Chapter Text
The alarm rings into the silence of his room at 5am sharp, just as he set it to be. It’s sound blaring—a marimba being played up and down from bottom of the scale to the top. His hand juts from under his blanket, grabs loosely for the phone vibrating against the bedside table, and brings it up close to his face. Light flashes very briefly as he turns the sound off and checks the time. Sure enough, it’s 5am. September 27th, 2015 spells itself out in blurry text. He’s got a normal day ahead of him, but it’s still difficult to wake up this early after all this time.
He peels the blanket from him, welcomes the cold as it kisses his bare thighs and tickles the soles of his feet. When he first bought the home he now resides in, he figured that hardwood flooring was going to be terrible. While he did enjoy carpet in the first apartment he had and the bedroom he grew up in, Steve’s perfectly content with being pulled into waking existence through the cold in his floor. He twists left then right, back and hips popping. And he stands.
Showers. Brushes his teeth. Dries his hair and slicks it back with a light layer of pomade, it has to fit under his hat. He trims up his mustache, handlebar, white haired, and tight to his top lip. Sets his glasses—thick and plastic black frames, square and magnifying lenses—on the bridge of his nose. It’s always a startling experience, to see himself in the mirror now, his vision being blurry and dwindling as time pushes. But he looks almost the same. Maybe a new deep wrinkle on his face. Or a few strands of dirty blonde he didn’t notice he still had on the top of his head. Got all his moles, thankfully none of them are new or worrying. And then he just stands in his bathroom for a few minutes. Wondering how he’s forty-eight, but looks to be ten years older. He’s still got his muscle, toned nicely on his arms and legs. A soft layer to his belly, earned with time and the stress of a normal working life. Doesn’t have the dark circles and eye bags that he carried in his twenties. But he’s older—older than he thought he could be.
In those few minutes, he takes the time to work his clothes on slowly. Joints aren’t all that replaceable and he’s going to need all his limbs in good enough condition to do his work. Underwear. Khaki slacks, straight cut, regular fit. Long sleeve, white undershirt tucked neatly into the waistband. His watch—wrinkled brown leather strap from decades of use, slight crack on the glass from being dropped during some roughhousing, and gently rusted. Dainty, gold chain cross necklace gifted to him by his mother, hidden away in the collar of his undershirt. A grey henley overtop. He emerges from his ensuite, down the hall because his bedroom is the farthest in the house, past his home office and a guest bedroom and a half-bathroom, takes a left corner into the kitchen, and flicks on the warm amber light.
Breakfast isn’t anything crazy. Doesn’t require any fanfare. But he makes two warm bowls of plain oatmeal, sprinkled lightly with brown sugar, topped with a handful of blueberries from his garden. He sets them on the table, where it’s tucked against the far side of his living room (there wasn’t a dining room when he bought the house and he didn’t care to make one), and goes to the guest room.
“Mom?” he softly calls out into the room. She startles awake anyway, but relaxes back into her blanket when she notices who’s calling for her. “Sorry to wake you up so early, but I made breakfast.”
She started staying with him five years ago. The arrangement came out of necessity. His dad had passed, left the house to her, but it was too much to deal with alone. And he didn’t want to move back to his childhood home, so he offered his empty guest bedroom. Packed her up, moved her in within a month. And the rest’s history. At first, he thought he made a mistake. Worried that she’d be the way she was when he was younger, uptight and in his space, stressing about doing well in the world, doubting him when he failed. But it wasn’t that way, surprisingly. In fact, she was grateful and happier than she ever had been.
The decision to let her stay very quickly grew on him. They were almost inseparable now, considering he’d been living alone and she would’ve been alone otherwise. He makes her breakfast, she knits him new beanies and sweaters, they watch Jeopardy! together, and he helps her back to bed.
