The man stops in front of Steve, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as he looks Steve up and down. Steve continues to chew his gum, giving the man a bored look before blowing a bubble and letting it pop.
“Um, I’m Eddie,” Eddie, apparently, places a hand on his own chest like that’s explanation enough. “Eddie Munson?”
“Hi, Eddie,” Steve swaps the gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “Badge for security clearance, please.”
“I don’t have a badge, dude,” Eddie chuckles awkwardly. “Badges are for assistants and technicians. I’m a performer. If I do have a badge, it’s likely in the green room. I'll tell you what, let me through and I’ll gladly hunt it down for you.”
Steve stops Eddie from moving forward by placing two finger tips on his sternum, gently pushing him back. He blows another bubble, holding back a grin as he watches Eddie’s eye twitch like he can’t believe Steve’s audacity.
“No badge for security clearance, no entrance to the venue,” Steve explains flatly as he drops his hand away. “Sorry dude, them’s the breaks.”
“But I’m a prefor-”
“Even "performers" need badges to gain access backstage,” Steve uses his fingers to make air quotes before crossing his arms back over his chest. “Please make your way down to the front entrance and take it up with the head office if you want.”
Eddie stands there, stunned before laughing with disbelief.
“But I’m Eddie,” Eddie throws his hands up. “This is ridiculous, I’m headlining this fucking show!”
“And I’m Steve,” Steve tilts his head to the side, widening his eyes and talking slowly like he’s speaking to someone particularly stupid. “Steve with security. Which means if you don’t have a badge for security clearance, I can’t let you in. Simple math, Eddie.”
“It’s obvious you don’t know this, and that’s fine, but I’m kind of a big deal around here,” Eddie squints at Steve, his smile sarcastic. “Like I said, I’m headlining this show and I really need to get back there so I can get ready for the performance tonight. Surely you’ve heard of the headliner for the show you’re working on since you take your job so seriously.”
“Of course,” Steve says, his face indifferent. “His name is Kas. He plays with Corroded Coffin, who are all already backstage. I swiped their badges earlier. Nice guys.”
“I know they’re nice guys, they’re my band, and that’s my stage name,” Eddie grits out. “Which I would love to prove to you but you have to let me back there in order to do that.”
Steve doesn’t respond, continuing to chew his gum while Eddie scrubs at his face out of frustration.
“Under different circumstances, this little bitchy indifference act would really work on me but as it stands I actually need to get back stage so I can do my fucking job.”
“No badge, no-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it, thank you so much,” Eddie interrupts him, waving him off. “You’re an immovable pillar of securital integrity, your parents must be very proud.”
Steve feels expression tighten slightly, not dignifying Eddie with a response as Eddie continues glares up at him.
“Who even added you onto the security team? I don’t remember seeing you before tonight,” Eddie squints at Steve suspiciously. “See, I take pride in knowing everyone on my team. It’s a courtesy thing.”
“Dustin Henderson added me tonight because someone called out sick and I owed him a favor,” Steve explains boredly, privately mourning the loss of flavor in his gum. He’d have to grab a new stick as soon as he got rid of this persistent weirdo. “He’s the head technician and an old friend of mine. Since it’s your team and you know everyone, why don’t you just give them a call and have someone grab your badge for you?”
“That-” Eddie responds hotly, pointing a finger in Steve’s face before hesitating as soon as he’s taken in what Steve’s said. “-is a great idea, actually. Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?”
Steve quirks an eyebrow, continuing to chew his hardened, dull gum as he watches Eddie fish around in his pockets for his phone.
Eddie pats his front pockets and then the back ones, grumbling to himself as his eyebrows furrow. His expression turns frantic as he slaps his palms over the decorated vest he’s wearing. He checks the inner pockets of the vest before dropping his hands back down to his pants pockets again.
Steve swallows his gum and shifts his weight from one hip to the other, his eyebrow raising even higher as Eddie continues feeling around for a phone that’s clearly not there.
“...Okay, so the thing is, I might have left my phone on-”
“Look, man,” Steve interrupts with a tired huff. “It’s clear that you really want to get back there so this band must mean a lot to you, which I can appreciate. But this is not the way to go about this. The Corroded Coffin guys seem like good dudes, I’m sure they’ll make an appearance at the stage door tonight after the show if you wanted to get some merch signed. But my friends are working on this show and I’m not going to let some random guy back there and potentially put people I care about in danger, okay?”
