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blueywrites · 1 year

Text

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, angst, hurt/comfort. minor spoilers for the show 'The Last of Us,' episode three.

chapter eleven : angel (14k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #35-#36. #36, the title song, doesn't appear in the text, so you can play it whenever it feels appropriate.

I've been afraid all of my life

Crippled with anxiety, shame and doubt

And sometimes, sometimes I'd like to shout

At the top of my lungs and just let it out

What has that fear ever done for me

But hold me back?

What has jealousy and hate ever done for you

But remind you of what you think you lack?

So give me love and give me compassion

Self-forgiveness and give me some passion

I love you even if you don't love me

I love you even if you can't love me

Angel— First Aid Kit

There’s a moment upon waking on Saturday that you feel the same as you did twenty-four hours before. The moon is round and full; your earth is cold and numb. Its beams are peaceful, tranquil, sterile as they glint off your frosted leaves. You have not yet recalled the warm light that awakened your growth and left it just as quickly to the dark of twilight, the whisper of smoke that flowed into your lungs and left you breathless with poignant longing. You have not yet noticed the puffiness of your eyes, the rattle of your breath in your lungs, or the deep, rending ache at the bottom of you.

You blink, and as the late sunlight falls across your eyes, you remember.

Penny had found you howling on the floor, puddled in your charcoal despair. Your sister’s arms clasped you tight as she sputtered her distressed confusion, begging you to tell her what was wrong. You’d worked it out in bits and pieces— explanations choked through trembling lips, halted by the gasps and sobs and whines of a wounded animal. You’d felt like a child when she rocked you, shushing you softly, petting your hair like your mother had when you’d come home from elementary school scraped raw from your friends’ rejection. In the moment, you hadn’t cared how childlike you’d become, more than eager to relinquish your twenty-four-year-old self to the comfort of your sister’s surety. She wiped your face clear of the tracks of your mascara, the color dark like charcoal to stain the sleeves of her sweater. It stained Penny, but in doing so, she took it from you— took it until your tears dried up, until your muscles trembled with relief and fatigue. Penny held you on the kitchen floor as you wrested back control of your body. You scrubbed your hands over your wet, flushed face, whimpering into your palms until you finally quieted.

You picked yourself up then, moving through the steps of recovery: retreating to the bathroom to wash your cheeks, to run your wrists under warm water, to take deep breaths until they were no longer labored, the entire time avoiding the sight of your swollen face in the mirror. When you’d emerged, Penny was thumping the knife against the cutting board, holding firm as you offered in a small voice to take over again. Obstinate, your sister refused you, directing you to the couch with a firm hand and concern shining in her eyes. She finished your stir fry, serving you a bowl you thanked her for with a brief smile but ate listlessly before turning in for an early night.

After the tease of Eddie’s presence, no longer can you feel pleasantly numb. Instead, now that the well of your tears has dried, you just feel empty. Bereft. Like the earth has been churned, disturbed; turned over and left wanting for what has been removed. But when you heave a deep sigh, breath stirring the motes floating like fairy dust in the shaft of light spilling from Penny’s beloved window, you reach tentatively down to find that your growth is still there, standing tall. When you run a finger lightly up its stalk, it trembles within, leaves quivering a response to your tentative touch. It hurts, like the soreness of a bruise, but it does not waver. You trace the green up to where it vines around your ribcage, tendrils peeking to greet your exploration with a gentle touch. And as you pull yourself out of bed, for the first time, you fully accept your growth. Yes, there is pain where it has been cut deep by the sharpness of flinty words and languished in the cold light of the moon, further wounded by the sudden reminder of what you have lost. But there is also strength. Your growth holds your bones, cradling them securely; its fruit has not fallen or begun to molder and rot. The realization that it cannot be uprooted— that it is a part of you— is not one of grief as it was last night. Instead, it is the acceptance that what Eddie tended inside you cannot be culled. No matter what happens now, you have what you need to thrive.

This recognition carries you through your morning routine completed many hours late, and you emerge from the shower with renewed vigor and a healthy flush to your cheeks. Where you might have clothed yourself in baggy comfort intending to spend the day on the couch wrapped in the television's mind-numbing noise, you instead dress to make yourself feel good in your skin: structured skinny jeans, a clingy long-sleeve, and fun earrings. The swelling around your eyes is soothed by cool eye cream, and the flush in your cheeks is accentuated by a fresh face of light makeup. Your hair isn’t left limp to dry slowly on its own. Instead, you style it, facing yourself head-on in the bathroom mirror as you run your fingers through soft strands. You’re pleasantly surprised to see bright eyes and the dimple of a smile that doesn’t feel forced, so far from the anguished girl you’d been the night before.

Penny is equally as surprised when you wander into the kitchen, stomach growling from the late waking hour, closer to evening than to morning. “Hey,” she greets you cautiously, jangling keys halting in her palm, eyes wide and locked on you as you duck to root in the refrigerator for sustenance.

“Hey!” You return her greeting warmly, your fond smile growing when you notice the worry furrowing her brow where she’s poised near the front door, coat half-on. “You heading out?”

“I— yeah.” She confirms even as she starts to reverse the motion, shedding her coat as she explains, “I didn’t think you’d be up for a while. I was gonna get the ingredients for your cake. I can wait and keep you company, though.” She hangs the coat on the rack, tacking on, “I’ll just go later.”

Your brows jump at the reminder. Before last night’s unexpected visitor, you'd told her about the cake you were planning to make this weekend for your coworker Sherry’s birthday on Monday. A box cake didn’t feel like enough to repay the years of kindness the motherly woman had bestowed on your office, so you’d resolved to make it from scratch: a decadent chocolate cake with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee as the secret ingredient. It’s not as difficult to bake as it might sound, but you do need to buy semi-sweet cocoa and powdered sugar for the buttercream frosting.

“Don’t you have Charlie’s awards thing tonight?”

Penny exhales a long, weary sigh. “Y/n. I’m not going anymore.”

What ensues is a brief sisterly squabble in which Penny insists on staying home to take care of you, and you insist that you need nothing of the sort. “Look at me!” You exclaim, arms thrown wide in exasperation. “Do I look like I need you to baby me?” You soften. “I’m really okay, Pen. Charlie will be so disappointed if you miss his ceremony. It’s not every day your boyfriend receives the medal of valor in firefighting.”

Your sister huffs, grumbling, “It’s not the medal of valor; it’s a medal of valor. There’s more than one.” She runs her eyes over you, assessing, hedging, trying to penetrate through any facade you may be putting on. When she sighs again, this time in resignation, your smile widens to a beam. “Fine.” She concedes. “We can go to the store together, and then I’ll go to the ceremony.”

With a sharp huff, you cross your arms. “Pen—!”

Penny doesn’t win that argument either, begrudgingly acknowledging that you’re right; she wouldn’t have enough time to get ready if she accompanied you to the grocery store. You scarf down some food and make a list of your shopping for the week, and by the time you hear her clicking back to the front door, you've finished your list. You see her clasping her earring, now bedecked in high heels and a pretty dress. “I’ll be back tonight,” she promises you from the threshold. “Text me if you need me, okay?”

The tenderness in her voice is clear, and you look up from your list to flash her a soft, grateful smile. “I will, Pen. Love you.”

“Love you.”

–

The trip to the grocery store just down the street from Penny’s house is both mundane and soothing. It’s dated, but the aisles are always clean, and you slip into the anonymous sea of people doing their Saturday afternoon shopping, a small smile of contentment blooming on your face as your cart squeaks rhythmically with your easy steps. Methodically, you mosy down each aisle, reaching soft fingers toward fruits and vegetables, grains and rice. As you go, you scratch them from the handwritten list nestled in your purse, placed conveniently in the top basket of your cart. The routine of it all— the normalcy— brings comfort.

You reach the baking aisle near the tail end of your list, with only the dairy aisle left to be visited. The speakers are playing ‘Ain’t It Fun’ as you plop the floppy bag of powdered sugar absentmindedly into your cart, eyes scanning the shelves for the semi-sweet cocoa powder. You step back with a contemplative pooch to your lips, brows perking when you finally spot it on the top shelf. It’s pushed back from the edge, likely one of the last ones, not commonly restocked. You move in until your front is nearly pressed to the shelves, biting your lip as your wiggling fingers flop for the plastic tub. Futiley, you meet nothing but air and metallic shelving. You plant your hands on your hips, reassessing with squinted eyes and a more exaggerated pooch when you register a tall presence at your side.

“What’re you trying to get?”

