? I have so many questions."

"They did the roll call before you arrived and it sounded like a lot of people were away." Steve shrugs. "Do you have time to go for coffee? We could go to Rascal's."

Eddie doesn't want to say no, but he knows he has to and that leaves him crestfallen.

"I would love to, but I have to study and then I have to go to work and then I have a super early class the next day and—"

"Oh." Steve looks dejected. Does he always look this dejected when he can't hang out with his friends?

"I'm so sorry—"

"No, no," he laughs. "It's okay. Next time."

"Yes," Eddie nods. "Next time. Please."

Steve frowns. "Please what?"

"Please, I was in the trenches back there—" Eddie searches desperately for some funny, off-the-cuff theatre kid thing to say to cover for how he really feels. "I need to talk to someone who was there because I really thought Wolfgang and Fancy Glasses were gonna start fucking on the table and I was like, oh man I'm the note taker, so if they start fucking do I have to write down every time they moan or would a high-level summary of their coitus be enough?"

Steve tosses his head back and laughs again and Eddie considers writing an email to his instructor.

Sorry, sir, but I couldn't actually write this assignment because you see, I have this friend, and he looks beautiful when he laughs so I have to make him laugh all the time actually. Hope you'll understand that I found my purpose in life!

All the best,

Eddie

"See you later, Eddie."

"See you, Steve."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Are you gonna eat that?"

Eddie's on a date.

Well, it feels less like a romantic dinner or a friendly getting-to-know-you type date and feels more like the hangouts he used to have with his friends after high school.

And don't get him wrong, Eddie knows a fast food restaurant date can be romantic or full of banter and merrymaking.

But it has to be with the right guy.

And this definitely isn't the right guy.

"Oh," Eddie pokes at his lukewarm fries with another fry and nods. "Yeah."

He's not, but he grew up poorer than most and has long-standing issues with finishing food once it's been put in front of him, whether he's hungry or not.

"'Kay, 'cause it kinda seems like you aren't interested."

"Mm." Eddie sips his chocolate milkshake. "Was yours okay?"

His date inhaled — smashed — three burgers in quick succession. After briefly talking about his gains (?) the conversation slowed to a trickle. Eddie tried to be sociable and asked if he'd seen any good movies lately (he hadn't) or if he'd read any good books (he hadn't read any since high school) and if he had any hobbies (weights).

After trying, valiantly, to reanimate the conversation Eddie decided to leave its husk alone. It wasn't his job to keep the conversation going.

It's uncanny because in text he seemed so…well, not talkative, but, easy-going, and a little aloof but in a cool way. Also, Eddie is not the type to say one's profile picture needs to look precisely like the person in real life, but this guy had body hair in all of his photos. He arrived hairless, shiny and gleaming like he'd been buffed by one of those giant ride-on floor cleaners people use at the mall to clean the floors.

Maybe it was all rehearsed. Or well practiced. Eddie can't help but think this guy wants something — and he wants something from Eddie specifically.

"I'm glad you're not one of those gay guys, y'know?"

"What do you mean?"

"One of those," The guy says, letting his wrist fall forwards, in a poor imitation of a limp wrist.

"What's so undesirable about 'those' gay guys?" Eddie asks, using quotation marks to try to get his date to realise how absurd he is.

"'Those' gay guys," Eddie's date says, imitating him to show him how absurd Eddie is. "Are fine they're just not my type."

"They're fine?" Eddie raises his eyebrows and sits back in his chair, half considering getting up and walking out. "I heartily disagree."

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"I think faggotry saves lives."

He scoffs. "C'mon, we don't need to get all political over it, let's just keep it chill."

"All political over it?" Eddie echoes, but his date doesn't reply.

"So," The guy balls up a napkin and tries to throw it in the trash and misses. "…aw. I usually make it." He tsks. "Anyway, are we gonna fuck or what?"

Ah. There it is.

"Um," Eddie pulls his lips into a thin line, as though he needs to make his lips more unavailable than they already were. "No. I don't think so."

"Wait." His date looks bemused. "You're serious?"

"Perfectly serious." Eddie gets up and decides to make his exit before the adrenaline of the decision leaves him. He knows he has to be quick or else he'll end up getting caught in an argument because he's a social being.

"Is this about what I said earlier? You don't have to be such a bitch about it, c'mon. It's just a preference thing."

Eddie makes it to the door before he realises he's forgotten his milkshake and turns back to get it. "If you don't wanna fuck me when I'm wearing a little crop top, a mini skirt from the women's section with my wrists flaccid as all hell, then we don't fuck."

Eddie gets in his car and leaves. He drives to a random supermarket parking lot and blocks the guy once his car is safely parked.

And then, he seethes. He winds down his windows, clicks his vape and inhales sweet menthol-flavoured smoke.

Imagine if he'd worn something more feminine or a little faggier — like the new coquette angel vintage t-shirt he'd thrifted with Cami, or Paige's pretty silver beaded concho belt she was letting him borrow, or even painted his fucking nails like he normally does.

That guy probably would've scoffed and said something disparaging to needle him. Then, Eddie would've shrank back and felt an overwhelming need to defend himself. When in reality, it's his date who has the problem. It's his date who has to reaffirm his connection with masculinity by working out and judging people who aren't as knowledgeable about their macros and who thinks tips 'encourage bad service.'

And having a preference for more masculine guys is fine, but there are ways to communicate that where you don't sound like a complete asshole.

"Fuck that guy," Eddie says, emphatically. "There's more strength in a single limp-wristed fag than that man will ever feel in his entire life."

He's just…pissed off. Like, not only did he have to have a shitty date, but this is his one night off in a while. He could've been doing anything tonight — working on assignments, submitting his commentary for that group project or writing the next section of his radio show. Or, fuck, it didn't even have to be productive, he could've just jerked off six times into his stroker, smoked some weed while listening to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and fallen asleep at 9:30PM.

But no, instead he had to go on a shitty date with a guy who wanted to use him like a warmer version of a tenga egg.

He rolls down his windows and blasts some Eddie Van Halen until he feels better. When he checks his phone to look at the time, he sees a text from Steve.

Hey. Are you free right now?

Yeah. I'm free, but I'm not at home right now. What's up?

I'm at this restaurant alone and I just ordered a bottle of wine.

I had an unsatisfactory date, let's say.

you 🤝 me

having a shitty date at the same time

omw

I'll send you the address, but it's right by our building.

sounds good! i'll drop the car home and walk over.

See you soon, Eddie.

wait is it fancy? i'm in jeans and a t-shirt

I'm outside on the patio wearing shorts and t-shirt, you'll be perfect just as you are.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"There he is," Steve says to himself, watching Eddie come up over the hill. He has the same silhouette he always does.

He's wearing black jeans and a black band t-shirt and a red buffalo plaid flannel t-shirt. His accessories look a little sparse today — he still has his belt chain slung around his pocket, charms swaying a little as he walks. And he has what are probably motorcycle boots on, with buckles and hardware around the heel, but he still looks unembellished somehow.

"Hi!" Eddie says, walking over to join him. "Were you waiting long?"

"No, not at all." Steve gestures to the chair beside him. "Please."

"So," Eddie takes his seat. "How are you?"

"Mm." Steve shrugs, preferring not to answer in favour of putting out his cigarette. "You know."

"I don't think I do," Eddie says, smiling and tilting his head to one side. "What are we drinking? You can smoke, by the way, don't feel the need to stop on my behalf."

"Oh, no," Steve shakes his head. "I want to enjoy the wine. Where are all your…?" He gestures loosely to his face and neck, referring to Eddie's missing trinkets.

"I took them out because it was wash day, then I forgot to put them back in, and then by the time I remembered I had to go. I'm glad I didn't, actually, but that's another story. Tell me about this wine."

Steve holds up the neck on the bottle and takes out his glasses to read the label again. "It's a Chardonnay, 2019, from Russian River Valley and Bon Pari Estate. I think it's a vintage. It's very nice."

"Can I tell you a secret?" Eddie says, his eyes lit up with an impish look, even though his eyes are so big and brown and sweet.

"Your secret's safe with me."

"I don't know that I've ever chosen a wine that wasn't consumed out of a bag," he bites his lip. "Like, I've had wine that wasn't out of a bag before but I only ever noticed if it was red or white, I never noticed the label or anything."

"Yeah, I didn't start drinking wine properly until I was in my mid 20's, I think."

The waiter comes over and places a wine glass down in front of Eddie.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"Can we get a bottle of San Pellegrino and more bread for the table, please?" Steve asks. "You're okay with sparkling water, right?"

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "That's fine."

"Of course, I'll be right back."

"Okay," Eddie holds out his empty wine glass and Steve pours in a splash. "Teach me how to do this."

"Okay, so," Steve adds a little more wine to his own glass. "Swirl it around in the glass a little bit. This will let it breathe."

"Mhm."

"And then you inhale," Steve says, bowing his chin into the glass. "And see what you can smell."

"Okay," Eddie leans forward and inhales. "I can smell wine."

Steve breaks into a grin, exhaling a laugh. "So, swirl it, and then don't be afraid to get up close and personal with the glass."

"Oh okay." Eddie dips his head in again.

The waiter returns with their bread and bottled water and steps away as neatly as he arrived.

"And there's like, maybe one or two things you can smell. I can smell like," Steve pauses. "Lemon and almonds."

"Oh! I am getting citrus." Eddie sniffs it again, still just as cautious. "And maybe, like, an oak smell."

"Right, that would be the wine barrel."

"Ohh." He sniffs it one last time and then pauses. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Go for it."

"Have you ever gotten wine on your nose from doing this?"

"Oh, all the time." Steve nods, perfectly serious. "Like, every other time I drink wine."

Eddie snorts with laughter and then yelps once the alcohol does actually touch his nose. He reaches up to wipe it away but Steve laughs and hands him a napkin instead.

"Okay, now that I've thoroughly embarrassed myself, then what? We drink it?" Eddie crosses one leg over the other.

"Almost. You sip it and let it sit in your mouth."

"Mhm." Eddie follows Steve's lead and tries to mirror him but swallows. "Mm, I had a chocolate milkshake before and I feel like it's interfering with my palette."

"Have some bread and olive oil," Steve says, sliding a plate over to him. Eddie grabs a piece of crusty bread and dips it in the olive oil, chewing on it. Through mouthfuls it sounds like he says, Oh my god, that's really good but Steve just nods.

"Okay. You ready to try again?" Steve asks, watching Eddie. "So, sip, and then you hold it," He pauses, just to make sure Eddie's following.

"And then you swallow."

And he is following. He's following perfectly, with his pretty, plush mouth. He has a slightly thicker top lip with a cupid's bow that would look more pronounced if it didn't melt into the softness of his lip. It suits him.

Have I ever written that? Steve asks himself. Have I ever written someone with a slightly thicker top lip? I should write that.

"And now you know how to drink wine."

He realises that he's still watching Eddie's mouth.

Jesus. I need to get laid.

To be fair to himself, though, he'd just done his t shot the other day and, like clockwork, his dick twitched at just the softest suggestion of his boxers until they were completely soaked, the same way it had done for the past 20 years or so.

Apparently, his libido was meant to level out about six months after he started his shots, but he hadn't found that to be the case. His doctor called him an outlier, Nancy 'diagnosed' him with perpetually horny disease and Robin called his t shots psychologically stimulating, as though he has muscle memory for arousal.

Steve isn't sure which description he prefers.

"Mm," Eddie takes another sip. "I get it now. It's the same way you taste sauces when you're cooking. You're not just tasting the final product, but enjoying the salt and the pepper and the acid and the sweetness and then it all comes together."

"Exactly, yeah."

"Oh, fuck," Eddie holds up his wine glass. "We forgot to cheers."

"What should we cheers to?" Steve asks, raising his glass.

"….to fags," Eddie says, with a look of determination on his face. "And faggotry."

"May faggotry persist until the heat death of the universe, until such a time as we all turn into stars and float up into space. And while every other being is out there in the screaming, carbon burnt darkness, we'll be dancing up there, shining brighter than any other stars in the atmosphere."

"Oh, fuck yeah," Eddie says, swallowing a mouthful of wine. "The writer Steve Harrington. I feel like I should applaud."

"Cheers," Steve says, smiling and pours Eddie more wine. "It tastes kind of like lemon curd to me," he says, tasting it again to confirm.

"What do you think?"

"Like," Eddie takes another sip. "White peach? A little bit? And it has a creamy sort of mouth feel."

"Mhm. It's nicer than I thought it would be. So, who goes first?" Steve asks.

"You, please," Eddie makes a sweeping gesture with his hand and his wine twirls in its glass. "I feel like I'm always the one to dominate our conversations."

"Oh," Steve shrugs. "Not much to say, really. They were, like, friendly and easy-going to chat with—"

"No, because why do they seem so chill and easy-going and open, and then you meet them in person and they're so…weird in a bad way, instead of weird in a good way?" Eddie says, pointing to Steve as though he were revealing a great truth.

"Yeah. We seemed to have the same mindset when it came to politics and things like that, so I was like, let's have dinner and see where that goes."

"And then?"

"We ordered and had some small talk that was fine. And then I realized they were a fan."

"Of you, like you work?" Eddie asks.

"Yeaahhh," Steve says, dragging out the word for as long as he can.

"How did you find out? Did they say something or did you feel a vibe?"

"They were like, 'I have to confess something,'" Steve says, taking a mouthful of his wine.

"Oh no. I need more wine for this," Eddie says, holding out his glass.

"Then they were like I've read all your work, I never thought I'd get to go on a date with you, like this is just so cool. I said thank you and that I was very flattered and everything. And if that's where it ended, it might've been okay."

"But it didn't end there," Eddie adds helpfully, sitting back in his chair.

"No," Steve says, with a shallow laugh. "They were giving me all these compliments about how they love the chemistry between this character and that character and how hot the sex scene in the deep freeze is in this book and I was just like," he shakes his head in disbelief. "And I didn't know how to get out of it, either."

"Right, like, how do you redirect someone complimenting you without sounding ungrateful for like you're fishing for more compliments," Eddie nods.

"After that they started asking all these questions about this biker series that had a big gap between book one and two, and they were like okay tell me everything about book 3! By that time I felt like I was just…at work, except I wasn't getting paid."

"God," Eddie says, his expression pained. "It's already passed but I feel like I want to go back in time and rescue you somehow."

"And then—"

"No! It gets worse?" Eddie asks, scandalised. Steve nods gravely.

"—then they were like, wait, have you taken inspiration from your own personal relationships? Have you ever written a character based on a partner you had? Oh my god, could you imagine if you wrote this scene into a book?" Steve rolls his eyes. "The nail in the coffin was their favorite book was the one book I based on my relationship with my ex, so."

"Oh," Eddie cringes, sucking air in through his teeth. "Wait, which one is that? I don't want to gush about it and cause you unnecessary distress."

"Oh, it's fine. It's uh," Steve tips his head back a little to think of the title. "We Made It. It's the BnB owner and contractor, the second chance romance one."

"That's like, the one title I can't get," Eddie says with a half laugh. "The hold queue at the library is crazy and then it was on back order for every shop that I called."

With anyone else this might be a little troubling, like Eddie's trying to worm his way into Steve's life by reading all of his books. But it's Eddie and Steve has a feeling that's just how he is.

Eddie doesn't just enjoy the things he likes but devours them, swallows them whole. He doesn't just watch a TV series he likes, he binge watches it in one sitting. He doesn't just listen to an album, it's all he hears for the next 3 months until he finds another album. He doesn't just read books from an author he likes, he'll read the entire series one after the other.

His love of even the simplest, most everyday, ordinary things is loyal, full of devotion and all-consuming.

It's cute.

"Yeah, it went viral on TikTok a couple of years ago and has been doing well ever since. I had it in mind for a while, but I started writing it in late 2019, just as our relationship was falling apart, and then it was published in 2020, when everyone was stuck inside."

"Did he know you were writing about him?"

"I think he had a vague idea," Steve shrugs. "I don't know if he's actually ever read it all the way through. But it was sort of my like, fuck you, this is what we could be if we made it work. I don't…actually remember much of the writing process, and of course, it was my first one to really, really sell."

"Yeah," Eddie cheeks a piece of bread and olive oil and then has to chew for a long time before he can talk again. "From reviews that I've read it seemed like people really connected with the main character—"

"Sam," Steve says, with a wry smile.

"Sam," Eddie repeats with a laugh. "Because he goes through so much, and it's so emotional but the pay off is so good."

"Mhm," Steve nods. "It's the one I get asked about at panels a lot and I always have to like, navigate around the fact that I don't remember the writing process like I do with my other books. It poured out of me, and then when it was done, it was done."

"How is your relationship with your ex now, if I can ask? You don't have to reveal anything."

"It's okay," Steve shrugs. "It's probably a lot better than most. We're civil, and he's pretty flexible about my side of the family spending time with Max. We both get time with her. So."

"That does sound ideal when it comes to exes," Eddie says. He's as casual as possible when he asks his next question.

"How many times a week does he piss you off?"

It has its desired effect — Steve smirks just as he's about to take a mouthful of wine.

"Mm. Probably like, four."

"How often do you talk?"

"Maybe once a week?" Steve laughs. "It depends on his work schedule, actually, he's a photographer and a journalist. So, if he's on assignment, Max's usually with me or with his family."

"And how's Max's relationship with him?"

"It's good, yeah," he nods. He won't bring up the fact that she resented him for years or the fact that her early teen years were particularly volatile. He doesn't like to talk about her like that.

"How did you two decide to have her? Was it, like, foster, adoption, surrogate…?"

"So," Steve leans forward to pour himself more wine, and Eddie feels like there's a story there. He can only hope that Steve isn't sick to death of telling it.

"Jonathan had a one night stand with a drummer from a band like, two weeks before I asked him out."

"Ohh, he was with the band," Eddie says. "Okay, I get it."

"Yeah. And either they didn't use protection, or it broke and he didn't think about it. His cycle was non-existent by that time, too, so I think he just thought it couldn't happen to him."

"Right, I guess sexual health about trans men was even worse in," Eddie pauses to do the math. "2006, 2007 than it is now, and it's abysmal now."

"Yeah," Steve pulls his lips into a thin smile. "So he figured out he was pregnant and then told me, and I think he expected me to break up with him, but I said I was in for the long haul, and I was."

"And now you have a wonderful little baby butch," Eddie says, raising his glass. They cheers to butches and how the queer community would be nowhere without their their renegade attitudes, their defiance and their tender care.

"We were happy for a long time, and then he was getting lots of big photography assignments and spending a lot of time out of the house. So I think we disconnected without realizing it. And then he told me he was polyamorous."

"Mm. That's big."

"He was very gracious and gentle about it. We tried it for like…two weeks, and then I said I couldn't do it anymore. So we broke up in 2020, and it was hard for a little while. But now I'm here." He tips his wine glass. "On a patio, drinking wine with a friend."

"Wait, one more question, sorry, I am so nosy," Eddie wipes the air with his hands, wine sloshing back and forth in the glass. "Feel free to tell me to shut up. Does Max know her biological dad?"

"Oh yeah," Steve nods. "They had a cute pen pal thing going on for a while. Then they finally met in person and it wasn't quite what she expected. But they chat every once and a while."

"Can I…" Eddie hesitates, hiding his face in his hand. "Just one more question."

"Go for it."

"Who is he?" Eddie whispers, still hiding his mouth behind his hand.

Steve feels a little like they're two bored housewives gossiping about all the neighbourhood drama. He doesn't hate it.

"Oh, you mean like, what band?" Steve pulls out his phone. "I always have to look it up, because I can't ever remember." He opens up a search engine on his phone and types the drummer and he presses the first answer it predicts. "Here. That's him."

"Oh, I know this guy," Eddie says, nodding as he looks at Steve's phone. "Also like." He raises his eyebrows coyly. "I do not blame Jonathan one bit. I would."

"You would fuck him too?" Steve smirks. "Yeah, well, he makes cute babies, so."

"He does!" Eddie says, pointing to Steve. "He makes very cute babies."

"Well, now you've heard my whole life story," Steve says, sitting back in his chair. "Or, most of it, tell me about your terrible date."

"Oh," Eddie scoffs. "Just some gym rat frat boy who had body hair in all of his pictures but shaved before the date, mind you! We went to In-n-Out, which, I don't mind. But he said some shit about how I wasn't one of those queers." He rolls his eyes.

"Those queers as in, what, trans? Effeminate?"

"Effeminate," Eddie says. "Though I'm sure he has some pretty shitty opinions about trans people, too — even though I asked him outright if he was transphobic."

"They always do," Steve rolls his eyes.

"You have a beautiful eye roll, by the way. It's bitchy in the best way."

"Thank you."

"Anyway, then he was like, well are we gonna fuck or what?"

"Was he surprised when you said no?" Steve asks dryly.

"YES!" Eddie says, exasperated. "I said, if you don't wanna fuck me when I'm wearing a little crop top with a little a mini skirt, with my wrists all flaccid as hell, then we don't fuck."

"Please tell me you slammed the door on the way out."

"I did. It's just funny because, like, usually I do dress a little bit more 'feminine' I guess, but I don't really think of it like that."

"Yeah," Steve nods. "It's just how you dress."

"Some of my heroes growing up were a lot of glam rock artists like David Bowie, T. Rex, Marc Bolan, Queen, Sweet, Van Halen, Suzi Quatro and Starbenders," Eddie says, counting them off on his fingers. "So I'm not even trying to dress in a more 'feminine' way, I'm just emulating them."

"Yeah."

"And I was in the car right before you sent me a text just like, vibrating with rage because I feel like if I'd dressed like I usually do, he would've said something snide and then I would've felt the need to defend myself and it just— ugh." Eddie finishes the last of his wine in his glass.

"I hope he never finds the cold side of the pillow ever again," Steve says, offering Eddie the wine bottle. "Actually, can you find him on Hinge? I'll block him."

"I don't think you can block people you haven't matched with, but." Eddie holds out his hand and Steve gives him his phone. Eddie types in a couple of different things before he finds him. "Here he is."

"Well. He has nice chest hair."

"Right? But he shaved it all!"

"C'mon, Eddie," Steve says, tutting in faux sympathy. "We can't judge people for their gender-affirming care." He tucks his phone away. "But we can absolutely judge them for having an attitude that suggests they peaked in high school."

"Ugh, thank you. I feel less…sensitive now that we've talked about it."

"My pleasure.'

"Let's move on, because I'm determined not to end the night talking about that jackass. Am I allowed to ask about your writing, or is that off limits right now?"

"You can ask about it," Steve nods. "You didn't bring a notebook of your ideas about my work to a date with me, so."

"How did you get started with writing?"

"I was an English teacher for a number of years. I taught middle schoolers and high schoolers and then I was teaching English to adults who weren't native English speakers, so I worked with language a lot before I started writing. But I wrote my first one — Once More Unto the Breach in 2011."

"Impeccable book by the way," Eddie says. "The carriage scene? When they're going to church, on the way to Prince Henry's wedding?" He tugs at his collar.

"Thank you," Steve says, smirking. "I wrote that and then I wrote—" he stops, trying to think of the title. "Oh my god, what's it called? Set Match, the enemies-to-lovers scrabble players book. That had a little more craft in it because I was trying to get them to communicate through scrabble moves. So, I was starting to think of myself more seriously as a writer, but it was still a passion project."

"Yeah."

"Then my editor, who's now my best friend went through a bad break up. We kept having these long, late-night phone calls where she would invent this world where there were lots of lesbians and nothing bad ever happened. And then I took some of those concepts and reworked into the spellshop series.

"That had — and still has — a pretty small but dedicated following. From there I tried writing gay romances, and nothing was really coming together. And then one day I was like, fuck, why aren't I writing about trans men? And then it all fell into place from there."

"Beautiful. I love when hot trans men get it and get their happy endings."

"I'll cheers to that," Steve says, lifting his cup and touching Eddie's. "Have you always been a reader?"

"Yeah. My mom was big on, like, science fiction and fantasy, and then her dad and all of her teachers were like what are you doing reading those? Those aren't for girls! So then she read everything she could get her hands on out of spite."

"Good for her." They cheers again, tipping their glasses together.

"I know, right? And then, when she had me, we had a wicked bedtime routine where she'd make a whole fort and tell me a story, so I got really invested and then I started asking if we could 'practice' bedtime at all hours of the day. And my uncle, who reads a lot of American classics, used to help me out with a lot of book reports. So he reads, like, John Steinbeck, Kurt Vonnegut, Toni Morrison, Cormac McCarthy, James Baldwin, Raymond Carver, Truman Capote, Leslie Marmon Silko, y'know, people like that."

"You have a good memory," Steve says, remembering how young he is.

"For the author names? Well, I should hope so. Because you are looking at the official Munson family librarian from age, like, 6 to 6 and 6 days."

"You were a little baby librarian?" Steve asks, completely charmed.

"Yeah, for like a week. I would 'lend' books out to people and put them back and, like, stamp a note book and write a date and everything. Then I got bored and moved onto, I dunno, looking at worms in the backyard again."

"That's so cute."

Eddie's phone pings and he goes to silence it, but checks it first. "Oh, it's your sister."

Steve likes that Eddie calls Cami his sister, because she is his sister. Not his half-sister, or even his step-sister, which isn't even accurate, but his sister.

"What are you up to, my little goth fairy friend asks," Eddie says, narrating while he types back to her. "Well." He lifts up his phone briefly to take a photo of Steve and sends it to her. "Having wine with your brother. That's what I'm up to."

"How is she?" Steve asks, though he could ask her himself. But he knows her well enough to know that she sometimes gives him the answer he wants to hear, or how she hopes to feel rather than how she is.

"She's good, she says: '✨🦇💃🪡💖🌙😽'" Eddie says, repeating each emoji with painstaking exactness.

"Good to know."

"She's invited me to a rave," he raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "But I don't know if I can go unless it's the one night I'm free next month." Eddie's phone pings again moments later. "Oh it is on the one night I'm free! Well, then I suppose this little fag is going to a rave."

Steve is grateful that Eddie seems to be friends with Cami so easily. He, more than anyone, knows she's easy to love but he knows she finds that hard to believe.

Steve checks his phone. "Oh, I think I have to go. I just got a text from my teen announcing that she's hungry, which means she was hungry about an hour ago."

"I know that feeling very well." Eddie asks. "Should we square up? What do I owe you for—?"

Steve shakes his head and signals the waiter.

"Are you sure? I can tip—" He's still reaching for his wallet, so Steve leans forward to put his hand on Eddie's knee.

"It's fine, I bought it." Steve adds extra cash to the bill on the table to make his point.

"But I feel bad—" Eddie says, looking at him with those big, brown eyes of his.

"If you really, really want, next time you're making food, I'll have some of whatever you're making."

"Okay. I was gonna make some chili and make it Cincinnati-style, with cinnamon rolls. Sound good?"

"Sounds… like it could be an interesting combination."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve and Robin always maintained that they needed a joint hobby — something they could do together that wasn't work or work within their own community to keep each other accountable, so they didn't just buy a bunch of expensive equipment only to abandon it weeks later.

They'd unknowingly bought each other the same six week pass for classes from the same studio (for the same Christmas, too) a couple of years ago and took it as a sign. But, of course, life got in the way and they'd only booked the classes right before Robin was about to have her baby.

Chrissy was relieved Robin would be leaving the house on a regular basis. Even if Robin spent most of the time before the class started verifying that pottery was safe to do while pregnant and she wouldn't put Baby Buckley at risk if she used a certain glaze or inhaled too much dust.

"Okay," Robin says, sitting next to Steve. "I have to sit next to you," she says, as though they're in elementary school together.

"It's why I saved you a spot."

"Alright, everyone. We'll get started. My name's Wayne Munson, I've been doing pottery for about 10 years in this little studio. We have one-off pottery classes, seasonal markets where we sell ceramics and then six week courses like the one you're in now. My aim is for in this class is to teach you some pottery basics and give you something you made that you can take home."

I know that name, Steve thinks. Where do I know that name?

"Each class will be on the wheel, so you'll get some hands-on experience and it takes about 3 weeks to finish all the firing and glazing, so we'll give you a call when those are ready. We're gonna start with a pencil cup and work our way through different shapes and then hopefully your confidence improves and, as your confidence improves, so will your pieces."

"Do you know the name Munson?" Steve murmurs to Robin.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Why?"

"I swear I know the name from somewhere," he says, mostly to himself.