Eddie’s face falls from angry to sheepishly and guilty.
“Okay,” Eddie says with a tone of defeat. “Okay, that's fair. I have to hand it to you, you’re really good at your job, Steve. Normally, I would appreciate and commend you for but right now it’s kind of fucking up my whole evening.”
“Sorry,” Steve says with a small shrug. “Dustin would never let me hear the end of it if I messed this up for him. This job means the world to him.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty good at it too. Don’t tell him I said that though, he’ll turn into such a smug little bastard,” Eddie says with a forlorn sigh before his eyes widen with realization. “Wait! Dustin! You said he’s your friend, right?”
“Right,” Steve raises an eyebrow.
“Which means you have his phone number, right?”
“Right,” Steve says again, his expression turning guarded. “It would be weird if I didn’t. It’s not like pen pals are super in these days.”
Eddie lets out a cackle of success, leaning into Steve’s space with a wide grin.
“Let me borrow your phone. I’ll call him and prove I’m not some freak groupie,” Eddie’s eyes sparkle with glee and mischief. “Then would you let me backstage, Mister Doorkeep?”
“No,” Steve moves subtly back, his face heating up at Eddie’s close proximity. “Because you still won’t have a badge I can scan. Maybe I would if Dustin came down here and confirmed it but-”
“That’s fine, whatever works,” Eddie interrupts, holding his open hand out in front of him expectantly. “Your mobile device, if you would be so kind?”
Steve stares down at Eddie’s open palm, glancing back up at him with a doubtful grimace.
“Come on, big boy. I won’t run off with it, I promise,” Eddie tilts his head to the side with a teasing grin. “Besides, even if I did you could probably catch me in, like, two seconds. Your thighs are insane, by the way. Do you run track in your spare time?”
“No, I coach a swim team for middle schoolers,” Steve says with an embarrassed frown. “All the flirting in the world isn’t going to save you if you actually run off with my phone, though. I will tackle you to the ground the second I think you’re going to run for it, I’m not kidding.”
“Promise, promises,” Eddie waggles his eyebrows as he watches Steve fetch his phone from his back pocket. “Thanks, Doll. You’re a life saver.”
Steve grumbles under his breath as he watches Eddie type in a number, taking the free moment to fetch his pack of gum out of his pocket. He’s unwrapping a new piece out of its foil when Eddie glances back over at him.
“Ew, dude, did you swallow your gum?” Eddie asks, his nose scrunched up in distaste as the phone rings. “That’s gross.”
“Well, I’m not going to spit it on the ground,” Steve shoots him a look back, stuffing the new stick in his mouth. “That’s gross. I’m not some kind of animal.”
“That gum is going to be in your stomach until you die, you know that right?” Eddie says with a haughty little shimmy of his shoulders. “The coroner will have to pump it out of you someday.”
“What? No way, that’s totally a myth-”
“Dustin!” Eddie cheerfully interrupts Steve as someone picks up. “Hey buddy, can you do me a favor? Tall, broad, and handsome here won’t let me through the stage door without a badge. Will you come grab me?”
Steve watches as Eddie listens to whoever's on the other line.
“I told him that and he politely told me to fuck off,” Eddie glances over at Steve with a grin. “He said he values the safety of his friends or something ridiculous like that. Yeah, he’s a real peach. How long do you think it’ll be before you’re down here? I gotta make it to sound-”
Eddie’s interrupted by the door being yanked open behind Steve.
“-check.” Eddie finishes with a grin, hanging up the phone.
Dustin wheezes breathlessly behind Steve, leaning on the door frame with both arms.
“Holy shit, dude, did you run all the way down here from the sound booth?” Eddie hands his phone back to Steve who moves to the side so they can both stare at Dustin as he tries to catch his breath.
Dustin holds one hand out in front of him in the universal sign of ‘Just one moment please’ as he pulls out an inhaler and squeezes it before breathing in deep.
“Jesus, Dustin,” Steve says, rubbing his back with a concerned frown.
“I’ve been looking for you-” Dustin grits out between wheezes. “-for an hour.”
“Don’t look at me like that, no one told me we added security badges.” Eddie holds up his hands in mock defense.