The unfamiliar man is middle-aged, donning a checkered shirt and kind crow's feet that crinkle in their practiced creases when he smiles encouragingly at you. You turn shy eyes back to the shelf. “The semi-sweet cocoa,” you say, motioning to the top shelf. “It’s too far back for me.”

Wordlessly, he reaches up, hand disappearing from your sight as it wedges between other containers of chocolate. It comes back quickly with your treasure, and the man drops it into your grateful hands.

“Thank you so much,” you say, and he meets you with an easy smile and a wave of his hand.

“‘S nothing. Have a good one.”

He’s turning away as you smile back. “You too—”

A familiar voice from behind interjects, feminine and light. “I can't believe I ever fell for that. Your innocent little sweet girl routine.”

Light but mocking. Feminine but laced with venom.

You freeze with dumbfounded shock, hand poised on the bar of your cart as your eyes flick and catch bright blue.

Chrissy.

Her appearance is startling, and not just because you never would have expected to see her here outside the city. She looks disheveled in a way only cool girls can pull off, but as your eyes dart over her, you realize that Chrissy isn’t artfully disheveled. She’s actually disheveled: hair a tangle of waves piled into a messy bun atop her head, face creased with old foundation, body wrapped in a puffy cardigan, its bulk on her tiny frame making her shoulders appear frail where they’re bunched by her ears. Her frame is tight with tension, arms crossed, dainty fingers digging tight into the fuzzy material, scrunching it in the crooks of her elbows. And on her face is an expression you’ve never seen: eyes big and glassy but sharp like steel, bow lips contorted in a sneer. There’s something beneath the surface of her powdery-soft skin, and it’s writhing like the coils of a lithe snake, poised to strike.

Chrissy’s hard stare doesn’t waver in the face of your wide-eyed surprise. Instead, she jolts out a hand, pink nails flashing to points at the end of her thin fingers. “Show me the texts, y/n. Eddie deleted them all.”

Your mouth goes dry at the demand, and your spread fingers twitch into a loose fist where your forearm rests on the cart’s handle, your wrist curling away from your purse. Your many late-night musical exchanges with Eddie flash in your mind, largely innocent aside from the occasional ‘sweet girl’ from Eddie and the daringness of your ‘Touch Tank’ send. Though, then there’s the last conversation from four months ago, arranging for you to come to see him at his show. Heat prickles down the back of your neck, discomfort tightening in your chest as you open your mouth to reply.

Not quickly enough, apparently, because Chrissy’s pressing on, that snake writhing with the twist of her lips. “Or,” she snaps, “maybe you’re too smart for that. Maybe you’ve deleted them all, too. Or maybe you’d stuck to calling him instead. Is that it, y/n? Have you been calling my boyfriend in the middle of the night, begging for his cock?”

You flush instantly hot with embarrassment as the crude word pops from Chrissy’s bow lips, eyes darting to the anonymous bodies in the aisle around you. Their eyes flash to the pair of you instantly with her exclamation. But the absurdity of the question, the utter wrongness of it, rouses you to action. Your voice is soft and edged with pleading as you turn to her fully. “Chrissy, what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She scoffs harshly, brows twisting up in incredulity. There’s so much venom in Chrissy’s voice that it’s hard to imagine it’s coming from her pretty mouth. “Don’t play dumb with me, y/n. I know you made up some excuse so he’d see you. ‘Oh,’” she whines mockingly, “‘my car is broken! Eddie, come save me!’” Her gaze goes flat. “And, of course, you convinced him to give you a ride home so you could fuck him in the back of his van.”

The weight of others’ silent gazes presses upon you from either side of the aisle. Deep mortification rises immediately and rushes down your spine, leaving you flushed and prickling hot with shame. It’s made worse by the knowledge that Chrissy’s accusations are on display for these anonymous others; their stares are oppressive as the viper strikes with dripping fangs. “Gonna deny it?” She spits.

There is the initial instinct to deny, to shrink away and hide. It would save face, rescue you from the judgment of those people pretending to shop, their ears honed to every word of juicy tension being exchanged in the baked goods aisle of the grocery store like a roadside spectacle. But it would be a lie. And there are firm roots at the bottom of you, anchoring you in the truth.

So your green straightens your spine. White blooms tip up your chin. Your red fruit nourishes your tongue, unlocking your jaw as you gaze into the sharp blue eyes of your friend. “I won’t deny it,” you say, voice soft but not weak, gaze even. “Eddie did help me when my car broke down on the highway. He did give me a ride home. And we did sleep together.”

Chrissy’s brow twitches minutely, eyes widening as you acknowledge it so plainly, making no attempt to evade the truth. She appears briefly to be at a loss for words, and it occurs to you that she must have expected you to argue, that you’d probably thrown her off by admitting the truth so readily. The remorse that leaks into your expression is sincere. “I know it was wrong. We shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have done that to you. You’re my friend.” A lump rises in your throat as her face flickers. “I know I can’t ever make up for it, but I’m sorry, Chrissy. I’m really sorry.”

Chrissy’s eyes are big and glassy, though they’re still hard, as if she’s refusing to let tears fall. Her face twitches— brow, lip, nose, jaw— and suddenly she looks so frail, like with just one small nudge, she’d shatter into dainty little pieces.

Everyone knows butterflies are beautiful, bold and boastful in their colors and patterns. It does something to a person, that knowledge; they come to expect attention and praise. They come to think they’re entitled to it. So it’s unfathomable— impossible, really— to consider that a moth, with its thick body and more subtle colors, could possibly turn the head of one who’d long been allured by the butterfly’s charm. It defies all that the butterfly knows.

This monarch— this queen— has suckled her whole life from milkweed flowers, storing toxins in her body. Bold, beautiful, and boastful; powdery-soft, yet unable to be anything but poisonous. Chrissy Cunningham, doomed from the moment she nibbled the leaves of the milkwood, the only sustenance the world provided.

Your sincerity is not enough, and it never could be.

A mocking scoff falls from bow lips, and Chrissy’s eyes narrow nearly to slits. “You're so full of shit, y/n. You’re actually trying to convince me you’re sorry when I know you’ve been trying to get Eddie to leave me for months. It’s sick.” She cocks a hip, and beyond her, a mother and her daughter amble by the aisle; the older woman cranes her head to keep looking as they pass.

Your eyes dart to them briefly, but you’re shaking your head before Chrissy even finishes speaking, quick and earnest with your reply. “No, Chrissy. When I broke up with Steve, I talked to Eddie a few days later, and I told him that we shouldn't see each other anymore. I haven’t seen him for four months. I hadn’t seen him,” you correct, “until he came by yesterday. To talk,” you tack on, not wanting to imply something unintentionally. Your eyes search hers, brow creasing but stable in your truth. “I am sorry for what I did to you, Chrissy. But I haven’t been talking to Eddie.”

She shakes her head before you’ve finished speaking, just like you had, but the motion is sharp and jerky as if to dislodge your words from between her ears. “What, did you two rehearse this or something?”

You’re about to point out that it’s not rehearsed, it’s just the truth, but Chrissy changes tack abruptly, dropping her arms to ball her fists at her sides. Her voice becomes shriller, more acerbic with each word. “What did you do to get him to finally do it, huh? What lies did you feed him, you homewrecker? You stupid slut!”

The words are like a verbal slap, but not in the way she intends. The unfairness of it— of calling you a homewrecker when you’d made the torturous decision to break things off with Eddie to try to do right by Chrissy— summons more heat beneath the collar of your shirt, but not from embarrassment. Your creased brow tightens to a frown. “Look, I know you’re upset, Chrissy, and you have every right to be. But I’m not a homewrecker.”

Gone are wide smiles made charming by crooked teeth. Cute giggles exchanged across restaurant tables are distant memories. Instead, Chrissy’s laughter is jagged, edged with mania— a rattle in her throat, like the tail of a venomous snake. “You’re right,” she says, blue eyes glittering as she sneers, “You’re not a homewrecker because you’re just a temporary fuck. Once Eddie gets you out of his system, he’ll come crawling right back to me.”

A smooth customer service voice interrupts the music above your heads, announcing a special on certain varieties of Halloween candy. It hits you again— the absurdity that this sensitive conversation is happening in the baking aisle of the grocery store. It’s more than absurd, really. It’s a violation. But Chrissy is still ranting, all pretense of softness stripped from her voice as it pierces over the announcement. “—asshole is lucky to be with me. Lucky I’ve put up with his dumb shit for all these years—”

More than anything, this is what makes your chest begin to buzz, indignation tightening in your limbs. You raise your voice for the first time, questioning heatedly, “How can you even say that? Eddie’s a good man, and he deserves—”

You’re cut off with a hiss. “What do you know about what he deserves?”