"Just before we begin, I wanted to check that everyone's in comfortable clothing that they're okay getting clay on. The apron will protect a lot of your clothing, but not all of it. Also, I want to make sure that watches, rings and jewelry are removed, long hair is tied back and if you have long fingernails, just let me know. Any questions?"

"I love when being a lesbian with short nails gives me an advantage," Robin says just loud enough for Steve to hear.

Wayne waits for a few moments for hands to pop up, but none do. "Alright, let's get going."

The class takes a break partway through, and everyone helps themselves to snacks.

"I feel like my perfectionism is crippling me," Robin says, making two cups of herbal tea and passing one to Steve. "It's like — it's almost there, and then I think I'll just tweak this one last bit and then it collapses."

"See," Steve says, passing her a snack. "My aim is to do it badly. And I think I'm doing that quite well."

"Ohh. That's a good strategy."

"And you can blame pregnancy brain, too," Steve says. "Don't forget that."

"True. How am I supposed to make perfect pottery pieces while I'm growing an entire human inside me?"

The back door to the studio opens and someone walks in wearing heavy boots, clearly looking for someone. "Hey! Brought your supper."

Oh. Steve thinks, the realisation hitting him once he hears Eddie's voice. Munson. Like Eddie Munson.

"Thank you," Wayne says, pulling him in for a hug. "This isn't what I left on the counter, is it?"

Eddie shrugs. "Easier for me to make you a lil somethin' from scratch than to drive to your place, realize I forgot the keys, drive all the way back, get your thing, bring it back to the studio… so! New sandwich."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Oh my god," Steve says, turning around to hide his smile.

"What?" Robin says, looking around, trying to see what he saw. "What?"

"That's him," Steve mouths, tipping his head. "Eddie."

"Him?" Robin says, looking again. "My god, he's a twink…"

"I know. There's something else I forgot to tell you."

"No," Robin says, in disbelief. "What?"

"He's my neighbor."

"Steven!" She hisses, poking him in his side. "You told me you lived in the same building, not that he was your neighbor."

"I wasn't thinking of it at the time—" Steve protests, starting to giggle.

"Oh my god he's looking over here," Robin tips her head all the way back to sigh. "I cannot take you anywhere."

When Steve looks over at Eddie again, he's looking right at him until his whole face lights up with recognition.

Steve waves and Eddie waves back.

Hi, he mouths.

Hey, what are you doing here?

Steve points to Wayne and Eddie nods in understanding. He points to the wheels in between them and mouths which one?

Steve points to the one in the farthest left corner and Eddie walks over to look at it.

Nice work.

Thank you.

Eddie waves again and leaves as quickly as he arrived. He gets a text a few minutes later and Robin nearly knocks the phone out of his hand.

"Don't you dare check that."

"If you could read," Steve says, pointedly. "It's actually a text from my very important child asking if she can stay at El's tomorrow night."

"I rescind my comment, any communication from Max is vital communication and should also be shared with me, her favorite aunt. How is your little baby butch?"

"She's doing," Steve tips his head back and forth. "Okay. She's having troubles with her friend group, I think."

"What, first Daniel McPherson, now there's trouble in paradise, too?"

Daniel McPherson and Max have disliked each other since Max's first day of school, and Steve has a bad feeling the kid is heading down an alt-right pipeline at warp speed. Something Steve hopes his parents would be discouraging, but if the bumper stickers on the McPherson truck are anything to go by, it seems like it runs in the family.

"Yeah."

"God, it's hard out here being a teenager."

"Alright, everyone, we'll finish up our break in two minutes and get back to it."

Good to see you! Have a good night. :]

I'll come by with chili and cinnamon rolls tomorrow!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Edward Middle Name Munson is completely, utterly and totally cross-faded.

He feels like one of those sensory pouches filled with glitter that you squeeze over and over, only he's been left out in the sun for a little bit.

He's stumbling home after an unforgettable night that he can't quite recall. These are the facts as he can remember them now:

He and Cami went to a rave

The rave was really quite good (bad music, better company)

He met a person with a pastel mohawk while he was vaping outside

Said person invited him to an after party

His little goth girl fairy darling Cami was safely returned to her little lantern cage

He spent the evening ingesting someone's very delightful marijuana supply

Or sampling his own wares from his little vial of amyl nitrate

Then he was on his back in someone's living room, alternating between giggling at the galaxy light projector's colours on the ceiling or running his fingers up and down his fishnet bodysuit and silky little skirt he was borrowing from Cami

He left that living room floor sometime between ! and ?

And as night drags her heavy skirts along the sky to make way for dawn, so he wanders home, like a little bat, home to roost.

Steve can't sleep, but as it turns out, he can't write either.

He's written… fragments, little verses he likes, but he can't string them together. They feel a lot like glass — pretty, but shattered all over the floor and too sharp to touch.

He sends a text to Robin.

Do you think our publisher would accept a book of poems?

He's surprised when she replies so swiftly, considering how early it is.

Depends, how experimental are they?

Not very. But they are gay.

I love gay poems. When you're ready, send them through and I'll take a look.

He closes his laptop, but he knows if he goes to bed he'll just lie there and ruminate while he looks up at the ceiling and wait for Max to wake up.

He steps into a pair of sneakers and changes his shirt. He sends a text to Max and Cami.

Going out for a run, I'll probably be back before you wake up. 💖

It takes him some time to warm up, and some loud pop music to keep motivated, but he does two entire laps around the park before he decides he'll do one last push up to that overlook and back. The day hasn't warmed up yet and the morning air and the silver green dew on the grass mirrors the sweat on his chest.

He's close to a pedestrian crossing by his building when he sees a pretty little thing with dark hair in a short skirt, fishnets and nipple pasties hanging onto a streetlight with one arm, spinning around and around.

"Eddie!" he calls, catching up to him. "Hey."

Eddie stops in his tracks and staggers a little, giggling. "Oh. Hey Steve." Steve catches him with one arm and holds onto him.

Eddie looks him up and down, and then up and down again. "Oh." He licks his lips, swallows, like he's trying to speak. "You are so…so…" he trails off.

"Hey," Steve smiles. "You okay?"

"Hi. Hello. Hey. I'm high as fuck," he says, honestly. "But I'm okay."

"You sure you're okay?" Steve asks. "Do you want me to take you home?"

"Did you know," Eddie says, cheeks all flushed pink. "That you have a mole right," he touches a mole just above the waistband of Steve's shorts. "There." He sticks his finger in his mouth and rubs it on his tongue.

"Yeah," Steve laughs. "I did. What'd you get up to?"

"Dancing and weed and other potions," Eddie nods.

"Okay. You go straight home, okay? It's just there." Steve points to the building across the street.

"Yes, Mr. Harrington," Eddie says, crossing his heart.

"Text me. Okay?"

"As soon as I can… read," Eddie promises, still holding onto Steve.

"God, Eddie," he laughs. "You stink."

"Oh, do I?" Eddie tries to lift up his arm to smell under his armpit but Steve grabs his arm and pulls it gently back down.

"Not like that. You smell like poppers."

"Ohh." Eddie giggles, his cheeks pink and rosy again. He takes the bottle out of the tiny bag strapped to his wrist and puts the poppers in the pocket of Steve's shorts.

"Home you go," Steve says, pressing the crosswalk button for him. Once it goes white, Eddie crosses as swiftly as he can.

Eddie watches Steve lift up one arm to reveal one gorgeous sweat-soaked armpit and wave good-bye before he continues on his early morning run.

"Hate to see you goodbye but love to watch you say…" he stops, realising he's mixed up the saying halfway through. "…when you leave you're so…fuck it. I'm too high for this."

When Steve checks his phone over his midday coffee he sees two texts from Eddie, one from shortly after he got in.

mwde it bed

And then another from 12 minutes ago.

headche

"Oh, Eddie," he says, to himself. "What will I do with you?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

It takes a long headache for the smell of poppers to leave Eddie, but the smell of Steve's sweat lingers in his heart a long time.

Gareth calls his crush 'chronic', Jeff says he's 'down bad' and Freak says he's 'doomed.'

Eddie fears it may be a combination of all three. He hopes that when they bury him they write something like, here lies Eddie Munson, dead from the weight of his yearning or something equally queer. But he thinks, much like this crush, it's a little out of his control.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve is considering making a swift exit when his phone lights up on the nightstand. He checks it just to have something to do.

It's Nancy, asking about his date.

I want a full report on my desk in the morning, soldier.

I regret to inform you that it would be a very brief report.

He lasted like 8 minutes, Nance.

UGH

And he sounded so promising.

He did sound so promising. He was an older guy, fat, gorgeous and a biker with a filthy mouth. (Robin called Steve's date with him field research as part of his biker boys series.)

He was hoping their night together would be a little like Colin and Ray in Adam Mars-Jones' Box Hill. Instead, it was more like that time he was a teenager and decided to have spontaneous sex on the beach and ended up with heatstroke, sand up his ass and no orgasm to show for it.

I don't mind if people don't last very long.

No, that's not a requirement, but they do have to do something.

Steve really doesn't mind if his partner doesn't last very long. He was with Jonathan for so many years, and Jonathan was on SSRIs that affected his libido and his ability to orgasm the entire time they'd been together. They managed just fine for more than a decade, Steve knows it's possible. He's lived it.

Also, we didn't cuddle and he rolled over and fell asleep.

He snores. Badly 😬

Get out of there. Save yourself.

I think I will.

You need someone who can keep up with you.

You need a young, bouncy little buck. Bunny. Puppy. Whatever.

I need a new prompt on Hinge.

I'm a 10 but… I wasn't kidding about being a freak.

Man's greatest hubris.

There's a reason NASA had to re-label the penis sleeve attachments astronauts used for urinating, because people kept choosing ones that were too large.

Maybe it's the same with men thinking they're soo freaky.

Maybe I'll book a session with a sex worker.

Honestly! Not a bad idea. I have a list from an article a while ago.

Do you want me to send it through tomorrow?

Please, I'd appreciate that.

It's on my to-do list.

Steve smirks as he climbs into his car, thinking of 'Send Steve Whore List' on Nancy's list of things to do.

Thanks, Nancy. G'night!

Sleep well, Steve. Good night.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

hey steeeeeeve?

Yeah, what's up?

have you ever been to a play party before? or like

been invited to one?

an adult one btw, like nsfw

Yeah, I have, but it's been a while. Why?

i got an invite to one and they sent a whole survey

i don't really know what to say

Oh! Just be honest.

You probably don't have to answer every question.

Or you can email the organizers and talk to them about it.

yeah, but that would tarnish my mysterious allure…

Well, we can't have that. Do you want to meet at Rascal's?

PLEASE

& thank you! lmk when you're free

"Okay," Eddie looks up from his phone. "So far I filled out, like, name, pronouns, availability, and like, orientation, but that's it."

"Okay," Steve takes a sip of his coffee. "And you're getting tested beforehand?"

"Yeah, I don't have to like, submit results or anything, but it is part of the agreement and a PCR test, too, I think."

"I don't think you need me, y'know," Steve says, leaning back in his chair and regarding Eddie affectionately. "I think you got this."

"I guess—" Eddie starts to speak, then stops while he thinks about what he wants to say and how he wants to say it.

"I guess I'm looking for someone to give me an overview. Usually, if I'm hanging out with a big group of people, we're going to a concert where I've already scoped out the venue a bit. Or we're at the next stage in our D&D campaign and I'm the DM so I have a rough idea of where the story might go. But in this case, I have no point of reference."

Steve thinks back to that phone call he had with Robin, where she talked about how he would become a mentor to Eddie if he remained his friend, whether he intended to or not.

Robin usually loves to be right, but in this case, Steve thinks she'd probably hate that she was right.

"Oh, right, okay," Steve nods. "I can give you an executive summary if you think it would help you, or some general tips?"

"Yes," Eddie says, clasping his hands together in prayer. "Please, that would be so helpful."

"I mean," Steve takes a mouthful of his coffee. "It can really depend on who's running it, but usually there's like, specific areas of the house where play happens, they might have separate areas for blood play or piss play or, fuck, I dunno, oil wrestling."

"Mhm."

"But then on the flip side of that, there would be specific areas of the house that aren't for play and for people to just hang out, chat, eat, do whatever. Usually, it's a dry event — so, no drinking, no substances. If it isn't, I'd consider that a red flag. But, again, it depends on who's hosting.

"Generally, things like cameras and recording devices aren't allowed. Except I was often with my ex Jonathan who was the camera guy, so he'd be there filming people practicing rope-tying or the collaring ceremony or going through protocols."

"How'd you get invited to your first party? Sorry, we can come back around to this question," Eddie says, wiping the air with his hand. "I don't want to interrupt you."

"I got invited to one by a friend. I said I'd go if Jonathan could come. We practiced rope-tying, I think. And then Jonathan asked if he could get his camera."

"But he didn't know about the rule necessarily?"

"Exactly, but they were really nice about it and said it was okay as long as nobody else was in the shot. So he took some shots of me and then weeks later my friend asked if they were developed yet, and asked if they could see them. I shared them with a friend and then everyone came to see these photos and they were just like, gushing over how gorgeous the photos were. Then once people knew he could take such beautiful photos, he started getting invited to more events and of course, took me with him.

"He got the press pass to the play parties."

"And—" Steve pauses, looking over Eddie's shoulder, searching for what he wants to say next. "Sorry, I'm, like, trying to find the nicest possible way to say this—"

"Oh, no, that's okay," Eddie says, shaking his head.

"Jonathan, in that specific setting, with his camera, walking in and barely speaking to anyone, he had a real—"

"Pervert vibe to him?" Eddie offers.

"Yeah," Steve smirks, a little relieved Eddie said it before he did. "Outside of that context, without the play party he was just a guy in a band t-shirt with a camera who was shy and a little soft-spoken. But within the context of a play party I think that worked to his advantage, because a lot of the people that attended were into voyeur-style play, so."

"Right," Eddie nods. "So he fit within that niche."

"Yeah, he filled that role. Oh, another thing — do they have a theme or is there a dress code?"

"There was something about gear in this survey thing somewhere," Eddie murmurs, scrolling through his phone. "Oh, okay, no theme this time, but gear is required."

"Okay," Steve nods. "So you'd need to wear some type of fetish gear when you go."

"Yeah, so that's like, leather…" He trails off, sitting on his hands.

Steve smirks. He forgets how young Eddie is, sometimes.

Or, he doesn't forget — but Eddie is going to college, he's had more than one job, he's living on his own, and he has hobbies. He's young, but he's his own person, and, more to the point, he doesn't use slang that Steve doesn't understand like some of Max's friends do. When Steve references a band or an old movie Eddie doesn't blankly ask 'What's that?' and stare at Steve waiting for him to provide the answer.

"Yeah. Leather and…?" Steve pauses because he can't help teasing him. "Latex or rope or masks or hoods… do you have anything like that?"

"I have a lot of like, leather jackets and accessories, and I do have the red collar. But I dunno if I wanna wear that to this party."

"Right, so then you'd need some gear to attend."

"It's not gonna be for a while, I think," Eddie says, scrolling through the survey again. "So I have some time to find something."

"Yeah, usually the scheduling is the part that takes the longest."

"What else can I tell you…?" Steve asks himself, thinking aloud. "Oh, the first time you go, lots of people will want to talk to you and might ask you to play with them. That's pretty normal. These types of circles can be really small, so a new person is exciting," he shrugs. "But then also at the same time, don't feel like you have to join in on anything just because you're asked to."

"Yeah. Like you said, watching is all part of it. So, watching is its own type of participation."

"Exactly, yeah. Casual nudity is usually a thing you'll see a lot of, but don't feel like you have to join in if you don't want to."

"Okay, I feel like I should come clean at this point," Eddie says and immediately takes a long sip of his iced latte.

"Come clean about what?" Steve asks, keeping his tone as casual as possible.

"I haven't ever…had sex or observed anyone in an overtly sexual situation that wasn't like, porn, so." Eddie keeps his eyes on the table, while he reorganises the sugar packets at the table.

"You're a virgin?" Steve asks, raising his brow in surprise. "Really, truly?"

"Yeah," he says, finally looking up. "Mhm."

"Not even, like, mutual masturbation?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh." He's blushing now, a healthy pink flush all the way across his cheeks.

"Huh," Steve leans back in their booth and looks him all the way up and down. "But you wear like, motorcycle boots, and with the way you carry yourself, I never would've guessed."

"Oh, those motorcycle boots I wore to our little wine and bread post-date debrief? Those are my dad's. Those boots have definitely been under many beds during their time on earth. Possibly while he was still with my mom, but," Eddie shrugs. "The bar is subterranean for straight, cis men."

"No judgment at all, I just assumed—"

"You and almost everyone else," Eddie nods. "Pretty much."

"I mean I guess I shouldn't assume, and someone who's never had sex doesn't have a particular look, but." He slings his arm over the back of the booth. "You just have this confidence about you that, yeah."

Enough confidence after a night out that you can reach out and touch me when I'm not wearing a shirt and lick the sweat you find on your finger.

"Yeah. I get that a lot."

"So, the reason we are going through this survey together is because—" Steve says, letting Eddie take the lead.

"I'm not sure if I want to tell everyone at this sex party that I'm a virgin," Eddie says, finishing the statement for him. "Or if I do, I don't want people to turn it into a whole thing."

"So, don't tell them," Steve says, with a shrug. "Is there something like 'prefer not to disclose' on the form or something?"

"Oh," Eddie blinks and checks the form. "Yeah. Let me tick that off."

"Also, a play party is different from an orgy, or a swinger's party or a threesome or any other kind of sex party. A play party is mostly just people practicing techniques on each other, showing off their toys or their partners and having a reason to wear their expensive gear."

"Makes sense," he says, chewing on the straw in his coffee. "I think I have all these nerves because… each time I tell someone I'm a virgin, it's a whole thing."

"A whole thing in what way? You don't have to tell me."

"No, no, it's okay," Eddie says. "You're asking to understand, not interrogate. But it's either, like, they've already decided that I'll be a bad lay or that I'll give head with way too much teeth or they fetishize me completely and say all this one-sided fantasy shit like…" Eddie trails off, trying to think of an example but he's sure he's blocked most of them out of his memory.

"Like how you're gonna be so hot and tight and perfect and whatever?" Steve scoffs. "God, that can feel so hetero."

"Yeah, or like, I'm gonna take your apart in the backseat of my car and then you're gonna be mine forever. Or shit like, I'm gonna watch your face while I sink inside your hole and then you're gonna come and then MY dick's the only dick that ever made you come." Eddie makes a face, like it hurts him to even speak those words aloud. "Like, thanks for deciding I would be the bottom in that transaction."

"And it sounds like they already have their hand down their pants while they're talking to you?" Steve offers.

"Yeah, so." Eddie shrugs. "It's also weird 'cause they'll say things where it sounds like they think I've never had an orgasm before?"

"Right, because they're just taking whatever they want their fantasy to be and applying it to you."

"Has that ever happened to you?" Eddie asks.

"Being made into a fantasy instead of a person? Yeah. It's a lonely feeling. It happened more when I was young. Not so much anymore. And if it does, I shut that shit down. Life is too short to be polite to people who think of you like an object."

"…can I write that down?" Eddie asks. "That really resonated with me." He opens up his phone and types it out.

"Any other misgivings about this survey before we both get distracted by something else?"

"Just one," Eddie says, reading through it for the seventeenth time so he can find it. "They're asking about medical history, and I don't know if—"

Steve decides to wait and let Eddie think aloud before he interrupts.

"I mean, I guess it's relevant, but I don't want to draw attention to it."

"I'm doing my best but I can't quite follow you, sorry Eddie."

"Okay, okay, okay." Eddie exhales. "Okay, I have this thing and it's not serious, it's just weird. It's not bad it's more of a functional thing, I guess? But not in a negative way. It's just different."

"What," Steve says. "Like, it's really curved? Wait, don't answer that. I'm sorry. Let me start again."

"Okay," Eddie nods. His straw in his iced coffee is almost in tatters from the way he's so thoroughly chewed it throughout their conversation.

"So obviously they'd be looking for STIs, if you're on PrEP, if you have any illnesses you can pass onto other people. But then they might also want to know, do you have any allergies like cats or foods that people might bring."

"Right, like, standard big group gathering questions."

"So then, let's apply that same logic to your…situation," Steve says, tentatively. "Do you take medication for it?" He starts to count the questions off with his fingers. "Do you need, like, specialized equipment or anything?"

"No, but I have seen a doctor for it before."

"Okay, would it cause seizures or anything like that? Is it life-threatening? Would it affect someone else? Is it something a 9-1-1 operator would want to know before the paramedics arrive?"

"No," Eddie shakes his head. "It's nothing like that."

"Well, then, I don't think you need to tell anyone. You can tell people if you want to, but," Steve shrugs. "You don't have to."

"Yeah." Eddie nods. "Like, if it comes up, it comes up. Otherwise, I'm just going to a party run by one of my friends."

"Yeah." Steve agrees. "And that's the thing, right — you can always say no, and you don't have to be polite about your refusal. You can leave at any time. Trust your gut, if it doesn't feel right then it doesn't need to happen."

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "I feel like I'm a little bit more prepared, and even just thinking aloud with you has been really helpful. Thank you, Steve," he reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

"Good," Steve smiles and squeezes Eddie's hand right back. "I have a friend who would be interested in someone like you going to a play party," Steve says with a smirk. "Wait — that sounds sleazy. She's a journalist and she writes like, sexual health and relationship pieces, she would be interested in your perspective, I think."

"Oh yeah? What's her column? I'll see if I can find it through my library's online magazine rack thing."

"It's the Post, let me see if I can find her section."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Have fun sex toy shopping with your friend," Freak says, merrily.

"Can you please not?" Eddie says, exasperated. "He's probably like right there." He gestures to the wall.

"I didn't say it loudly," he shrugs, looking at Gareth. "Did I?"

"Still." Eddie pulls on his leather jacket and does up the zip.

"Can you bring me something back?" Gareth asks playfully.

"Oh, sure, I'll bring you a fucking machine with all the accessories, shall I?"

"That would be wonderful, thank you Edward."

"Where would we keep it?" Freak asks. "All of our bedrooms are like, tiny."

"Oh, in the living room. Right over there in that corner," Eddie points loosely.

"I thought that was our Christmas tree corner come December."

"We can make it festive," Gareth says with a smirk.

"Bye, boys! Don't start any satanic rituals without me!"

"Now," Eddie says, looking at the map on his phone again. "If I were a sex shop, where would I be?" He looks around. "I feel like I've walked past it like 6 times."

His phone buzzes. It's a text from Steve.

It's up those stairs.

Eddie looks around and sees Steve taking off his sunglasses and tucking one arm into his tank top.

"I'd be lost without you." Eddie calls to him.

He looks gorgeous today, as he always does. He's wearing a tank top and shorts with a thin shirt over the top, which sounds boring, but in practice he looks a little like Jude Law in the 1999 film adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley. Effortlessly cool, a little bit expensive and as though he might hop on a flight to Italy at any moment.

"Hey." Steve crosses the road to come meet him. "You ready to go inside?"

"Now that I have located the building, yes."

They browse the little shop quietly for a few minutes before Eddie holds up a bottle. "Hey, Steve, do you need some Fuck Water?" Eddie asks, displaying the label.

"No," Steve answers back, sincerely. "It isn't safe for silicone-based toys, I don't think."

"Oh," Eddie says, actually reading the label. "It isn't?"

"Or maybe I'm thinking of another one," Steve says, coming over and reading the bottle, frowning.

"Well, how about…Splooge Juice?" Eddie says, cringing even as he reads the name. "God, they're so… who designs a product and says, y'know what, I'm gonna call it Fuck Sauce."

"The owners of Fuck Sauce (TM), obviously," Steve says casually, with a shrug. "I dare you to load the QR code on that card," he says, pointing with his chin.

"What, this one?" Eddie holds his phone camera up to the code and then follows the link.

"Oh, god, there's a whole video….oh, okay, there's animated lube," Eddie nods. "It's splooging very convincingly." Beside him Steve starts to giggle.

"Now lubricant bottles are falling towards me, okay… " Eddie can tell Steve is delighted with the scrunch of his mouth and his skepticism.

"…spunk-scented? What the fuck does that mean?" Eddie asks. "Oh, there's a cinnamon one…? Why? Is that one also spunk-scented but cinnamon-flavored?" he asks.

Steve giggles hard enough that he has to step away from Eddie and take a breath. "I'm closing this video, Steve," Eddie says, exiting out of it. "I've had enough."

"Thank you for your bravery," Steve says, touching his shoulder. "I'm sorry I persecuted you."

"It's okay," Eddie smiles. "I did walk right into that one."

The two of them continue browsing, commiserating over the price (and single-use limitations) of the Tenga Egg when Eddie sees a selection of suction vibes. "You need one of these," he says, handing the display one to Steve.

"Do I?"

"Yes, I've heard many good things from people with anatomy similar to yours."

He looks at it closely, turning it over in his hands. "I'm sure. I just don't think it would fit."

"Oh."

Oh.

He's a big boy.

"Nice idea, though," Steve says, putting it back. "I'll look into it. I think the gear is over here, if you want to take a look."

There's a number of pieces, but quite a few of them don't necessarily apply to Eddie. Like a harness for a strap or a bondage bra set meant for someone with bigger tits than he has.

"I'm not really sure what to pick," Eddie says, chewing his lip. "This is much better than shopping online, because I can actually see everything, but."

Beside him, Steve shakes his head. "It all looks like it won't last," he says, lowering his voice, touching one of the leg straps. "See how it's like, wrinkled? We can do better than that. I'm gonna call a friend of mine and see if we can get you in to see her."

"Okay," Eddie nods. "That's cool."

Note to self, he thinks, while Steve places the call. Have a cool friend who is into leather who you can call for advice.

"Hey, Barb. When are you free? I have a friend who's looking for some gear." A pause. "Oh, like, today? In half an hour or so? Let me ask." Steve tucks the phone into his shoulder.

"My friend has an appointment that freed up today, so, if that works for you, we could drive over and you could look at some of her stuff?"

Note to self, have a cool friend who is a leather worker who you can call for advice and also possibly make you your own gear.

"Yeah," Eddie nods. He always tries to schedule his hang outs with Steve when he has the fewest other things to do in the day. He's learned his lesson from the number of times they've been interrupted just when he was settling into their conversation. "I would love that."

"Okay, yeah, we'll be right over."

"You said the name was Barb, right?" Eddie asks, closing the door on his beat-up old van.

"Yeah. She has a studio in the backyard, it's like a big shed."

"That was gonna be my next question — pronouns?"

"Oh, Barb's agender and a butch dyke, so, she/her is fine, but he uses he/him, too."

"Perfect, thank you."

"Hey," Barb says, waving from the entryway to her shed.

Barb is a tall, strawberry-blonde butch wearing brown pants, a check shirt, doc martens and leather suspenders. Eddie realises she probably made those herself. She's wearing a short apron around her waist with little tools tucked into different pockets, along with stray pieces of hardware.

"C'mon in."

The studio-shed-shop-place smells lovely — like freshly worked leather and wood shavings and leather conditioner.

"It's good to see you, Steve, it's been a while."

"It has," he nods. "I was moving, but I'm all settled in now. Barb, this is my friend Eddie." Steve rests his hand on Eddie's lower back as he guides him inside.

Steve's hand on his back feels so warm and strong and sure that Eddie feels like he should be begging God for forgiveness.

Dear Lord, sorry I got hard when my hot friend put his hand on my lower back. I can't help it, I'm just a little fag.

"Eddie, this is my friend Barb. Eddie's looking for some gear."

"Hey," she reaches out to shake his hand, and the callouses on her hand remind Eddie of the callouses his uncle has. "Thanks for coming by. I had a cancellation and I was worried I'd have to start actually answering my emails. Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Well, I have my first play party, and gear is part of the dress code. I have a red collar already, but I don't have any other gear, so."

"Oh, okay. Well, if that's the case," Barb walks over to a wall of leather accessories hanging on hooks. "I'd usually recommend something like one of the restraint sets — these are thigh, wrist and ankle with two two-point attachment clips. That would give you a lot of flexibility and ease of use."

"Mhm," Eddie nods, reaching out to touch one of her pieces. "Sorry, can I…?"

"Oh yeah, go ahead. The other pieces I would recommend would be something like the boot harness with ankle attachment — that's been super popular lately, or you can go for something like a garter belt, too."

"I think I'll go with one of the sets," Eddie says, cautiously. "I just gotta think about which one."

"Yeah, take your time. You don't have to decide today, either, but if I take your measurements then you can tell me what you want later and I can make a set for you."