“Yeah, because you’d lose it and that would be another issue entirely.” Dustin glares up at him before snapping his gaze over to Steve. “And you!-”
“Oh brother, here we go-”
“-What the hell is the matter with you?!” Dustin throws his hands above his head in disbelief. “How could you not know what the lead singer of the band you’re working for looks like?”
“Well, it’s not like I was shown pictures,” Steve huffs back, crossing his arms over his chest with a defensive glare. “They told me no one without a badge can get in so I didn’t let anyone without a badge in. Sorry for doing my job.”
Dustin groans, scrubbing at his face before moving out of the way and jabbing his finger down the hallway.
“You, get to hair and make up-” Dustin glares at Eddie before turning to Steve. “-and you! We’re having words later, so help me god.”
Steve rolls his eyes and turns away, mocking Dustin by repeating him under his breath with a high pitched voice. Eddie stares at him with enamored disbelief.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re perfect?” Eddie leans in close again, his smile growing as Steve looks at him with an annoyed frown. “Now that I can go, I almost want to stay.”
“Lucky me,” Steve says flatly. “And yeah, people call me perfect all the time. Why, did you think you were special for saying so?”
“Steve!” Dustin stares at him with a look that could kill. “What the hell is wrong with you? Come on, Eddie, ignore him.”
Eddie bites his lower lip, staring at Steve for a long moment before holding out his palm expectantly in front of him.
“...What?” Steve shoots a look down at Eddie’s palm. “I’m not giving you any gum after you were so rude about it earlier. Go find your own.”
“I want your phone, Dove,” Eddie explains with a silky voice. “So I can put my number in and call you after the show. I wanna tell you things that’ll make you think I’m real special.”
“Oh, you’re special, alright,” Steve scoffs but digs his phone out of his pocket to hand to Eddie anyway. “Just not the kind of special you think.”
“God, you’re such a bitch,” Eddie says with a pleased little laugh as he types in his number. “What are your thoughts on marriage? There’s a chapel down the street.”
“That’s a synagogue,” Steve rolls his eyes as he takes his phone back. “I’m not Jewish. Are you?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter,” Eddie leans in even closer, incredibly pleased to see blush taking over Steve’s face. “I’d marry you in a gas station parking lot, if you’d let me.”
“Promises, promises,” Steve says back, a light reminder of their flirting earlier. “Don’t you have a show to get to?”
“Well, you told me I couldn’t get in without a badge,” Eddie grips the railing behind Steve with both hands, caging him in. “Guess I’m stuck out here with you until that gets rectified, right?”
“Mm, I did say that didn’t I?” Steve looks down at Eddie through his lashes.
“You sure did,” Eddie licks his lips and leans in closer. “Dustin, will you be a dear and go grab that for me?”
“What? No, it’ll take me, like, thirty minutes to find that stupid thing. I’m not running around backstage just so you two can schmooze-”
“Thanks, pal, you’re a real dear,” Eddie sing songs before reaching out and closing the door in Dustin’s face. “Now, what do you think we can get up to in thirty minutes before the little squirt gets back?”
“Certainly not marriage,” Steve snorts. “That’ll take an hour, at least.”
“How about I tell you I want to get through that door real bad-” Eddie walks his finger tips down Steve’s chest, stopping to tap lightly at his belt buckle. “-and then show you all the things I’d be willing to do to get through it.”
Steve cocks his head to the side with a look of indifference but Eddie can see how heavy his breathing has gotten.
“No badge for security clearance, no entrance to the venue,” Steve says with a low voice, reaching out to tuck a loose curl behind Eddie’s ear.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Eddie chuckles, his grin widening as the clinking sound of Steve’s belt buckle being undone.
what if: high school steddie, where Eddie is all too aware of the social hierarchy of Hawkins High and his standing in it—the lowest of the low—versus a Steve who either doesn't know or doesn't care.
Eddie knows he's at the bottom of the food chain. Knows he's the first to eat shit when some jocks are hungering for some violence. Knows he's about as good as the dirt on their shoes, as far as they're concerned.
And at the top of that mountain, just about the other side of the world, really, is Steve Harrington. Steve "The Hair" Harrington. King Steve. Double Team Captain. Mister Harrington Charm.
They shouldn't EVER interact. It's against the laws of nature, or some shit, Eddie's sure.