Your reply is firm, decisive. “He deserves respect.”

Part of you is satisfied to see how Chrissy’s porcelain face goes pink with utter rage as you imply that you respect Eddie more than she does, that you care for him more than she does. And it seems that perhaps that’s what does it— what shifts Chrissy’s motivation from wanting answers to wanting to strike you hard and deep, to sink her fangs into your flesh and inflict damage.

Chrissy Cunningham’s beautiful face contorts into something ugly. “No self-respecting guy would ever really want to be with a girl like you, y/n.” Her eyes flick you up and down condescendingly. “That fat ass is only good for one thing—”

“That’s enough.”

You blink, almost taken aback at the sound of your own voice. There is no wobble; it is commanding, firm enough that Chrissy’s dainty jaw snaps shut as if compelled, closing her fangs away.

The bite of her insult is the culmination of everything you’ve always feared. That you’re not pretty enough. Not good enough. Not enough to truly love. But where those words would once have sunk into the empty earth at the bottom of you, seeping through the soil to poison you slowly, you’ve since been tended, and your green is verdant and tall.

Chrissy’s venom falls like rain onto your green. It sizzles as it slides along the soft plush of your vines and stems, but it does not reach your earth. Your leaves quiver, and they flick it away.

You meet the eyes of your former friend directly, and you do not waver. “You can believe me or not because I know the truth, and nothing can change that. But I won’t stand here and have you insinuate that I’m less of a person because of how I look. I know what I’m worth.” You take firm hold of your cart, fists tightening around the handle, swinging it around to face her. Chrissy flinches, and you merely quirk a brow as you calmly maneuver the cart around her. As you come up even with her, close enough to reach out and touch the fuzz of her sweater or the tangle of the strawberry-blonde waves atop her head, you regard her with one last cool stare. “Eddie makes his own decisions, and something tells me he won’t regret this one.”

Chin up, head held high, you guide your squeaky cart with even steps from the aisle, ignoring the weight of the stares you gather as you pass. You haven’t hit the dairy aisle yet, but you veer toward the front of the store to pay, body on autopilot as your mind replays the last few minutes of your life.

Once you stop in front of the self-check-out kiosk, it starts to hit you— the wave of emotion that rises as your adrenaline wears off. You’d been utterly blindsided by the confrontation with Chrissy, and in the moment, all you could do was react. Now, you’re left reeling. What just happened? Your fingers tremble as you hastily swipe your items across the sensor, dropping them into paper bags as you try to conceal that rising feeling. Your cheeks puff as you exhale shakily, inserting your credit card, foot tapping against the tile until that mechanical voice reminds you not to forget your receipt. You snatch it from the machine and contain, contain, contain until you load your groceries in the trunk and slide into the driver’s seat of your old blue car. The vehicle is now a reminder of your shame, which was broadcasted by your former friend for all to hear.

In the safety of your car, the tide overtakes you. Bewilderment and humiliation crest, manifesting in a trembling bottom lip and the hot roll of silent tears down your cheeks. You sniffle but don’t wipe your cheeks; instead, you pull out your phone and call the only person who can clarify what the fuck is going on.

This time, you think he might not answer, but breathless smoke greets you at the last moment. “Hello?”

There’s a sense of deja vu as you hear Eddie’s voice on the other end, close but distorted slightly. The loud grind of something mechanical in the background disorients you further, and your breath hitches as you try to speak through the tears. “Hello?” Eddie repeats his greeting with an edge of urgency. “Y/n?”

The sound of your name on his lips forces the gasp through your lips, a shuddering exhale of desperation and relief. “Eddie,” you choke, and his urgency increases tenfold.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I—” you sniffle, fingers fisting on your thigh as you push through your trembling. You’re trying to tell him what happened, but the wave of your emotion has the thoughts swirling in your head, stuttering out through clumsy lips. “I was in the store, and— and Chrissy was— she said all this stuff, and I— I don’t know what’s going on,” you end with a helpless whine, a plea for clarity punctuated with another thick sniffle.

Eddie sounds nearly as helpless, though also confused. “Y/n, I can’t really understand you.” There’s a brief pause, and then a question asked as if he’s afraid of the answer. “Are you crying?”

“Mmm—” a choked little whimper is all you can manage, but it must be confirmation enough.

“Where are you?” Eddie’s voice is so gentle and concerned that the tears flow faster. “I’ll come, sweet girl. Just tell me where you are.”

You’re only five minutes from home; it makes no sense to have him meet you in the parking lot. You run your finger over the seam on the steering wheel, lips twisting as you ask, “C-can you just come to Penny’s? I n-need—”

You don’t even have to finish the sentence. “I’m clocking out right now,” Eddie says, and your finger halts in its path, stomach sinking.

“Oh—” Your dismay is clear in the smallness of your voice. “I forgot you work Saturdays.” You swipe beneath your eyes with your free hand, steadying yourself with a deep breath. “Nevermind, you can—”

You’re about to tell him he can just come over after work, but Eddie doesn’t let you. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he says, and then he’s gone without another word.

As you stare at your phone screen, guilt prickles low within you, but it can’t overwhelm the sense of relief that Eddie’s insistence brings. You keep the promise of clarity at the forefront of your mind as you drive the short distance back to your sister’s house, trying to ignore the thrill of anticipation that blooms low at the thought of seeing Eddie again. Still, the implications of Chrissy’s confrontation begin to seep through your defenses. By the time you’re unlocking Penny’s front door, paper bags loaded in your arms, you’re quivering for an entirely different reason.

You unload the bags onto the kitchen island and shuffle to the bathroom, somewhat reluctant to look in the mirror and assess the damage. When you finally do, you’re relieved to see you’re not as much of a mess as you’d feared, especially compared to last night. And it’s not like you’re trying to hide that you’d been crying— Eddie already knows you were. Thankfully, your mascara hasn’t really run aside from a small smudge beneath each eye, and though your cheeks and nose are blushed and hot, and your lashes are clumped and wet, a few tissues get you back into adequate shape.

And good thing, too. Because, though it’s nearly incomprehensible since it’s only been ten minutes, someone is knocking on your door, and you know it isn’t Penny.

Deepening light spills across the paper bags on your kitchen island like the smoldering embers of the day have flared once more before fizzling out. Golden hour, you think absently, eyes locked on the mahogany door as if you can see through to the man you know is standing on the other side. Your heart thunders as you shuffle closer, the tide of your emotions rising again, prickling at your eyes. Relief, trepidation, anticipation, hope, fear. They all rush through you, thundering with each frantic pump of your heart as your toes nudge against the welcome mat. The metal of the doorknob is slippery in your palm.

Slowly, almost shyly, you open the door.

Eddie is rocking on the balls of his feet, one knee jiggling, fist tapping his opposite thigh in a futile attempt to release the tension, but the motions ease as he sees you. All that’s left is the rapid rise of his chest beneath a grease-stained gray tank, visible thanks to the coveralls tied around his hips.

The first thing you register is that he’s dirty. Impossibly dirty. His pale quartz neck is glistening and smudged with it, and the pits of his tank are darkened with the evidence of his labor. His curls are tied back but loosely now, a single head shake away from coming undone; the dark pieces falling around his jaw are frizzy, and his bangs cling to his forehead. His face is darkened by grime left behind by hasty swipes of those calloused fingers, which you imagine must have pinched his chin in thought, scrubbed over his face in consternation, and scratched at his jaw when the drying sweat itched him.

Eddie is utterly filthy. But when he raises his hands, grubby and dark like charcoal, you want nothing more than to feel him stain every inch of you. Your face softens, the relief of his presence unable to be concealed.

“Baby—” The choked endearment seems pulled from involuntarily, and your breath hitches at the tenderness of it. Eddie’s brow pinches, brown eyes melting like honey as his fingers extend, seeking you as if by instinct. His eyes flick from your face to his hands as they reach for you, widening as if he’s just noticed the grease marring his skin.

Those calloused fingers jerk back before they make contact with you, and the abruptness has you jolting back too. You only just now notice that you’d been leaning in, swaying toward him subconsciously.