Her mornings always start out with Steve carefully pulling her up into a seated position. Hands in his, they’re small, wrinkled, soft. She goes to the half-bathroom, uses it as usual, and changes into a pair of stretchy denim-like pants and a soft cotton sweater that Steve grabs for her. He helps her put on socks, sheer and like tights that slide easily into loafers. Every morning, he takes the time to comb through her hair, pin straight and completely white, thinning and falling to her shoulders. Sometimes he catches himself drifting to the mirror, caught up in how similar their eyes are to one another. It’s odd, in those moments, how he feels like a little boy again. Helping his mom brush her hair. When she was younger, with fine wrinkles on her face like he has now, put together by makeup she no longer wears. But he goes back to getting the last bit of sleep tangles at the ends of her hair and helps her back out to the living room.
Once she’s settled in her dining chair, he sets out about the kitchen again. “Do you want coffee, tea, or juice with your oatmeal, Mom?” he loudly asks from where his head is shoved in the fridge.
“A cup of hot coffee would be great,” she chirps. “With a tablespoon of that vanilla creamer that you like? You seem really happy every time you have it, I want to know what all the fuss is about.”
He chuckles as he leaves the fridge with the creamer. It shuts gently behind him. The pot is turned on, burbling as it pours the hot water over the coffee grounds. “I think it’s the sugar,” he relays, “It’s funny, though. I don’t even like this crap. Had a friend who showed it to me, reminds me of him, I guess.” Which is true. One hundred percent. Eddie Munson, the guy he knew all too briefly, liked cruddy vanilla creamer in his cup of coffee. So much that it went from a hot mug to a near chilled thing. Of course Steve remembered it. And of course, since Eddie left town all too abruptly all those years ago, he clung on to whatever remnants of the guy he had. Even if it made his coffee drinking experience become the ugliest thing he endured everyday.
The coffee is poured in two mismatched mugs. His: World’s Best Dad. And hers: a white mug with painted bluebells on it. He sets them out on the dining table, fills up a glass with water and sets a straw into the liquid, and grabs his mom’s daily pill sorter. When he settles in front of her, she begins taking her medications one by one.
“Remind me to refill that tonight,” he says, gesturing at the pill sorter. “I’ve gotta swing by the pharmacy for a few refills; yours should hopefully be ready by then, too.”
She hums, swallowing her last pill, and asks, “Work today?”
“Yup, should be my last shift until Monday morning. We’ll have the weekend to ourselves. It’ll be completely quiet, too.”
Her left thumb runs over the lid for Friday morning on her sorter. Eyes looking down at her oatmeal thoughtfully. “You know,” she murmurs, “while I appreciate your company, I really wish that you’d find a few friends to spend your weekends with.”
“Mom”—
“No, Steven, listen to me. I’m a seventy-seven year old woman who likes to spend her days knitting and reading and napping. You’re still young.” He sighs as she leans across the table to gently pat the back of his right hand. “I know you don’t like the idea of going out and meeting new people, but I think you should give it a chance. You’ve been through a lot in your life, I understand that. And you like things quiet and peaceful, which I can understand, too. But I can tell you’ve been doing alright for a while. Don’t you think it’s time to…get a couple drinking buddies or maybe go to some car shows? Could even try dating again”—
“I’m not doing that,” he grumbles. “That ship has sailed so many years ago. I’m perfectly fine with what I have now.” She gives him an incredulous look. In response, he rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Mom. Everything’s just to my liking. Now…How are your hands doing this morning? They still shaking like they were last night?”
She relents, holding out her hands to show off the heavy tremor to them. He scoots his chair closer, dragging his bowl to the new spot he’s made, and grabs for her spoon. Willingly, she takes the offered bite he scoops up. And that’s how breakfast goes. He feeds her the oatmeal, wiping away any bits that get on her lips, and transfers her water straw to the mug of coffee. Sure, his food congeals, gets a little cold, but he does what he must do.
Before he can get up to take care of their bowls, she stops him with a shaking hand on his wrist. “Is there something you need, Mom?” He checks.