"Thanks." Eddie stands in front of the display for a few minutes, just looking.

Is it weird that he's feeling things from looking at a wall of leather accessories? Like he's walking in a long line of all the fags and dykes and freaks who came before him and he's about to be apart of all that?

He bought a collar the night of his eighteenth birthday, just because he could and he thought he looked cool. But now he's going to buy a restraint set from a dyke that she'll make especially for him, recommended by a friend who wanted him to have the best gear possible. He'll wear it the same way he wears any of his pins or patches on his battle jacket — so he can find others like him. But it's queer so it's even more beautiful.

There's magic in all of that, somehow.

"Any questions, Steve?" Barb asks, turning to him.

"Yeah, actually." He rubs a piece of rope between his fingers. "This is beautiful. What's it made of?"

"So, that one is bamboo silk. And then I've got hemp, jute, cotton and coconut."

The one single thing running through Eddie's brain on a loop is:

Steve Harrington is into rope. I repeat, Steve Harrington is a rope bunny. Steve Harrington is into rope. Thank you for listening to this PSA.

He could try not thinking about it, but he doesn't think he would get very far.

"Have you decided on what you might get?" Steve asks, resting two hanks of rope on his hip.

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "I think I'll get the restraint set and then, that should…right?"

"Cover all your bases?" Steve asks. "Yeah. Have you decided on a color?"

"Black," Eddie says. "It'll go with everything and I won't overthink when I wear it."

Barb takes his measurements and then he walks over to the tiny counter to pay.

"Oh, yeah," she opens a book beside the POS machine. "You can personalize it, if you want, so I can do an embossing of a couple of different shapes, a word, some cut outs, and most recently I've been adding…" she trails off while she turns the page.

"Chains and charms to the thigh restraints. So, there's a cross piece that's been pretty popular. Pentacles, stars, some teeth, a skull, a goat skull, a bat, handcuffs, queer symbols."

"That is gorgeous," Steve says. "I bet it sounds beautiful when it moves."

"Oh my god," Eddie says, fretfully. "That is so fucking cool. But there is no way I can afford that." He tries not to rock back and forth on his heels too much, but it's hard.

"That's okay," Barb says. "I'm happy to make adjustments any time if that's something you want to keep in mind for later. We can always add them on. Let me ring you up."

"Thank you so so much," he says, while she puts his order into her spreadsheet. "You've been so helpful, honestly."

"You're so welcome," Barb says, smiling brightly. "Any time. Oh, and you get a free key chain with your purchase, if you want one. I make them from my scrap pile."

Eddie picks out the little key chain that reads t4t in Gothic script.

There, Gareth. I'm getting you something.

"Oh, yeah, Barb. I meant to ask you," Steve says, turning to Barb. "Do you have any recommendations for like, a suction vibrator with a larger opening?" he asks. "Does that make any sense?"

"Oh, yeah, I actually had someone make a little zine as a guide, but I think the widest one we have is—" she reaches into a wooden drawer and pulls out a pink box. "The Satisfyer Curvy 1+, or +1 or… yeah. This one."

"Can I take it out of the box?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"Wait, did you say a zine?" Eddie asks. "Is that something I can get a copy of?"

"Yeah," Barb says, reaching into a drawer. "Here, it's yours."

"Thank you."

Steve takes off the outer packaging and picks up the vibrator. "Oh, yeah, okay, that's more like it." He places the two hanks of rope on the counter and adds the vibrator to the pile.

Eddie's dick throbs so hard he can feel the pulse of it in his head.

Another PSA echoes in his mind:

Steve Harrington is buying a vibrator you told him to buy. I repeat, Steve Harrington is buying a vibrator you told him to buy. And maybe he'll go home and use it on his big dick and then he'll—

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he startles a little. "Oh, it's my boss. I gotta— can I step outside?"

"Yeah," Barb says. "Of course."

"You look like you're thinking of something," Barb says, to Steve.

"Yeah," Steve nods. "Can you add some a chain and some charms to one of his thigh restraints?"

"You want me to do it on your tab? Yeah, sure. What pieces?"

"Anything like, Gothic and a little spooky. The bat, the goat and the moon, maybe?"

Steve thinks he might be overstepping a boundary between them here. Gear is intensely personal and deeply intimate, but that's all the more reason why Eddie deserves gear that he loves.

He reminds Steve of himself when he was young. Pouring his heart and soul into his community once the gender dysphoria went from a searing, hot pain to an occasional dull ache. Driving everyone who didn't have a car, attending protests and walks for those who couldn't, giving so much time, energy and effort to his chosen family.

Eddie doesn't feel like a lot of kids his age, who are all self-absorbed (for better or worse), trying to figure out their own identity and seeing what sticks. He's working at a community radio station in the middle of the night, he's covering shifts for his disabled friend and he's happy to walk people home from the bar.

The work that they both do and continue to do to this day is work Steve loves.

But he wishes he'd had someone to recognise him not just for his efforts in his community, or for other people, but just as he was. Someone who wasn't a romantic partner, but a friend who had nothing to gain.

Steve decides he can be that friend for Eddie.

"Sure," she nods. "I can do that. Did you want a bag for these?"

"The ropes are fine," Steve says. "But can you put this box in a bag?"

"You got it."

"Daddy's home," Eddie calls, when he unlocks the door.

"And," he pulls key chain out of his pocket and digs the little zine out of a little paper sleeve. "These are for you."

"What?" Gareth asks, grinning. "You didn't have to get me anything! I was joking."

"I know," Eddie shrugs. "Consider it allyship."

"This is so fucking sick," Gareth murmurs, touching the key chain. "And this zine is like, so fucking useful, dude, thank you."

"How was your kinks-based hangout?" Jeff asks.

"Emotional, I nearly cried looking at a bulldog harness," Eddie says, stepping out of his boots and walking to his room.

"That's so relatable," Gareth says, still touching the key chain. "Enjoy your personal time."

"Fuck off," Eddie says, closing the door. "I don't jerk off every time I go to my room and close the door," he mumbles, tugging his belt open and pulling his zip down.

His turns on the Bluetooth speaker in his room, not loud enough to particularly disturb anyone else but loud enough to muffle some of the sounds he might make. He slides out of his wet boxers and grabs his stroker, heading for his bed.

"I'd like to see them go shopping for sexy accessories with a man like Steve Harrington and be normal about it."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"C'mon," Steve says, grinding his dick into his tried-and-true vibrator. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon." He's breathing hard and clenching his jaw. "C'mon!" He bears down into the toy with the full power of his hips, because he's close, he's close, he's so fucking close— and then the vibrator powers down and shudders to a stop.

"Fuck!" He says, not bothering to hide his disdain. "Fuck."

"Right. That's it." He tosses his vibrator to one side and unlocks his phone. His whole dick is throbbing with the thrumming pulse of a ruined orgasm.

He goes through his emails until he finds the one he's looking for. It's tucked away in an unassuming old folder he hasn't used for years.

"I'm getting my dick sucked no matter what."

The email is titled The List From the Article and Steve is grateful for Nancy's discretion. For all her brashness and candour, she understands that he's a parent with a teen who seems unable to physically stop herself from snooping in his phone. Or anyone's phone, for that matter.

"Okay, let's see." He scrolls for a while, clicking on links that interest him only to find that some of them are dead or that their social media accounts have been suspended in violation with the terms of service. "God forbid anyone make a living being a whore."

He starts, well, shopping, really, for want of a better word, and it feels a little bit surreal. Not unlike swiping through different profiles on a dating site, yet this is completely transactional. That, and the process has changed a little since he was barely 19 and ordering a sex worker for a friend's birthday party (at their request).

After browsing for a little while, he's got a shortlist but they're all so…handsome. But not handsome in an interesting way, handsome in a catalogue model / stunt double in a sex scene / Ken Doll kind of way. And while he's sure he'll enjoy himself with anyone, he wants something distinctive.

Then, while he's scrolling through someone's profile, he sees a photo with another sex worker. It has a caption:

it's official, your boy went from bi-curious to bi because of leon. men, please fill up my calendar, right here: https://www….

Leon is tall with dark curly hair and sweet, happy green eyes. He's covered in tattoos, has a few piercings (including one on his t-dick) and has a bold, cheeky grin.

Steve clicks through to Leon's profile.

leon | he/him| trans man | vers | switch | certified freak | silly 24/7 365

"Are you a certified freak?" Steve asks, aloud. "Oh. You fuck people for a living, so yes, actually, you are. Now, the other question is, are you accepting clients?"

He follows the links through Leon's profile and fills out a submission form.

"Alright, now we just have to wait for a reply."

The front door to his apartment opens and closes, followed by the sound of Max's voice.

"Hey Dad?" she calls. "Dad's here."

"Gimme one second," Steve calls, climbing into his clothes, muttering under his breath. "How does he always do this? Every time I'm in any state close to nakedness, it's like, 'hey I was in town so I thought I'd drop by'— go away."

He steps out into the hall.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Hey," Jonathan says, as soft-spoken as ever. "Would it be okay with you if we took her for Second Passover? A bunch of us were all sick around the same time, so we're doing it again."

"Yeah," Steve nods, unable to stop himself from crossing his arms over his chest, like he often does when he's around Jonathan. "It is on the weekend?"

"It's technically on the Monday, so I'd take her Sunday and Monday, and then you could pick her up from school on Tuesday."

"Yeah," he nods. "That's fine." He turns to Max. "You're okay to go? You don't have any plans with friends?"

Max shrugs. "It's cool." She pauses. "Wait, can I bring El?"

"Yeah," Jonathan says, nodding. "I think so."

"Yes!"

Steve waits till she's closed the door to her room. "You know she has a crush on El, right?"

"Wait, really?" Jonathan looks surprised. "I mean, I knew they were best friends, but…"

"Yeah. They're looking at going to a concert together."

"That is big," he murmurs. "Does El know?"

"Not yet, I don't think. Max's working up to it," Steve smirks. "She's made her dinner a couple of times."

"Mm. Do you know if El is interested in her, or?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"El just seems…I feel like I don't really know her yet."

"Shy? Hard to read? Off in her own world? Not that many friends? Kind of a loner?" Steve asks, looking directly at his ex.

"Shut up," Jonathan says. "Okay. I gotta go. I'll see you Saturday night."

"Sounds good." Steve closes the door behind him.

"Dad?" Max calls. "I can't find my USB and I need it for my homework."

"…here we go."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Eddie Munson knows few things with absolute certainty. He is entirely sure, however, that the vibes of this 'hang out' he's on are like those of the little village hamlet outside the Hollowmarsh Swamp in his DnD campaign — malodorous, seedy and cursed.

He went to this local show and then he was chatting to this roadie guy —who he's named Roadie in his head because he can't actually remember his fucking name, fuck— and then they all went for drinks after.

Eddie wanted to go home and get back to his car after the first round, except it was someone's birthday and he didn't wanna be rude by leaving early, so he agreed to tag along for a bit longer.

Only a bit longer turned into another bar, and then another bar, and suddenly it had been a lot longer. He wants to get a ride home, but it's a game night or something and so all the ride share prices to get back to his apartment would probably put him into overdraft. Finally, Eddie hears them talking about going to someone's house and thinks this is good — he can get to the house and call a ride share or arrange a friend to pick him up or something and Irish goodbye the fuck out of these guys.

Except by the time Eddie comes back into his body he realises they've driven right out of the city and he never got the address of the house they're going to.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit!

He starts to go kind of non-verbal in the back of the van, which, now that he thinks about it, he should probably be driving because he thinks he's pretty sure he's safe to drive. The only thing that grounds him is the thrum of the music blasting through the car's sound system and rumbling through his seat in the back.

When they reach the house it's at the end of a very long gravel driveway Eddie realises they're out in the middle of nowhere and he has no way to get back home. A ride share wouldn't come out this way and he has no idea what taxi company to call to get one, even if he wanted to put it on his credit card that he uses for emergencies.

To top it all off, the house has no fucking internet to speak of because they're out in the sticks and the only place Eddie's phone actually works is at the top of a fucking hill he keeps walking up and down.

He finally considered just plucking up the courage and asking the people he'd come here with except they're all… circling him or something.

They're all watching him like he's a pledge to a new fraternity and they're about to haze him any minute now. They keep offering him beer or weed or even cocaine from one guy in the bathroom. Eddie is a taker of many risks, but he is not going to snort some stranger's untested white powder off the back of a random CD case.

Everyone else barrels outside to light a bonfire and Eddie does something he hasn't done since he was little and scared of a thunderstorm. He crawls inside a bedroom and finds a place to hide.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What am I gonna do?

He tips his head back against the wall of the closet (no jokes right now, please, he's not in the mood). He's been hiding there for the past 12 minutes to try and come up with a plan. He sends out the same, ' i'm stuck, haha, please help!' message, hoping someone will reply — and quickly.

He's messaged Benny (who he think is at some big family reunion thing), Wayne (who is out fishing with a friend but might be driving back soon…?), his mom (who is definitely working and probably using power tools), Steve, Gareth, Freak and Jeff.

The one person whose replied so far is Steve, but he's busy.

Usually it wouldn't be a problem, but I'm just driving to drop Max off at her grandma's.

Sorry, Eddie!

If you still need a ride in like, a couple of hours, let me know.

No problem, thanks!

Let me know when you're home safe.

Will do!

His phone feels hot in his hand and he hates, hates that he has to charge it right now. He goes into the living room and plugs his phone in (which is how he started talking to Roadie in the first place because his phone's battery fucking sucks) and then he just drifts, sitting numbly on a couch that isn't his in a house he doesn't know while an assortment of intoxicated people throw things into a fire just to watch things burn.

He's reminded of those fairy tales where the curse over a whole town only becomes a threat after the sun goes down. He watches the reflection of the flames through the windows as they splash across the wall and wonders if he should turn the light on in here.

He checks his phone and realises it's at 12% charge.

"Close enough,"he says, getting up off the couch and heading up the hill.

But when he gets to the top of the hill, there's nothing. Nobody's read his messages. Nobody's responded. There's nothing.

"Fuck," he says, chewing the inside of his cheek harder than he needs to. "Fuck."

He calls Wayne and the call goes through somehow and he bounces on his toes while he waits for Wayne's familiar voicemail to end.

"Hey, Wayne. Um. I'm kind of stuck right now. So if you could pick me up, that would be…yeah. I can pay you back for gas or whatever. Love you. Okay bye."

He does the only thing he can do, he heads back inside to charge his phone again. This time, he puts it on airplane mode so it'll charge faster. He waits about ten minutes, then heads up the hill.

There's still nothing. But that's okay. He's formulating a plan now.

He'll go back inside and charge his phone until he feels like it's safe enough to hold its battery and then he'll just walk out of the house. He'll go down the long fucking driveway and try to find a main road. Then, he'll find one of those emergency highway phones or a gas station or something and go from there.

It's not much of a plan, but it's all he can think of right now.

One day I'll laugh about this, he promises himself, even though right now he just wants to cry. One day I'll laugh about this and Mom will be like, oh yeah, that happened to your dad one time—

The next time he holds up his phone on the hill (while fighting for his life among a fucking swarm of mosquitoes) there's a missed call and a voicemail from Wayne.

Hey, kid. I'm just heading back now. I can come pick you up. Where are you?

"Yes, yes, yes." Eddie says, gripping his phone and holds it over his heart. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He has to resend his two texts, but they go through.

can't call rn bc there's like no service up here

idk where i am - it's rural, i will try to drop a pin and send it to you

OK you let me know when you're ready

Eddie has never been so happy to see one of Wayne's voice-to-text messages in his whole entire life. Then, through a combination of google maps, fucking Pokemon Go and some plant identifier app he manages to send Wayne a screenshot of where he is.

"Finally! Fuck yes. Okay. Okay. He knows where you are. It's gonna be okay."

I'm on my way, I'll be right there please don't take my man

Sorry. That was Dolly. I'll be there as soon as I can.

43 minutes I reckon.

The mention of Dolly Parton fucking up Wayne's message is just enough to send Eddie teetering close to the edge. Tears prick the corners of his eyelids but he doesn't let them fall.

Hopefully Wayne isn't pissed at him because Eddie just lengthened his drive home by about an hour and a half. He doesn't sound pissed, though, so that's good.

tWHAKN YOUUUUUU! I'll save my battery for now but I'll be ready.

43 minutes. That's okay. That's the length of Pink Floyd's critically acclaimed album, Dark Side of the Moon. He sets a timer on his phone and does that thing where he plays a song in his head from start to finish.

Apparently other people can't do that, even though they get songs stuck in their head? Which, weird, because how do you play your theme song in your head if—

—nevermind.

"This is gonna be a long wait, huh."

39 minutes and 17 skipped-in-his-head songs later, he sees a long beam of light spill across the driveway and he starts sprinting towards it.

"Never been so happy to see that piece of shit truck in my entire life," Eddie says breathlessly, trying to stay upright on the uneven ground.

"Glad you wore your little red bandana thing," Wayne says, touching his shoulder. "Almost couldn't see you up there in the dark."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, oh my god." Eddie leans forward and puts his head on the dashboard, kissing the car. "Thank you so much."

"Seat belt," Wayne says, and Eddie clips his in quickly.

The mosquito bites are already blooming across his skin and he knows he won't sleep tonight, but that doesn't matter because he'll be in his own bed and thank fuck for that.

"What happened?" Wayne asks. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, exhaling. "I will be. I'm so sorry you had to drive all the way out here." He unrolls his window and clicks his vape pen, not yet ready to talk.

"S'okay. You needed help. That's what I'm here for."

They don't talk for a little while, which is how Eddie knows Wayne isn't mad. Wayne hasn't said anything like, 'How many lives are we up to now, kid?' or 'Not gonna do anything like that any time soon, are you?' or 'Whenever you're ready' while he awaits Eddie's tumbling explanation.

"Thank you again," Eddie says, barely loud enough to be heard over Bob Dylan.

My weariness amazes me, I am branded on my feet / I have no one to meet / And my ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming

"You saved me from having to fucking…walk home. Thank you."

"Yeah, well," Wayne starts his response and then, in classic Wayne fashion, takes a while to start up again. "Figured you were in trouble."

"Oh my god. I am never doing that again, Jesus Christ."

"I did that."

"Did what?" Eddie asks.

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me / I'm not sleepy, and there is no place I'm going to

"Walked home once."

"Walked home from a party you regretted saying yes to in the first place?"

More time and space between his words.

"More like I was… lured out there, I guess."

Wayne's mentioned this before, but not in any great detail. Eddie suspects that's because he can't. He either doesn't want to remember or it's too hard to talk about. The few times he's talked about it were when the bullying in high school got really, really bad for Eddie.

My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip / My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels / To be wandering

"To the quarry?"

"Yeah."

"How did they get you out there?"

"There was a new kid at school and we partnered up for shop class. He called me up and said to meet him at the quarry before the football game on Friday."

"Was he in on it, do you think?" Eddie asks.

Wayne clicks his tongue. "Nah. I think they just asked him to call me."

More time and space between his words. More road underneath his truck's tires. More distance between Eddie and the choices that led him to a house in the middle of nowhere with people he didn't know.

"And then you got there and you figured out what was going on pretty quick?" Eddie offers, filling in the gaps with what little he knows.

And take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind / Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves / The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach

"Yeah, it was 5 or 6 against 1 and uh." Wayne reaches in his front pocket of his shirt for a cigarette and lights it. "Then I was fucked."

With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves / Let me forget about today until tomorrow

"I'm sorry." Eddie feels like there's little comparison between his escaping this party and Wayne being lured to a deserted location to be beaten by homophobic high schoolers, but it's still important to hear.

It's why he flinches when Eddie says words like faggot or queer or degenerate, even in a spirit of reclamation and celebration.

"Yeah. I just remembered one of them had a crowbar," he says, with a half laugh.

"A crowbar? Jesus, Wayne."

"Don't think he used it though, just think he swung it around to feel big or whatever." He exhales and taps his cigarette so the ash falls out the window.

"So, they beat the shit out of you and then left?"

"Yeah, they threw my car keys away, so. That was a long walk home."

More time and space between what Wayne can say out loud and what he's truly trying to say.

"Anyway. I'm glad you didn't have to walk home like I did." Wayne reaches over and squeezes Eddie's knee, and Eddie squeezes his weathered hand right back.

"I would've picked you up." Eddie says, not wanting to let go of his hand. "If I'd seen you. If I was alive and had a car and was also able to drive."

If, if, if.

"You weren't even a spark in the night sky then, honey, but thank you."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

A flood of texts start to load onto his phone as they drive into the city, all with timestamps from an hour ago.

g-bear (gareth, esq.) changed the name of the group from rat pack ratbag bad boys who used to be in a band to breadcrumb and cheese quest to locate our dear gentlerat

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): why did i think that said breadcrumb and queso quest

g-bear (gareth, esq.): queso quest is a better name tbh

g-bear (gareth, esq.): he cast pass without a trace fr

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): i think his phone is just dead tbh

jeff (king jeff): emily said his car is still in the parking lot btw

g-bear (gareth, esq.): come back to us, dear faggy gentlerat

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): it's weird cause normally i wouldn't even be worried until like much later tonight, but his last message was just weird

jeff (king jeff): exactly, same like wdym stuck?

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): can anyone find wayne's number btw?

g-bear (gareth, esq.): im looking and i SWAER i had it but i cant find it

jeff (king jeff): as soon as we know where eddie is we gotta sit down and go over each other's emergency contact numbers pls

g-bear (gareth, esq.): PLS

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): if he doesn't start responding here im gonna message him elsewhere - maybe he'll see it idk

eddie (faggy gentlerat) changed the name of the group from breadcrumb and cheese quest to locate our dear gentlerat to rat pack ratbag bad boys who used to be in a band

eddie (faggy gentlerat): hi

eddie (faggy gentlerat): it's a long story but i'm safe! wayne picked me up and we're headed home

eddie (faggy gentlerat): sorry boys i didn't mean to scare anyone i just got STUCK

g-bear (gareth, esq.): EDDIE!

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): EXCELLENT we have signs of life.

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): i am ordering pizza for dinner cause no one is doing dishes tonight

g-bear (gareth, esq.): can we help you though, eddie like do you need anything??

eddie (faggy gentlerat): OH shit actually can someone get my car? the spare key should be in the drawer by the front door

jeff (king jeff): on it.

jeff (king jeff): wait what does your key look like

jeff (king jeff): nvm i can tell by your pregnant shadow the hedgehog and d20 keychain HAHA!

eddie (faggy gentlerat): excuse you do not laugh at pregnant shadow the hedgehog, he was a gift from my beloved friend gareth

g-bear (gareth, esq.): eddie doubted me when i said there was a whole kink community of sonic fans

eddie (faggy gentlerat): and i doubt you NO LONGER now that i have my talisman

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): do not forget everyone your presence is requested at a rat pack ratbag family meeting tonight for emergency contact info updates

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve is sitting at his desk in the middle of his workday, looking at the publishing imprint that Robin said might take a collection of his poems when he gets a text from Max.

Dad

Ptomise you won't be mad

"Oh, god, okay," he says aloud.

I promise I won't be mad, kiddo. What's up?

I got in a fight at sfcool

They're gnna take my phone away

Steve presses the photo of Max on his phone and calls her. It sounds like she probably doesn't have long to talk to him.

"Sweetheart, what happened?"

Dad, he— he was being so fucking racist and—

"Who, sweetheart?" He has a feeling he already knows.

Daniel McPherson, he was saying all of this shit and then he—

It's hard for her to talk between wet, shuddering breaths.

"Are you hurt?" He's already grabbing his wallet and his jacket, ready to leave the house.

— he pulled my hair and he punched me. My lip's all fucked—

"I'll be right there, okay?" He hears a buzzing through his phone, letting him know that someone else is trying to call him. It's probably the school. "You just sit tight. You're not in trouble, I promise."

He hears Max protest as the phone's taken away from her and then the call ends. He answers the phone when it rings again on the way down to his car.

Hi, Steve? This is the assistant principal at Maxine's school. We're calling to inform you that there's been an altercation involving her and another student—

"Yeah, I'm on my way," he says. "I'll be there in half an hour."

Steve's pissed when he arrives. His kid, his baby's been hurt by some baby Nazi incel bully with a downy mustache and they won't let him see her until he's spoken with the principal. He has a feeling he knows how this will go. The school will likely ask her to apologise and there will be some kind of conversation about her permanent record or punishment and then she can return to school.

His goal is to get into the principal's office, get his kid and get out of there as smoothly as possible. But he did also call his family's lawyer in the car and let her know they'd likely need a strongly-worded letter on the principal's desk by the end of the week in the event that they piss him off.

He knows he has to stay as calm and as even as possible for Max. Even if he was pissed off at the school, she might absorb and internalise that some of that anger and assume was directed at her, even if logically she knows it isn't.

"Mr. Harrington," The assistant principal says, welcoming him into her office. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Of course," Steve says, taking a seat. "I wish it could be under better circumstances."

"So, I'd like to discuss an altercation that occurred between Maxine and another student earlier this morning."

"She prefers Max," he says, swiftly. He knows he shouldn't split hairs this early, but they can get her fucking name right.

"Oh, is that a preferred name?"

"No," Steve says, stemming the urge to roll his eyes already. "It's her name. A nickname."

"Right. So, earlier this morning one student, Daniel McPherson, was being loud in the hallway between classes. He was, I'll grant, saying some quite upsetting things, but he wasn't saying them directly to her. They were more general comments."

Yeah, because hate speech is 'quite upsetting.' Sure.

"He and Maxi—Max got into a verbal altercation where there was a lot of swearing. She told him, according to one of our staff members, to 'get a personality that isn't based around hating other people' and to 'get fucked.'"

Good girl. "Mhm."

"And then he was doing those sorts of typical, I would call them peacocking moves, that a lot of teenage boys do. There was more shouting, more escalation and then Max took the skateboard underneath her arm and hit him on the right side of his face."

Good job, kiddo.

"He staggered backwards, then he reached for her and pulled her hair and, we believe, punched her in the face. Then, they were successfully separated and so far, Daniel has given us quite a spirited account of events, but we've been unable to have a conversation with her."

Well, that would be because she was doing as she was told. Once she hit puberty he made a point of telling her that if she ever got in trouble with the law or with some authority figure somewhere, to stay quiet until he or their lawyer arrived.

Jonathan thought he was overreacting at the time. But he knew she was a little spitfire.

"Well," he crosses one leg over the other. "If he hit her in the face, talking might be difficult for her."

"…. that's true," the principal says, carefully. "Though Mr. McPherson has lost two teeth and a broken nose, and he was able to recount events with us, so we're not sure why Max is being so reluctant to communicate with us."

Two teeth? How hard did she hit him?

"Just before we bring in Maxi— Max one last time so that she might give us her side of the story, I'd like to discuss the consequences of this behaviour with you. So, the McPhersons are looking for you to cover their medical and dental bills for Daniel, I believe, though that is, of course, your own private civil matter, which the school isn't involved with."

"Yes," Steve says. "Of course, that's not a problem. My lawyer can contact the family and we'll arrange for payments to be made."

"Your lawyer? Okay. That's fine. The next consequence is that this would be going on her permanent record. We will have to suspend her for 3 weeks because this school has a zero-tolerance policy for violence against other students. We will be removing her skateboard from the school, as it poses a threat to other students' safety, and we will be speaking to the coach about her involvement with the basketball team and if that needs to be paused considering her behaviour."

Shit.

Steve doesn't give a fuck about her permanent record — it'll be given to her when she graduates and then destroyed after 2 years anyway. The suspension he thinks he can argue down, but she'll be devastated if she can't play basketball anymore and she does actually need the skateboard to get around.

"I understand. I don't agree with all of those recommendations, but we can talk about that when we get there."

He's already formulating a plan — he's almost certain the coach is a lesbian and would be sympathetic to Max, so he'll comply with everything now so they can leave unscathed, and then he and his lawyer will go home and draft up a letter.

They'll remove her from school, yes, but she won't be suspended and Steve will teach her from their homeschooling curriculum, and if the school wants to argue that he'll respond with some lines about how the school values diversity and inclusion and she, as a lesbian, deserves reasonable accommodations considering the fact that Daniel McPherson has bullied her for years.

The assistant principal gets up and opens a side door in her office, speaking to the front reception. "Ms. Kelly, can you please get Maxi— Max from the nurse's office?"

Max appears in the doorway and her lip is bruised, bloodied and purple.

"Hey," Steve says, touching her knee once she sits down. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head and won't make eye contact with him. He lets go of her. He thinks if he pushes her too much now, all she'll do is cry.