For a moment, you and Eddie just stare at each other, the relief of your reunion ticking into awkwardness as you simultaneously flinch away. Quickly, Eddie blurts, “Sorry, it’s just— I’m a fuckin’ mess—”

Your brows flash up as you rush to reassure him, bumbling over yourself as you step back to make room for him to come in. “No, it’s okay, really—” You huff a little awkward chuckle in an attempt to dispel the tension, biting your lip as Eddie clomps inside and pauses on the welcome mat. As he makes a brusque attempt to wipe off his hands on his coveralls, which are surprisingly less dirty than his skin, you offer, “You can wash in the kitchen sink.”

Wide brown eyes blink at you, and you flush without knowing why. “There’s more room there than in the bathroom,” you explain before realizing that maybe Eddie thinks you’re telling him he needs to wash up to come in the house. You hasten to add, “I mean, i-if you want to.”

He answers after a beat. “Yeah, no, that’d be good.” He’s playing with his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, a nervous gesture that you need to look away from immediately. You can already feel your moths stirring, and you haven’t even gotten any answers yet. You can't afford to be distracted.

You lead Eddie to the kitchen and he trails after you, lanky limbs tucked close to his body like he’s afraid to brush against anything. The farmhouse sink is deep, concealing Eddie’s ink up to the elbows as he wets them and pumps dish soap into his hands, scrubbing over the length of his arms, almost up to his shoulders. Dirt swirls into white porcelain as he runs calloused fingers carefully, though somewhat sheepishly, over his cheeks, mouth, and chin, then down onto his neck and over his collarbone, dripping water to darken the gray of his tank.

Brown flashes toward you, and it's then you realize you’re hovering.

You whirl away, snatching up the paper towels on the island and plopping them down beside him. You nudge them a little closer, eyes trailing over the hair that curls delicately at the edge of his ear. “Here,” you say, nodding your chin toward the paper towels when he glances over.

“Thanks.” You nod, backing off and busying yourself by unpacking the groceries from your paper bags. A loud rip draws your eyes from a container of bright red strawberries back to the sink. You suppress a smile when you see the ridiculous amount of paper towels Eddie’s torn from the roll, though you can’t help the exasperated shake of your head as you pile the powdered sugar and cocoa together, fidgeting with them to occupy your fingers.

“Where’s— oh.” You hear Eddie cut himself off behind you, ears honed to the heaviness of his bootsteps and the creak of the garbage can as he lifts the lid to drop the paper in. You swallow, nerves rising as all goes silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him damp but notably cleaner than when he came in.

Hesitantly, you offer, “Do you wanna sit?” You motion toward one of the stools at the island. He accepts your invitation soundlessly, jerking over, awkward like a newborn colt as he folds himself onto the wood. Gingerly, Eddie places his elbows on the counter, moving slowly in your space as if overly aware he’s invading it. And, sure, you’d invited him here, but you can feel it too— that foreignness, same as you’d felt with his dark presence on the couch that first time in your and Steve’s apartment. After four months, it's conspicuous and unfamiliar in a way the shock of his presence yesterday hadn't allowed you to truly notice..

You’re unsure whether to sit down or stay standing, unsure what to do with your hands, unsure what to say. But when Eddie glances at you and away, back and forth again with little hesitant flits of his wide brown eyes, you call upon the green that grows sturdy through your center. It was you who asked him to come; it should be up to you to begin this conversation.

“Sorry I wasn’t making sense on the phone,” you start. “But thanks for coming.” You glance at Eddie, and he nods, expression open and waiting. “I guess I’ll just… start at the beginning. I was at the grocery store, grocery shopping—” your cheeks pink at the inanity of the statement, and you throw a little sheepish glance at Eddie. “As one does,” you poke fun at yourself, and a corner of his mouth quirks in amusement, though it doesn’t assuage the concern in his eyes. Your fingers begin to itch, so you grab one of the paper bags, folding it as you talk. You speak over the crinkles, musing, “I was getting ingredients for this cake I’m making for my coworker. I turned around, and Chrissy was just… there.” The folded bag gets placed on the counter, and you smooth it with your fingers, wondering how Chrissy found you, not even at your sister’s apartment, but out at the store. Your nose wrinkles in confusion. “How did she even know where I was? I haven’t talked to her in months. I don’t even know—”

It dawns on you suddenly.

“She must have used ‘find my friends,’” you say, eyes darting to Eddie in realization. “I forgot I had that on.” You suddenly register your fidgeting fingers and force them to still; shyness blooms, but you push through. “...Is that how you found me?”

Eddie licks along his bottom lip. “No,” he answers, holding your gaze. “I asked Steve.”

You aren’t sure which is more of a shock: Chrissy showing up out of the blue or Eddie asking your ex-boyfriend, who knows you broke up with him because of your feelings for the other man, to help him find you. You blink, dumbstruck, voice a little weak. Reeling from the implication of it. “And he actually—?”

Eddie’s brown eyes are soft with the knowledge you share, and he doesn’t speak. He just nods.

A welling of emotions rises in you then: a potent mixture of gratefulness and wistfulness, of poignant, bittersweet appreciation as you consider how, even though you’d hurt each other, it hasn’t changed who Steve is at his core.

Despite his mistakes, Steve Harrington is a good man.

You manage a little smile, and Eddie does the same. You find yourself hoping that maybe the threads that tie Eddie and Steve together may not snap after all.

“So what happened?”

Eddie’s smoke voice prompts you out of your reverie, and your smile turns wry. "She cornered me in the baking aisle, demanding to see the texts she thought you deleted."

Eddie huffs an incredulous chuckle, but there's no humor in it. "I'm so fucking sorry." He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and mussing his bangs in a move that makes your yearning bloom, though you know he didn’t intend it to. "I was gonna talk to you later this weekend. I spent all last night collecting my shit off the lawn and moving into Gareth's place—"

You interrupt, incredulous. “She threw your stuff outside?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie chuckles, and there is some humor in it this time. It’s dry but present as he tips his head, adding, “She was... not happy.”

“I gathered that,” you say, not unkindly.

Eddie sobers, leaning back on the stool as he gazes at you. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “What did she say to you?”

Chrissy’s shrill voice echoes in your mind, a haze of diluted venom that mists your green.

—you homewrecker, you stupid slut—

—asshole’s lucky I put up with his shit for years—

—he’ll come crawling back—

—a girl like you—

Leaves sizzle, and white flowers shake; you avert your eyes, voice a bit small. “A-a bunch of stuff, Eddie. You don't wanna hear it all.” He accepts your reticence with a reassuring nod, and gratefulness dilutes the poison. Your eyes catch on the powdered sugar and cocoa, a welcome distraction you latch to. “I need to start baking this cake,” you say. You’re surprised when Eddie perks.

“I can help you.”

You’re reminded of the other time Eddie helped you in the kitchen. How nervous you’d been watching him talk with Steve and Chrissy over on your couch. How his body nearly brushed yours when he reached up to take down the crackers; how you’d feared he was trying to make a move when you weren’t yet ready.

Now you know he wasn’t.

Now you know he never would have.

Before you can suppress it, a mischievous smile tugs at your lips. Eddie spots it, matching it with a bemused smile of his own. “What?” He snaps playfully.

Your amusement is clear. “Remember when you dumped the crackers on the tray the first time you came to the apartment?”

Eddie husks a chuckle, scrubbing a hand again over his face. When it drops, you’re surprised to see a tinge of pink. “I was nervous,” he admits.

Shock and delight. “Nervous around little old me?” You tease, eyes sparkling.

“Yes!” The word bursts out of him as he leans over the counter toward you, the tips of his ears still pink when he flops back again. “I dunno,” he says, a little bashful. “I just didn't wanna mess things up.”

To know that beneath the bravado and his dark ink exterior, Eddie had felt just as you had... Warmth blooms as your moth wings flutter. You’re instantly more endeared to him. “You didn’t mess things up,” you say quietly, and you know he sees it, hears it— the evidence of your feeling. You take a quick breath, continuing on. “Okay. You can help me with the cake.”

Eddie scrambles up eagerly as you pull up the recipe on your phone, setting it between you on the counter. Together you prepare to bake, moving around each other carefully, feeling out the unpracticed rhythm of sharing a space. Eddie surveys the ingredients and retrieves the wet from the fridge as you gather the rest of the dry. You brew the cup of coffee and direct him towards the utensils— spatula to the right of the sink, electric beater in the deep drawer beneath it. As you grease and flour the pan, he asks you how to set the oven. And all throughout, you find the clarity you’d wanted, punctuating your discussion with little directions and adjustments as you bake together.