“No,” she sighs. “But I just—Look at me for a second.” So he does. Her tone is serious and sage. Her eyes are wrinkled and drooping, shiny with unshed tears, dark brown and enriching. “Baby, I worry about you,” she says, but squeezes his wrist before he can interrupt. “Really, I do. Steve, what are you going to do when I’m not here?”
“That’s nonsense, Mom,” he murmurs.
She raises an eyebrow. “Is it? I…I’m only here because your dad is gone. And I know—I know—that you two had a very rocky relationship. But I can’t just ignore that he’s not in our lives anymore. If something happens to me, you’ll just be in this house. Alone,” she explains. “There’s nobody here to keep you company. You don’t really have neighbors. And I know that you’re friendly with everybody around town, it’s basically part of your job, but they aren’t your friends. Honey, most of your work stories are about people my age. Doesn’t that…You aren’t concerned about that?”
He sighs and places his free hand on the back of hers. Looks down at the table, zeroed in on a spot of paint that’s been there for years, not coming up with any sort of cleaner. Knows exactly what it’s from. An art project from when his daughter was a little girl. He doesn’t want to admit it, that his mom is right. There’s no partner that he shares his bed with. His daughter’s room is now a guest room; she’s in college, out of state, far from home.
Doesn’t allow himself to think about her mother, his late wife. He’s been a widower for over a decade now. It does get lonely around the house. There’s nobody that he encounters in the kitchen, ready to wrap his arms around their waist. He doesn’t have a partner to hold close on the couch and watch rom-coms with. Or his wife, who loved completing puzzles and would quietly and happily sit and do them while he watched baseball games. Who used to lean over and kiss his forehead just because. He misses her. Misses all of that. The companionship in that relationship.
And he does notice. The absence of his social life. Sometimes he does get bored of sorting out pills for his mom, watching rerun game shows, all that nonsense. Yes, he does talk with Robin and Nancy and Dustin over the phone still, they’ve been friends for forever. But they aren’t here in Hawkins. Not anymore.
His mom is company, though. He isn’t lonely if he’s with her.
“Being with you is enough for me, Mom. I’m not concerned because I have you,” he murmurs sadly.
She gives him a smile. A slightly upset one. Pats his cheek and runs her thumb under his eye. “I appreciate that, baby, but…” She sighs. “Never mind, okay? As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters, right? Put our dishes in the sink and I’ll wash them. You get the rest of yourself ready for work.”
He nods once, setting their dishes in the sink. Slips on his blue postman’s jacket, zips it up, and sets his postal hat firmly on his head. “I’ll be home probably around eight, Mom. Our shows should record for tonight, so don’t watch them without me!” He calls out to where she’s clambering around the kitchen.
“Steve?!” She shouts. He looks back. She’s leaned over the sink, dish gloves over her hands and up to her elbows. Smiles at him. “Remember that I love you and that today is going to be a good day.”
He smiles, teeth and all. “Love you, too, Mom. Be safe. Call me if you need anything.”
And then he’s off. The mail won’t deliver itself.
The phone call rattled his bones. Tumor, was said. More times than the amount of fingers on his hands. He’s never bought road trip materials fast enough. It’s weird, to think of and to act upon returning to a place that seemed to be a shadow in his past. But he supposes that he should’ve expected to come back at some point. Hawkins, Indiana—the odd spot on a paper map.
There’s a million reasons to not come back. Being hunted for sport being one of them. Chrissy Cunningham and Patrick McKinney’s deaths being their own reason. And his short time with Steve Harrington is a mess in itself. But as his car gently rolls by the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign, the nerves seem to dissipate.
A few spots never recovered from the Vecna battle aftermath. There’s several restaurant fronts still bordered up and condemned. An entire grassy field with nothing but dead plants and broken glass bottles, probably a result from teenagers going where they shouldn’t be. Family Video is closed, a lack of interest. A small Walmart that replaces the RadioShack that once stood tall and mighty. Never thought he’d feel nostalgic for a place like Hawkins, but the missing floods back into his chest like a sudden rush of water.