"Maxine—"

"Max," Steve corrects, quickly.

How many times does it take to get her name right, you fucking bitch?

"Max, what do you have to say?"

Her head wobbles forward, her chin dropping in scorn and disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"Young lady—"

"He hit me in the face!" she says, pointing to her mouth. "He pulled my hair! He did a Nazi salute up and down the halls and said I hope they get you first."

"I know," the principal says, tipping her head like she's doing Max a favour. "And that was unacceptable to our school as well, but you must know that violence isn't the answer."

"Max," Steve says, touching her knee again. "Let's take responsibility for what do you did, okay? And we'll apologise and then we'll leave."

She looks at him with a look of hurt and betrayal. Her blue eyes are hot with anger and it looks like she's asking, You too? Really?

No, not me, Steve tries to say without saying anything at all. Never me, but we have to say sorry to get out of here.

He squeezes her knee in an apology of his own and she exhales and crosses her arms over her chest. She looks a little like Steve, somehow, even though they're not related, but her mannerisms.

"We have to be better, right?" He asks, pulling a comment a therapist made to her in therapy when she was 14. She looks at him like she thinks he's an asshole. He wishes there'd been a chapter in any of the parenting books he'd read about the time your child has to apologise to a proto-Nazi teenager so she can leave school in peace.

C'mon, Max.

"I am sorry for hitting Daniel in the face with my skateboard."

"I'd like to set up a time for you to meet with Daniel to apologise to him in person," the assistant principal says, adjusting her glasses.

"I think we can both agree that they need some time apart before that happens," Steve says.

The assistant principal blinks, like she wasn't aware he could take charge of the conversation. "One last thing before you leave — we weren't able to contact Mr. Byers. His calls went to a voicemail. Would you be able to notify him?"

"Yes," Steve says. "I can do that. Is there anything else we need to discuss? I'd like to take her to a doctor as soon as possible so her injuries can be looked at."

"Yes," she says, trying not to sigh. "Of course. We'll speak later. Have a good afternoon and thank you for your apology, Max, I'm sure the McPherson family will appreciate it."

Max gets up and scrapes the chair loudly across the floor, managing one final whatever as they leave the office. Steve walks beside her and draws her in close, holding onto her by her shoulder.

"Hey, I'm sorry. We had to do that so we could leave."

"Why did you make me apologise to him?"

"I know. I wanted to get us out of there. We'll talk in the car. Okay?"

The parking lot is almost empty except for a few cars parked in the staff only spots and one lifted truck parked badly across two spots, its bumper covered in stickers. A father and son are walking towards it, the younger of the two with the hood of his hoodie pulled up over his head.

"Oh, shit," Max says, shrinking into Steve. "That's him."

"Keep walking to the car," Steve says, firmly, still holding onto her. "We're almost there."

"Get that dyke away from my kid," Mr. McPherson says across the parking lot.

"Max. Get in the car," Steve says, firmly.

"But—Dad—"

"I said get in the car."

"Dad, you're—"

"That wasn't a request, Max."

"Dad—!"

"Get in the car. Close the door."

"Okay," she says, opening the car door and climbing inside.

"What?" Mr. McPherson asks, coming to a stop. "You have something to say to me?"

"Call my daughter a dyke again at your own risk, sir."

"I'll call her whatever the fuck I want," he says, with a shrug. "Besides, she calls herself that."

"And I have every right to protect my family and if you threaten my daughter I will use everything my power to do so."

"Get over yourself," he scoffs. "Faggot."

"Yes, and proud," Steve says, coming around to the driver's side of his car.

"I'm a sovereign citizen," Mr. McPherson says, arms out to the side in an aggressive shrug. "I don't care."

"Then you shouldn't be scared when my lawyer sends you an email," Steve murmurs, when he gets into the car.

"Dad," Max says, turning down the stereo when Steve starts the car. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he says, a little stiff. Now that he's away from it, it does feel like his heart is in his throat.

"But he called you a—"

"A faggot? Yeah. Men like him do that."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Max asks. Steve would like to know when his daughter became so emotionally intelligent and intuitive. He's buzzing and he feels like Robin is gonna tear into him once she hears about the fact that he confronted an alt-right 'sovereign' citizen in the parking lot of Max's school.

But hopefully after they've gone to the doctor and he's sent his emails to everyone it'll be after 5pm and he can have a stiff drink.

"I'm fine. I'm more worried about you." He squeezes her hand. "I couldn't say it in there, but I'm proud of you, sweetheart. I really am."

"Really?" She asks. "You're serious?"

"Of course. Your dad would be proud of you too."

She blinks, like she doesn't quite believe him.

"Trust me. I'm not mad."

"Okay." She takes out her headphones from her backpack and turns them on.

"Are you hungry? Do you want chicken tenders and fries?"

"Yeah."

He writes emails to his lawyer and Jonathan and Max's coach while they're waiting to be seen by the doctor. It's more of a formality than anything, but he's glad they went because it turns out she might have pulled a muscle in her neck from when that little prick grabbed her by the hair.

He drives home and, turning the car off, realises he couldn't recall the trip if he tried. He's leaning into the kitchen counter, checking his phone to see if there's a message from Jonathan when he sees Max standing next to him.

He thought she'd be off in her room by now, listening to metal and being a terrible upstairs neighbour.

But she's not in her room. She's right in front of him. And then the worst thing happens.

She starts to cry.

"Oh, Max, sweetheart," he says, opening his arms for a hug. She clings to him, fingernails digging into his shirt. "It's okay."

She fights to speak between sobs and Steve can make out a little of what she says.

"— he's such a— fucking dipshit— nobody did anything!"

"—the teachers—my friends—nobody did anything! Everybody just stood there!"

"I know, sweetheart," he says, rocking her back and forth. "I know."

"—can't hang out—my friends—because their parents say I'm a bad fucking influence!"

"When did that happen?" Steve asks, confused because he doesn't remember that in any of their conversations.

"I got a text in the car." She wipes furiously at her eyes and leaves Steve's arms to go find a tissue. "God, fuck this."

He doesn't want to say I love you right now, because he doesn't want to pressure her into saying back if she doesn't want to, but he still wants to support her.

"Let me know if you need anything, okay?" he says while she storms off to her room.

Once her door is closed and her music is loud he finally rubs his face in his hands and sighs.

"God. What a fucking day."

He makes himself a gimlet and decides he'll call Robin once he's finished it.

When Cami returns home hours later, he realises he's been sitting in the dark staring at nothing for a while. Maybe a long while.

"What's up?" she says, taking off her shoes. "Is something wrong?"

"Max got into a fight at school."

"What kind of fight?" Cami asks quietly. "Is she okay?"

"I think so. That guy Daniel was throwing the Nazi salute around. She hit him with her skateboard, then they go into like, an actual altercation. It was bad."

"Oh, shit." Cami looks at Max's closed door and decides to leave her alone for now. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Not really. Have you? I can get started on dinner." He starts to get off the couch but Cami holds up her hand.

"No, no," she says. "You sit down. I got it." She turns on an episode of Gilmore Girls and slips a note under Max's door. They've communicated that way for years— either when Max was grounded or when either of them wanted to shut the world out. If Max wants to reply, she'll write something on the note and slide it back under the door.

"…now, if we still have the nice pie shell in the freezer, I can make a nice roasted vegetable pie from that recipe Eddie sent me…"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The phone rings at 2:16AM and then it rings again, this time it overrides Steve's Do Not Disturb setting on his phone and rings and rings until he wakes up.

"…'lo?"

Hey, Steve. It's Jonathan. I got your messages about Max.

"…okay," he says, scrubbing at his face and trying to wake himself up.

I'm flying back from New Zealand and I should get there at 4 in the morning tomorrow.

"…yep." Please don't ask to stay here, there isn't space for you.

How is she? Is she okay?

"I took her to the doctor, they gave her a full exam. She's sore, but she's fine."

Okay, but like, emotionally?

"You'll have to talk to her," Steve says, knowing better than to speak for her. "Later."

And what about school, is she getting detention or…?

"She was going to be suspended," Steve says, yawning halfway through the word.

Suspended? For defending herself against that Nazi, what the fuck?

"…can you just let me talk, please," Steve says, unable to conceal his exhaustion.

Oh. Yeah. Sorry.

"They were gonna suspend her, but my lawyer and I will mediate it so that I can homeschool her for the length of her suspension instead."

A lawyer? Is it that bad?

Steve mutes himself quickly and shoves his phone under his pillow. "Why is it that the one time I want him to let me talk he won't shut the fuck up?" He whispers into the darkness. He breathes out hard through his nose, trying to breathe out all of this temporary exasperation for his ex but it does feel like he's just adding oxygen to the fire somehow.

He presses the mute button again and speaks into the microphone.

"I don't think we'll actually need a lawyer but I do not need anyone from the fucking PTA calling CPS on us again because they learned that we're trans. Okay?"

Yeah.

"Anything else?"

Just… thank you for taking care of her and being there for her. I'll let you know as soon as I've landed.

"I'm her dad," Steve says, more fiercely than he means to. "Of course I'll take care of her and be there for her." He wants to say I don't have a choice. If she calls him, he'll go to her, it's how it works. It doesn't matter if he has to drop everything, it doesn't matter if they're fighting, it doesn't matter if he has to burn bridges to do it.

If she needs him and she calls, he comes running.

I know, Steve, I just wanted to acknowledge the amount of effort you put in. I know it took a lot.

What, Steve wants to say. Me going to school and talking to the assistant principal and then facing off with a fucking Nazi in a high school parking lot on a fucking Thursday afternoon? And then me taking her to a doctor's appointment so she could be evaluated and then me talking to a lawyer while we make plans? Comforting my kid all the while because her friends are texting all these rumours about her and saying if he shoots up the school it's gonna be her fault?

He takes a breath because he is simply too exhausted to argue. "…it's fine, it's really late, I'm sorry. We'll talk later."

Okay, I'm sorry for what it's worth. Thank you. I'll see you both soon.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

If people could stop asking Max if she was okay, then she might actually have a chance to be okay.

After the whole fight with Daniel McFuckerson, she got heaps of messages from everyone, asking her if she was okay, asking her what happened, asking her if she was crazy. There were a lot of texts like, let me know if you need anything! which, like, okay, do you want to come over and do dishes? Or maybe help her pick up all her clothes off the floor like her dad's been asking her to do for a while?

But she can't exactly ask for that help, so she's just been in her room listening to music and hanging out.

Her dad (Jonathan) flew in from New Zealand yesterday. She feels bad that he had to abandon a work trip all because she got into one single fight with Daniel McFuckface, but she guesses that's the price of being a parent or whatever. And it was his choice — she didn't ask him to come or anything, he just did.

She sort of wishes he'd asked if she wanted him to come, although that would've been weird too, because she would've felt bad asking him to come all this way when it's such a long, expensive flight and he was there for work.

And there isn't really anything for him to do, like, it isn't an emergency. But she does kind of feel like he did it just to show Steve in some weird best parent competition they're having. It's low-key, but she can tell. It's been like that ever since they split up, but at least she isn't forced to pick which parent she loves more or whatever.

She's listening to Stronger Than Stone (Blindside) by Chained Saint when she faintly hears the door through her headphones. That's weird. Her dad isn't due for a bit and he's never early—

"Hey, Max? Eddie's here to see you," her dad says, holding the door open for him.

Eddie looks cool again, like he usually does.

He's wearing these patchwork jeans that she knows aren't just made to look that way but really have been repaired and stitched back together. His t-shirt underneath his battle jacket is an old Iron Maiden t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He's wearing Adidas sneakers — the Forum Low Classic in the Non Dyed Warm Vanilla colourway.

Cool.

She'll have to ask him for style tips or something because he always looks interesting and she just looks like a 14-year-old who went shopping in the boy's section at Target. Cami's offered to help her find clothes before, but going shopping with a femme is exhausting.

"Hey, Max! How are you? I heard about your—woah! Sick hair cut."

"Oh, thanks," she says, touching one of the longer braids. El cut her hair yesterday, so she's still getting used to it. It used to be down to her waist, which was great for head-banging and annoying for everything else, but she didn't know what she wanted to do with it. But after Daniel McMotherfucker pulled her hair she wanted it gone gone.

So she made an appointment at El's shop and walked in and told El to do whatever she wanted. El nodded and said, "I will." She ended up with like, a shag or a wolf cut with two longer pieces behind her ears that she could braid. It was pretty sick and, somehow, exactly what Max wanted.

" I brought you both sandwiches," Eddie says, reaching into a paper bag. "I got one for myself too, but I demolished it on the way over here," he grins.

"Did you want a drink of anything?" Her dad asks, opening the fridge. "Or are you going to class soon?"

Dad knows everyone's schedules, he's so weird.

"Yeah, I can't hang out too long. I've got class in a bit."

"I like your jeans," she says, trying to be cool about it.

"Thank you. You can have jeans just like these if you tear them open on a random chain link fence."

"Oh," Steve laughs. "Those are the jeans?"

"The one and the same. Well, not the same. Substantially altered, actually, by the experience, but these are the jeans."

Dad, can you please stop being the perfect, welcoming host for one second and just let me talk to this guy who came over to see me, specifically?

"What did you think of Skeletá?" Max is determined to hear Eddie's opinion because she likes the way he talks about music.

He's always so confident in his opinion, even if he knows he's an outlier. He doesn't get all defensive and he doesn't show up ready to prove the whole room that he's right. But he is still particular in his own way and has songs he likes from one artist and not another, even though the songs might be very similar.

She knows this because she listens to the slot he works on the late night radio the next morning while getting ready for school. He hasn't released another of his own School of Metal episodes yet, but every once and a while the old guy who runs the show will turn to Eddie and ask him what he thinks.

And Eddie will usually say something like: Trust me, I was always the first person to criticise a band after a new album and say that they were sell-outs for making something super commercial. But I got tired of being a cynic and a hater pretty quick. I realised that actually, a commercial success means there's a new audience and new friends to make in the pit. Many of us metalheads were often loners or freaks with no friends, so it's like, do you really wanna gate-keep this whole genre?

He's the polar opposite to some of the kids in her high school, who either judge her for liking metal at all, or they like metal themselves but have decided she doesn't like them in the 'right' way because she didn't go to the 'right' gigs or she likes other songs on the same album or whatever.

"Oh, man, I'm still listening to it so I'm still forming my full opinion, but I don't love it just yet. I wish it could've been heavier, but I love glam rock and I love the camp. I like all of the 80's influences, so it balances out. It feels like, I dunno, yacht rock but metal? Yacht metal? Pop metal?"

"Yeah," Max says. "I feel like I could introduce people to Skeletá as like, a way into something similar to metal."

"Oh, totally. I know people are saying he's lazy, but it's like, he's 40, he's been doing this for 15 or so years and this is his sixth studio album. So, there's going to be pieces of his you don't like as much, y'know?"

"Yeah, I feel like people don't even listen to the album all the way through before they've made up their mind," Max nods.

"Yeah, that's part of why I haven't formed an opinion yet — I need to listen to it for a while to see which songs really have a lasting impression on me."

"Yeah. It's not my favourite album of his," Max says. "But it feels more accessible, I guess."

"Yeah! It's funny — well, it's not funny, but in high school I was a real dick about the music that people listened to and if it was 'real music,'" Eddie says, putting quotation marks around his words.

"What, all of two years ago?" Her dad teases.

"A lot can change in three years, Steve," Eddie says, defensively, but still smiling. "But then my friend Jeff was like, you do know that most of these old cis white guys are republicans or assholes or both, right? And then I just shut up."

"Are you gonna review it for work?" Max asks.

"Yeah, they asked me to do a review but I refused to send them the script until I've actually formed my opinion," he pulls his lips back, as though he's reluctant to speak.

Woah.

"Will you get in trouble?"

"No, I said I'd do a first impressions with an update 3 months later and they seemed happy with that, so," Eddie shrugs.

"Do you have a favourite song from Skeletá?"

"Probably Mark of the Evil One, but I love Cenotaph, too. I feel like There! There! is gonna be so fun performed live 'cause the audience will go wild."

"What do you like about Cenotaph?"

"Wherever I go / You're always there / Riding next to me," Eddie sings, letting his voice fill the space with a confidence Max wishes she had. "Reminds me of my dad."

"You said this…skeleton album was like, 80's rock inspired, right? Was your dad a fan of that kind of music?" Steve asks, joining in their conversation.

"Oh, dude," Eddie staggers backwards, like he's so pleased Steve asked the question.

How is it that her dad knows barely anything about the music she likes, but he can jump into a conversation she's having with Eddie and ask something thoughtful and meaningful just off the cuff like that?

He's so weird. Cool, but weird.

"Absolutely. I have a whole playlist of stuff he used to listen to and it's all mostly like, 80's and 90's power ballads and metal. This is his old Iron Maiden shirt, actually, from the Brave New World tour in 2000."

Cool.

"Anyway, I came over because I heard about Max's legendary take down at school."

"But how—" Max blinks. "How did you hear about my…?" She knows her dad isn't the type to stand on the phone, gossiping about their kids like some parents do, but then if he didn't, who told Eddie?

"Oh, from my friend Emily, who runs Pit Practice sometimes. She told me everyone was all riled up talking about this girl Max who punched a Nazi in the face at school."

"I didn't punch him," she says, tucking her hands behind her back and leaning on her toes. "I hit him with my skateboard."

"Oh, fuck yeah. Everyone at Pit Practice is seriously impressed, dude."

"No they're not," she scoffs.

"Uh, yeah they are," Eddie says, mimicking her attitude a little. "I would know. I went down and I spoke to the people and asked if they wanted to send you messages of solidarity and support."

"Wait. Really?"

"Yes, really," he says, unzipping a pocket in his battle jacket and taking out a card.

She opens it and already knows she's going to have to read it again later. It's filled with messages (some bigger than others, with notes complaining about the people who wrote so big). But she can read a few at a glance:

fuck yeah max! punch those nazis

max is based, fax, no printer

i want a butch dyke for president! max for president!

idk who you are but you seem cool — stream tkwroowe12 on twitch!!!

"Cool. Thank you," she says. "You didn't have to." She hates that she says that and wishes she could start again because it sounds so casual, when she knows Eddie must've gone to a lot of effort. But she isn't like her dad, she can't just know the right thing to say and exactly when to say it.

"Thank you." Steve touches Eddie's shoulder and he's saying thank you, but Max is also pretty sure he's saying something else. They do that a lot — they look at each other so…intimately, like her dad was lost but now he's found or whatever.

It's weird. Her dad is so weird.

Max steps away from that exchange because ew and unwraps the greaseproof paper so she can slide the sandwich on a plate.

"Thank you, seriously," Steve says, quietly. "That's so… thoughtful."

"Oh," Eddie shakes his head. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. It's not."

"I've just…I've been that guy before, y'know? The one guy that stood up to someone and got shit for it and then you get detention and then it goes on your permanent record or whatever. Then you're like, the town pariah because you actually said something and then they hold an assembly to talk about student conduct, but you know in your heart that they're actually talking about you and it's a weird spot to be in. So."

Max is considering leaving the two of them to it and grabbing her headphones when there's a knock at the door.

Oh. Right. Her dad is coming today.

"Hey, kiddo," Jonathan says, pulling her into his arms and squeezing her tight. "Cool hair."

"Hi," she says, hugging him back and wishing he'd let go soon so they could be chill like they usually are. "Thanks."

"How are you?"

"Okay. How are you?"

"Tired, but I'm happy to be here with you," he says.

Oh god, is he in one of those moods? Today's gonna suck.

"Jonathan," Steve says, making introductions. "This is Eddie. Eddie, this is Jonathan, Max's dad."

"Hey, nice to meet you," Eddie says, with an easy smile. "Oh, Talking Heads?" Eddie asks, looking at Jonathan's shirt. "Nice."

"Thanks," Jonathan shrugs. "I feel like they don't make band t-shirts like they used to." He looks at Max. "You ready to go?"

"No," she shakes her head and picks up her plate. "I'm eating."

"I thought we were gonna go get lunch," he says, frowning at her. "Will you still be hungry?"

"Yeah," she says, rolling her eyes. "Obviously."

"Oh yeah, before I go," Eddie says, checking the time on his phone. "Max— I forgot to ask. What are your favourite songs from Skeletá?"

She thinks while she chews a cheek full of her sandwich. "Probably Lachryma, but I really like Satanised."

"Lachryma has such a classic Ghost-style riff," Eddie nods, knowingly. "I really like Satanised too, but again, it was one of his singles so I know it the best, y'know?"

"Yeah."

"How do you two know each other?" Jonathan asks, pointing from Max to Eddie.

"Oh," Eddie points at Steve in turn. "Through this guy."

"Yeah," Steve folds his arms over his chest. "Eddie's my friend."

"Oh," Jonathan says, pulling his head back a little in surprise. "Sorry, I just assumed—how did you two meet?" he smirks.

Steve looks at Eddie with a cryptic look Max can't decipher and Eddie frowns back at him like What? Don't be scared.

"We met at Rascal's," Eddie nods, pointing to one of Steve's windows. "A cafe across the street there. There wasn't anywhere to sit, so I asked to sit next to him and he very kindly said yes—"

"Then we figured out we were neighbours and then he became friends with Cami before he knew we were related," Steve says.

"Oh, okay," Jonathan nods. "Cool. Makes sense," he says, like it doesn't make sense at all.

God. Dad is so weird.

Both of them are so weird.

Max finishes her sandwich and rinses her plate and her dad (Jonathan) looks relieved, like he finally doesn't have to stand around in his ex's apartment anymore.

"C'mon, grab your stuff and we'll go."

Max and her dad are waiting for the elevator (which always takes approximately 4000 years) and when she looks over, Eddie's still there.

He's standing in the apartment doorway, leaning into Steve's space and looking up at him. An alarm goes off and he silences it, irritated by its interruption.

"Didn't you have to go?" Steve teases him.

"Yeah, but I always give myself a buffer, so I have time. Did you listen to my playlist?"

"Which one?" Steve asks with a smirk.

The elevator finally arrives and Max gets inside, pressing the ground button like 8 times to make sure it actually goes down. Jonathan presses the P button for parking.

"Eddie sent him a playlist?" He asks Max. "More than one?"

Max shrugs. "I dunno."

"You don't know, huh?" Jonathan asks, grappling her. "I thought you knew everything."

"Shut up," she says, trying to hide her smile.

Maybe today won't be so bad after all.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Hey Steve," Cami says, kneeling on the couch and slinging her arms over the window, polished fingernails gripping the lip of the wooden frame. "Can I ask a favour?"

She hates asking anyone for favours, but especially Steve, because he almost always says yes, often before he's even heard what the request is.

They should definitely talk about that. He needs to practice saying no, especially with the people he loves so that he can make space for the inevitable discomfort that comes from people-pleasing and the muscle memory of his heart.

But not this time. This time he does actually have to say yes.

"Yeah, what's up?" He hardly looks up from his dinner prep.

"Eddie invited me to this party." She rests her chin on her arms.

"Oh, cool, do you need me to pick you up or something?"

"No, because it is," she points to the wall. "Right next door. But I would love it if you would come with me."

"Come with you?" he frowns, scrunching up his nose. "Why do you need me to come with you?"

"Because," she says, emphatic. "There's going to be like six people there that I haven't met yet and I feel like if you don't go with me I'll chicken out completely."

"Cami," Steve laughs, admonishing her gently. "C'mon. It's a party. If you're not having fun you can just go home."

"No, but that's the thing I'm like, right next door to him so if I bail or if I Irish goodbye, what if Eddie comes and asks if I'm okay and then we have this awkward chat out in the hall?"

"I think you're inventing scenarios and scaring yourself." He says with a laugh.

"Can you just come for the first 30 minutes? Just until I've met everyone and settled in. Then you can come home and have a bath and enjoy a night to yourself."

"Fine, but only because it's literally next door."

"Thank you!" she says, clapping her ringed palms together. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." She gets up off the couch and goes around the wall so she can hug her brother properly.

"Oh, before I forget," she says, still hugging him. "I should tell you, there's a theme."

"A theme?" Steve asks. "What's the theme? If there's a costume, I'm not wearing one."

"No, it's like, a hear me out party, or you make a silly PowerPoint about a random topic."

"Oh. That feels like an improvement on the parties I had in my early 20's."

She sends a quick text to Eddie.

Steve's coming btw!

Delightful! We'll see you both there.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gareth isn't sure why Eddie's going to all this effort for a regular house party. Like, it's the four of them and then some of their close friends. He knows Eddie has this fixation with their apartment being seen as a hangout space and not a rat's nest, but their group chat is called rat pack ratbag bad boys who used to be in a band for a reason.

"Hey, is Eddie here?"

But then Steve Harrington arrives and everything makes sense.

Holy shit. The man's a smoke show.

He's like… a working man's Pedro Pascal, if Pedro Pascal was actually a dad and also a trans man. (Which, Gareth would argue, only increases his sex appeal.) He's seen the occasional photo, of course but in person?

Oh yeah, and Cami's there too.

"…yeah, let me," Gareth steps back into the hall. "Eddie? Steve and Cami are here."

God, I hope I can be this hot when I grow up.

Eddie steps out of the kitchen and wipes his hands on his short half apron, doing his best to avoid his jeans.

That's another thing — Eddie spent so long deciding what to wear. He was fussing and fretting and fawning over his outfit because this is a party, Gareth, but he couldn't wear his usual party gear because you can't just wear mesh tops and fishnet stockings around the house for a casual dinner party. Or, maybe you could, actually, but then it would have to be a specific theme—

But then, he also didn't want to wear anything too casual, because he wanted to show his friends that he actually cared. But he also didn't want to wear the same thing he always wore because it should be special, right? But then, it would probably be better if he were comfortable—

Gareth figured he was nervous to see Steve and couldn't decide what to wear.

"Is this okay?" Eddie says, coming into Gareth's room for like the 40th time, turning in a circle.

"Yeah, dude, looks great. You look great. Don't overthink it." Plus, Gareth's not a fashion guy — he never has been, that's more Jeff's thing, but he's not back from work yet.

"Okay, you don't think it's too Addams Family?" Eddie's wearing tight black jeans and a black and white striped pinstripe button-up with a black t-shirt underneath. He's added some fuckass black belt and several layered silver necklaces to top it all off.

"No, it's the exact right amount of Addams family, you look like their long-lost, faggy little brother."

"Okay," he says, tucking in his shirt and then untucking it a bit. "Okay. Okay."

"Okay," Gareth says, just to tease him.

"Thanks, Gare-bear, you're the best."

"I know."

"Hi!" Eddie says, hugging Cami. "So, we're having burritos. Does that work?"

"Mhm! It smells so good in here," Cami says, tiptoeing into the kitchen. "What did you make?"

Eddie talks to Cami and tells her all the things he made — chicken al pastor, pico de gallo, a sweet salsa verde, guacamole, smoked peach salsa, cumin re-fried beans and coconut lime rice. What he doesn't tell her is that he'd had the chicken al pastor, cumin re-fried beans and coconut lime rice in the freezer for a while, so all he had to do was thaw everything, make the salsas and go to their local Latin market a few times.

Gareth could tell her, of course, but he doesn't want to tarnish Eddie's mysterious allure or whatever the fuck he's calling it these days.

"C'mere, let me introduce you to Jeff and the two of you can peruse our record collection."

Steve, for his part, is just hanging out admiring the furnishings. There's something so— familiar about the way he takes up space in Eddie's apartment, even though Gareth knows for a fact he's never been there before.

"Hey," Eddie says, walking over. "Thank you for making the arduous journey down the hall."

"We did. It was such a trial, but we made it."

Oh, they're at the banter stage of their relationship.

"Everyone," Eddie calls. "This is Cami and this is Steve. Cami, this is Gareth, Jeff, Freak and Paige and Steve, this is Paige, Freak, Jeff and Gareth."

"And you," Steve adds.

"And me, yes."

"I should've asked you what we were eating, but I brought a white wine—"

Steve stops talking when he spots something stuck behind the side table. He pushes it to one side and grabs a set of keys off the floor.

"Were you missing these?" he asks, smirking while he holds them up in front of Eddie.

Yes, he was and he was being a real bitch about it too.

Every time Eddie loses his keys, it's a whole event in the group chat. He has to message everyone and coordinate when he's going to leave the house, based on whether or not he can locate the spare key in a stray pocket somewhere — it's either a saga fit for a DnD campaign, or a pain in the ass.

But, Eddie is very sweet when Gareth forgets literally everything because of his brain fog, so, it all balances out in the end.