“So, yeah,” you say. “Chrissy wasn't quiet about it when she confronted me. She knew about the van, and she accused me of trying to, like, convince you to—” you stumble on the word, heart leaping, though you try to conceal it— “b-break up with her.”

Blessedly, it’s easier to talk about this as Eddie cracks eggs into the metal bowl, tongue tip sneaking between his lips. But at the waver in your voice, his brown eyes find yours.

“Shit,” he mutters, dropping his wrists to lean against the counter. “Fuck, y/n, I'm so sorry. If I had any idea she'd do that to you…” Eddie sighs, eyes heavy with regret. You find yourself wishing you could take it from him. “I didn't say anything like that, that you wanted me to break up with her or something. Probably shouldn't have told her anything at all, but she just—"

Eddie breaks off, glancing away, jaw tight. The pain in his expression is clear, and you think of claws in his back, blood staining hotel sheets. Though it had been a shock that Chrissy knew about the van, and part of you wants to be indignant that you’d been blindsided, you can’t really be mad at Eddie. You’d seen it for too long— the hold she has over him.

Had, your mind whispers, and wings flutter.

"It's not your fault." Eddie shakes his head, curls coming loose, but you don’t let him dismiss your reassurance. You pause with the electric beater in the bowl, poised but off, ducking your head to catch his gaze. Once he looks at you, you continue earnestly, "You told her the truth, Eddie. I'm not mad at you for telling her the truth. You did nothing wrong."

Eddie quirks a half-hearted smile at you, though he does look relieved. Satisfied, you start the beater, and he talks a little louder over the whir. "She made all that up about you in her head because, well." He looks away, and you keep your gaze on the chocolate mixture in the bowl, hoping it’ll be easier for him to talk without your eyes on him. It seems to be, because he continues, "I did try at first. To pretend nothing had changed. But Chris, she could always tell when something was off with me. The more I tried to tell her everything was fine, the more she'd push. The more she'd need me to do to try to convince her." He rubs at his knuckles, and you know he's missing his rings.

"She started, like..." When he pauses, you look up to see Eddie watching you. "Well, I dunno if you wanna hear this."

You take a slow breath through your nose to resist the rise of your anxiety. You want Eddie to feel free to share, just as he makes you feel. And part of you also just wants to know. "You can tell me," you assure him. "If you want to."

Eddie runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes dipping to his hands as he holds the bowl steady for you. "Couple months ago she started dropping all these hints, like, that she wanted me to buy her a ring. Came to a point that I started working overtime just to have more time away from home. Kind of delaying the inevitable, in a way, but... I dunno. I knew what I wanted to do long before I did it."

You glance up again to see him looking at you, face so soft, and it makes your throat go thick. "I just knew it was gonna be rough," he continues. "That she wasn't gonna make it easy. But then yesterday, when I heard you—"

He breaks off, and you turn off the beaters, resting them on the counter. Chocolate batter drips slowly back into the silver bowl, and you keep your eyes on it, trying not to let your lip wobble. Eddie's voice seems louder in the sudden silence. Hoarse, more labored when he continues. "When I heard you cry like that— God, y/n, I just... It just all clicked into place for me. Honestly, I didn't care anymore how ugly it was going to be." He looks at you mournfully, eyes glassy, and your green squeezes you until your sternum cracks.

You don’t hesitate to cup his cheek, wanting to convey the depth of your feeling.

Compassion for his situation; heartache for the way he needed to rend his flesh to get free.

Understanding for why it took so long; forgiveness for what he did to you yesterday.

And a tinge of guilt. Guilt that you’d been the one to ask him to stay.

"Eddie—" His name falls from your lips in a tender whisper, and when he lists into your touch, you hitch a tiny whimper.

"I'm sorry, sweet girl," he whispers. "I never want you to cry like that again."

Your growth reaches and strives for him, chest aching as your chin quivers. “I’m sorry, too,” you whisper.

Eddie’s brow wrinkles in confusion but crumples when you clarify in a tiny, trembling voice, “I’m sorry I told you to stay.”

The understanding dawns between his eyes, and it’s the blooming ache of a bruise between you. You both sit in the moment until the emotional whiplash of the last two days begins to overwhelm you, stinging at the corners of your eyes.

And Eddie can see it written on your face. He takes your wrist in his calloused fingers, pulling your hand gently from his face to press a brief, chaste kiss to your palm. The press of his lips soothes the mottling of your hurt, and as he holds your hand against his mouth, your thumb draws tenderly along his cheek.

The understanding you and Eddie share is the blooming ache of a bruise, but now, it can start to heal.

He released you gently, and when he speaks again, Eddie’s voice is hoarse and quiet, but the question he asks isn't what you expect. He motions to the batter between you, asking, "You want this in the pan?"

You chuckle, and it comes out a little watery. "I think I'll pour it," you say, smiling at the wry twist to his plush lips. "No offense."

“Wow.” Eddie throws up his calloused hands and huffs disbelievingly through his nose, but you know he’s not really offended. You pour as he scrapes down the leftover batter with the spatula per your instruction, and he opens the door to the oven for you so you can push the pan in carefully. As it snaps shut, the sound seems uncannily like the final punctuation at the end of something. Your clarity has been gained; all questions have been answered. The task has been completed. As you stare through the glass window to the baking pan beyond, the silence lingers between you, beckoning the question. What now?

You break it a bit lamely. "Thanks for helping with the cake," you say.

"Yeah, sure," Eddie replies, scratching the back of his loosely-tied curls. You wonder if this is it— if he'll leave now. You're chewing on your lip, eyes darting to him and away again as he does the same.

And then his stomach growls loudly.

"Shit," Eddie deadpans, and when you giggle, he husky a goofy chuckle back. As your humor subsides, it segues into a very clear choice. Eddie can leave and go on with his night, have dinner on his own.

Or…

As the offer occurs to you, you suddenly feel shy; self-consciousness squirms within at the thought of being rejected. Still, you glance at Eddie hopefully. "You wanna order some food?"

"Yeah." The word escapes in an immediate woosh, and Eddie’s crooked grin is unreasonably charming. "Honestly, I could eat that whole goddamn cake right now. Just, like, raw."

You hazard a guess. "You like Chinese?"

Eddie’s grin transforms to a slow, spreading smile, fond as it dimples his cheek. You flush under his gaze, but it's not uncomfortable. It's nice. "I love Chinese," he says quietly, and you wonder what has made this moment what it seems to be for him. Before you can wonder too long, Eddie breaks it. "Just none of that healthy shit.” He eyes you shrewdly as if suspicious. “I want all the MSG."

You snort, glancing up from your phone where you’ve started to Google the restaurants nearby. "You can have whatever you want, Ed," you throw over your shoulder. Your wings flutter pleasantly as he beams that goofy smile you’re so fond of, crinkling the corners of his eyes. What a dork, you think, and there’s nothing but affection in the roll of your eyes.

–

Eddie is, apparently, pickier about his Chinese food preferences than he initially let on. He adamantly insists on Chinese donuts, and the first three restaurants you find don’t have them. The timer for the cake ends up beeping before you’ve even placed your order, but you can’t be too exasperated. How could you resist that pout of his? Full lips pink and pooched, brown eyes so wide and warm and shiny as he tips his head and leans in, coming eye-level with you as his loose curls brush your shoulder. It’s downright criminal, is the thing.

Eddie beats you to the oven, pulling on Penny’s frilly oven mitts as you concede and call in your order. You’re only half-listening to the tinny voice on the other end of the phone, watching Eddie carry the hot pan over to the stove. He sets it down with caution before spinning to you with an air of triumph. You complete the order and head over, standing beside him to peer down at your cake. It smells wonderfully of rich chocolate that’s still succulently moist, wafting damp steam that kisses your cheeks. And as you both hover over it, heads close together, it hits you suddenly how domestic this feels— just you and Eddie, alone in the kitchen, admiring the fruits of your labor.

Your green quivers, yearning. Your wings flutter almost wildly, almost overwhelmingly so. You speak to distract yourself from the feeling welling up from the bottom of you.

"So, um... you wanna watch something? I have Netflix."

Eddie quirks a mischievous brow, and you flush, smacking his stomach with your arm. It makes him beam instantly. "D'you have HBO?" he asks, and your brow crinkles.

"No," you say, and you swear he lights up brighter than the sun.

"Oh," he chuckles out the word, eyes nearly crinkled shut with joy. "You're in for a treat."

You get him set up with the remote so he can log in to his account on Penny’s television and ask if he wants a drink. You fill glasses, placing them on the coffee table as the screen prompts Eddie to choose a profile: a big E for Eddie, a big C for Chrissy. You brace for the blow, for the sting, but it doesn’t come.