There’s a lot of rebuilt homes. With plastic grass in the front yards. Fences that are plain cedar wood and tall. Faces he’s never seen. Some young, others as old as him—forty-nine or older. Children at playgrounds with Justice tops from the mall, bedazzled to all hell, pink plaid shorts, and blue Sketchers. Younger dudes with red beanies threatening to slip off the top of their heads, fake black glasses, cuffed skinny jeans and Timberland boots. Hipsters.
But he turns down familiar roads, non-replenished and cracked still. Spots the sign for Forest Hills Trailer Park and slows over the non-existent drive. The gravel clinking against the underside of the car, which he loathes. It’s a nice one, too—one of those BMW Sedans, all black with leather interior. Named her Carla after a suggestion from one of the Corroded Coffin boys (who were all drunk out of their minds, sans Eddie), but it stuck. And it cost a good chunk to purchase, but it’s gotten him safely over state borders, so he can’t complain that much. It still sits oddly in the trailer park, though. Next to Wayne’s old and well-loved pick-up truck—a baby blue Toyota. Tried and true. Hasn’t put anybody out, not yet at least. Still…Something crawls up his spine as he notices he’s the odd one out now.
He parks unceremoniously and takes a deep breath. Eyes trailing up to Wayne’s home. The mess of miscellaneous books. An empty ashtray, a little ceramic thing, painted bright orange; something Eddie made when he was in middle school. There’s the orange sofa, old and rusting on the legs, sun-bleached. A little dark blue rocker sitting in the corner of the porch, also sun-bleached, but the fabric is matted down. His hands come off of the steering wheel, grabs the keys roughly from the ignition, and hefts himself out of the driver’s seat.
Doesn’t even have to knock on the door before Wayne’s ushering him inside.
“Let me take a good look at you, boy,” his uncle’s brittle voice demands. Lets him put his weathered hands on his shoulders.
And Eddie does look drastically different from the last time he’d been home. A good decade ago, when he caught the time during a tour break. His hair is close cut to his scalp now, just above his ears, curly and dark brown with a few baby grays at his temples. Face creased with good wrinkles, crows feet and smile lines, a few creases under his eyes from how he’d squint on and off for years before getting contacts. Doesn’t have any facial hair, could never grow any that was good enough. Clean shaven with a five-o’clock shadow. His ears are pierced, but he’s stopped putting anything heavy in their holes, so for now there’s just a plain pair of black studs. Got more tattoos on his arms: bluebells and a nailed bat on the left bicep, robin’s nest just below on his forearm, a d-20 die at the soft give of his right wrist, and his Warlock to cover up the bats. Scars that he received are now silvery and pale. Body still lithe and lean, more muscle on his arms and legs from lifting around equipment over the years. Fundamentally, he’s changed on the outside. But inside, he’s still the same wild child boy that used to give Wayne a run for his money.
“Now, that’s the face of an award winning musician,” Wayne drawls.
Eddie chuckles. “It’s not the face that got the awards, Wayne. It’s the fingers. Didn’t earn these callouses on my fingertips for nothing,” he says, wiggling his fingers where Wayne can see them clearly.
He hums. “Think it’s that creative brain of yours, too,” Wayne surmises. “You wanna beer or somethin’, considerin’ the circumstances?”
“No,” he answers, “quit drinking about ten years ago. Wasn’t good to me anymore, remember?” Wayne’s face dawns surprise, a grand raise of his eyebrows, the squinting of his eyes, small purse to his lips. “Seriously, Wayne. Have a little faith in me, old man. I quit for good. I’ve got smokes, though, if you want one.”
“Ain’t allowed to. Not if I wanna keep myself healthy enough to shrink that tumor.”