"How do you always do that?" Eddie asks, astonished. "I swear you're always saving my ass." He goes to take them but Steve withdraws his hand and closes it into a fist.

"Where are you going to put them?"

"Right here," Eddie says, pointing to the chain on his belt.

Steve uncurls his fist and Eddie clips the keys to his jeans. "Thank you again, seriously. Now, what were you saying about wine?"

"Oh, yeah," Steve holds the bottle by the neck and pulls his glasses out from the v of his button-up shirt so he can read the label.

Gareth considers asking Eddie later whether he thinks Steve looks hotter with glasses on or without but he's pretty sure Eddie will say some sappy shit like no, don't, he's my friend as if they don't constantly talk about how hot and date-able their friends are.

"It's a Chablis. We had a Chardonnay last time. That would've been a little bolder, this will be dry."

"Hang on, lemme take a photo of this label," Eddie says, taking out his phone. "I made a folder in my phone for these photos."

"Oh, did you?"

"All… two of them, now. Thank you, by the way. We're having chicken, does that work?"

"It'll be beautiful," Steve says, with a nod.

It hasn't escaped Gareth's notice that the only person Steve's talked to is Eddie.

"Can we do the tasting thing again?"

The tasting thing again? I gotta see this.

They step into the kitchen and then Eddie looks through all of his cabinets (even under the sink) for wine glasses before he turns back to Steve.

"…uh, so we don't have wine glasses," he laughs.

"That's okay. I'll send Cami to get some." He turns to the room for the first time since entering the apartment. "Does anyone else want wine? It's white."

"I'll have half a glass," Cami says and Paige says she'll have some too.

Gareth shakes his head when Eddie asks him. He can't drink right now because he's on a wicked cocktail of medications and its latest side effect is that if he has a sip of watery beer he falls asleep.

He's trying not to be too resentful about it. At least he's saving money.

Steve tosses his keys to his sister and asks her to bring over four glasses from their apartment.

"…can we still do the tasting thing, though?" Eddie asks, reaching for two water glasses.

"Yeah, of course," Steve says, unscrewing the cap. "It'll be better while it's chilled, anyway." He pours a splash into each glass. "So, now you swirl."

"Swirling," Eddie says, following Steve's instructions.

"Then, you inhale. Take your time. See what you can smell."

"I'm moving away from all the food, one second," Eddie says, stepping away to stand by the fridge. "Oh! I can smell, like, lemon and, like a sweetness."

"Mhm. I can smell a really sour green apple."

"Mm! We have apple pie for desert — do you think it'll go well with that?"

"I think it'll be perfect. So, when you're ready, you sip," Steve says, but he doesn't take a sip himself. "Then, you hold it on your tongue." He holds Eddie's chin with one finger, keeping him still.

"And now you can swallow."

…hold it on your tongue…? Now you can swallow?

Why do these feel like instructions on how to give this old man oral sex? Why do I feel like I'm in one of those step-son / step-dad pornos—wait. Does that mean I'm Eddie's friend with a pussy who gets to watch them and then join in? Hell yeah.

The other alternative is he's the really, right in front of my salad?! guy. He isn't sure which brings him more joy.

"Did you need something, Gare-bear?"

"Nah, I'm just staring off into space. Did you want to set the table?"

They all have dinner and the food is fucking delicious, so, as much as Gareth makes fun of Eddie about his insistence on a theme, he does get to reap the benefits.

He can't talk to Steve or Eddie without having to shout across the table and he can't see what they're saying, but their body language speaks for itself. Eddie's all chin-in-his-hands, blinking his pretty lashes at Steve and smiling. Steve's all smirks and little asides and knowing looks.

It also doesn't help that any time Steve talks to Eddie, he speaks to him like he's a friend. But if he has to address anyone else in the room he sounds a little like a high school teacher or a baby-sitter. Just a little bit.

Also, Paige looks up the wine Steve brings and Gareth learns this wine is worth like $90 and excuse me, who spends 90 fucking dollars on a single bottle of wine? For a friend?

They settle in, all crowded around their TV and tiny couch for their presentations. Paige goes first with her beloved classic The Presence of a Pope Car in Cars Suggests the Presence of a Car God / Jesus / Allah / Deity and it is, as always, a hit.

"One of our guests should go next," Gareth says, just to be a menace. He loves being a menace.

Cami yelps and nudges Steve. "That's you," she says.

"Okay," Steve says, utterly unconcerned. He hands his USB to Jeff and, with his wine glass in one hand and fucking laser pointer in the other, he begins.

"Hey. My name's Steve, and this is my hear me out list."

Okay, he's got a nice slide deck — not just a template from the first page of Google Slides, alright Mr. Harrington.

"In no particular order," Steve says, clicking through his slides with the pointer. "Smokey Bear, Inspector Gadget, Hexxus from Fern Gully and Tank! the intro song from Cowboy Bebop. That's it, thank you."

"Oh," Eddie says, his chest falling in despair. "I didn't know we could choose music for the hear me out thing, I thought it was just… like, things, or characters, or…"

"Next time," Steve promises him, halfway between teasing and tenderness. "You'll be okay."

"Wait," Paige says, adjusting herself on the couch, trying to make more room somehow. "Aren't you supposed to like, explain them?"

"Oh. Do I have to?" Steve blinks and looks back at his presentation. "I feel like they speak for themselves a little bit."

"The Tank! intro song from Cowboy Bebop definitely does not require an explanation," Freak says, nodding. "But I'd like to hear your reasoning for the others."

"Okay, uh, Smokey Bear — he's been around since 1944 and he's all about care and consideration. I feel like he'd be very good in a crisis and he's a bear wearing jeans and a belt, so." Steve aims the laser pointer at Smokey Bear's crotch and the word freak? flashes across Gareth's mind for a second.

"I'd love to hibernate with him, too."

"Isn't that like, bestiality," Freak ponders.

"Grow up," Steve says, drinking another mouthful of his wine.

"That wasn't an accusation," Freak laughs. "I was just thinking aloud."

"Yes, you were," Eddie says. "In a very hetero way. Steve, please continue."

"My next hear me out is Inspector Gadget. I think he'd be kinky."

"I can't believe you'd fuck a cop," Gareth says, scoffing.

"…yeah, upon reflection, probably not the best choice."

"I do get it, though," Gareth concedes. "His toy box would be insane."

"Exactly. My last hear me out is Hexxus from Fern Gully."

"I get it," Cami says, nodding. "He's very Venom before there was Venom."

"Hexxus walked so Venom could run," Jeff says, nodding sagely.

"I'll go next," Gareth says, getting up. As soon as he does, Eddie scrambles to claim his tiny spot on the couch. "This is my hear me out list, starting with General Grievous. " He presses trackpad on the laptop so that his entire slide spins and sparkles with glittery memes of General Greivous. "I love one warlord space daddy who knows exactly what he wants. He looks like he has a lot of accessories too."

"Inspector Gadget walked so General Grievous could run," Jeff observes.

"And then my next hear me out is the 1955 Godzilla puppet. He's just…such an icon."

"I really thought you were gonna pick the creature from The Black Lagoon," Freak says.

"Please — that's too obvious. But, it's the monster fucker in me," Gareth shrugs. "I can't help it."

"How big do you think his dick is?" Steve asks the room.

"Steve!" Cami protests, making a face.

"Better question," Gareth says, pointing to Steve. "Do we think Godzilla is a grower or a shower?"

The room erupts into giggles and then Gareth waits until the room falls quiet again.

"Wait," Jeff says. "Did you want us to answer that?"

Gareth barks out a laugh, then continues. "Next on my list is Chuck Tingle. He writes many queer, erotic books, all with enthusiastic consent." He clicks through his slides again, a selection of the author's titles coming up on the screen, each one more ridiculous than the last. "I'd love for him to call me buckaroo in bed. And yes, before you ask, the bag stays on during sex."

"Chuck Tingle wrote me a card once," Steve murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Wait, what?" Eddie asks, leaning all the way forward so he can see Steve. "Tell us everything."

"Yeah. Someone…heckled me at a panel I was doing and said both Chuck Tingle and I deserved… to rot in hell or something like that. I asked how many award-winning books he'd written. Then he went on and on about the end of the world and how I had to accept myself or something, then he was removed by security.

"Then a little while after that I got a very nice card from Chuck Tingle thanking me for defending his honor and proving that love was real."

"But did he call you a buckaroo?" Eddie asks. "This is essential information."

"I think so," Steve says, with a laugh. "I'll have to ask my editor, she has the card framed up in her office."

"We are approaching uncharted territory here," Jeff says, sipping his drink with utmost seriousness. "We've discovered the six degrees of separation applies to your hear me out list."

"Truly a revelation," Eddie says, nodding.

Gareth finishes his presentation by choosing the freakier of his last two options (Shere Khan — both versions, at the same time), rather than his tamer option (Father, from Kids Next Door).

"You're going next," Gareth says, pulling Eddie up off the couch. "Because I need my seat back."

"Hi everyone, I'm Eddie and I forgot my fucking link to my presentation so let me send that to myself...okay!"

The yellow sour diesel edible Gareth took like an hour ago is finally starting to kick in, so he follows Eddie's hear me out list as best he can. He starts with the Babadook (which Cami doesn't want him to talk about too much because she hasn't seen the movie still), Man Ray from Spongebob (which receives universal approval).

Then, Mok Swagger of a 1983 musical called Rock & Rule (which everyone agrees is a deep cut, but a good one), Skeletor (almost too easy, though his romance with Prince Adam/He-Man is really quite sweet) and Barley Lightfoot (who Gareth argues doesn't count because he's a boisterous 19-year-old elf who loves role-playing games and wears a battle jacket) though Cami protests that self-cest is in and of itself, a hear-me-out genre.

So, Eddie changes his final hear me out to none other than Smaug, the dragon from The Hobbit (which everyone agrees is a classic and a must in any hear-me-out list).

"Okay," Freak says. "I'm presenting from the couch. My silly PowerPoint is songs that I think are better than sex."

As much as Gareth would like to pay attention to Freak's PowerPoint, he can't.

He suspects he knows half the songs Freak would pick anyway (Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix's Fire, Dazed and Confused by Led Zeppelin, Rock Me Sister by Rosetta Tharpe and something from Jeff Beck, probably.)

But he can't pay attention because there's no room left on their couch, which means Eddie is sitting in Steve's lap. Or, more accurately, on his thigh, but still. While Freak is setting up his presentation (along with auditory complements), Eddie keeps leaning into Steve and whispering urgently.

"Okay, if I had known people were going to select music as an option for their hear me out lists, I would've—"

"I know, I know," Steve says, half-laughing. "And you will next time. It's okay."

"My whole entire body is like, humming with ideas right now, like, I can't believe I didn't think of it—!" He bounces on his toes and Steve's whole leg trembles with his skittish enthusiasm.

"And you have a whole radio show where you could discuss it at length," Steve says, wrapping his hand around Eddie's hip and holding him still. "It's okay."

By the time David Gilmour hits his iconic solo, Eddie's almost settled in Steve's lap, jotting down all of his ideas on his phone.

Excuse me, is Steve's thumb stroking Eddie's hip? Oh, we are going to have a talk about this after everyone leaves tonight.

Cami's hear me out list is cute, with a caveat that she's more than likely aromantic and asexual: a really nice leather satchel, an affogato espresso from Rascal's, The Hubble Telescope, an ink well and the vermilion paint that's meant to be blood in the 1977 horror classic Suspiria.

Jeff's PowerPoint, though? Jeff's PowerPoint is fucking hilarious. It's called weird things white people do and is black text on a plain white background, with weird clip art. Through his presentation, Gareth learns the following vital facts about white people:

• they never mind their business

• colonise the world for spices but then not know how to put it in food

• not washing their legs ?? like at all??

• listening to racist, white cis men because they play the guitar really well and also it reminds them of their dead dad

• use Black vernacular online regularly while calling themselves an ally

• be obsessed with their coffee and swear they never go to starbucks, but sigh with relief when they see starbucks at an airport

• weirdly obsessed with cheese

• put their parents in an old person's home when they're old or whatever

• film festivals with a real specific niche, idk why

Jeff's PowerPoint is declared the best of the night, because of course it is because it's Jeff, and the rat pack volunteers to take over dishes for him for the week.

Then, they all sit down to eat Benny's apple pie. And listen, Gareth knows Wayne and Benny are married and deeply committed to each other and whatever, but if they were ever looking for a third? He wouldn't even take up that much space — he could sleep on the end of their bed. Like, as a pet.

A while later, when everyone's left for the night and Eddie's rearranging his record collection, Gareth taps his boot. "Hey. Can I talk to you fag-to-fag?" He doesn't want to scare Eddie by saying some shit like 'Can I talk to you?'

"Yeah! What's up?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve might've missed Eddie's text until the next day if he and Cami hadn't stayed up late watching Interview with the Vampire.

He's checking his calendar when Eddie's name pops up on screen.

hey! quick question: what are your thoughts on friendship chemistry?

"Friendship chemistry?" Steve murmurs, under his breath. "The fuck is he talking about?"

What do you mean, like, the chemistry between two friends? How two friends are with each other?

YES that, exactly that. what are your thoughts? 📝

Well, it depends on the two people involved. How long they've known each other, how they met, how much time they spend together, that kind of thing.

Why?

oh, it's not a big deal, i just had a friend say something about us

so i was curious to hear your thoughts! that's all

no big deal

"I bet it was Gareth," Steve says, taking a sip of his dwindling Aperol spritz. "Every time I looked over at him, he was looking at us."

Was it Gareth?

HELP how did you know

Like knows like. What did he say?

oh he just made some comments about how we had crazy chemistry or whatever

and i just wanted to make sure i wasn't making you uncomfortable!

Uncomfortable in what way?

oh, with like, flirting or whatever

not that i thought we were flirting!

like i thought we were just being how we normally were

which, like, i would want to continue if you wanted to continue in the same way!

i like being your friend and i don't want to put you in an awkward position

unless you don't think this is an awkward position

in which case we can continue however you like

Eddie continues typing for a minute, then stops without sending a message. He starts typing again, but deletes it, then starts typing again, but stops.

you know what just ignore me i'm overthinking this

i'm happy if you're happy and that's all that matters

thank you for coming. i had a really good time

Go out onto your balcony.

right now?

Yes

Steve steps out onto his balcony in his mismatched pajama set — super soft black sleep shorts from Calvin Klein and a Ralph Lauren cotton jersey shirt with a little bear on the front, both gifts from Cami at different Christmases.

"Hey," Eddie says, nodding to Steve.

"H—"

"Actually, one second—" Eddie ducks inside and comes back with his vape. "Hi." He's wearing a black band t-shirt that Steve actually recognises this time (Queen) and black boxers.

"Hi," Steve says.

"Hey." Eddie says, nodding again, adjusting his ponytail.

"So, are you concerned about our friendship chemistry?" Steve asks, taking a sip of his drink.

"Well I wasn't," Eddie says, pausing to use his vape. "Until he fucking said something and now I'm all did I flirt with Steve by accident? Did I make him uncomfortable? What if I ruin this completely?"

Eddie grips the railing on his balcony and stretches his arms out, letting his head hang in the gap. "You know?"

"What did he say?" Steve asks, moving closer to the edge of his balcony.

"He was all like um, since when do you spend all night talking to one person at a party, sit on your friends' laps and swallow fancy wine when they tell you to swallow? You have to be realistic about this, Eddie, you're into each other and the sooner you admit that, the better."

Eddie clicks his vape again and exhales the smoke over his shoulder. "And it's like, okay, yes, maybe I don't have this type of friendship with anyone else, but that doesn't mean it's not a friendship. At least he wasn't a dick about it, like, he was happy for me or whatever."

"Yeah," Steve nods, taking another sip of his Aperol spritz. "I should've said from the outset, Eddie, but you don't make me uncomfortable. If you did make me feel uncomfortable, I'd say something and I hope you'd say the same. And I don't really give a fuck what anyone else thinks."

"You don't?" Eddie blinks.

"No, I don't. I don't think this has to be complicated. I like our friendship."

"See?" Eddie says, pointing with an open palm, like it's obvious. "I like our friendship, too."

"It is different from any other friendship I've had, but, I think that's why I like it."

"Yes, exactly, just because Gareth thinks it looks like more than a friendship to him doesn't mean it's more than a friendship to us."

"I don't know about you," Steve says, setting his empty glass on the table. "But when I was young and single, I flirted with my friends all the time."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, if my friends and I were both single, we'd flirt occasionally. My friends were, and in many cases still are, attractive, lovable and funny people. When I was your age, I'd just had top surgery and was freshly on testosterone, so, yeah, we flirted. It wasn't a big deal."

"That feels very queer to me," Eddie says, nodding. "Like, blurring the lines on purpose, but you both know you're doing it, so you're just doing it to have fun with it and disrupt norms just because you can."

"Let's be honest, if we were two women, we could be calling each other 'wifey' or something and nobody would bat an eyelash, especially if they were hetero."

"Yes, totally, oh my god!"

"So, fuck it, maybe we aren't 'just friends', according to other people's definitions, but we aren't lovers either. We're something else."

"Yeah, we're a secret third thing that's queerer…er…er and doesn't need to be defined. It's beautiful and it brings us joy, who gives a fuck what it's called."

"Exactly."

"Thank you, Steve."

"You're welcome, Eddie," Steve says. "That's what friends are for."

"G'night, Steve. Sleep well."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve wouldn't say he had a session with a sex worker just so he could send his friend Nancy a text saying he went to see a sex worker, but it is something he's been looking forward to.

I went to see a sex worker from your list.

AND?

First, you gotta update your list — half the links are dead.

Fuck, I know, internet censorship needs to die in a ditch.

I had a good time and he's a very good at his craft.

But unfortunately I need someone to love me when they fuck me.

Unfortunately for who?

I just hope you can survive the mortification of being known whenever you do fall in love.

It's AWFUL.

Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I'm gonna go write this sex scene based on real life experience.

I hope it's extra freaky.

I hope so too.

But then the phone rings and it's Robin, so he answers.

Hey, Steve.

"Hey, Robin," Steve says, closing tabs on his laptop that he's decided are annoying.

I'm calling because I had 'call Steve' on my to do list but I can't remember why, so I'm hoping I'll remember at some point. What are you up to?

"Well," he stretches and rolls his shoulders back, trying to combat the hours he spends at his desk. "I saw Leon." He decides not to tell her he saw him less than an hour ago.

Oh! How was it?

"It was good, but it was like… you know when you go to a really fancy restaurant that's so highly rated, and the food is delicious, but your favourite place is still a hole-in-the-wall with like 11 seats total and the chef doesn't let you pick your own food? It was like that."

Yeah. Do you think you'd see him again?

"For a session? Absolutely not. Unfortunately, I need someone who will hold my hand and look into my eyes while they spit in my mouth and call me their pretty little bitch."

Steve! You're disgusting. But you're also a little love bug baby angel lover boy.

"I am," he sighs. "But Leon and I had a good chat, actually, he had some really thoughtful things to say about sex and intimacy and so I feel like the session was worth it for that alone."

Oh! I do remember why I wanted to call you. Your faggy little poems book — we can call it that but my guess is the publisher will want it to have an alternate title.

"Other than faggy little poems, you mean?"

Yeah, so — I'll send an email and lay it all out for you.

"I figured. As long as we can have faggy little poems on the cover itself somewhere I'm happy."

It will happen, I promise.

"I gotta go. I'm gonna write like hell for the next half hour. Max and Cami are both out of the house tonight so I want to get words on the page."

Alright, lover boy, I'll leave you be. Love you!

"Love you too, Robin."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

"Maybe the bitch is back," Steve murmurs to himself, looking at his word count.

Ever since his session with Leon, Steve's writing again. Nothing completely concrete yet, but he doesn't hate the scenes he's coming up with, and all a first draft has to do is exist.

He wrote a sex scene that was hot enough to get him wet, so he decided to rub one out and look at the scene again. Dick still throbbing and his thigh still humming through the heat of a fading orgasm, Steve skims through the scene.

"Not bad. Not bad at all."

…maybe he should rub another one out, just to make sure.

He climbs into bed and sifts through his sheets. He finds that suction vibrator he bought with Eddie and slides it between his legs. He adds lube to keep everything wet and turns it on.

"…oh, fuck," he says, biting into the fabric of his pillow.

He's still sensitive from earlier, which is how he likes it. He grinds his hips into the mattress, teasing himself by lifting the vibe on and off the tip of his dick.

"Uhh my god, fuck."

He lets his mind wander over all the things he likes — him getting fucked hard with his ass in the air, fucking into someone with his strap, teasing someone's hole with the tip of his dick—

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—"

Or he's on his knees, sucking someone off (he never has sore joints in his fantasies, which is about the only place left where he doesn't have joint pain), or he's spooning someone and getting fucked from behind on a sleepy morning, or he's tightening his hold on someone's leash and telling them to be a good puppy and to do it harder, baby, c'mon, harder for me—

Steve knows sweat is pooling in the dip of his spine and he wants someone to taste it, to taste him. Like the way Eddie did when he licked—

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

He grinds his way through his orgasm, riding his vibe until he's shivering through it, giggling with a trembling mouth.

"…holy shit."

He turns off his vibrator and drinks some water next to his bed. He checks his phone to make sure the girls aren't coming home any time soon and sees texts from Eddie.

hey

my invite to the play party was accepted!

thank you so much for giving me the courage to fill out the form 🫡

and! i'm practicing being more open so!

this is the random condition that i have

Eddie sends a screenshot of google results with the word hyperspermia in the search bar. Steve reads the summary.

In medicine, hyperspermia is a condition in which a male has an abnormally large amount of semen or ejaculate volume and is generally defined when the ejaculate is above 5.5 mL. It is the opposite of hypospermia, which is defined as a semen volume of less than 1.5 mL.

"Oh."

It doesn't even seem like a real thing. More like a fantasy or something engineered to look real in a heavily produced 'amateur' sex tape.

Steve opens Reddit (looking for posts by actual people instead of summaries from healthline or the mayo clinic) and types hyperspermia in the search bar. All the posts are the same, quick videos or gifs filming a person's thick, often hairy thighs while they stroke their dick till they come—

—and unlike what Steve's used to, where sperm comes out in bursts, in time with the contractions of an orgasm, these ones just keep going, and going and going.

please let me breed you

omg this was so much 💦💦💦

This toy always gets a massive load out of me

let me paint you next? 😛

wait does this qualify…?

INSATIABLE today!!!!!!

A lot of the videos or gifs feature someone coming on a mirror, or the ejaculation happening in slow motion, long, silky white threads that Steve is half-tempted to taste with his tongue.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, realising how far he's scrolled down the page. He logs out of his burner account and back into his regular account and the realises he hasn't responded to Eddie.

That's what you were shy about?

Eddie, a lot of people would find that hot.

wait, really?

Yeah. I'd be into it.

"Oh my god, Steve, if you could stop being a slut for five seconds," he says to himself.

Sorry — in theory, I mean.

I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of.

I'm glad you're getting more confident with it.

i just find it annoying bc it gets in my hair all the time

WAIT tmi sorry

That's okay! I don't mind.

I do think if you wanted to get laid, all you'd have to do is put that in your grindr bio.

a friend suggested that earlier, but alas i am a coward

I dunno, you're going to your first ever play party, that's pretty brave.

What are you up to today?

um i have one more assignment to finish

and one more exam to study for before the summer

and i've been making cannabutter for benny bc his knee is acting up again

Oh, wait, you make butter for edibles and stuff?

yes i may or may not have dabbled in some cannabis-related cooking exploits

i may or may not have been a dealer for a short period of time

until my uncle was like EDWARD OLIVER MUNSON! boy! you better quit dealing that shit or i'll make your life HELL!

He's a smart man.

I've been looking into THC to manage my back pain from sitting at a desk all day.

Is it okay if I ask you some questions about strains? I promise your uncle you do not have to deal for me.

i'll be here!

Wet and sticky between his thighs, he digs the vibrator out from the sheets and decides he's been a whore for long enough.

"Alright. No more fantasising about the 18-year-old who comes like a fire hose."

Except even the mention of that makes his dick twitch with interest.

Steve sighs and scrubs his face with his hand. "I need a cigarette."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Cami's bitten off more than she can chew again. But honestly, she shouldn't expect anything less.

What started out as a cute little project has morphed into something massive.

She's taking a Visual Merchandising and Communications course this summer (because she failed the first time, ugh) and she heard some of her classmates talking about how this would be their first pride parade, or their first pride parade as an out queer person.

They started talking about what everyone might wear and then they started planning costumes and suddenly she's helping not one, not two but three business students (and two fashion students!) plan their outfits for pride.

But that checks out. She feels like she has to contribute in meaningful, tangible ways every pride month because that community has given her so much.

Even though she is a part of that community herself if she's aromantic and asexual (if!). She's also thinking she's agender, but like, in a mysterious, unknowable artifact kind of way.

At least she's hanging out with Eddie today — he won't mind if she has a breakdown over her gender identity or sexuality in the parking lot of a thrift store. They've made some serious progress — they've already been to the recycled garment centre, the fabric store and now they've just arrived at a consignment store in a ritzy neighbourhood Paige told her about. Last on their list is an art gallery where a friend of hers has a piece on display, to inspire them both to be queerer and weirder than ever.

"Okay," Eddie says, turning off his car engine. "We are going in there and we are going to find an 1994 film crew Interview with the Vampire bomber jacket that is the real thing, leather, no applique, WB logo on the front and it'll be for a reasonable price."

"I wish I had your confidence," she laughs. The jacket was her white whale. She'd found (and even purchased) one or two imitations over the years, but she wanted the real thing. "And we are going to find you a slutty play party outfit."

"Yes, we are!" He declares, slamming his car door harder than she thinks he should. But maybe it won't close otherwise.

"You take one side, I'll take the other?" he says, holding the shop door open for her.

"I'll check their rack of new finds and then I'll join you."

"Did a famous musician die recently or something?" Eddie whispers to her, while she's trying to decide between floral 70's hot pants and a pair of neon green denim cut-off shorts.

"Not that I can think of, why?" Cami asks.

"I found a lot of leather stuff that I feel like is just meant for the stage," Eddie says, pulling on one of the jackets he found with a flourish. "See?"

"Oh yeah, it's all the same aesthetic," she says, thumbing through the pieces. "I see what you mean." He has a good eye, even if all anyone would need to trap him is a black band t-shirt and a cardboard box with a stick.

"You need to try those on," she says, handing Eddie leather pants with long laces on the side.

"You think?" Eddie says, holding them up to his hips. "I don't know if they'll fit."

"That's what the changing rooms are for, silly."

"I still can't believe you're making like five different outfits for pride for people, by the way," Eddie says, making conversation on the other side of the door while he gets changed, "My pride parade outfit is gonna be like, sequin shorts, a mesh top that will give me a wicked sunburn pattern and maybe nipple pasties. Maybe."

"Not everyone I know is going in elaborate outfits that require like, 2 costume changes," Cami says with a smile. "I have a trans femme friend, Vivienne, who's going completely topless. She says if she gets arrested, then the cops will have to admit that she's a woman, but if they don't arrest her then she's a 'man' just like the state claims she is."

"That's so fucking metal, oh my god."

Cami listens to Eddie struggle to put on the leather pants in the changing room. "Pride is a…protest! AND! A party. One where you…can have…your tits out on display, for everyone to enjoy."

He pushes open the door. "I got them on, but I don't think they fit."

"Here," Cami says, reaching for his hip. "Let me loosen the side."

"Oh! That's a thing you can do?"

"On some pants like these, not all," Cami says, tugging at the laces.

"Well, I definitely can't wear boxers with these," Eddie says, examining the way his boxers are bunched up around his hips. "But they're cute."

"You'd need like, underwear that's not underwear to wear them," Cami says with a laugh.

"Yeah, I need like, the idea of underwear, the artistic suggestion of underwear without them being actual underwear."

"Like Gillian Anderson in that navy dress in the 2001 Vanity Fair Oscars after party, with the whale tail thong."

"Wait, which outfit is that again?" Eddie asks, trying to remember.

"Here," she says, bringing it up on her phone. "It's this one."

"YES!" Eddie says, pointing at her. "Totally. Oh my god. You're a genius. Should I get these?"

"Of course," Cami says, nodding with absolute seriousness. "They'll give you courage for your play party."

"You're so right. Okay, just let me get all my stuff," he says, ducking back into the change room.

"What did you get?" she asks, when they're standing in line to pay.

