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kitkatpancakestack · 2 years

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In which Eddie becomes famous. Sort of.

Consider this chapter a Tumblr exclusive bc ao3 keeps glitching on my pc when I try to upload BUT feel free to Read the rest of the interior designer!Eddie series on ao3!

XXIII

Evan Buckley— "I go by Buck, actually, please," — drops down to a stool in the loft of the fire station and grins up at the camera. “This is my jacket,” he says, pointing to the cover. The camera zooms in on the magazine, and then back to Buck’s face. “Do you know how many times Eddie has seen that in my closet and given me shit for it? Like a hundred times—oh, wait a minute, are we allowed to swear on this thing? You’ll just cut it out? Sweet. Okay. But, yeah, he always says it looks like a massive bird pooped on it . I totally thought I was losing my mind because I couldn't find the thing. Now I know why." He scratches his chin, a sheepish look crossing his face. "Sorry, um, what was the question again?”

Behind the camera, Julie Binet—one of the editors for Amateur Design magazine—clears her throat. “We asked you how long you’ve known Eddie Diaz.”

“Oh.” He laughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Going on six years now.”

“What three words would you use to describe him?”

Buck’s eyes catch on something behind the camera and a mischievous grin curls his lips. “Stinky, lazy, and uninspiring.”

A muffled voice in the background says, “Fuck off.”

“Eddie. We’re on camera. The children.”

The camera spins and stops on Eddie where he's lounging on an arm chair, wearing an identical uniform to Buck. A TV plays HGTV in the background. Eddie pointedly looks down at the phone in his hands.

“Anyway,” Buck says, when the camera focuses back on him. “Seeing as this jacket is selling this issue of Amateur Design, I think I should have half the profits. Actually, consider me the recipient of sixty percent of anything Eddie makes off his neurotic design hobby in the future.”

“Neurotic?” Julie asks. The sound of a pencil scratching over paper fills the silence. “Can you elaborate?”

“Oh, yeah, Eddie’s just particular, that’s all.”

“Buck,” Eddie voices, sounding pained.

"You're smouldering on this thing."

Boots thud against the hard floor, and then Eddie appears and plucks the magazine out of Buck's hands. "I do not smoulder."

"Tell that to the magazine."

Eddie's eye twitches and he opens his mouth to say something, peeks at the camera, and just storms off instead.

“I’m his best friend,” Buck explains, looking pleased with himself.

A paper ball soars into the frame and nails Buck in the back of the head.

“Uh, I wasn’t aware this was an in-house interview.”

“All in the release we had your chief sign,” Julie states, and a file of papers appears. Robert Nash— "Bobby, please, Robert makes me sound a hundred years old," — grabs the file with a suspicious look in his eye and flickers briefly through it before nodding once.

“Okay,” he says. “What is this for again?”

“Amateur Design.”

“I’m not familiar with this show.”

“It’s not a show, sir, it’s a magazine.”

“A magazine?” Bobby’s frown deepens. “About design? And you’re interviewing Eddie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m . . . confused. Do you have a copy of this magazine?”

“Right here, Cap!” Buck waltzes in out of nowhere, plopping the magazine in Bobby’s hands. “Get a load of this guy, eh?”

Bobby looks at the cover, and then up at the camera. “Is this supposed to be Eddie?”

“He’s wearing my jacket!” Buck huffs. “I made him famous.”

“Huh.” Bobby’s face scrunches up. “I thought you gave that jacket away. It hurts my eyes.”

“I wore it one time . . .” Buck mutters, walking away from the camera.

Bobby continues analyzing the magazine cover, and then his head snaps up and he beckons somebody over. “Eddie? Just a second, please.”

Eddie slouches into view. “Yeah, Cap?”

Bobby turns the magazine around. “What’s this? You never said anything.”

“I’m pretty sure Buck did at some point.”

“Buck says a lot of things. I tune most of it out. You, however. That I would have remembered.”

“. . . Sorry?”

Bobby tuts his tongue, eyes twinkling. “It’s decided then. This is going up on the station fridge.”

Eddie stares up at the camera, looking scandalized.

The camera pans out from a close-up of the magazine cover tacked to the station fridge, and then Chimney’s face— "The meaning behind the nickname? Come on, now, that’s a second date story, sorry," —comes into view. He has an energy bar in each hand.

“This is fantastic,” he sighs, peeling the wrapper off one after sticking the other in his pocket. “Best thing that’s happened all year.”

“You said Eddie redesigned this firehouse?” Julie asks.

Chimney nods, thinking as he chews. “Oh, yeah. Well, I mean, we all thought it was Bobby who did it, because—I mean, it’s Eddie, you know? I love the guy, but you have to understand, the other day he had his laptop open to the Old Navy website and just . . . a dozen henleys in his cart, three of which were the same color." He stares sorrowfully at his half-eaten energy bar. "Chris always looks so sharp, d'you think he uses all his style juice for the day on his kid?"