Eddie clicks into his profile, leaving Chrissy’s behind, and you don’t feel a thing.

Still, when you sit next to him on the couch, you leave a healthy gap between you, a few inches to avoid presumption. Eddie doesn’t close the gap, but he doesn’t seem bothered, either. His legs are spread comfortably as he navigates the menu, and his eyes don’t leave the screen as you ask, “So, what’s this treat called?”

“The Last of Us.” His broad hands dance with that familiar frenetic energy as he motions while he explains. “It’s based on a video game from 2013, but you don’t need to play the game to get it. Basically, the premise is that a fungus infects people and turns them into zombies. Well, not really zombies because they're not actually dead, just mind-controlled. But it’s close enough. It’s a post-apocalyptic setting; lots of nature overtaking the land, so the landscape shots are beautiful. And the reason for the outbreak isn’t as bogus as zombie shows usually are. It feels like it could actually happen, which I really like.”

You chuckle, tickled by his keenness, and Eddie flushes at the amusement in your expression, smiling bashfully.

Subtly, you nudge in closer, shrinking the inches minutely. You don’t need to feign enthusiasm. “It sounds good. Let's do it.”

Eddie seems pleased. “Cool.” He leans back before popping up straight again almost immediately. “Uh, just, fair warning, ‘cause I know you don’t like scary stuff. There are no real jumpscares in this, but some of it is kind of creepy.”

Despite the unease you would typically feel about that, you find yourself genuinely saying, “I think I’ll be okay. If it gets too creepy, I’ll let you know.”

Eddie’s free hand twitches in his lap like he wants to touch you, but he settles for a smile instead before pressing play.

Your food arrives a third of the way through the first episode. You'd been riveted and are now dismayed by the knock on the door despite the hunger gnawing at your stomach. You tap Eddie’s arm urgently, drawing his gaze. “Pause it!” You exclaim, clambering off the couch, intent on making the exchange as quickly as possible to return to the action. When the noise of chaos suddenly cuts as Eddie obliges you, it brings a sigh of relief.

Despite how engaging the show is, you find yourself looking at Eddie as he slurps his lo mein noodles, brown eyes wide. “Look, see how it throws itself around?” He talks through a mouthful, indicating the infected chasing Joel and his daughter. “That’s ‘cause when the fungus takes over a person’s brain, it isn’t trying to be careful with the body anymore.” He shakes his head in awe. “Fuckin’ metal.”

You suppose it’s kind of gross, the way he’s talking with his mouth full, but the expression on his face is so boyishly charming that you can’t bring yourself to care. Between Eddie’s eagerness and your shock and dismay at the episode’s ending, you're hooked instantly. "Can we watch the next one?” You ask eagerly, not missing the brief smug twitch of his mouth, the one that means, ‘knew you’d like it.’

"Sure," Eddie replies, sounding casual. But when he brushes your hair back from your shoulder, lips twisting as if he's trying to contain the depth of his happiness, you can see it leaking through his bright eyes.

As episode two eases into episode three and you begin to edge into binge-watching territory without complaint, you find yourself drifting closer to Eddie with tiny shifts of your body. First, your knees turn inward, then your shoulders tilt. Then you’re sinking back into the cushions on an angle, all the while seeking Eddie's light, half-subconscious and half-aware, though the aware part of you does nothing to stop it. And he's doing the same thing: spreading his legs, leaning back against the cushions, taking up space as he edges toward the center of the couch. Eddie inches ever closer until you finally feel his coveralls brush your hip and the heat of his armpit against your shoulder when he throws his arm around the back.

When Frank climbs out of the hole in the ground and is greeted with Bill’s shotgun, your knee bumps against Eddie's thigh, and you keep it there. When Bill takes over for Frank at the piano, Eddie shifts until his side is pressing lightly to yours. And as Bill and Frank fall into bed together, you look at Eddie and feel your moth wings flutter, that rushing giddiness, that nervous anticipation like this is a first date. Because, for you, there's just something about eating in and watching television cuddled up on the couch, just you and a special person.

There always has been.

As episode three progresses through the years of the characters' lives, you press even closer to Eddie, relaxing as you feel him lean into you in kind. You relish the novelty of what you feel: the peace of being alone, the shared experience of doing something mundane with him, the emotional journey this television show is taking you on together. You focus on the physical sensations, too: the rise and fall of his warm chest, the tickle of his curls against your temple when he tugs you in with an arm wrapped around your shoulder, and your head falls to the crook of his neck. You even relish his scent, spicy and smoky but acridly tangy like motor oil and body odor, reminding you of the sweat and labor of his day. But you don't care. In fact, you tuck your nose against the gray of his tank, inhaling slow and steady as you let your eyes slip closed for just a moment, breathing in as much smoke as you can bear. You feel relaxed— not quite at the edge of sleepiness, but so utterly, wonderfully content.

When Eddie pulls your legs onto his lap, the arm wrapped around you tightening around your shoulders, you lift your head and smile up at him. But the hesitant concern on his face is unexpected. Your sleepy contentment fades at his expression. "What is it, Ed?"

You reach tender fingertips to smooth the crease between his brow, and his face softens when you do. "This episode... it gets sad," he murmurs, brown eyes darting between yours to read your reaction. "Are you sure you wanna finish it right now? We can stop."

You glance at the men on your sister's television screen, how the sun shines behind them as they feast on red, succulent strawberries— the spoils of the months Frank spent tending the plants in secret. You look back at the man who has you wrapped up in his tender embrace, cradling you securely. "It's okay," you say, lips curving in a sweet smile. "I wanna finish it."

Eddie wasn't kidding.

Your breath stutters in your chest, chin trembling as you try to hold back your tears. You're tired of crying— you're cried out, really, from these last two days— but watching this might leave you no choice. Eddie's thumb rubs a soothing pattern along your arm, plush lips shushing against your temple as you crowd close to his side for comfort. You curl your knees up, almost in his lap as you clutch at his free hand. Sadness weighs in your chest, but you can't look away. The pain is just too bittersweet, and Eddie's closeness is just too precious.

The third episode is nearly over when the door creaks open, drawing your heavy eyes. Penny freezes in the doorway, and you see yourself suddenly through her eyes: the room dark save for the glow of the television, empty Chinese food containers scattered messily on her coffee table, and her baby sister tangled up with an unfamiliar man on the couch, eyes big and glossy.

You tense slightly, pinned by her wide-eyed stare, but you don’t move away from Eddie. "Hey," you greet her cautiously.

"Hey." Penny matches your inflection before her eyes flick over Eddie, a brow quirking as her eyes scan him— heavily inked arm thrown over your shoulders, your legs in his lap, his earrings glinting, his hair long and dishevelled. You’re at the edge of offense when she says, not quite critically, “Dirty coveralls on my couch?”

Immediately, Eddie jerks, jostling you as he moves your legs off him and makes to get up, stuttering an apology. “Shit, sorry—”

But Penny seems to be amused by his earnestness. “Nah, it's fine,” she says, and Eddie’s eyes dart between you and your sister as if he’s assessing whether to take her at her word. You roll your eyes toward her, not missing the smirk she tosses you before pulling off her coat and hanging it on the rack. You just know she’d taken pleasure from making Eddie jump.

You gently guide Eddie back to sitting, and almost reluctantly, he resettles. When you put your legs back in his lap, he holds them there with a warm palm, touch tentative now with an audience. You blush with pleasure as his thumb traces lightly, so lightly, over your calf. You distract yourself by calling to Penny, "How was the award ceremony?"

"It was good," she replies, closer than you thought she’d be as she passes by the back of the couch, heading toward her bedroom. Her tone is casual but edged with a sense of knowing implication that makes you want to squirm. You whip back around to face the television, noting that the episode has since finished. Eddie pauses it before the next one can start.

Penny’s arrival hasn’t quite put you on edge, but it has changed the atmosphere in the condo. You and Eddie are no longer alone, no longer quite as peaceful as before. And it seems Penny's arrival has shaken Eddie out of that place, too, because he says, “It's getting late.”

You glance at him to see his expression is largely neutral. You, on the other hand, can’t fully conceal your disappointment at the significance of his observation— that it’s time for him to go. You nod, hoping it doesn’t appear as reluctant as you feel.