"The leather pants, two belts and then this 1993 Cradle of Filth shirt for Gareth's birthday — he's gonna flip."

"Is that nun masturbating?" Cami asks, giggling.

"Yes," Eddie says, holding it out. "People have been arrested wearing it, especially if it's the version that says Jesus is a Cunt."

"Oh my god," she laughs. "Only you would buy a shirt people get arrested in and then give it to a friend."

"Dude, these are usually like, $120 minimum," Eddie whispers, showing her the $15 price tag. "I got so lucky."

"I guess vintage punk isn't very marketable," Cami shrugs. "But then I don't think it ever was supposed to be marketable."

"Exactly," Eddie says, paying for his stuff. "I'm checking the new rack one more time before we leave."

"I checked it when we came in," she laughs.

"I did restock it while you were in here," the person behind the register offers.

Eddie raises his brows comically like, See? and walks over to the clothing rack. Cami pays for her stuff, even as Eddie makes a point of going through each item on the rack individually.

—but then she looks up and he's holding it. The 1994 film crew Interview with the Vampire bomber jacket.

"I was just doing it for the bit," he stammers, trying to speak quietly enough so the person behind the cash register can't hear him. "Do you think it's legit?"

"I—I don't know, I'd have to—" she flips up the tag to read it and takes a note of the size — 44. It's made by a union in the UK, not China, the zipper looks hand finished and the hem, collar and cuffs show signs of wear over several years.

"I think this is it."

"Oh my god." Eddie giggles. "I wasn't looking seriously, I was just doing it to be silly. How much is it?"

"$85. But it's like, a men's XL, I'd be swimming in it." But more fabric is better than not enough fabric and she doesn't know if she'll ever see this jacket again, or at this price. "I can figure that out later. Okay."

White whale in hand (what will she look for when she goes thrift shopping now?) Eddie punches in the address for the art gallery where her friend's piece is on display.

Cami opens the door to the art gallery and there she is.

She has a profile that suits a film set in old Hollywood and all the glamour that comes with it. Her clothes aren't just designer, they're previews of collections that haven't been shown yet, tailored to her during long champagne-infused brunches. Her iconic silky, silver hair is paired with beautiful, vintage earrings like always.

Cami's heart sinks as soon as she sees her.

Sylvie Harrington, former art dealer, investor, wife, and, most importantly Steve's mom.

"Oh my god," Cami says, turning around and almost bumping into Eddie. "What is she doing here?"

"What? Who? Where?" Eddie asks, holding onto her shoulders and keeping her close.

"Sylvie," she says, quietly into his shoulder.

"Who?"

"Steve's mom."

"Steve's mom is here?" Eddie says, far too delighted than he has any right to be. "Where?"

"Behind me."

"Oh, she's like, already looking right at us."

"Please, can we just go?"

"I'm afraid she's making a beeline towards us," Eddie says. He waves and says a little hi! and Cami wants to kill him.

"Hello, Cami," Sylvie says, smiling at her. It feels like a smile halfway between pity and amusement, even though Steve's promised her that's just how she smiles.

"Hi," Cami says, sounding totally defeated. She tries again. She thinks she might've handled this better if she'd known Sylvie was going to be here. "Sylvie, this is Eddie, he's Steve, Max and I's neighbour. He works at a radio station."

"Hi." She holds her hand out in that delicate, Princess Diana way that Cami thinks some people are just born with. "I'm Sylvie Harrington."

"Hi, I'm Eddie," Eddie says, shaking her hand. "You know that already. I just repeated known information. Big fan of your son, huge."

"How do you know my son?" she asks, tilting her head. That head tilt can mean so many things, endearment, irritation or a quiet contempt that festers into a grudge that can last for decades — if you think Steve holds grudges, well.

Cami thinks it's the first one, but Sylvie is so hard to read.

"We ran into each other at a cafe and there was nowhere to sit, so I asked if I could sit next to him. Then I started," Eddie makes a talking shape with his hands and moves it rapidly back and forth. "I found out he was a writer, so then I went and read all of his books. Then we ran into each other again and I was like, Mr. Harrington your books are so good. He thanked me very kindly and then I forced my friendship upon him, basically. He had no choice in the matter."

"He doesn't let me read his books," Sylvie says, with a sigh.

"Oh, why not?"

"He says, Mom, you can't read those, there's sex scenes in there," Sylvie says, furrowing her brow like Steve does. She does a pretty good Steve impression, actually.

Eddie barks out a laugh and claps his hand over his mouth. "Sorry, that's really funny. What did you say?"

"I asked him how he thought he was made."

"No," Eddie says, scandalised and delighted. "What did he say then?"

"Mom, oh my god, stop!" She says, dropping her voice and frowning again.

Eddie laughs a little too loudly and covers his mouth again. "Sorry, that's really funny. Your impression of him is very accurate."

"Thank you. He's a serious boy."

"He is!" Eddie agrees. "But he's very sweet."

"He is," she says, smiling. "He's always been a very sweet boy."

Cami cannot fucking believe this. Eddie and Sylvie are getting along. It feels like they're well on their way to becoming friends, while Cami feels left out as usual. But she isn't a stranger to that feeling, especially when it comes to Sylvie Harrington. The one person's approval Cami's craved more than anything. Approval Sylvie cannot give, even if she wanted to.

"What brings you to a local punk art show?" Eddie asks.

"I'm an investor. Someone pulled out at the last minute, so I stepped in. That, and they asked for permission to use one of my dear friend's pieces."

"And why this show, over any of the others you could've invested in?" He asks.

Sylvie shrugs. "We need art more than ever in times like these. Don't you think?"

"Wise words," Eddie nods. "I agree completely. Which of these is your friend's piece?" he asks.

"Come, I'll show you."

Cami regrets not telling her whole tragic backstory (™) to Eddie, but at least her therapist would be very proud of her right now. She opens her phone and scrolls through her messages till she finds Steve (EMERGENCY CONTACT) and types out a text.

I went to this art gallery with Eddie and your MOM is here.

My MOM in an art gallery? No way

If she asks, tell her I'll call her at the end of this week.

How are you, how's Eddie?

God, her brother is so annoying sometimes. Here she is, facing Sylvie Harrington, and her brother's all How's Eddie? God, boys are so dumb.

"This is it here."

It's a massive white canvas with a masculine torso outlined in black over the top. Faint pencil lines drift off where the piece is unfinished.

"What's it called?"

"Untitled, but it's part of a triptych, so it's often called The Three Boys."

"He didn't finish it?"

"Yes, it's unfinished. He died from Kaposi Sarcoma before he could finish it. But also, he didn't want to finish it. If his life was to be cut short by AIDS and governmental neglect, so too was his art."

Eddie whistles low and quiet. He's impressed and he doesn't try to hide it.

"Like Keith Haring," Cami offers.

"Yes," Sylvie nods. "Exactly."

The three of them stand there side by side, taking in its raw, masculine energy in all of its defiance.

"Well," Sylvie turns and touches Cami's shoulder. "Give my love to Steven, Cami. It was nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Thanks for telling us about this piece, it was nice to meet you," Eddie says.

"I'll tell him to call you," Cami nods. As soon as Sylvie's out of earshot, she sighs until her shoulders drop. "My therapist is about to be so proud of me."

"Wait — yeah, you didn't want to see her when we came in," Eddie says, pointing to her. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she smiles a little smile as if to convince herself she's telling the truth. "It's a long story. I'll tell you sometime."

"Okay, I'm here whenever you're ready."

"Thanks, Eddie," she says, and she means it. She's grateful for Eddie, however he and Steve first met.

"Wait, can you take a photo of me? I'm gonna redo my hinge profile in a little bit and this works."

"Let me get the jacket," Cami says, grabbing his keys. "You should wear it."

"Then we gotta talk about you asking for help with those costumes!" Eddie calls as she steps out of the art gallery.

Cami realises once she's outside that she doesn't need to finish the pieces she's making for her classmates. They can be raw, with unfinished hems and untrimmed edges and frayed edges.

They don't need to be perfect. They just need to be beautiful.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Eddie wakes up in the afternoon and shuffles out of bed to find Gareth banging his head helplessly against the kitchen table.

"Gare-bear, no, no, no," Eddie says, putting his hand between Gareth's head and the table.

"He's freaking out," Freak says, looking at them both while he dries the dishes.

"Why?" Eddie asks. "What's going on?"

"Costco just called him back and they won't move his script without a signed doctor's note because it's a controlled substance."

"Let me help," Eddie says, hands on his hips.

"Dude, how? There's a global fucking shortage right now," Gareth says. His tone does feel a little accusatory, Eddie's not gonna lie.

This had been an ongoing saga for the last little while. Gareth had a slowly dwindling supply of testosterone amidst a global shortage, and in the middle of it all, his doctor retired. There was a glimmer of hope yesterday when Gareth heard that Costco was apparently filling prescriptions, but his script is stuck in limbo and he needs his t-shot by today.

"It'll be my quest for the day. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." Eddie kisses Gareth on the top of his head.

Freak looks at Eddie like, Dude, don't.

Eddie frowns like, What, you want me to just leave him here? I'm gonna help.

"The fact that this is happening during pride month is so fucking transphobic," Gareth says, completely miserable.

"Agreed," Eddie says with a nod. "I'm gonna wash my face and make some coffee and we'll see what happens."

"I'm gonna make pharmaceutical CEOs in the Sims and drown them all in the pool. Thanks, Eddie." Gareth slinks off to his room, which is probably for the best.

Eddie goes to his queer online social groups first and asks about t shots and if anyone has anything to spare. He gets comments, but they're all commiserating the same thing — nobody can get their scripts filled, or they are filled, but only with exactly what they need per dose.

Then, Eddie starts calling around. He talks to a bunch of pharmacies in their neighbourhood first, and then their area, and then even ones outside their area. He calls doctor's offices and medi-centres. He even calls fucking urgent care, who tells him to go to the hospital, actually, which isn't a bad idea except that it is prohibitively expensive.

He reaches out to old friends from high school Wayne is sure he'd rather not talk to, and they tell him that they don't have testosterone in their supply, but they do have steroids if he's interested—

Eddie is not interested.

He looks up at the clock and realises it's 5:30PM. And what has he achieved in those 4 and a half hours? Well, he's managed to get Gareth a doctor's appointment on Tuesday at a walk-in clinic, and that walk-in clinic is going to ask that his testosterone prescription be faxed over on Monday so it's ready.

So… it's not nothing? But it's also not what Gareth needs.

Eddie decides to clean their front entrance (a little ragefully, mind you, because he hasn't eaten) and it doesn't fix the actual problem at hand, but at least Eddie won't be annoyed when he trips over like seven pairs of shoes as soon as he gets in the door.

Eddie's pissed off. Transphobia isn't some theoretical shadow beast that people are imagining or whatever. It is real, tangible barriers like access to medications, challenges to name changes (when those same challenges don't apply to people who change their name when they get married) or requiring a diagnosis of dysphoria before they can go on HRT or call themselves trans at all. And that's just some of the bullshit his friends and people like Steve have to go through just to fucking exist, like—

Girls! What did you want for dinner?

"Oh my god." The answer was right next door to him this whole fucking time. Eddie gets up, changes his shirt to something a little nicer and then knocks on Steve's door.

"Oh, hey Eddie," Steve says, smiling. "What's up?"

He's wearing a navy blue linen shirt and jeans, with a thick gold chain around his neck. He looks as beautiful as he always does, which is devastatingly handsome.

"Steve," Eddie says, sinking to his knees. "I come to you in my hour of greatest need. This is the only favour I'll ever ask you, ever—"

"Get up off the floor," Steve says, with a laugh. He touches Eddie's chin and Eddie springs back up. "How can I help?"

"Gareth's t-shot is today and he's completely out," Eddie says, his words coming in a torrent. "He can't get his script filled anywhere and his doctor retired so he can't fax it over until he finds a new doctor and so it's this Gordian knot of fuckery and transphobia."

"Oh, the shortage, right? We were talking about that in the last pride board meeting."

"Do you have any testosterone he could borrow — use, I mean — until we can get this whole thing sorted on Monday?"

"Yeah," Steve says, thinking. "I should have some to spare. Let me check."

"Thank you, oh my god. You're a lifesaver." He follows Steve like a little kitten trying not to trip over its own tail. "Are you sure? I don't want you skimming your dose because you don't have enough."

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't think I had any to spare," Steve says, opening his medicine cabinet. "Does he have needles?"

"Does he have needles?" Eddie asks, patting his pockets like that might help. "Let me go ask."

"I'll follow you out."

"Dude!" Eddie says, yanking Gareth's door open with none of their usual agreed-upon decorum. "Steve has some."

"Are you fucking with me right now?" Gareth asks, getting up out of his chair.

"No, do you have needles?"

"Yeah," Gareth says, grabbing a metal lunch box marked boy maker kit.

"Hey," Steve says, walking in holding a small, clear bag. "Is the kitchen table okay?"

"That's perfect," Gareth says, clearing some space on the table. "Oh my god, thank you so much."

"Of course," Steve says, easily, like it's nothing. "Happy to help. What's your dose?"

"It's 0.5ml of a 200mg solution every 2 weeks."

"So, 100mg?" Steve asks, pulling on his glasses. "That…seems a little small to me."

"Wait, really?" Gareth asks looking at Steve.

"Yeah. How old are you?"

"I'm 19."

"How long have you been on t?"

"Since I was 17."

"Okay, when I was 20, I was doing 1ml every 2 weeks, so 200mg every 2 weeks," Steve says. "I only remember because I was 20, and my dose had an extra 0."

"Dude," Eddie says. "That's double."

"Dude," Gareth says, in astonishment.

"Obviously, you'd need to get your blood tests done and it would only be under the advise of a physician but," he shrugs. "I would ask."

"I will, thank you so much."

"Sorry," Steve says, realising he's taking charge like he always does. "Did you want to do it yourself—?"

"No, no, please, I'm like—" Gareth holds out his trembling hands. "I'll do the actual stabbing part but I just need a minute."

"How do you have extra testosterone just hanging around anyway?" Eddie asks. "If I'm allowed to ask that. You can also tell me to fuck off."

"When I first saw my current doctor years ago, I was going on a big book tour for the summer," Steve says, washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

"So she gave me a prescription that allowed me to get it in batches. And then she just kept refilling it, so," he shrugs. "I got lucky and got it all just before the shortage, I think."

"Wait, wait, wait," Eddie says, coming around the table so he can stand near Steve. "Can you teach me how to do it?"

"Oh, you want to learn? Sure," he shrugs. "So, we have two needles — one to draw up the HRT, and one to inject. The one to draw will be about 22 gauge, then our one to inject will be about 25 gauge."

"Right, and I like to have everything set up beforehand so it's all ready," Gareth says, removing the packaging from the needles.

"Yeah," Steve nods. "Then we'll take our syringe and add the first needle. You're going to want to add the same amount of air as the amount of medication, so, 0.5ml."

"Mhm, mhm."

"And then we draw in the actual liquid into the syringe."

"Oh wow, it's like, way more viscous than I thought," Eddie says, peeking over his shoulder. "Like, I've seen bottles of it before but I've never actually looked."

"Yeah, it's like an oil. And then you're gonna push the air out."

"Right. And now we swap needles?"

"Yeah," Steve says, pulling off the needle, adding its cap and swapping it for the new needle. "Where do you normally inject it?" Steve asks Gareth.

"In my leg," Gareth, says, rolling up his shorts. He wipes down the area with an alcohol wipe.

"Okay so then," Steve sits down beside Gareth. "We actually do the thing," Steve says, handing the needle to Gareth. "And it does take a while because of the consistency."

"Let me grab the sharps bin," Eddie says, grabbing it from the bathroom. "Do you want a Star Wars band-aid or a Hello Kitty one?"

"Surprise me," Gareth says, holding out his hand.

"That's everything, right?" Steve asks them both. "I gotta go keep working on dinner, but it was good to see you both."

"Thank you so much," Eddie says, putting his hands together in prayer. "Seriously. Thank you."

"I feel so much better," Gareth says. "Thank you, Steve."

"Have a good night," Steve says, closing the door behind him. Both Eddie and Gareth wait until they hear another door open and close, with Steve calling out to Max.

"…dude." Gareth says, quietly. "That was so fucking hot. Are you kidding me? Him just strolling in here, testosterone in hand, telling you how it's done, like hello competence kink. All with his fucking linen shirt open just a little too much and his slutty gold chain around his neck, oh my god."

"Every time he puts on his glasses a piece of my resolve to be normal around him crumbles into the ocean," Eddie says, staring into the distance.

"I have to fuck him." Gareth says, like he's taking an oath.

"Gareth, no!" Eddie says, grabbing a pillow and hitting him with it. "No! No! No!"

"It would be t4t!" Gareth argues, passionately, fighting back with a pillow of his own. "This is lateral violence!"

"He's going on a date with someone else anyway!" Eddie protests. He should know — Steve invited Eddie and his date as part of a double date situation.

"Then you! have to do! everything in your power! to sabotage that date!"

"I will not!" Eddie says, falling forward into the carpet in the living room. "I'm going to be a nice, normal boy!"

"God," Gareth says, collapsing beside him. "You're so boring. Let me know how that works out for you."

"…I feel like I should write a DnD arc where the party is looking for sacred boy transformation juice," Eddie murmurs.

"Do it."

"Really? You wouldn't mind?" Eddie asks.

"Uh, dude, I would love it, obviously." Gareth says, elbowing him.

"Now we just gotta get your top surgery fundraiser up and running."

"Oh my god," Gareth covers his face with his hands, screaming into them. "I can't do the top surgery fundraiser," he says, elbowing Eddie again. "I hate asking for help."

"Yes, but Gareth, my good man, you really do need your tits removed."

"I do. And thank you, by the way."

"You're welcome. Make sure you tell the group chat but maintain my—"

"—mysterious, allure? Yeah, yeah, I got it."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Steve thinks it won't be long before he kills Everette right here in this fucking storage room. She's got this whole grand plan: to organise the city's pride archives once and for all. Except she keeps either changing her mind on how she wants things to be sorted or getting distracted in the worst way. She keeps making herself upset by inventing tragedies they think happened, even if there isn't any evidence to support that.

"It's just so hard," they protest, looking through a photo album. "To think about all these people who thought they weren't worthy of love."

"Everette, there wouldn't be anything for us to look through if these people truly weren't worthy of love," Steve sighs. "You're literally looking through a photo album labeled My Family, if that isn't love I don't know what to tell you."

He sends another text to Robin.

Oh my god, this bitch.

WHY was she so sweet and unassuming with me and Barb, but so evil with you !!!!!

She thinks I don't know anything.

She's acting like an exhausted executive director.

Also I think she was in love with Barb.

If I were her age I would also be in love with Barb.

Everette, PLEASE leave Steve alone or I will have to kill you actually

Steve's doing his best to block out her thoughtless, asinine comments when he catches a familiar laugh on the other side of the door.

He's heard it so many times while he's looking for his keys, while he's unpacking his groceries, while he's doing his laundry. Steve has never been happier to hear that impish, cheeky laugh in his entire life.

It can only be one person.

Steve pulls open the door and Eddie's name is out of his mouth before he sees him.

"Eddie!"

"Hey, Steve."

Thank God.

"What are you up to?" Eddie asks, stepping away from the reception desk.

Help me, Steve mouths, holding Eddie's gaze. Eddie looks at him and watches his mouth.

With what? Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows.

Steve tips his head in the direction of the doorway.

With her.

"Oh," he says, quietly. "I see." He steps into the storage room and says hi to Everette, hands in his pockets.

"Did you sign in at the front desk?" they ask without looking up from the photo album.

"Yeah, I'm here to see the zine collection."

"What are you looking for?" Steve asks.

"I'm looking for zines on the hanky code. I'm doing a piece on Rob Halford for 108.9 STAR for pride month, so. I wanted to talk about what he wore on stage."

"Well, lucky for you I just sorted some of the zines," Steve says, handing Eddie a box.

"Can't you just google it?" Everette asks.

"C'mon, where's the intrigue in that?" he asks, setting the box down on a table so he can sort through it. "Besides, not every hanky code is the same, so I'm trying to find something a little more accurate." He sifts through the selection and finds a version of Bob Damron's Address Book from 1982, 1987 and a third zine on flagging and cruising. He takes all three and tucks them into the pocket of his leather jacket.

They continue to sort through things together and Eddie grabs a pile of papers that he ends up just holding because he doesn't know where to put it down.

Everette protested, saying they should really focus on their initial goal of organising the archive, but Steve cuts her off.

"Thanks, Eddie, for helping. I know you could be doing a thousand other things right now."

"You're so welcome, Steve. Any time."

Steve's sorting through a box of tapes when he stumbles upon something familiar. "Oh," he blinks, holding the tape in his hands. "I know this handwriting."

"Yeah?" Eddie peeks over his shoulder.

"It's Jonathan's."

This better not be a sex tape.

He knows it's not. He knows Jonathan destroyed the tapes and that he is the only person with copies. They aren't sex tapes, either, not really. They're certainly not safe for work, but it's mostly just the two of them talking after they've had sex, smoking, kissing and admiring each other's bodies.

But still.

He knows he should destroy those tapes too, but, they're a part of his life, a part of his history and he likes knowing that he could look back on them if he wanted to. It's interesting to see how his body's aged and how his cutting quips have settled into something a little warmer, a little softer, a little sweeter.

The main reason he hasn't watched them for at least a decade is because he knows he's the same heart-on-his-sleeve boy he's always been.

When he got together with Jonathan, he thought the two of them would be together forever. A lot of people think that — or, a lot of people aim for that — but Steve really felt that. He felt that even when he was still a lesbian and dating Nancy Wheeler.

It's hard to watch himself be so in love with someone, when he knows now that it wouldn't last. It's even harder to admit that he's always been that way and he knows he always will be.

"Pride / Summer 2004 — S, N & B," Eddie says, reading the title.

"Steve, Nancy, Barb," Steve says, his memories coming back to him as soon as he sees their initials. "I think this was his last tape before he switched to DVDs."

"Do we have a VCR?" Eddie asks.

"What's a VCR?" Everette asks.

"Video cassette recorder," Eddie says, out of one corner of his mouth, because he's too busy looking for one to respond to her properly.

Steve has no idea if this place does have one and considers texting Robin to ask, but Eddie's already at the reception desk.

"If we do have one, it would be in here," the receptionist says, unlocking the door. "… good luck!"

He opens the door and starts rummaging through it, picking over boxes and doing his best to read faded labels. "I got one!" he says, carrying it with him. "And there's a TV in there too. I think we're just missing one more cable."

It takes Eddie quite a few minutes to find the cable. All the while, he makes promises that he'll come back to this tech cupboard and label all of the cables properly, so they'll never have to dig through a box of random black cords again.

Everything else takes a while to set up too — they have the TV, but they don't have any batteries, so they have to borrow some from the air conditioning remote to even turn the TV on. Everette keeps making self-defeating comments under her breath like it'll never work and how the tape might just be too old to work anyway—

"It's 21 years old, Everette," Steve says, sharply. "It's younger than you."

"I know," she says, shrugging. "But technology—"

"This isn't technology, this is physical media right here," Eddie says, gesturing to the tape.

"Do we have it?" Eddie asks, after turning on the VCR. They don't — but Eddie isn't deterred. He switches the input on the TV and there it is.

Barb's parents' house.

The shot changes and then it's Steve, sleeping in bed. The shot is remarkably intimate, soft, and affectionate.

"Were you together?" Eddie asks, turning to Steve.

"We weren't yet, actually," Steve says. "We didn't get together until sometime in 2006."

Steve smirks when he hears Nancy's voice say Good morning, bitch. She walks into the shot, holding a mug of coffee by his bedside. 2004 Steve wakes, smiles and then cringes when he sees Jonathan holding the camera.

Watching the video now, Steve wishes he hadn't been so averse to Jonathan filming him or their family. With time, he's come to deeply appreciate Jonathan's careful documentation of their life together.

Morning. How long have you been sitting there?

Jonathan's voice can hardly be heard over the quality of the recording. Not long.

C'mon, princess, Nancy says, pulling open the curtains. Someone needs help with their float, so we're gonna head out early.

How did I know it was gonna be Daddy Barb coming to everyone's rescue again? 2004 Steve asks, sitting up in bed. Turn around he tells everyone in the room. I'm naked.

"Oh my god," Eddie laughs. "He's gonna do it."

Nancy leaves the room and Jonathan presumably turns around, but the camera doesn't, leaving his bare ass in full view. Steve breathes out a laugh and Eddie looks like he's doing his best not to blush.

"That's so rude," Everette says. "You asked him to turn around."

"This tape wouldn't exist if I wasn't okay with showing my ass on camera, Everette," Steve says, stemming the urge to roll his eyes.

"It's a great ass," Eddie says, like that explains everything.

Did you turn around? 2004 Steve asks from the other side of the door.

Yeah.

Did you turn the camera around?

No.

There's the sound of running water for a few minutes and then Steve emerges in a towel.

It better be a good shot, then. I'll need it for my audition tape I'll be handing out to potential daddies at the social next week.

Only the best ass shots for you.

The shot cuts to Nancy and Barb getting in the car. Steve's dressed in daisy duke denim shorts and a mesh top with large diamonds, all the way down to his wrists. He has fairy wings, an orange bandana in his left back pocket and one with teddy bears in his right pocket. He's also carrying coffee in one hand, while holding a cigarette between his fingers.

Make sure you reapply your sunscreen Nancy says while she puts on her seatbelt.

Thank you, mother, 2004 Steve quips as he flicks through radio stations on the car's stereo, trying to find the right one. I'll be sure to take your advice.

We'll find you a daddy who can do your back, Barb adds, pulling out of the driveway.

That's the spirit, Steve says, stuffing a croissant into his mouth.

"Were you fine?" Eddie asks.

Steve shakes his head. "I got sunburnt. I had the worst tan for ages," he laughs. "That top had long sleeves so it was all down my body."

The shot cuts again and it's Steve belting out the lyrics to Britney Spears' Toxic with immaculate accuracy. Nancy's head is resting all the way back on the headrest of the passenger seat like she has a headache after being subjected to his singing.

They pull up and Steve gets out of the car and hops easily over the hood to cross the road.

"Woah," Eddie says. "Nice."

"Yeah, I definitely cannot do that anymore," Steve laughs.

He and Barb fix the troubled float, Steve's top surgery scars flexing underneath the mesh of his shirt while he holds something steady. There's shots of so many people, Nancy and Barb among them, people dancing, singing, voguing in the street. It's beautiful.

The shot changes and Jonathan's following Steve, basket in hand, giving out condoms and lube. He skips along the parade route, offering supplies to anyone walking by. He has to duck under or hop over the barriers often, hugging and kissing people it's clear he hasn't seen in a while.

Do you think we'll have to do this forever? Jonathan asks 2004 Steve, who's skin is shiny with sweat and sparkling with glitter that's been tossed along the parade route.

What, hand out safe sex supplies? Probably!

But do you think they'll ever find a cure? For HIV?

Steve stops to really think about it.

A handsome man walks by then and walks back into frame. He takes some supplies from Steve's basket. He looks Steve up and down, checking out his ass.

Do you know what those mean?

What, these? 2004 Steve touches his bandanas. Why, are you gonna quiz me?

With that attitude, I might. They're old school — I didn't think a young guy like you would be into that.

You didn't think a guy with an orange bandana would be into this? Orange stands for anything.

I know what it stands for. Can I come back later?

I'll be here. Steve smiles, a little sly, a little sultry. You can find me later.

2004 Steve watches the man walk away and turns back to the camera. He lights a cigarette.

Do I think they'll ever find a cure for HIV? No. I don't think they, as in the system, will ever do anything unless we fight like hell for it. But we will find one. We won't do it through assimilation, or by getting them to like us. We have to remember that dykes save lives and faggots save lives, too.

"I'm getting like, chills," Eddie says, touching his arms. "I was gonna make a shirt for pride this year that says faggotry saves lives."

"Yeah?" Steve smiles. "I love that. Didn't we say that over wine a while ago?"

"I think we did," Eddie smiles. "How does it feel?"he asks. "To inherit all of that and to know that we don't need it as urgently as we did before?"

Steve tips his chin while he thinks. "I would like to think our ancestors would be proud of us. But it is sad that PReP didn't come sooner. We lost so much, and it's heartbreaking to think that we didn't have to lose as many lives as we did."

"Yeah, and cost and access is still an issue, especially with our healthcare system."