Which is probably why it seems like the world's imploding when Steve "The Hair" Harrington—Mister Harrington Charm, Double Team Captain, whatever the fuck else Gareth has on his endless list—asks him to prom.
It's probably a good thing they're alone, in the middle of the woods, on opposite sides of Eddie's favorite deal-making table, so no one's around to hear him yell, "What the fuck?"
It echoes around the woods anyways, maybe louder than he meant to be, which is good, because it's definitely a 'what the fuck' moment.
They've literally never spoken before. Actually, they've done less than spoken—they could live on opposite poles of the Earth, for all the interaction they've had. They don't share any classes. Hell, they don't even see each other in the halls.
And now Steve Harrington is staring at him like he's actually waiting for an answer.
Again: What the fuck?
A record scratches in his brain and yup, there’s Harrington’s voice again, smarmy little smile on his face, asking: “Will you go to prom with me?”
As in, Steve Harrington just asked, in this existence, in this reality, on this planet, for Eddie Munson to go to Hawkins High Senior Prom with him. For real.
For real?
No. No way.
Harrington’s joking, Eddie knows. Figures the day’d come he decides torturing Eddie is just as much fun as the rest of his shit-jock cronies made it out to be.
And then, suddenly, Eddie knows what it is. Has seen enough of those terrible movies on early-morning TV with Wayne. Has seen the same damn plot enough times to smell it coming from a mile away.
“You know what,” he says, leaning into Harrington’s space, too close, brimming with irritation and a disgusting desire to one-up the smug, cocky bastard, “You get me a bouquet of roses as black as your twisted, festering soul, and I’ll wear a pretty little dress for you, too.”
Harrington’s frown makes anger tighten Eddie’s jaw. “Do roses… grow in black?”
“I guess that’s for you to find out and for me to know, Harrington,” Eddie sneers. He gets up, snatches his lunchbox, and stalks back through the trees to school.
He throws a “fuck you” over his shoulder when Harrington calls out “Benny’s at six?” but doesn’t turn around because the last thing he needs is to eat shit tripping over a goddamn branch. As it is, he’s already waiting for any of Harrington’s little friends to appear out of the shadows and jump him. That’s how it goes, right?
Only, it doesn’t.
There’s no swirlies, no shoving into lockers, no missing clothes after gym, no brutal beatdown on late days after Hellfire. Eddie’s almost worried the meatheads have had too many concussions and forgot he was next on the hit list.
And then he realizes—oh. Oh no. They’re waiting for prom. Actual prom night to fucking flay him open on stage in front of the whole school or something equally psychotic. Drown him in the punch. Stomp him to death on the dance floor.
Clearly, they HAVE had too many concussions if they think Eddie would EVER show his face there. Fuck Harrington, and fuck his minions. Like Eddie’d make it that easy for them.
Except, in the days leading up to prom, weird things keep happening. And Eddie doesn’t know what to think about it.
There’s pudding at his spot at the head of the table. Once a week, because the cafeteria only has pudding once a week. Eddie loves cafeteria pudding.
Steve Harrington grins at him from across the goddamn cafeteria and Eddie’s gut curdles.
One of the Hellfire posters he puts up monthly (and is always shredded by first period’s end) is still up a week later. Sure, torn and taped back together, but it’s not slush in a toilet, either.
Steve Harrington tells him that he looks nice when he finds him smoking just outside the school, and Eddie’s skin itches like he needs to tear it off.
There’s a flower on the driver’s seat of his van the day he forgets to close the window all the way, a day-old daisy with the petals stained a dark blue, the yellow center dulled.
Steve Harrington says he’s got a nice voice and he’s really good at playing the guitar and Eddie wonders how the hell he knows that.
One day, Harrington drops down to sit on the curb next to him, in the parking lot of the shitty little convenience store that’s a five-minute walk from the trailer park. He passes over a pack of his fancy smokes and nabs one of Eddie’s cheap beers so they can drink and smoke together and neither of them say anything. Eddie wants to say it’s because he doesn’t want Harrington to realize exactly what he’s done and get his shit beer cans crushed over his head, but in truth, it’s because he can’t get a damn read on the guy.