Right, Eddie remembers, he’s gotta get on track to get surgery, you idiot. He nods slowly. Sucks on his bottom lip. “Then I’ll just have a pop, if you got it. Water if you don’t.”
As Wayne leaves towards the kitchenette, moving slow and careful like, Eddie looks around the living room, same as it’s always been. The mugs and hats on the wall. Old magazines and instruction booklets splayed out on the coffee table. He has the landline phone on the wall, above the small dining table. Garfield is still proudly displayed on one of the shelves by the front door. The only differences: TV replaced for one that’s slimmer and sleeker, a few throw blankets that appear brand new are placed over the back of the ugly floral patterned sofa, his clothes are put away in Eddie’s old bedroom, and it’s less cluttered on the kitchen counters. Otherwise, it’s remotely the same. Brown carpet, red curtains, four odd lamps, washing machine tucked by the fridge, old fold out bed from when Wayne slept in the living room. It’s still home.
Except, Eddie doesn’t live here anymore. Doesn’t have his clutter mingling with Wayne’s. Something twinges in his chest when he notices. But he ignores the sensation, sitting down on the sofa instead. Lets Wayne disappear to his reclining chair in the corner and sips on the can of Coke he’s given.
“So…What’s my rockstar nephew been up to?” Wayne asks into the silence.
Eddie shrugs. “I mean…Not much these days. Touring is over for me now. Corroded Coffin has put up our instruments for the last time. Now I just spend a lot of time at my house, writing songs when I feel the need to, watch shows and such, maybe give advice to new artists.”
Wayne scoffs. “You act like that’s nothin’ compared to what a lot of people are doing. You’ve got—what—three Grammys? Bunch’a your songs gone platinum. Just actin’ like your dream ain’t exciting.”
“It is,” Eddie mutters. “But…It’s sort of a lonely thing, you know? Can’t go out in public all that often, unless I want to be swarmed. Or people take pictures of me without permission. Makes me look bumfuck when I don’t know it’s coming,” he explains. Chuckling a little at the absurdity of it. “I’ve got my friends, but we don’t see each other a lot. Lots of ‘em drink or do other things and that’s not my scene anymore. So…I don’t know, it’s not as exciting as it used to be.”
When Wayne’s silent for too long, Eddie glances over. Finds that he’s being looked at, perceived like a bug under a microscope. “Could always come home,” he offers. “Or at least closer than damned Los Angeles.”
“Maybe,” Eddie murmurs. “Do you think—Is it safe for me to come back?”
“Lot of those bastard adults that chased you around are dead, Ed,” Wayne states bluntly. “The kids that used to bully you, they ain’t around. All the people who live in Hawkins, either they’re from that group of folks that you were with in ’86, or they’re new. In fact, the only one that I still see around here is the Harrington’s son and his mama.”
Eddie winces. “Didn’t think he’d still be here,” he grumbles.
“Don’t act like you’ve got the right to be ugly about him living here, Eddie. You’re the one that up and left all of us, mind you,” Wayne states rather agitated. “Besides, that kid…There’s an air about him that tells me he’d suffer somewhere else. Like a haunt to him.”
Instead of answering, Eddie takes a long pull from his can of Coke. Maybe he should’ve taken the beer if they’re going to sit here and talk about the ghosts of his past. If they were going to talk about the one guy that Eddie actually loved despite everything. Who made the perfect bowl of oatmeal, something that even Eddie can’t replicate after two decades. The guy that Eddie’s been pining and yearning over for all too long. The one he ran away from.
He stands abruptly with his empty can. Gestures loosely to the front door. “I’m gonna go have a smoke by my car. I’ll—We can talk about you know what when I get back inside. Can practically feel a headache coming on.” And he goes outside before Wayne can say something logical like: “That cigarette will do you in for a headache, boy. Stop running away from me.”