"The work never ends," Steve says. "All we can do is carve out enough time to celebrate each other the way we deserve to be celebrated."

"Hell yeah."

My battery's flashing, Jonathan says. Any last words?

For who? 2004 Steve asks. My daddy or the world at large?

Whoever you want.

Dear Daddy,

Knowledge of the hanky code is preferred, but not required. Serious inquiries only. And to the man who answered this ad: Thank you for spoiling me, making me laugh and treating me so well. Let's remind everyone who's baby I am.

Oh, and I love all your band t-shirts. 2004 Steve laughs abruptly, possibly at the look on Jonathan's face. Steve blows a kiss to the camera and then it cuts to black.

"I'll call Jonathan and ask if he wants this back. I'm sure he has a copy on DVD, so we could swap it out."

"Well," Eddie looks at the piles of newspaper clippings, zines and newsletters around them. "That's one item down."

"Yeah," Steve says, adjusting his glasses. "And now there's just 7000 more to go." He glances at Everette and then rolls his eyes.

"Well, pride month is coming up, so…with any luck you'll be at 8000 by the end of the month," Eddie grins.

"Shut-up." Steve laughs. "Did you want to put those down?"

"These?" Eddie says, holding the wad of papers close. "No, that's okay, I'll… I'll find a spot for them. Then I gotta go home, do some chores and then help Max with a super secret project that I'm not supposed to tell you anything about."

Steve is having dinner with Robin tonight, so of course Max's super secret project is getting done while he's not at the apartment.

God. She's so sneaky. Which one of us does she get it from? Me or Jonathan?

"You mean the super secret project that had to be approved by the pride board I sit on?" Steve asks. Max has a whole skate…march planned. All he knows is that she and some friends are going to skate down the parade route and then skate at a skate park nearby? But he doesn't know how many friends, or if she'll be doing in the parade.

Either way, he gave his emphatic approval when it came across their desk. Everette tried to vote it down by implying that Max was too young to participate in the parade, which, fuck you, Everette, she's been coming to pride since before she could walk— so, yeah Steve shut Everette and her soft-spoken, shitty opinions down. Steve thinks Everette is on the verge of realising she's in over her head and that one last parade request was almost too much for her.

Too bad, so sad, Everette, being on a pride board is fucking work. You either step up and do it or you don't.

Steve has a feeling Jonathan knows more about Max's march than he does, which pisses him off a little bit. Jonathan knows more than he does because he will be filming as much of the parade as he can, like he does every year.

"Can you give me one tiny hint?" Steve asks Eddie.

"…we're making t-shirts," he says, rocking back and forth on his doc martens.

"How many?"

"Like, fifty or so?" Eddie shrugs.

"Fifty?" Steve echoes, astonished. "Is she passing them out?"

"I dunno," he shakes his head. "It's on a very need-to-know basis."

"Oh, I know, trust me," Steve says, trying to think why she should need fifty t-shirts. She's been on her phone constantly in the last little while, texting and messaging and calling people (they've had to ban her phone at the dinner table temporarily while they're eating) but he'll just have to trust her for now.

"Do you have everything you need for that?"

"Cami's got it handled," Eddie nods. "We've got a lot of thrifted shirts. I'm just part of the production line. Anyway, I'll see you later?"

"Yeah. Are you still good for that double date?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Bye, Steve."

Steve's surprised how quickly he misses Eddie once he's gone.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

the faguettes:

2:30PM

eddie (faggity sax): brother

gare-bear 🧸: yes brother?

eddie (faggity sax): this is strictly fag-to-fag communication only

eddie (faggity sax): in the immortal words of nick nelson from heartstopper i am having a full-on gay crisis

eddie (faggity sax): bless the cc boys and our other friends but i feel like you will Get Me

eddie (faggity sax): i went to the archive to look for hanky code stuff for my rob halford piece

gare-bear 🧸: as one does

eddie (faggity sax): EXACTLY as one does, i knew u would get me

eddie (faggity sax): and guess who !!!! is there !!!!

gare-bear 🧸: omg

gare-bear 🧸: is it steve

eddie (faggity sax): yes

gare-bear 🧸: pterodactyl screech

eddie (faggity sax): dude we found this video of him !!!! from like 2004

gare-bear 🧸: before you were born??? hot

eddie (faggity sax): it's like. a pride video. and he gets out of bed. and he's NAKED

eddie (faggity sax): and his ass was so

Gareth sends Eddie a 15 second voice clip that's just him barking, growling and snarling like a dog.

eddie (faggity sax): my dick was so hard im surprised it didn't go BOIIOIIIOOIIIOING!

eddie (faggity sax): thank god i had a stack of paper i could hold over my crotch

gare-bear 🧸: he's got that magic tboy ass.

gare-bear 🧸:i swear every trans masc person i know has the hottest ass ever (myself included)

gare-bear 🧸: wait you said he was getting out of bed?

gare-bear 🧸: this is exactly like your sexy boyfriend asmr videos that you listen to…

eddie (faggity sax): SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

eddie (faggity sax): i'm trying to think but my dick's hard and my heart is full of longing

gare-bear 🧸: dude you gotta make a move!

gare-bear 🧸: shoot your shot! take the chance! whatever!

gare-bear 🧸: make him yours!

eddie (faggity sax): god

eddie (faggity sax): could you imagine

eddie (faggity sax): GOD!

eddie (faggity sax): i need to be a man first before i can date him, it's what! he deserves!

gare-bear 🧸: i'll make a man out of you by donny osmand plays in the bg

gare-bear 🧸: pretty sure you are already a man

gare-bear 🧸: or!

eddie (faggity sax): or?????????

gare-bear 🧸: can i make a recommendation?

eddie (faggity sax): PLEASE

gare-bear 🧸: i would be masturbating right about now if i were you

gare-bear 🧸: i think you need some post-nut clarity, man

eddie (faggity sax): i will take this under advisement, thank you dearest gare-bear

gare-bear 🧸: and if you don't date him i will btw

eddie (faggity sax): evil!!!! evil!!!!! you're an evil man!!!!

gare-bear 🧸: tick tock, bitch!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Hey," Steve says, opening up the door. He looks Eddie up and down and nods like he approves, which is good because he's not wearing his ideal outfit for a date. Instead, he's wearing Freak's Bring Me the Horizon dinosaur t-shirt like a dress along with some leggings he found from a Halloween costume, a leather jacket and his black, cream Pantone Reebok sneakers.

He's been meaning to do laundry for more than week, but he's been working a lot because he isn't in school right now, and the laundromat doesn't have night-owl friendly hours, and then he forgot his change, so, yeah.

"You good to go?"

"Yeah.

"You look good," Eddie says as they step into the elevator.

"Thanks. Max told me to dress up more if it was a date," Steve shrugs. He's in a pair of straight leg jeans with a black belt, a black tank top and a black blazer. Eddie catches a flash of Steve's bare armpit hair, all brown and gold beside the silk lining of his blazer and thinks it should be illegal for any man to be this casual and this sexy.

Like, c'mon, Steve should at least need to try before he's that sexy. Eddie feels like he has to put out a PSA to all the queer people in the area — if you see this man you will be filled with lust, longing and gender envy!

"Where are we going again?" Eddie asks, checking his calendar.

"The Italian place we went to last time. I liked the bread."

"Oh, fuck yeah, that's perfect."

"What's your date's name again?"

"Fergie. What's yours?"

"Frankie," Steve says, smirking at the commonality of their names.

"Fergie, Frankie, Fergie, Frankie, Fergie, Frankie—" Eddie says, repeating them while he holds the door open for Steve.

"I'm gonna get their names mixed up if you keep doing that."

It turns out their names are not the only thing they have in common. Frankie works as a playwright, Fergie's one of the volunteers for the Fringe festival this year. Fergie has a cat, Frankie has two cats. Frankie's applied to the returning artist grant, Fergie's applied to the emerging artist grant. Frankie's about to get his phalloplasty done (hot), and Fergie's going in for a consult for top surgery (also hot). Then, Frankie stumbled upon Fergie's special interest when he mentioned he acted in a local musical production 10 years ago.

So, Frankie and Fergie are having a great dinner. With each other.

Steve and Eddie are having a great dinner, too, of course. They always do. They've ordered white wine, and they split some dishes — buttered gnocchi with pancetta and fried sage and spatchcocked slow-grilled chicken with roasted vegetables, with an orange and fennel side salad.

It's delicious, but the expression on Steve's face after Eddie offered to share was delightful.

"Really?" He asks, looking incredibly sweet. "You wouldn't mind?"

They're halfway through a La Perrière Côteaux Du Giennois Blanc (Steve said it tasted like peaches and Eddie tasted mangoes) when Steve gets that look on his face.

It's the same look he gets when Jonathan has been in his apartment for two minutes too long, or when Everette says literally anything at all, or when he gets an email from a concerned parent about his adult romance novels are inappropriate for children. He looks annoyed, but beautifully bitchy. So, he's either determined to turn Lady Fortune's wheel into his favour or be a menace in the process and Eddie loves him for it.

Flirt with me, he mouths, looking at Eddie.

Eddie's eyebrows immediately go up in astonishment. With you? Right now?

Steve sends him a text.

Yes, please.

I want to see if he notices.

Steve wants Eddie to flirt with him.

Okay.

Eddie can do this.

And if he knows Steve (and he likes to think he does), then Steve will want him to go big right from the start.

"So uh," Eddie takes a sip of his wine to gather the courage. "How's the vibrator I recommended you?"

Steve sits back in his chair and smirks, spreading his legs a little. "It's really good, thank you for the recommendation."

"You're so welcome."

"— yeah, so, basically, the plot is about loosely based on my own life, but I really wanted the whole narrative to feel opulent and universal, while remaining deeply personal," Frankie says.

Oh this man loves the sound of his own voice, Eddie thinks, watching Frankie at the other end of the table.

"Yeah. Wow. When you're writing out a play, what does it look like in your head?" Fergie asks.

"Okay, I love that question," Frankie says, dipping a piece of bread in olive oil. "Because my process really is all-consuming and so—"

Steve looks at Eddie with a scrunched little frown, softened subtly by years of parental restraint.

"So my friend Gareth is on testosterone as you know," Eddie says. "He's been on it for about a year. What can he look forward to, y'know," he gestures loosely to his own lap. "Sensation-wise?"

"Oh, anal." Steve says, nodding. He takes a piece of gnocchi off Eddie's plate and eats it, pausing to see if it's caught Frankie's eye. It hasn't. "Definitely."

"Wait." Eddie feels like he has to text Gareth right now just to make sure he knows. Eddie's sure he does, but— "Really?"

"Really. And also just more confidence, generally, y'know? Once I started to notice that the hormone therapy was working, my confidence shot up."

"That would make sense," Eddie says, nodding. "From what you've told me of the, uh…unsheathing of your sword."

Steve narrows his gaze, as if looking at Eddie more closely will help him find the meaning in his words. "Unsheathing my…oh! Yeah. That." Steve winks at him.

Eddie's phone vibrates in the pocket of his jacket. He checks it covertly, doing his best not to be rude.

Do it again.

"Have you ever gone cruising?"

"Oh yeah," Steve says, easily, arm extended over the top of his chair. "I went cruising the other day." Eddie can't decide if he's bluffing or not, but he's not sure he wants to call his bluff, either. Steve's body looks completely open and available and Frankie or Francis or Francisco is missing all of it.

Sucks to suck Franklin, or whatever the fuck your name is, Eddie thinks to himself.

"Really? Where?"

"Near this area, actually. There's a park—" A group of people walk by the restaurant, laughing and milling on the corner until they can safely cross the street.

"You know what, I'll just take you sometime," Steve shrugs.

"Oh." Eddie says, totally not about to combust. "Yeah, I'd love to go cruising with you."

Eddie thinks about Gareth's texts the other day — go for it man, shoot your shot, take the chance, make him yours! and he wants to die a little inside because what if he could?

"Wait!" Fergie jumps into the conversation. "You mean like, on a boat? Like going on a cruise?"

"No," Steve sips his wine again. "I mean cruising as in walking or driving around public areas, looking for a sex partner to hook up anonymously."

"Oh!" Fergie nods. "Different to what I was thinking of."

"Yeah," Steve says, a little flatly.

"That reminds me of a character I developed recently, actually—" Frankie says, nodding at Steve. He turns back to Fergie. Eddie can see it takes everything in Steve not to roll his eyes all the way back into his head. He gets another text from Steve.

One more time.

Eddie could flirt in so many different ways with Steve, but also he thinks the wine is going to his head a little bit or maybe that's just the excuse he's decided to use for right now.

And, fuck it, maybe he'll never get a chance to flirt with Steve again.

"Your, uh," he licks his lips, searching for the words tucked awkwardly under his tongue. "Your armpit hair looks good. Lickable, even."

"What did you say?" Steve asks, even though Eddie's sure he's heard him. "Did you say my armpit hair looks good?"

"…yeah."

And they do! They look lickable and kissable because the hair is like, brown like his hair, but also the tips of the hair are blond, which Eddie thinks is very cute and the silk is like, soft and silky obviously, so it's just a really good combination—

Fuck he wishes he'd brought his vape right now.

Steve tosses his head back and laughs and Eddie thinks he's never looked more beautiful than when he laughs.

"I've never had anyone say that to me before, that's a new one, thank you."

Frankie finally turns his head. "Said what to you?" He asks.

"You wouldn't get it," Steve says, looking him upside down. "Inside joke."

"Oh. Okay. What was the joke?" Frankie asks, looking at Eddie.

"I…" Eddie shrugs, helpless. "I wasn't trying to be funny. I was just being honest."

The waiter comes to bring them their cheque and there's confusion with the bills because at first they're all split separately, then they're split between Frankie and Fergie and Steve and Eddie, and then Frankie tries to insist on paying for Steve, but Steve and Eddie shared, so—

— and then Steve ends up being a complete gentleman and paying for it all anyway.

Walking home, Eddie gets slurs hurled at him through a car window as it flies past them both. One, he's quite used to (and loves dearly). The other is probably because he's wearing a t-shirt as a dress but he is cisgender and fuck that bigot anyway—

"Yeah, that's what your dad said last night when he was inside me!" Eddie yells after the truck.

"Okay, okay," Steve says, pulling Eddie close. "Let's get back to our apartment before they turn around and see us walk inside the building," he says. He presses the button for the crosswalk again, not that it'll make the lights change any faster. "We're almost home."

"I heard about you, you know," Eddie says, walking with him. "You're being all sensible now, but I heard you almost got into a fight in a parking lot."

"Did Max tell you about that?"

"Yeah, she said it was cool."

Steve balks, like he doesn't believe Eddie. "No she didn't."

"She did. She said it was pretty cool."

"Okay, pretty cool sounds more believable than cool."

"I'm sorry," Steve says, once they've walked back to their building. "I realised I totally dominated your date with Fergie."

"It's okay," Eddie shrugs. "This was only our second date and they spent the entire first date talking about how they were totally over their ex, so." Eddie shrugs.

"Still, I shouldn't've told you to—"

"I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't okay with it, Steve," Eddie says, leaning on his door frame. "It's being young and flirting with my friends, right?"

"Yeah. I still feel like a bitch because I was…demanding attention from this guy who doesn't really care about me anyway and putting you in an awkward position in the process, so."

"No, it's fine. I mean, it's not fine, 'cause you can do so much better than that guy. But, we're fine."

"Okay, good. I'm glad."

"Why him?" Eddie asks. "I'm not trying to like, intrude on anything I just…" He can't help the way his nose wrinkles in disgust. "He seemed so pretentious."

"Yeah, sorry, I should've warned you," Steve rolls his eyes. "But unless he's in front of me I forget he exists a little bit."

"Then why go on a date with him?"

"The sex is good."

"Yeah," Eddie says, even though his virginal little butt doesn't understand what Steve means at all. He wishes he could ask — he wants to know what good sex means to Steve.

Does he like it tender? With hand-holding, eye contact and soft kisses? Does he like rough? With hair-pulling, biting and choking? Does he like it sticky? With sweat, spit and covered in come? Does he like it possessive? With teeth marks, collars and growling words?

How does he like it?

One would think it might be possible to gain some insight into his preferences from his books. But his books offer no further knowledge because his books contain all those types of sex in his sex scenes.

"Anyway — thank you for dinner. Can I pay you back or make you food or?" Eddie's trying to do this thing where he doesn't freak out any time someone wants to give him a gift or treat him to something. It's very hard.

"Yeah. I'll think of something."

Eddie has a feeling Steve won't think of something and worse, Eddie has to be okay with that.

"Oh! I almost forgot. Wait right there. I have something for you."

Please, Eddie wants to say, watching Steve unlock his apartment door and step inside. I can't take any more of your kindness. I'll be sick. I'll be sick all over your blazer.

Is there a version of rejection sensitivity that fits freaks like him? Like, kindness sensitivity? Compassion sensitivity? Sensitivity to generosity?

"Here," Steve says, handing Eddie a small mass market paperback. It's We Made It — Steve's second chance bnb romance. "Take it."

"Oh, thank you so much. Do you want this back, or?"

"Absolutely not. One less thing that'll remind me of my ex in my apartment is always a good thing."

"Alright, well, good night Steve, and thank you."

"Thanks, Eddie, for everything."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

rat pack ratbag bad boys who used to be in a band

1:48AM

eddie (faggy gentlerat): my brethren

eddie (faggy gentlerat): i am in distress

jeff (king jeff): what happened

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): point me towards the evil, we'll defeat it together

g-bear (gareth, esq.): honestly if i am sad at 2am it's a good idea to just go to bed

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): wait why are we all awake?

eddie (faggy gentlerat): i'm awake bc of work schedule stuff

eddie (faggy gentlerat): but also this book is DESTROYING me

eddie (faggy gentlerat) has sent IMG-032-5643-3. Download?

g-bear (gareth, esq.): alt text: a blurry photo of eddie munson, an 18 year old boy with curly black hair lies in bed. his eyes are red and his face is wet with tears

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): that is a lot of snot my guy

eddie (faggy gentlerat): sam is running away from his arranged wedding thing

eddie (faggy gentlerat): and he's waiting for jack n jack sin't comngig but thats bc

eddie (faggy gentlerat): jack didn't get the message and sam thinks he's been stood up

eddie (faggy gentlerat): sam's with his daughter scout and she's eating ice cream and wondering when they're gonna go home with dad

eddie (faggy gentlerat): sam can't cry bc he doesn't wanna make her sad oh my hHOFODDDDDDDDDD he's in his beautiful suit on a beach and he's Alone except for him and scout AOUGHHHHH

eddie (faggy gentlerat): sam's gonna go home and find no one's left the light on for him I'M SICK!!!!! I'M SICK!!!!!

g-bear (gareth, esq.): just wait till you get to the make up sex scene omg it's so 🔥

eddie (faggy gentlerat): wait you've read it already?

g-bear (gareth, esq.): yeah dude in like 2021.

g-bear (gareth, esq.): my fave read of that year, t4t romance is so fuckin good

jeff (king jeff): i love you all but i am going to SLEEP i have a gig tomorrow

f-f-f-freak (govt. name): ily jeff

g-bear (gareth, esq.): gnight loml jeff

eddie (faggy gentlerat): gnight to my most beloved leige, jeff <3

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Hey, you."

"Hi, Stevie."

Eddie's on Steve's doorstep, a tote bag over his arm and a covered mixing bowl propped on his hip. "You ready?"

"I'm ready."

They have one plan for today — to get high.

Steve did something to his back yesterday and it flared up as faithfully as ever. He was in so much pain it was hard to think. Robin brought over a pregnancy pillow she wasn't using, so he was able to rest a little, but sleep evaded him. He texted Eddie asking (begging, really) for some relief. Eddie's response was almost immediate.

i'll make some cookie dough after work!

i'll use blue dream

gareth uses that for his chronic pain and says it works really well.

do you want joints as well?

Please.

I'll send you some money to cover the cost and everything.

and you said i wouldn't be your dealer…

Bring your pajamas. Max is with her dad for the week and Cami is seeing her mom for the next 4 days. I want to be annihilated.

hell yeah

i'll come over in the afternoon!

"Oh, I love the set up," Eddie says, approving of the living room. There's a mattress on the floor and a selection of pillows and blankets around the couch. "We're gonna be so comfy."

"I get sleepy if I smoke a lot of weed, so."

"How's your back feeling today?" Eddie asks, walking into the kitchen to unpack his snacks.

"Still sore, but not as miserable as yesterday —" Steve doesn't bother to finish his sentence because he's distracted by Eddie's pretty, bare shoulders. "Wait, your shirt is backless?"

"Oh, you mean this vintage 2002 Dio Killing The Dragon tour t-shirt?"

"I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say the words '2002' and 'vintage' in the same sentence," Steve scoffs.

And look — he can count. He knows that Cami was born in 2004, and she's 20 so it's been more than 20 years, but vintage? Really? Vintage?

"I'm sorry," Eddie says, holding up his hands. "It was in the title of the Ebay listing and I have an eidetic memory, especially when it comes to my fixation."

"Did it come like that?"

"No, when I got the shirt it had all these holes in it and like, burns and stains. So I cut it all off and ended up with this little crop top halterneck…thing."

"It's cute, it suits you."

"Thanks! It's nice to sleep in," Eddie smiles.

"Half the time I don't wear anything at all," Steve shrugs. "I run hot."

"Mhm," Eddie nods. He looks Steve up and down, as though he's distracted. "Mhm." He's still unpacking, just more slowly now. He unpacks everything, including his wallet and a book he's reading. "Mhm. Mhm, mhm. Yeah. Mhm."

"Are you good? Steve asks, tilting his head. "Do you need help with anything?"

"Why did I bring this?" Eddie asks, holding up a memoir from his bag. "This is a gay memoir for work. This isn't weed-related."

"Did you just say weed-related?" Steve asks, giggling.

"Okay," Eddie perks up and pushes his shoulders back. "Let's make cookies."

🍃🚬

"I can't believe you put raw cookie dough into my mouth," Eddie says, affronted. "What if I get salmonella poisoning and die?"

"Then I'll admit to it in a dramatic monologue at your funeral, before I flee to some country where they can't extradite me," Steve says, taking a hit of his joint. Steve passes it to Eddie, who takes it between his fingertips.

"Wait, I love that." Eddie says, taking a hit. He checks the window behind him in the kitchen is open, which is thoughtful considering Steve doesn't want his apartment to reek like weed. (Eddie was reliably informed that Max would make fun of him if she knew about it.)

"What do you normally do when you're high?" Eddie asks.

"Oh," Steve shrugs. It's been a while since he's had the time or the space to get high. Usually, he's busy with deadlines, doing his best to make his word count, trying to get Max organised or making sure his household is running smoothly. "Listen to music, I guess?"

"Sick," Eddie says, nodding appreciatively. "Have you tried marble racing?"

"Marble racing?" Steve says, repeating his question. "No."

"Oh, man, you are in for an experience," Eddie says, spreading his hands out wide. "I get so invested — the Marble Olympics?" He makes an okay sign with his fingers, like he's vouching for the quality.

"Alright, Marble Olympics it is."

🍃🚬

"The only getting me through this race is the fact that the cookies you made are so fucking delicious," Steve says.

"I know. The recipe is so good it's dangerous," Eddie says. "I had six once. I couldn't feel my legs for hours."

"If Greece's blue marble loses another race, I'm gonna cry," Steve says, quietly.

"I always cheer for the ugliest looking ones," Eddie says, nodding. "But Mexico's cat's eye marble has my heart this time."

"What, 'cause you think they have feelings?" Steve asks, playfully. "You think marbles wake up in the morning and they look at themselves in their little marble mirror and ask themselves if they're round enough?" He giggles.

"Stop it," Eddie says, defensively. "I like cheering for the underdog."

"I was surprised Sudan's bumblebee swirl marble did so well," Steve nods.

"We love you Sudan's bumblebee swirl marble," Eddie says, passionately. Then, he pauses. "…what would marbles be sensitive about?" he asks. "Apart from their possible lack of speed."

"Who knows," Steve says, pausing the video. "And we'll never find out, because if I watch any more of these friendly marble Olympics races I'm going lose my m—"

"Marbles?" Eddie interjects.

"Oh, fuck you!" Steve says, attacking him with a pillow.

"Mercy!" Eddie squeaks under his pillowed assault. "Mercy, please!"

🍃🚬

"Can you read to me?" Steve asks. "From that book?"

"Really? You wouldn't get bored?"

"No," Steve says. "I like your voice."

"If you get bored, just tell me—" Eddie finds his bag and digs out the book.

"I won't," Steve promises. He lies back on the mattress and makes space for Eddie to lie down beside him.

"Confess," Eddie says, clearing his throat. "The autobiography, by Rob Halford." He's quiet for a few moments while he flips through the pages. "Do you want me to start at the beginning or…?"

"No," Steve shakes his head. He knows he won't really retain much anyway, especially not in sequential order. "Just the good bits."

"You mean the sexy bits?" Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"Obviously," Steve says.

"How did I know you'd say that?" Eddie asks.

"Call it research," Steve says with a smirk. "For work."

"Actually, I'd love to hear your opinion on one section, let me find it." Eddie flips through his tabbed and underlined sections until he finds what he's looking for.

"I don’t know particularly why I became so sexually rampant just as I turned forty. Was it because I was coming out of a long, fairly vanilla relationship with Josh? Was it a textbook midlife crisis? Was it because I had time on my hands? Was it just because I could?"

"So," Eddie says, looking at Steve. "Did you become sexually rampant once you turned forty?"

Steve nods his head up and down in an exaggerated way. "One hundred percent."

"I have so much to look forward to," Eddie murmurs.

"Yes, you do."

"I'm excited for you to meet Steve, the ultra-masculine marine Rob Halford fucks with Steve's wife, Dawn."

"Perfect," Steve says. "Steve is a good name for a marine."

"Oh! There's also a section where Rob says Thank God that Grindr came along! and I did laugh," Eddie admits. "I did. I'm pretty sure Thank God that Grindr came along! is a vocal stim of mine now."

"One of the first places I came to on my route was Venice Beach, which had a notorious men’s washroom. I decided to stop off and try my luck," Eddie reads. "Did you ever cruise on Venice Beach?" he asks, holding his fist at an angle like he's holding a microphone for Steve.

"No," Steve shakes his head. "But I have heard about it. There used to be a cruising spot on Windward Street, but I think people probably use the ones closer to the beach now. I think I put it in that stoner/surfer romance book."

"Windward Street?" Eddie repeats, scrambling for a pen. "Sorry— I want to write this down— Steven, please, no giggling, this is important research."

"I’d been in there ten minutes when a good-looking, muscular guy came in, walked past, and glanced in my cubicle. He smiled, and gave me a nod. Wa-hey!

"I liked your Wa-hey," Steve says, nodding seriously. "Very good inflection."

"Thank you, Steve," Eddie says, giggling. He keeps reading.

"I’m in here! I thought. I slipped my hand inside my cycling shorts and began fondling myself. Getting ready."

"Fondling myself?" Steve repeats, giggling. "Wait." He pauses. "How big do you think his dick is?"

"Based on the tightness of his leather pants in various different performances, Gareth and I have theories," Eddie says, holding up his finger.

"The guy stood in front of my stall, his back to me, at a sink, looking in the mirror—or, rather, into the polished stainless steel: there were no mirrors. He smiled at me in the reflection. My hand between my legs, I smiled back.

He turned around to face me, reached into his shirt — and pulled out a badge."

"No," Steve says, scandalised. "But imagine you're the cop who gets assigned to that. Your boss is like, yeah you're hot, you have to go catch fags."

"Fag-catcher," Eddie whispers. "Why do I love that so much?"

“'You’re under arrest for public indecency,' the cop said."

"ACAB!" Steve says, outraged. "Bottoms or tops, we all hate cops."

"Oh, fuck! A million thoughts raced through my mind. This is it! I’ve fucked up! It’s going to be in the papers! I’ve lost everything!"

"And? Did he get arrested?" Steve asks. "Was it in the papers?"

"I think he was arrested, but it wasn't in the papers," Eddie says. "He lived to cruise another day."

"Beautiful," Steve says, kissing the top of Eddie's head. "I'm gonna have another half a cookie. Do you want anything?"

"Please, sir, can I have another half a weed cookie?"

🍃🚬

"Actually," Steve says, struggling to sit up a little more. "I need your opinion on something."

"My opinion?" Eddie asks. "Me? Edward?"

"Yes, you," Steve says, batting him lazily with a pillow. "I was on a date the other day with this guy. And I mentioned the video we watched at the pride centre and he said he didn't know if he could date someone with a past like that."