Another, Harrington and Hargrove both come to school looking like they’ve been run over, then backed up over, and then run over again for good measure. Hargrove doesn’t haggle him for weed again, and Harrington still smiles at him from across the cafeteria like the pull of his cheek doesn’t make his broken nose and black eye smart.
Again: What the fuck?
He asks the guys. “What the hell is going on with Harrington?”
He doesn’t like how they look at him, mouths twisted and uncomfortable and unsure.
“Heard he and Hagan beat the shit out of each other a while ago. Haven’t talked since.”
Hagan. Not Hargrove. A while ago.
“Ditched Carol P. and Stacy C., too.”
…
What the fuck?
…
The day of prom comes. Vaguely, Eddie remembers: Benny’s at six. Yeah-fucking-right.
He doesn’t go. Doesn’t have a suit, anyway, and wouldn’t have gone even if he did. Obviously. He might be stupid, repeating senior year, but he’s not THAT stupid.
An hour later, the phone in the trailer rings. When he picks up, Gareth is on the other end of the line. Distantly, Eddie can hear the shitty pop that makes up the school’s prom mixtape.
“What’d Harrington’s face look like?” he asks. “Was he pissed?”
“He didn’t show,” Gareth admits. “I dunno, man, maybe he was being serious.”
Eddie’s laugh probably pisses off half the trailer park. He can’t hear Gareth’s through the phone. “Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t kill the messenger.”
“Messenger might get me killed,” Eddie bites back, and then he hangs up. He hopes the punch is spiked and Gareth gets so drunk he falls asleep in a bush.
He grabs his keys off his nightstand and the trailer door slams behind him when he leaves.
Outside Benny’s diner is dark, shadows over the parking lot, but Harrington’s beamer is still there, clear as day. Maroon and hideous. God-fucking-damnit.
Harrington is in the driver’s seat, arms crossed over his chest as his head lolls back against his seat, half-asleep and definitely getting there. He’s wearing a nice shirt and nice pants and his tie goes flying like a whip across his cheek when Eddie knocks his fist against the roof of the car.
“The hell’s your damage, Harrington?” He barks, before the guy can even get his bearings.
Harrington fumbles, flailing limbs punch a short blare out of his horn, and his tie ends up over his shoulder.
“Eddie, hi. Hi, Eddie.” There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. Eddie’s lips curl.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps again. Harrington’s window is half-down—he can definitely hear him.
“Um.” Harrington looks sheepish, now, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “It was—Benny’s at seven. I was waiting for you. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens.
“It was Benny’s at seven, right? I thought it was Benny’s at six, at first, but I can’t really keep dates straight up here, anymore,” he knocks against his head with a knuckle, “All the pointless melon-splits of American sports, or whatever.”
Vaguely, Eddie remembers a long-winded rant on the top of a cafeteria table about the same subject.
“It was at six,” he acknowledges. “I didn’t bother showing up.”
“Oh.” Harrington’s eyes drop, take in his pajama pants and his threadbare tee. “But you did. Now.”
“Yeah, well.” Eddie turns the words over. “Call it a lapse of judgment.”
Harrington nods. He’s not looking at Eddie anymore. It sours something in his gut that he doesn’t acknowledge.
Eddie looks past him. In the passenger seat, a bouquet.
Of black roses.
Harrington’s fingertips are stained a shade darker, black stuck underneath his nails.
What the actual fuck.
“What the hell was your plan here, Harrington?”
Harrington blinks up at him with those stupid big eyes that Eddie definitely, absolutely hates.
“Dinner, and then, you know, prom? Isn’t that how is usually goes?” He asks, like Eddie would have any fucking clue.
Eddie grinds his teeth. “You realize you’ve wasted your only senior prom on this dumb joke, right? And I didn’t even fall for it? Way to have your priorities in order, King Steve.”
Harrington’s face scrunches. Eddie bites his tongue.
“I’ve had the misfortune of having two, and I didn’t subject myself to either. So you can cut the shit—”
“Wait, hold on,” Harrington cuts him off. “It wasn’t—what joke, Eddie?”
Oh. Oh no. If Gareth’s right, he’s gonna have to throw himself from the quarry cliffs.
“You know,” he spits, like it doesn’t affect him, that every last goddamn person in fucking Hawkins sees him as a freak, like a bug to torture and then squash, “Lure me to prom. Dump a bucket of pig’s blood over my head or however that movie goes.”