In a small town like Hawkins, there aren’t many mailmen to go around. Steve is one of them, on duty more often than not, but he’s just one of a handful. He spends the first couple hours in his early mornings training new post office employees. How to scan a package, where to put said package, making sales on stamps and envelopes, assigning P.O. boxes to those who need them. Those training mornings are some of his favorites. Where he’s respected for his career and not because of his age or his notoriety in town. The people who come to work are easy to get along with, smile at him, make small talk, and appreciate when he pulls out photos from his wallet—gesturing to a new one received from his daughter or an old small print from Robin in 2004. The mornings aren’t anything grandiose. But they do come to an end.
And then he’s on his own in his mail truck, Betty as he calls her. He’s able to use the radio, flip it to whatever FM station he wants, even try his hand at finding out how the aux works, but never takes advantage of that. Listens to the oldies—which are just the songs he listened to in his twenties—and drives through the scenery. Places packages full of staples on the counter at Melvald’s. Fills Claudia Henderson’s mailbox with too many cat themed magazines and personal coupons for the salon up her street. He drives up the off-beaten path to Hopper’s cabin and hands personal letters from El and Jonathan and Will—sometimes he’ll stay for a few minutes just to hear how Joyce is doing if she isn’t home. Makes his way to the Sinclair home and gets to hear about how Lucas is doing in Arizona with Max, or how Erica’s ripped apart another defendant. Visits the Buckley’s and gets to squeal about his Robin’s exciting translator career up in Seattle. He’ll meet new faces, compliment their gardens or simply place mail in their box if they aren’t home. When it’s a family with little kids that always scream that “Mailman Steve is here!” he’ll hand over stickers that he brought out from his own collection, ones that weren’t used up before his own little girl went to college. Pet the fur of dogs that are getting up there in years. Carefully tiptoe around easy to agitate cats, where they’ve fallen asleep on their owner’s porch.
He loves his job. Loves the community that comes with it. Even if the interactions are small. Even if the relationships he comes to create are majorly unimportant or too much of nothing to structure in his life. He still enjoys what he does. And is pleasantly surprised every single time he’s on route.
Today is no exception. He trains like usual in the morning before making all his normal stops. The last one on his route, though, is Wayne Munson’s home. He drives down the full length of Forest Hills Trailer Park, makes a small U-turn when he reaches the end, and parks near Wayne’s. There’s a figure standing outside, leaned against the bumper of a very nice car, smoking, but he doesn’t know who it is. Or if Wayne even knows this complete stranger is there. However, he chooses to ignore the stranger…for now.
Grabs the stack of mail that he needs, but realizes he also needs to grab a hefty package. He clambers into the back, hefts the last package in his truck, and gently grasps the rest of the mail, stacking it on the very top of the box. When he finally places his feet on the dirt and gravel path, he makes a steady effort to keep his head up, line of sight straight on. But then the stranger’s head whips up from where they’ve been looking down at their feet.
Steve is a very graceful person. Has been. Continues to be. Needs to in order to do his job. The sight of this stranger, though, nearly makes him drop the contents in his arms.
He’d recognize those damn soft brown eyes anywhere.
Stopping himself from going further, he stands roughly five feet away from the guy. Blinks. Blinks harder when said guy doesn’t stop staring at him. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “Eddie…is that you?”
Eddie—or who he believes to be Eddie, he can never trust his vision these days—raises a tentative hand. Wiggles his fingers in a gentle greeting. “Uh…Yeah, it’s me. Eddie. Eddie Munson. Who are—“ And then he stops talking altogether. Squinting. The cigarette dangling between his fingers drops to the ground. His right hand falls away from where he’d been smoking, drags itself over his face, pushes up into his very noticeably short hair, and he laughs incredulously. “Oh. My. God. Steve Harrington! As I breathe…You’ve—wow—You’re so different from what I remember. But holy shit, it’s you!” He exclaims, voice pitchy and scratchy.