"What the fuck does that even mean?!" Eddie says, outraged. "What past? A past with home videos? Fuck that guy," he says, emphatically. "Actually no, don't fuck that guy, don't even kiss him, he's not worth your time."

"I just—" Steve pauses, looking "It was like he was implying that I was a slut or that I'd made a sex tape. And it's like, not safe for work but it's not pornographic."

"It's lewd, not sexually stimulating," Eddie says, spitefully, as if the man were in the room with them.

"Exactly! It's just us talking in bed after we've had sex and smoking."

"Nudity is actually a neutral state of being," Eddie says, as if there's a 19-year-old college student in the room arguing with him, playing the devil's advocate. "Any argument that you're pornographic just because you're naked is dead to me."

"You know what, I'll show you one. There's one from 2010, I think."

"Show…me one of them?" Eddie says, blinking slowly, like his sentences are taking too long to load into his mouth. "Show me? Like…on…there?" He asks, pointing to the TV. "I'm gonna watch…?"

"Yeah," Steve gets up to go look for it. "Wait right there," he says, "I'll be back."

"If I get," Eddie says, trying to stumble his way through a sentence. "If I get—um."

He forgets what he's trying to say until Steve walks back into the room an undetermined number of minutes later. "If I get—fuck," he laughs. "I can't talk." He sips at some water, trying to combat the dryness building in his mouth.

"Steve," Eddie says, while Steve figures out how the TV turns on. "Steve."

"Steve!"

"Oh, yeah?" Steve asks, turning around.

"If I get a little—" Eddie swallows. "Um, aroused when watching this—" He's already on the couch, pressing his dick into the cushions, telling it to stay down.

"I'd be flattered," Steve shrugs.

The camera turns on and 2010 Steve is smoking in bed, looking up at the camera like a lovesick boy. It's the late afternoon, maybe? The sun's light is that pretty apricot colour thrown across their sheets.

I'll show you what I mean! 2010 Steve leaps out of bed to stand in front of the mirror, completely naked. The apricot-coloured light catches the lines of his body like he's the main subject in a painting.

Eddie gets it. If he were Jonathan, he'd be filming Steve all the time, too.

Sure, 2010 Jonathan laughs. Show me.

You don't think one would look good here? He asks, his hands spreading out along his lower back. A rose and some pretty shapes or something?

2010 Jonathan's response can barely be heard. I don't think you should cover up your moles.

Yeah, but I have moles everywhere, 2010 Steve protests. It sounds like they've had this conversation before. I'll have to cover some up if I want any tattoo at all.

You can do whatever you want, Jonathan says, putting his camera down to put a shirt on. I think you're beautiful no matter what. He slaps Steve's ass and Steve giggles, swatting him away. Or maybe grabbing at him for more? It's hard to tell.

You could be useful, y'know, and help me decide which ones to get where. I still think I need stars going up my ribs, he says, taking the back of his hand along his ribs. Or! Maybe some script, 2010 Steve says. Right here above my dick.

I'm putting buyer beware over mine, 2010 Jonathan says, stepping in front of the mirror for a second. He ducks out of sight shortly after.

Eddie would wager it probably has something to do with the fact that he has some stretch marks along his stomach — but they're fairly faded now and they don't look that bad. Those stretch marks just look like someone who's maybe had a baby a few years ago.

Why? Steve laughs.

Because one minute I'm two weeks into a brand new relationship with someone I've been secretly into for years and the next I'm sobbing on the bathroom floor because I'm about to have a baby.

And what a beautiful baby she is, 2010 Steve says, affectionately. If I hadn't had a hysto I'd have another baby with you.

Yeah? You would?

I would.

Steve turns off the TV and stands by the DVD player, waiting for it to eject. He is not leaving that in the DVD player, no way. He is putting it back in the safety deposit box marked taxes. "That's not all of it but that's mostly it."

"See," Eddie's limbs are spread out wide on the couch and he hopes that the feeling of looseness he feels in his arms and legs could migrate to his dick. "That was sexy but in a way that was like—" Eddie makes a waving hand gesture. "Y'know?"

"Should I text him?" Steve asks.

"Who? Jonathan?" Eddie asks, confused.

"No!" Steve says, offended that Eddie would even suggest that at all. "Ew, god no. Not him. The guy that said he didn't know if he could be with someone who had that kind of lifestyle."

"Oh!" Eddie perks up. "Tell him…tell him—" He cannot think, he cannot make words form in his mouth. His brain is, rather unhelpfully, still playing and replaying the image of Jonathan slapping Steve's beautiful ass. "Tell him that he's so—he's so—!"

Jesus H. Christ why are words so hard? Inside my head they're like brrrpurrrr ding! But outside my head they're like aouguhuauaugh…

"I am not going to edit myself strictly for your comfort," Steve says, reading out the text as he writes it. "The videos I have are mine and only I get a say in what happens to me and my body. Best of luck."

"YEAH!" Eddie says, emphatically, and maybe a little too loudly.

"Do you think taking another hit of a joint would be a bad idea?" Steve asks Eddie.

"Iiiiiiii think," Eddie licks his lips. "You should try it and see."

"Would you take care of me?" He asks. "If I get greened out and scared?"

"Of course. I'll be your knight in shining armour."

🍃🚬

Steve thinks he hears Eddie say something, but his face is smushed into some soft furnishings. "Hm?"

"Can you do the thing you do where you touch my back?" Eddie asks, his face still firmly in the pillow.

"Wait, what do you mean?" Steve furrows his brow, trying to think.

"You're cute when you frown," Eddie says, mirroring his expression as best he can.

"You do this touching thing…where… you touch my back and! It's so nice," he sighs.

"Let me try," Steve says, his words seeping out of his mouth. "Then you can tell me if I've got it right."

Steve reaches for Eddie and finds the little curve in Eddie's back. He traces lazy little shapes across the dip in Eddie's spine.

It's easy to touch him the way Eddie wants to be touched — gently, softly, like the two of them are whispering. It's easy.

Eddie groans audibly into his pillow, shivering under Steve's fingertips. Goosebumps appear and then settle along his bare skin. Steve dips his finger under the half inch of hem from Eddie's altered halter top.

The strip of fabric holds them close, Steve's hand skirting along Eddie's back, across his shoulder blades and over the top of his neck. He touches his hair, winding black velvety curls around his fingers until they uncoil a little like the phone cord from the landline phone when he was a kid.

"…so good," Eddie says, his mouth full of cotton. "Thank you."

"Pretty," Steve murmurs, quietly.

So pretty.

🍃🚬

"You are a teddy," Eddie murmurs sleepily. "This," he touches the teddy bear on Steve's shirt. "Is like a label that says 'cuddle me'."

"I've been told I'm very cuddle-able," Steve says, giggling at his improvised adjective.

"You are!" Eddie says, emphatically. "You're so cuddulab…cuddlab…culddle…able.."

"Now say snuggleable," Steve says, evenly.

"Snuggleabl…snuggelub…snugelab…" Eddie struggles to find his tongue in his mouth. "How the fuck can you make words so easily?" he asks. "Fuck!"

"Make words? With my mouth, you mean?" Steve bursts into giggles and Eddie decides to put himself into exile on the pillow-scattered floor.

"No, no, no," Steve says, grabbing at him. "Come back, come back, come here." He's still giggling and reaching for him all the same. "Please."

"You can't say please like that and look at me like that," Eddie whines, climbing back onto the mattress. "I can't resist your puppy eyes."

"You're the puppy," Steve says, nodding with absolute certainty. "You have the collar and everything."

"I do have the collar," Eddie nods, mirroring Steve's movements. "But I need a tag with my name, E-D-D-I-E."

"E-D-D-I-E," Steve says, echoing him. "You have such a silky hair, too," Steve says, running his fingers through it. "You could have two silky puppy ears."

Steve's hands feel so strong, but so gentle. Eddie's being touched in a way that he'd like to put on his Christmas list if anyone could do such a thing. Steve's fingers feel so sure when and warm they touch him, even if Steve's fuzzy from the weed.

Steve mentioned earlier that he runs hot and Eddie feels that, feels the heat radiating off him like he's the sun and Eddie's a little sunflower following its path.

He wants to put his head into Steve's hand over and over and over. Just nudge his head under Steve's hand like a dog seeking affection. It feels like Eddie belongs here.

God I'm such a fucking fag, Eddie thinks.

"Yes, you are a fag. A little fag puppy," Steve says, affectionately. "My little fag puppy."

Eddie barks quietly, like he's testing the sound in his mouth. He likes it, so he barks louder, ruffing and growling until Steve laughs.

"I'm putting you on a leash," Steve says, sounding perfectly serious.

"Yeah!"

🍃🚬

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

WORK NOTES FOR EDDIE MUNSON !! DO NOT FORGET !! TAKE TO WORK BEFORE YOUR NEXT SHIFT YOU LOSER !!

• welcome! [sound effects: teenagers chatting, locker doors closing, school bell ringing - somstart.mov name file]
• to the school of heavy metal, with me, your host, eddie munson
• where i'll prove to you that you know more about heavy metal music than you think you do

! important ! play the songs the whole way through ! - lucky's feedback from last time

• TWO genres!
• garage rock (started in the 1960's)
• some people might classify this genre as 'amateurish' or even 'naïve'
• but i would argue that a lot of garage rock has a real grass roots feel to it

i wanna be your dog - iggy pop and the stooges (1964)

• guitar riff is composed of only three chords (G, F♯ and E)
• a single-note piano riff played by producer John Cale of the Velvet Underground (!)
• steady, driving beat, that gave this song its edge

keep on knocking - death (1975)

• three musician brothers, a band ahead of their time, punk before punk existed
• first all-Black punk band (!)
• they refused to change the name of their band, even as radios and record labels rejected them based on their sound and the name of their band
• the song's raw energy + anti-establishment lyrics
• made a massive contribution to the death (!) metal genre
• iconic and truly a band who the world wasn't ready for

marquee moon - television (1977)

• band emerged from New York punk scene
• their sound was distinct from the raw, aggressive style typical of punk at the time
• this sound paved the way for the alternative rock genre and influenced countless bands in the years that followed.
• a wonderfully complex song structure

psychadelic rock:

• 1960's - bridged the transition from early blues + folk music-based rock to progressive rock, glam rock, hard rock
• influenced the development of heavy metal

purple haze - jimi hendrix (1966)

• no proto-metal playlist would be complete without one of the greatest guitarists of all time — Jimi Hendrix (!)
• people say that Spanish Castle Magic was one of the catalysts for the birth of heavy metal
• but i would say that it happened even earlier in 1966 in Purple Haze
• Hendrix has this evil sounding guitar that has this awesome grungy sound
• he and a lot of other artists like Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Hendrix, they all use this flatted fifth note in the pentatonic scale
• it's all heavy, grindy, and completely beaten open till the music has almost a bloody sound to it
• don't forget to mention hendrix's attitude !! anti-establishment, rebellious, in search of liberation
• break on through (to the other side) - the doors (1967)
• the song's raw energy, (have you said raw too many times? check this in the final script)
• a foundational piece in the broader rock and counter-culture landscape. It's a cornerstore of the gothic rock genre
• wicked woman - coven (1969)
• jinx dawson: the front of the band coven and purportedly influenced — and was later possibly plagiarized by — black sabbath
• coven had a band member named greg “oz” osborne — all before black sabbath formed.
• black sabbath is the title of a coven song
• the devil horns gesture all metal fans know and love was started by jinx dawson
• ronnie james dio of dio is said to have made it popular, but she started it!
• gene simmons tried to copyright the symbol and said he started it
• but photos of jinx dawson doing the gesture before kiss was even an idea shut him right up
• she's been in this band making music for more than 50 years (!!!!)
• underground rock, occult rock music - led to key influence for black metal bands

shorten this section but like…how…where…ask for lucky's feedback on this (!)

like i know this is just trivia but pls lucky she's so cool

sleeping sickness - jpt scare band (1973)

• heavy sound with hard rocking blues and tripped out in psychedelia
• heavy psyche/proto-metal blues sound, the otherworldly and unheralded guitar work of Terry Swope, and each song has become an underground cult classic.
• it's a 15 minute song, but every second of those 15 minutes is absolutely worth it — grindy soundscape!

see you next time school of metal students for our final ep before we dive into metal - shock rock and punk rock and then we'll finally get into HEAVY! METAL!

this is your host, eddie munson signing off

outro [sound effects: teenagers chatting, locker doors closing, school bell ringing - somend.mov name file]

PLAY THE PLAYLIST THE WHOLE WAY THROUGH!

discuss order with lucky - in order of release or in order of release within their subgenres??? or by VIBES???

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Hey Dad?" Max says, with her back to the kitchen counter.

"Yeah, sweetheart, what's up?" he asks as he finishes loading up the dishwasher. She hates putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher because she hates touching any remnants of old food — ew — so it was never a chore she did.

It's weird, like, she woke up one day when she was 16 and realised her dad wasn't just her dad but he was a person. A person who got as tired as she got, a person who got as sick as she got and a person who worked as hard as she worked. So, she's been trying to help him out more around the house ever since.

So after her dad goes to bed, she and Cami have taken to unloading the dishwasher at night so it's empty for him in the morning. It takes them a little longer because they have to keep the noise to a minimum, but the first time she watched Steve wake up and realise that it was empty? It was everything. His little hum of surprise was the best.

"You know that guy you're seeing?"

"Who?" Steve asks. "Frankie?"

"Yeah, the one with the tattoos."

"What about him?"

"Well," she crosses her arms over her chest. "He…" She tries to think back to the conversation she and Cami had, where Cami talked through how the whole conversation might go, but she can't remember anything. She told Cami first because she saw Frankie's phone left on the kitchen counter (before he came back to get it) and she read through some of his messages.

Only because she saw the name Steve, okay? She wouldn't have seen anything if he didn't leave his phone unlocked like a dumbass. And if he'd said nice things, she might've let it go, but he didn't. So now she's here, stuck in a corner of her kitchen trying to tell her dad the shitty things this guy said about him without telling him that she read them on his phone.

She doubts her dad would've brought him to the apartment (especially since he didn't realise she came home early from practice) but the guy asked for a tour or some shit like that. Which, side note, why are adults so weird? Like, who gives a fuck about an entryway? Whatever.

"I don't like the way that he talks about you."

"Oh? What does he say?"

"He just talks about how you have all this money and stuff and like," she shrugs. "I didn't like the way he talked about you."

Good job, Max, she thinks to herself. 'All this money and stuff and like' and you said the same shit twice, good job.

They don't have that much money. Or, her dad doesn't, at least. Grandma has a lot of money (inherited or old money or whatever) but her dad isn't super wealthy. She has a feeling he has access to family funds if and when he needs them, but otherwise, he makes his own money from his work. When he makes a purchase, he still thinks about it and he complains about the cost of living as much as anyone else she knows.

"How did you hear this?" he asks, frowning.

"I—" She shifts from one foot to the other. "I saw your name on his phone when I was walking out to give it to him when he left it here," she says. "I'm not proud of it, but the phone was unlocked and then I saw that he said all this shit about you I got mad. So I read some of his texts."

"Okay," he says, tipping his head from one side to the other. "What did he say specifically?"

"I dunno, just, like, oh man Steve is perfect patron material which I didn't think was that bad at first. I thought he was just talking about the micro grants you and Robin are doing for the pride board thing. But then I read more and it was just like him estimating how much money you had and like, planning how many dates he would need to have with you in order to get you to invest in his company and I just—" She hates the way feelings swell up in her, petulant and unruly, but she can't help it.

She hopes it gets better.

"Oh." Dad crosses his arms over his chest and lets his gaze wander to a corner of the room while he thinks. "Huh."

"Are you mad?" she asks, quietly.

"Mad? At you? No," he says, with a single shake of his head. "You shouldn't've read anything on his phone. But leaving your phone unlocked with a teenager in the house is a rookie mistake." He clicks his tongue.

But the look on his face tells her he wants to think aloud. It's weird, being his kid but also being old enough to observe conversations that used to happen behind closed doors after she'd gone to bed.

"We weren't well-suited to each other, anyway."

"Yeah. Sometimes it's not even a bad thing, you just don't vibe."

You just don't vibe? God, that's such a smart thing to say, Max. Good job. Dumbass.

"More importantly, do you like him?"

She can't say no, because she can't articulate why other than the texts. She shakes her head instead.

"Okay. I'll talk to him."

"I didn't mean to—"

"No, no," he says, shaking his head. He holds out his arms and she walks into them, hugging him. "You made the right call," he says, kissing her forehead. "I need to be spending time with people who are worth my time and he's not."

Max doesn't think many people are worth her dad's time, but she doesn't know how to tell him that. She doesn't know how to tell her dad a lot of things. So, she settles for the next best thing.

"Love you, Dad."

"Love you too."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"I'm going to smudge your eyeliner," Cami says, carefully touching Eddie's face. "So then you don't have to worry messing it up, because it's already messy."

"Thank you so much," he says, trying not to move too much even though all he wants to do is vibrate hard enough to shatter glass.

Eddie's so glad Cami responded to his panicked texts so quickly. He'd tried to eyeliner for the first time in forever and— why, why! — did he think he could do it tonight? He had no idea.

"Then we'll just work this into your hair," Cami says, rubbing some hair product between her fingers. "By scrunching and fluffing it and then…you're done!"

"I'd be lost without you, seriously," he says, checking himself over one last time. "I look okay, right?"

"You look so good," Cami says, clapping her hands together. "Jadon Harness Doc Martens, leather pants, cropped leather jacket, mesh shirt," she says, listing things off. "Barb's bespoke restraints, jewellery, leather gloves and a red g-string with a whale tail moment to top it all off. Iconic!"

"Okay," Eddie nods, looking at himself one more time. "Okay." He opens the door and decides to leave before he chickens out altogether. "I'm gonna go. Thank you so much."

"You're so welcome, Eddie. Have the best night!"

"No, she can't stay with you that night because she's staying with El," Steve says as he opens the front door with his shoulder. "…I don't know, Jonathan, you'd have to ask him?" He sounds incredulous, like he has no idea why Jonathan is asking him this question.

Eddie tried his best to politely sneak by but Steve puts his hand on his chest, walking him backwards into the living room.

"Yeah, your mom is coming." Steve says, rolling his eyes. "I don't know if she's driving out the same day? She's only a half hour away though."

Steve twirls his index finger in a circle, so Eddie turns all the way around.

"No, I'll be busy all day."

It's Steve's turn to walk around Eddie now, circling him and looking him up and down. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at him.

"One second," Steve says to Jonathan, holding the phone to his chest. "You look good," he says, to Eddie. "Really good."

Eddie wants to say thank you, but Steve is already talking on the phone again.

"What? Nobody's here." A pause. "No, she didn't tell me about that?" He sighs silently, tipping his head back in frustration.

Eddie decides to leave him to it.

Time elapsed: 5 minutes

Eddie arrives and is given a round of introductions, including pronouns, and promptly forgets everyone's names.

He also discovers his bat charm on Barb's gear — his gear! — is the perfect fidget toy.

Time elapsed: 6 and a half minutes

Everyone is very nice and complimentary about Eddie, and his outfit (especially the red g-string whale tail situation) which is a lot and overwhelming in the best way. Eddie loves queer people. He loves them so much.

Time elapsed: 24 minutes

The hosts are showing off their dildo and toy collection, which is pretty considerable. More impressive, though is the size of the dildos like-- they're fucking thick.

He realises that he doesn't know the first thing about dildos actually, because he has no idea about the difference between Vixen Creations and Hankey's or Pleasure Forge and Bad Dragon (Except that Bad Dragon are kind of goofy?) So, Eddie mostly just nods along and finds ways to say the same things that other people are saying in slightly different ways.

The moon charm on his wrist turns over and over between his thumb and forefinger. He'd love to know what Steve thinks — not like that — but Eddie knows he'd do the thing where he smirks and looks at Eddie and then make a cheeky little aside and then Eddie would have to try to hold in his giggles and then—

— then it would feel like the two of them against the world, which is one of Eddie's favourite feelings probably ever.

Time elapsed: 45 minutes

Eddie watches someone do some rope-tying and shibari and isn't sure what he'd prefer, to tie someone up or to be tied himself. He imagines it would be…anchoring? to be tied up, but that it would be beautiful to do the tying.

He wants to do both. Preferably at the same time, which probably isn't possible, but that's not the defeatist kind of attitude Eddie wants to bring to his fantasy space.

He learns that shibari is different to western styles of rope-tying. In western rope tying, knots are used, but in shibari, friction(s?) are used. Suspension is more common in shibari than in other styles and you do need a lot of rope if you want to make it look beautiful.

Shibari isn't just for restraint or sexual gratification — it's a whole artistic, sensual experience.

He looks at his restraints, with their polished D-rings and the little Baphomet charm and thinks rope would look good alongside it. But, looking at the charm next to its D-ring, he realises that maybe he could tie up his partner and be tied at the same time. Tied to them.

"Hell yeah."

Time elapsed: 54 minutes

Eddie takes a break in the kitchen because he wants to pace himself. When he takes his keys out of his pocket to find the phone that's in his hand, someone comments on the d20 dice on his key-chain.

"Am I allowed to ask about your PC?" Someone asks.

"You can, but it's been a while since I've played my own guy. I mostly DM now," Eddie says, tucking his keys back into his pocket.

"Wait, okay, that's even better. Can I ask how you navigate someone only taking part in like, every other session? I find the scheduling aspect of DnD really difficult because I feel like it can really affect my story-telling."

"Totally, how many people are in your party?" Eddie asks, taking a seat at the table.

Time elapsed: 72 minutes

Someone is, uh, having a very good time in one of the bedrooms and because he's a pervert, Eddie rubs one out in the bathroom. At least there are condoms and towels everywhere, so all of his come doesn't end up all over his jeans or his hair.

Although, this is probably the one place in the world where he could have come on him and be around a group of people and it wouldn't be too weird.

Time elapsed: 84 minutes

Eddie sends a text to Gareth, wanting to divulge everything while also maintaining his mysterious allure.

He tells Gareth he came once already. Gareth sees right through him. He asks if the orgasm was by someone else's hand or by his own. Bitch.

Eddie says he can't really disclose that because of party rules and feels like his mysterious allure is unsullied, but he feels like Gareth sees right through that, too.

Eddie wishes Steve were here.

Time elapsed: 90 minutes

Eddie steps outside to use his vape because he's a loser who hasn't figured out how to quit vaping yet. There's someone out on the back deck who he's sure he hasn't seen in the house before. He looks like he's Eddie's age. He has long honey brown hair, a reddish beard and black jeans and a Megadeth t-shirt.

So, Eddie's type. As long as he's queer.

"Hey."

"Hi. I'm Eddie."

"I'm Guy, I'm just here to pick up a friend." He nods. "Fuck, pick up like— friendly, not pick up like—"

"You're the ride guy," Eddie says, using his vape.

"Exactly. How do you know Astrid and Darius?"

"Astrid is in a couple of my classes at college, so," Eddie nods. "She saw me reading a queer werewolf romance novel in class once and was like that guy's a freak. And now, here I am."

"I swear I've heard your voice before," Guy says, narrowing his eyes. "Are you sure we haven't met?"

"I would've remembered meeting someone with long brown hair, an auburn beard and a Megadeth t-shirt," Eddie says.

"I swear we've met—"

Guy looks so certain. Eddie wishes he could just agree but he can't — he has an eidetic memory. He'd remember a person like Guy, especially because he's a guy named Guy, c'mon.

"When did you get into Megadeath?"

"That's where I know you from!" Guy says, snapping his fingers. "The radio. You're the radio guy."

"I'm the radio guy?" Eddie asks.

I'm the radio guy? Me? Eddie?

"Yeah. I have the worst insomnia. I went through a really bad bout of it a while ago and my sister suggested I try the radio instead of music, just so I can hear other people talking. I turn on the radio and hear this guy talking about School of Metal and I was like, hell yeah."

"Hell yeah," Eddie repeats back to him. "Thanks for saying that. Sometimes, I worry that the audience for the show is too small but that really means a lot."

"Any time, dude," Guy says, nodding. "I wish you'd hurry up and play some actual fucking metal, though."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Eddie says, rolling his eyes. He's surprised at their level of camaraderie already, but then he's always found it easy to make friends with people who have good taste in music. "Don't rush me! There's one more episode that will feature shock rock and punk rock and then we'll get onto metal."

"Je— Christ alive, 3 episodes of School of Metal and there's no metal?"

"You gotta start with the correct foundation," Eddie says, as if that explains everything. "I can't skip over that history."

"True," Guy says, lighting a cigarette. "Very true. I guess I'm just curious what your opinions are on some of the classics are. I'll have to see if you have good taste."

"Ask me about classic metal at your own risk," Eddie says, shaking his head. "I will info dump on you and I will be ruthless about it."

"I look forward to it," Guy says with a lop-sided smile.

"Actually, can I have your number?" Eddie asks. "No pressure, but if you listen to the show, can you give me your feedback?"

"Oh, sure," Guy says, handing Eddie his phone. "I'd be happy to."

"It doesn't have to be anything formal, but it would be helpful to have someone who is my age and isn't my boss giving me their thoughts, y'know?"

"Yeah," Guy nods. "No problem."

"Thank you so much," Eddie says, putting his vape away because he's trying to quit.

"So, how long have you been doing these parties?" Guy asks.

"Oh," Eddie smiles, twirling the bat charm between his fingertips. It's definitely his favourite. "This is my first one."

Thank you, Steve. Seriously.

"Really? It doesn't seem like your first one," Guy says, gesturing to his outfit. "Nice Baphomet, by the way."

"Thanks, a local butch leather worker made it for me." Eddie grins. "What about you? Would you ever attend something like this? You don't have to answer. It's just everyone's been sharing their preferences and limits and so—"

"Nah," Guy shakes his head. "Not for me. I'm asexual and I have medication that fucks with my sex drive besides that so it's just like, what's the point?"

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "One of my roommates is chronically ill and he's doing okay right now, but he said that any time he changes a medication he notices a huge shift in his sex drive. I feel like more people need to talk about it."

"Also, it's like, I don't know if it's just me or what," Guy exhales smoke over his shoulder and taps the ash off his cigarette. "But all of my sexual experiences have been pretty sub-par." He stops himself. "Wait, am I oversharing?"

"If you are, I honestly wouldn't be able to tell," Eddie says. "I am a chronic oversharer."

"Why is there such an emphasis on coming? Why do I disappoint my partner if I don't come? Can't we just hold hands or something?"

"No! No! No! That's it, exactly," Eddie says, animated now, tugging on Guy's hoodie. "Because I went to this fucking foam party thing at a club and I was wondering why people were just fucking under a tarp and all I want is someone to hold my hand."

"When did romance die?" Guy asks. "Or at least it feels like it's dead, but then I don't really feel much of anything these days."

"Side effects?" Eddie guesses. "From your meds?"

"You got it."

"Are there any intimate acts, I guess, that you'd be comfortable with doing with someone?" Eddie asks.

"I like making out with someone," Guy nods. "But that's it. Where would you want someone to hold your hand?"

"A mosh pit," Eddie says, without really considering the logistics of holding someone's hand in a mosh pit. "Though, I guess if you wanted to be really hardcore it'd probably be better not to hold hands in a mosh pit."

"I dunno," Guy says, letting the end of his cigarette fall into the old plant pot used as an ash tray. "I feel like if you practiced, it'd be okay."

"You think so?" Eddie asks. "Maybe you're right."

"I think so," Guy says.

His friend opens the back door and smiles at him. "Sorry — I took forever to clean up. The wax got everywhere. I shaved and everything," they murmur, still tugging at tiny flecks stuck in their navel.

"Good to go?" Guy asks. "You got everything?"

"Yeah."

"Good night, Eddie," Guy says. "Nice to meet you."

"Good night, Guy."

Time elapsed: 112 minutes

"Well," Eddie says, looking at himself in his car's rear view mirror. "You stayed for almost two hours, looked hot doing it and remembered one person's name. I'd call that a success."

Once he's home and safely tucked up in his bed, he sends a text (or several) to Steve.

thank you so much for the

charms on my gear

they are fucking COOL

but also they actually helped me stay focused?

bc i had something to fidget with

if i think about all the things you've done for me

i WILL cry (i totally cried when barb showed them to me wtf i was like snot city)

i won't insist on paying you back bc i know you won't accept it

not with gareth's top surgery fundraiser and everything

so i'll just say. thank you steve

My pleasure, Eddie.