Eddie is hesitant, quiet as he watches you, and you think maybe that neutral expression isn’t neutral at all. Maybe it’s just carefully guarding against his own disappointment. It could be just your hope talking, and you’re starting to think so, but then Eddie is leaning a little closer, and his lips are brushing your temple, and he’s murmuring, “Do you want me to go?”

A low flutter. A rush of green. Your throat is dry, and you swallow to wet it. “No,” you whisper back. “Do you want to go?”

You peek up at him, and light glows in honey brown. “No,” Eddie murmurs.

You take a slow breath. “Okay,” you say, somewhat louder, but voice still tiny. You bite your lip. “My bed is small,” you tell him. Negotiating. Mitigating expectations.

Eddie’s lips curl with a slight, fond smile. “That's okay.”

You feel your own smile spreading. You keep the exchange going. “You'll need to shower first.”

“So will you,” he counters, eyes alight with his tease. “I’m filthy, and you've been cuddling me all night.”

You feel heat rise, glowing in your cheeks. But it isn’t with embarrassment, and it isn’t with arousal either. “Yes, you are,” you say, sweet and tender. “And yes, I have.”

Eddie’s calloused fingers squeeze warm around your leg.

–

The bathroom is right across the hall from Penny’s office, which is now your bedroom. The heat of the water is steaming up the mirror, but you can’t see it because you’re already concealed behind the curtain, standing under the warm stream that beats against your back, wetting the ends of your hair. You’re listening to the drops hit the basin and bounce off your shower curtain, and you’re not doing anything else. Though you stepped under the spray several minutes ago, you haven’t touched your soap yet.

There are two doors that separate you from Eddie. He’s sitting on the floor in your bedroom, which you know because he’d clambered down cross-legged before you left the room. He’d chosen a spot on the hardwood, away from the area rug and the rumpled comforter of your twin bed. He’d told you he didn’t want to get any of your things dirty.

There are two doors that separate you from Eddie, but your green knows how close he is.

Now that you’ve had a taste of closeness, you feel his absence keenly. Your wings are fluttering, frantic to find him. The heated spray is prickling the backs of your arms, running down your legs, reminding you of your nakedness. Reminding you that you’re currently bare and the man you yearn for is just a dozen steps away.

You and Penny never lock the bathroom door at home; if it’s closed, you both know not to enter. Tonight is no different, making what you’re considering an actual possibility. But Penny is home now, and fearing what she might think is the source of your indecision. Still, your green is reaching, trembling, striving for Eddie, and your sister already saw you cuddling with him on the couch.

You just want to be close.

You decide that if Eddie can hear you through two doors and over the stream of the shower, great, and if not, so be it. You call his name.

“Eddie?”

A pause yields nothing but the steady thrum of water on the curtain, and then you try one final time, projecting your voice a little louder. “Eddie?”

After a long moment, you hear a creak on the carpet just outside the bathroom and then his hoarse smoke voice, a little tentative and muffled through wood. “Yeah?”

Nervousness surges, but you pluck up your courage, pushing through the pause. Your teeth scrape your bottom lip before you release it, but your voice still comes out softer and higher than you’d like. “...Do you wanna come in?”

Your heart is thumping in your chest, eyes darting as you concentrate on listening. There’s no reply, but you hear the door creak open and close again. Your heart thumps harder at the sound of rustling fabric, and you know it’s Eddie’s clothing dropping to the floor; the curtain shifts, and you step aside, making room in preparation for him. Wings flutter and flap, and green tendrils reach until you see that face— white framed with black, tinged now with pink— peek tentatively beyond the curtain.

Eddie’s eyes wander over your naked form only briefly before returning to your face. “Hi.”

Your mouth curls. “Hi,” you echo him, pinching the curtain back so he can step in. He does so quickly so as not to let the water out, and the curtain pulls from between your fingers when he tugs it back into place, but you don’t notice because you’re just looking at him.

The pale quartz of Eddie’s body is inches from yours where he stands under the spray, blocking it from reaching you. The water is already washing the grime away and soaking his hair, smoothing curls nearly straight. You follow the path of the water down the ink of his chest and arms to where it drips over ruddy knuckles and from calloused fingertips; you follow other trails down his soft stomach, over the plane of his hip, down the sparse hair on his legs and to his pink toes.

Eddie’s toes are a revelation. You’ve never noticed his toes before.

You look up again into honey brown and sway closer to touch the wet hair now flattened to his collarbone. Eddie reaches for you when you reach for him, and his calloused fingers brush your waist. And slowly, by degrees, you close the gap until Eddie’s warm front is pressed to yours.

Everything is pliant and slick, even the heat of his soft length where it presses between your bodies. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, and his wrap around your waist; you embrace each other in the water, in the haze of steam and humidity. You sigh against him when he tangles his fingers in your wet hair, and you turn your head to press the side of your face to his chest. Eddie’s heartbeat is steady under your ear, and his arms are firm around you; he’s so solid within your grasp, so wonderfully and unbelievably here.

You only pull back when water splashes you in the face; he smiles warmly when you blink and releases you to wipe it away.

"C'mere," you say then. "I'll wash you."

You take his arms, and he lets you switch your positions, so he's out of the spray. "Am I gonna smell like you?" He murmurs, not looking all that upset about it.

"Yup." You grin, reaching around him to indicate the shampoo bottle on the shelf. "Shampoo is here."

Eddie dispenses a pump while you squirt body wash into your hands; he lathers up his hair, giving you a chance to run your hands over his pecs and under his arms, washing out the hair there. You take more body wash and clean him gently, soft palms trailing over warm wet skin, washing away the grime and sweat as the dirt follows suds down the drain. You clean all of him— the ink on his arms, his pale sides, his hips, his groin, his legs. Even the backs of his knees, which you bend to reach.

This isn’t the first time you’ve touched Eddie. You’ve touched probably ninety percent of his body in the five months you’ve spent together in your arrangement. But this time, it isn't sexual; it's just intimate. You know it, and he knows it. In fact, when you draw closer to reach around and start on his back, and between you, you feel him semi-hard and hot against your belly, he even looks sheepish. "Sorry," he mutters, but you reassure him quickly.

"It's okay," you murmur, gazing up into his face. "Let me get your back."

You swap places so that he's under the stream facing away from you, and you gather the length of his hair, draping it over his shoulder. You wash the rest of him, running your hands reverently over the muscles of his shoulders, down the slope of his back to the dimples at the base of his spine, and then over his butt. His hips twitch at the tickle of your touch, and you both chuckle. “Okay,” you say, and he turns around to face you again, cupping your neck with a thankful hand.

“Your turn,” he says, and you pass him the body wash. He washes you carefully, calloused hands smoothing over your wet skin. Never lingering for too long; still not sexual, but not clinical, either. Sensual and tender, like he wants to take care of you. You sigh as you wash your hair, enjoying every touch as Eddie’s hands smooth over your shoulders and arms, your breasts and your soft stomach, the wideness of your hips, and the pliant fat of your thighs. He washes your legs, and you lean against him with a hand on his shoulder to lift your feet at his insistence. He nudges your arm so you’ll turn, and you oblige him, letting him wash your back with just as much care as you wash your face.

Finally, the water begins to run lukewarm, and you both rinse off and finish up quickly. You grab Eddie a towel from the nearby rack, passing it over before gathering one to wrap around your body. The shower curtain rings clatter against the bar as you open it and step out, eyes catching on the rumple of Eddie’s soiled clothing on the floor and the plaid red of his boxers peeking from the pile. You purse your lips as you realize he has nothing to change into.

You turn to see him toweling off his inked arms haphazardly. “So, uh—” Eddie glances at you from beneath the damp tangle of his long bangs, and the sight of those warm amber eyes makes you flutter. “I just realized you don’t have any clean clothes,” you say.

Eddie’s brows shoot up, and he nods slowly. “Right,” he says, mouth tightening to a wryly amused line. “Well, shit.”

You giggle at his baldness, and his grin spreads almost involuntarily as he sees your mirth. “I’ll see if Pen has any of Charlie’s you can borrow,” you offer, slipping out the door and closing it behind you, hiking your towel a little more securely around your body as you knock softly on your sister’s bedroom door.

It cracks enough for her to poke her head out, expression expectant. “Pen,” you say, coaxing like only siblings can be, “do you happen to have any of Charlie's clothes that Eddie can borrow? Like some shorts and a t-shirt, or some sweatpants?” After a second, you resist a blush and tack on, “...or some boxers?”

She quirks a brow. “Isn't this the guy you were hysterically crying over yesterday?”

You huff. “It's different now,” you grumble, and she just shakes her head fondly.