Steve giggles. “Yeah, guess I have changed. Could say the same about you, Eds. Lots of things have happened, you know?” He shrugs, but his sore arms remind him greatly that he’s still working. “Shit, hold on. Let me put these on your uncle’s porch and then…We can talk for a little bit? I’ve gotta head back to the post office and clock out afterwards, but I can spare some time. Give me—Just give me a second.” Carefully, he carries the package closer to himself, but he moves faster up the porch steps. Sets down the stack in his hands on one of the cluttered shelves outside, and knocks. When Wayne answers, Steve smiles bright and big. “Hey, Mr. Munson,” he greets. “Brought some mail for you. There’s a package, it’s a little bit heavy. Could…I could bring it in if you need me to.”
Right back at him, Wayne smiles just as big. “Don’t worry about it today, boy. As long as it doesn’t need to be refrigerated, it can stay out here for a little bit,” he states softly, “Eddie’s back in town, he can get it. Maybe you guys can catch up for a little bit?”
There’s something in his belly that tightens and loosens wildly. A crisp edge to his posture, something in him heavier yet lighter at the same time. He’d run a hand through his hair if it wasn’t blocked by a hat. “Think I will,” he says quietly, “I’ve missed him, despite…Well, you know.” Instead of answering, Wayne nods once, smile softening, and gestures behind Steve.
He climbs back down the steps and stands closer to Eddie, but not quite in his space.
Eddie looks fantastic. Clothes nearly all black: dark blue denim jeans with gentle rips in the knees, black quarter sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, white Reeboks that are fresher and newer, chains and rings per usual. Lean body, bright eyes, the same beautiful dark brown hair. He’s older, sure. But he’s still got the same air and poise to him that Steve came to know twenty-nine years ago. His arms covered in beautiful tattoos, a splash of color on a few of them. But when he zeroes in on the flowers on Eddie’s arm, the sleeve just above them gets tugged down. Trying to hide the tattoos rather unsuccessfully.
In front of Steve, Eddie visibly shifts from side to side. A nervous habit he’s always done. “So you’re still here,” Eddie gently starts. “Thought that…Well, I honestly thought you’d follow Robin or something.”
Steve’s eyes jump to Eddie’s face. Leans his hip into the bumper of what must be Eddie’s car. “I thought about it very briefly,” he admits. “But there were—“ Well, he was busy mending a broken heart. Then, he stayed behind for the girl he fell in love with. Stayed for his child. For his mother. Stayed because his job was actually good. He enjoyed how he lived. That’s a lot, though. “—There were things that kept me here. Like my job, I really enjoy what I do here. But uh…You’re back in town. How’d that happen?” A part of him wants to be bitter. Ask something insensitive like: “Why’d you come back? Why’d you only come back after us…Why couldn’t you be here during us?” But knows better of it. He’s in his forties now, he should have at least a sliver of etiquette.
Yet, Eddie swallows heavily. With enough force to take down his teeth. “I…That’s not a conversation I’m ready to have,” he answers honestly. “I’m back, but not for the greatest reason. Is it okay with you if we leave it at that right now?”
“‘Course,” Steve immediately responds. “We’ve all got things that we gotta keep close, right? I know that I certainly do,” he says nonchalantly. Chuckling a bit with it. But that makes Eddie frown. His eyebrows furrow. A tilt to his head. Concern, Steve recognizes. “Nothing awful,” he scrambles hastily to add. “Just…Something brought you back here and it must be unpleasant. I’ve got shit, too. That’s all I’m saying.”
Eddie flashes him a gentle smile, one that lightly squints the corners of his eyes. They dart over all of Steve’s appearance. His uniform and facial hair, the hat on his head. He makes a cut-off surprised noise in the back of his throat. “Never thought I’d see the day that you’d be willingly hiding your hair,” he comments. “Do you have to wear the hat all the time? I mean…Like while you’re working. Not when you’re at—You get my point.”