Harrington—Harrington looks horrified.
Well. The quarry’s always empty at seven in the evening.
“Even I’m not that dumb, man.” He ignores how the words come out, slower, an edge of uncertainty.
“That’s fucked up,” Harrington whispers, “There’s a movie like that? I wouldn’t—that’s not what I—”
“Yeah, I think I’m starting to get that.”
Harrington’s jaw shuts with a click, and they’re both quiet for a minute. And then, like a curse he doesn’t want to say aloud lest he bring it to life, Eddie asks, “That was you, wasn’t it? With the pudding and the posters and the flowers.”
“I broke Tommy’s nose when I caught him trying to let the air outta your tires, too,” he says, hollowly, like it doesn’t matter anymore.
Fuck.
There’s no one in the parking lot, and Eddie tells himself its the only reason he rounds the car and drops into the passenger side seat. The flowers are saved by Harrington’s quick reflexes, and Eddie kind of wants to curse him out for having his doors unlocked.
“Okay.” He hypes himself up like he’s seen Harrington do in PE, a quick breath in and out. “I didn’t know you were being serious. I thought it was just a dumb joke.”
“Yeah, I got that part.”
He twists his fingers together. “Those were for me, right?”
Harrington hums. Hands them over. “Kinda makes it worse, but sure. Yeah, they were for you.”
“Worse?”
Harrington laughs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought it’d be funny. You said you’d wear a dress if I got you black flowers, but I—I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to get you flowers you’d like.”
Fuck. Eddie does remember that, now.
The stems are still thorny and prick at his fingers when he hold them. He likes them better that way.
“You’ve been… practicing these,” he realizes. Remembers the little blue daisy.
“First ones came out a really gross kind of green,” Steve admits.
God fucking damn it.
“I don’t do prom,” Eddie says.
“Yeah, I figured that one out,” Steve replies. Dry. Still isn’t looking over at Eddie.
“No, I mean—I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d thought you were being honest from the get-go. I don’t DO prom. It’s the death of counter-culture and individuality.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“What I’m saying is,” he takes a deep breath, a little part of him still praying Steve won’t punch his damn lights out, “I’m not gonna go to prom. Ever. That’s an invitation to douchebags like Hargrove and Hagan to split my skull open on the gym floor. I don’t want my last breath to be weeks-old jock socks.”
He ducks, tries to catch Steve’s gaze. Doesn’t manage. He ends up pressed against the dashboard like a moron.
“But there’s this bar I go to,” he continues, “It doesn’t really check ID. I think they’d go out of business if they did. They let us play on Tuesdays.”
“I know.”
He knows? Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Eddie needs to buy the flowers. About six dozen. Fuck him.
His leg jostles, knocks against Steve’s door. He finally looks up.
“That’s more my speed,” he admits, in a big rush. “It’s… probably better than prom as a first date, anyways.”
Steve’s eyebrows jump up into that famous hair, perfectly styled. Eddie’s is a mane of despair and hopelessness, wilder than a tornado.
“Really?” he asks, like Eddie didn’t just say he’d thought he was a piece of shit in seven different ways. “That’s—you’d—really?”
“I mean, not right now,” Eddie scoffs, and Steve’s face drops. He hurries to amend, “I’m not really dressed for the occasion. But maybe, like… tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Steve repeats, and Eddie flushes. “That’s soon.”
“Or never,” he snaps, because he’s a goddamn moron, “That works too.”
Steve’s grin splits his face and Eddie has to look back at the flowers in his lap. “Tomorrow’s good,” he agrees, too easy.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, kicks the door open, probably leaves a scuff, but Steve doesn’t say a word. “Better be.”
Steve’s still grinning as he gets out of the car, slams the door closed, rounds the side again. He’s not scared of a gaggle of dipshits ready to jump him because they’re not there. And he’s got a bouquet of black roses pressed to his chest.
“See you then, Eddie,” Steve chirps, as Eddie climbs back into his own van, and Eddie—Eddie has to hide his smile behind a curtain of hair as he throws the piece of shit into reverse and backs out of Benny’s diner.
…
He leaves the flowers on their tiny kitchen counter and the next morning, Wayne’s put them in a vase Eddie didn’t know they had, with water and that weird flower-food crap and everything.
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