"Lemme look." She comes back with a white t-shirt breasted with the firehouse emblem and a pair of comfy sweatpants. “No boxers, sorry,” she tells you. You nod and hold up her offerings, noting that both will be far too big for Eddie’s lanky frame. He’s not a small guy; it’s just that Charlie is a big guy. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Thanks,” you say, turning from the door.

Penny stops you before you can get too far, and you whip around at the salaciousness in her voice. “Wrap it before you tap it,” she says with a smirk.

You blush furiously. “Pen!” you hiss, “It's not— We’re just—” You huff, stumbling in your embarrassment. “We're just gonna sleep,” you finally get out.

“Uh-huh,” she says as if she doesn’t believe you, but her eyes are soft when she sing-songs, “Goodnight, y/n.”

“Night.” You grumble, bidding a hasty retreat back to the bathroom. You slip back through the door with your procurements to find Eddie with the towel now slung around his waist. You hold out your offering, and as he takes it from you, you realize you have another problem. Regretfully, you tell him, “I don't have a spare toothbrush.”

“It's okay,” Eddie assures you, dropping the bundle of clothing onto the counter. “I can use my finger.”

You squirm a little with self-consciousness, unsure whether he’ll find what you’re about to offer strange. “...You can borrow mine,” you finally say.

He looks at you, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s fine. I don't care.”

And where you thought maybe Eddie wouldn’t want to use your toothbrush, you find instead that as you pass it to him, he looks at it for a moment, smiling softly. Subtle, as if he’s smiling to himself.

There's intimacy in this, too: watching Eddie use your toothbrush and rinse it off carefully before passing it back to you. You've had his dick in your mouth, and you've swallowed his cum, but somehow this— standing at the sink, brushing your teeth with the same brush he just used while Eddie drops the towel and pulls on Charlie's too-big clothes, toweling off his hair by ruffling it like one would dry off a dog— feels more intimate than anything you’ve done before.

You dart across the hallway in your towel, retrieving a pair of plain cotton underwear and a loose t-shirt from the folded pile of clothes in your closet. You hear Eddie enter behind you, but you don’t hesitate to remove your towel and hang it from the closet doorknob, pulling on your panties and shirt unhurriedly. You tie up your damp hair with a silk scrunchie, watching Eddie pile his soiled clothing into a bare corner of your room to be dealt with later. Together, wordlessly, you straighten your sheets and comforter, tidying your tiny bed in the warm, subtle lamplight of your bedroom. It casts shadows over Eddie’s face, deepening the sharpness of his jaw and the definition of his brow. When he glances up, noticing you watching him from the other side of the mattress, the amber of his eyes stirs your green and feels like home.

Finally, it’s time for bed.

You click out the lamp, and in the darkness, lit by cool moonbeams illuminating your headboard's contours, you and your light maneuver onto the tiny bed. There’s nothing quite like the slide of your fresh, clean limbs against the smooth sheets, the way it contrasts with the warmth of Eddie’s body, the way your damp hair kisses each others’ necks as you nuzzle together, shifting until you’re both comfortable. It takes a little while to find a position that satisfies you both, and with some humor, you say, “Told you it was cramped.”

You can’t really see him in the darkness, but you can hear when Eddie chuckles, and you can taste his minty breath when it puffs spicy against your lips. His voice is a rumble you feel more than hear. "You weren't kidding," he murmurs. "But I don't mind."

Eddie can’t see the way your face softens, but it does. "Me neither," you whisper.

You feel his arm shift, and your eyes flutter closed as you feel the tiniest brush against your forehead— a seeking fingertip. His touch is featherlight as he moves hair off your forehead and then drags that same hand back to lightly pinch the shell of your ear, dragging those calloused fingers down to the lobe. "Goodnight, sweet girl."

You seek him blindly too, searching with your face until your lips are skimming his cheek. Now oriented, you move your head down to press a soft, tender kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth. And when you feel him melt into the bed, muscles relaxing against you, your growth— that yearning, quivering green— finally settles into contentment. "Goodnight, Eddie."

–

When the morning light chases away the chill of twilight, you wake first. The first thing you notice, before you’ve even opened your eyes, is the uncomfortable dampness of your body. You're sweating with the heat trapped under the covers, your front overly warm where it's pressed along Eddie's, belly to collarbone. But you can't be bothered to move. You don't want to disturb him.

When you open your eyes, it’s to a wholly charming sight: Eddie’s nose is whistling slightly as he breathes, his mouth is half-open, and he's drooling on your pillow. Your soft expression transforms when you notice, lips twisting into a delighted grin. He's gonna be so embarrassed that he drooled all over my bed. After a moment of amusement, you move your arm carefully, dipping your hand beneath the hem of his shirt to draw your fingers slowly, so slowly up his back. You feel him sigh and nuzzle closer to you, a tiny sleepy grunt escaping from his lips as he closes them. Your affection for him rushes so strongly through you that you're left almost dizzy.

The room is lit with the pale light of early morning, and you stare at the freckle underneath Eddie’s eye, the long eyelashes dusting his cheek. He looks so peaceful, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes softened by sleep. You nestle your face closer until you can feel each exhale from his nose tickle your upper lip, and you close your eyes, basking in his nearness.

You don’t know how long you lay that way, tangled with Eddie, unable to tell where he ends, and you begin. Your lips are so close they almost touch when he shifts his face just slightly, and then they do— a tiny whisper of plush lips on yours, the slightest brush that has your moths fluttering to life. It almost seems incidental until you feel the arm slung around your waist tighten, bringing you closer. And Eddie might almost think you're still asleep if it wasn't for the fingers trailing absent patterns along his back.

Now that you know he’s awake, you return his kiss, pressing your lips to his with your eyes still closed. And in the light of morning that shines pink against your eyelids, before the world has fully awakened, the only sound that exists is the tiny smack of the kiss you give Eddie and the woosh of his contented sigh, a sigh you breathe in like gentle smoke.

When you move your head back, blinking your eyes open again to look into Eddie's face, the sight that greets you is new but so wholly, wonderfully welcome.

Eddie's dark curls are splayed across your pillow, plush lips deep pink and puffy, eyes heavy with sleep but the color so deep and rich it nearly steals your breath.

Nine months ago, Eddie Munson was a stranger, sticking out like a dark mark in the pastel of the apartment you shared with your boyfriend Steve. He was foreign, unfamiliar; you didn't know him.

Now, he smiles, and you know his gentleness; you know the light in his brown eyes. He who teased out the growth, who caressed the leaves between his calloused fingers, who shone tenderly upon it until it blossomed from the center of you. You're bearing fruit, the words of your soul, and you use them to nourish you both.

When you break the silence, you don't exchange platitudes of good morning or question how he'd slept. Instead, you say, "I've never felt this way about anyone before."

Eddie’s eyes search yours quietly until he husks a quiet question. "Not even Steve?"

You don’t need to think about your answer. "No," you whisper. "Steve is a good man, but you see all of me in a way he never did."

You watch Eddie’s throat bob in a thick swallow. "I think..." he whispers, wide-eyed and tentative. Like it’s a revelation; like it’s never happened before. "I think you see all of me, too."

"I do." You brush the curls from his face, fingers like reverence incarnate. "I'm in love with you, Eddie."

And to see it— this man, who guards himself with ink and leather and chains— to see how you feed him with your words, how he swallows them up. To see how his expression becomes so vulnerable, pink on black and white; how he drops his armor and the gentleness of his eyes blooms over his whole face. You watch it, and you know it's something rare to behold. And then he speaks, plush lips spilling words that water your growth like rain.

"I love you, sweet girl. I love you."

You’re blooming. You’re thriving. You’re rushing with the force of your joy until it stings the corners of your eyes. Eddie touches your face, wiping away the happy rain that has fallen and kissed your cheek. "Does this mean you're mine?" He asks, hushed and quiet, as if he’s afraid to hope for the answer.

"Yes," you reply, fluttering toward the light that shines in beautiful brown eyes. "I'm yours, Eddie."

A deep breath, a pinch of your brow. More than you ever thought you could ask for, but you do. You do. "And are you mine?"

Eddie’s answer is immediate, husked like rich and heady smoke as he strokes your hair. "As long as you want me, sweetheart."

You want to say, Forever, Eddie.

So you do.

"Forever, Eddie. I'll want you forever."

Eddie kisses your lips, and the taste of his mouth is sweet, sweet like ripe red strawberries, sweet with the promise of a thousand more kisses just like it.

"Then you'll have me, y/n. You'll have me forever."

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