Steve snickers. He bites back the foolish grin that tickles to make itself known. Relaxes completely on Eddie’s bumper, though. “Not in the summer,” he answers. “I don’t mind it, though. It’s not the worst uniform I’ve ever had to wear.” His hand rises up to his hat, carefully lifts it off his head, and runs his other hand through his hair. It’s slightly crispy from the product he put in this morning, but it’s otherwise pretty clean. Maybe not the softest, but it’s nothing like what Eddie surely remembers. “Still like doing my hair. It’s just not something I show off all that often. There’s not a lot of reason to. Not when I’m alo—“ But he stops himself with the shaking of his head. Mouth clamping closed. He could lay out all his cards, be completely honest to Eddie right now. Yet. It’s one thing, though, admitting to your ex that you’re lonely and another to admit the same thing to your mom. He sighs. “—It’s not my crowning feature nowadays. That’s my mustache, I think,” he states, stroking the back of his right index finger over his facial hair.
That gets a small laugh out of Eddie, something breathy, done and gone. Steve will take that as a graceful first step. Then, tentatively, Eddie grasps his cheeks. Fingers digging into the soft flesh. He twists Steve’s head left then right. Gently dragging his eyes over his features. “Think I’d say they’re both crowning features, Stevie,” he murmurs. With how close he is to Steve’s face, his breath mingles between them. Minty, a little sugary, with the end of a cigarette. Something in Steve craves. Fluttering and shifting within him. Tampers it, though. It’s not the time. Probably won’t ever be.
Eddie continues, “But wow…You’ve aged pretty magnificently, dude.” Steve ignores the butterflies that raise their heads in his stomach. Even though he knows they’ve surely risen from some deep hibernation within him. Hasn’t felt anything like it in an insanely long time. But before he can say anything, something surely stupid and too strong, Eddie drops his hand away. “Anyway,” Eddie sighs. “You’re a…mailman now. Said you like it. Maybe you can tell me more?”
Quickly, Steve checks his watch, hoping their time isn’t up. 6:45PM, shit. He looks back up. Stares at the face of a guy he once knew pretty intimately and lets himself spark with curiosity. And with a twist to his stomach, the way it is before it growls. Hunger lurks with Eddie, he notices. He wants to take a nibble.
“I have to drive back and clock out, but…You could follow me and we can grab some dinner?” He offers. Almost says something stupid like ‘Please.’
“Oh—uh.” Eddie shrugs. Steve wants to sour already, but he can be patient. Especially when Eddie looks over his shoulder to Wayne’s front door. Glances back at Steve very briefly. “I’ll check in with Wayne. Make sure he doesn’t need anything from me. Then, I’ll meet up with you? Where’d you wanna—“
“Benny’s Burgers is under new ownership. Apparently one of his sisters came back to town and bought it. Kept it mostly the same. We could—“
“Yeah!” Eddie agrees eagerly. He must be trying to reign himself in, judging by the way he softens and his cheeks flush in subtle embarrassment. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That sounds great, Steve. I’ll be over there in fifteen-ish minutes?”
Steve nods. Smiling gently. Lets himself spark a little more, prodding the butterflies in his stomach. They raise to his chest and he wants to do something ridiculous like scream. Stand on the edge of the universe and shout about how his day is glowing brighter, something cheesy like that. But he looks away to his truck, back at Eddie’s gorgeous eyes, and nods one more time. “See you then, Eds. I’ll order a vanilla shake for you.” Ignores how Eddie’s face colors with surprise, probably wondering how Steve remembered after all these years. But he wouldn’t know how to explain himself, without baring his complete soul. He puts a hand on Eddie’s right bicep, squeezes softly, and turns back to his truck.
When he pulls away from Forest Hills, he keeps the radio off. The silence like a warm blanket on his shoulders. But his chest is bursting like fireworks, crackling and popping, searing him on all sides, colorful flashes of light working through his fingertips. He hasn’t been this excited since his kid was born. That should say something about him, he’s sure of it. Whatever it means, though, surely isn’t something to analyze. It’s good. Something gooey he’s willing to stick his fingers in.