The camera turns to Julie, who blinks in an effort to process his words. "I'm not sure."

Chimney considers the thought for a moment more before shrugging and biting into the bar. "Well, anyway. It’s always the ones you least expect, you know?”

“It’s a good look. Other fire stations have tried to copy it.”

Chimney chokes on his energy bar. “What? You’re serious?”

“There’s a station in Chicago who posted a picture on Twitter. They tagged Eddie in the design.”

“No shit—oh, shit, can I swear on this thing? You'll just cut it out? Awesome. Wow. I don’t really go on social media. Neither does Eddie, now that I think about it. His last post was like three years ago. Oh, my God.” Chimney cranes his neck, waving his second energy bar in the air. “Hey, Eddie! When’s the last time you logged on to Twitter?”

The camera pans over to Eddie walking up the steps. He turns around and walks back down.

"Wait, I thought this was about interior design. What does anybody care how many henleys I buy?"

The camera shifts over Eddie's shoulder and zooms in on the wide-eyed look on Chimney's face.

"Is this some kind of fashion magazine? I'm not—I thought you were called Amateur Design."

Chimney backs slowly toward the fire pole.

"Also, just for the record, there isn't anything wrong with henleys. My dad always said it was good to find a piece of clothing and stick with it. He had a bin full of polos."

Chimney snorts so hard he trips over his feet and nearly slams into the pole.

“No, I didn’t know Eddie was a closet design fanatic. And yet I’m not surprised. It’s a healthy hobby, though. Nothing wrong with it.”

Henrietta Wilson— "Call me Hen. If you say Henrietta I’ll think it’s my mother and hide," —taps a pen against the page of some sort of medical textbook. Behind her, Bobby smiles proudly at the magazine cover on the fridge before reaching inside for a carton of eggs.

“Is this really a big thing?” The camera focuses on Hen’s face. “Like, is Eddie leaving to design rooms for the President or something?”

“It could be a gateway to something much more,” Julie explains. “Some of our spotlighted amateur designers go on to have illustrious careers. One of them is the personal consultant for Oprah.”

“Oprah.” Hen whistles, shaking her head. “Karen is going to love this.”

A loud crash is heard in the background, followed by an undignified squawk. The camera follows Hen as she stands to track the noise down the stairs, where Eddie is hunched over laughing with his hands on his knees and Buck is on the ground with an upturned bucket of soap and water soaking through his uniform.

“Yeah,” Hen remarks dryly. “That guy. Working for Oprah. I can see it now.”

Eddie helps Buck to his feet and then shoves a dirty sponge in his face.

Hen gives the camera a flat look.

“Thank you again for sitting down with us in your house Eddie.”

“Of course,” Eddie says, rubbing his palms against the denim over his thighs. His eyes widen suddenly and he makes a move to stand. “Do you guys, uh, do you need anything? Water, tea, coffee—well, actually, Buck drank the rest of my coffee, but I think I have—”

“We’re quite alright, Eddie,” Julie cuts him off, and he sinks back into the couch, shoulders pensive. “Thank you.”

“Sure.”

“As our newest featured amateur designer, I just wanted to ask you some questions about your inspirations, how you got into design, the basic stuff. You ready?”

Eddie nods with a face that looks the opposite of ready. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess. Yes. I’m ready.”

“Great.” The camera widens to show Julie seated on the opposite end of the couch, angled toward Eddie, notebook in her lap. “Have you always enjoyed interior design?”

“Um, uh. Well. I guess? I mean, I didn’t really do much with it when I was younger, but I guess I always noticed. The design work and stuff, I mean. Yeah. I guess you could say I’ve always been aware of it.”

“You spend your days and nights as a firefighter, but have you ever considered doing design full time?”

Eddie laughs. “Oh, my—no, it’s never crossed my mind. I love what I do. Interior design has always been more of a stress relief thing.”

“Well, your ‘stress relief thing’ has garnered you a lot of attention.”

He laughs again, a little more nervously.

Julie shifts on the couch, a hawkish smile on her face. “Now, I’ll be hunted down if I don’t ask for our readers, but the people want to know: are you single?”

Eddie’s face reddens. “Um.”

“Just between us, Mr. Diaz.”

The camera shifts over and zooms in on a picture sitting on a table beside the couch, of Buck and Eddie and Christopher smiling together at the beach, as Eddie says, “No, I’m . . . I’m not really seeing anybody at the moment, I guess.”

“The people will be relieved,” Julie smirks, but notes his discomfort and smoothly glides to the next question. “What would you say your biggest inspiration is?”

Eddie’s eyes flit about the space. “Uh, I don’t think . . . I mean . . .”

The door opens, cutting off his sentence, and the camera follows Eddie’s gaze as Buck and Christopher walk through the door. Buck blinks at everybody gathered in the living room. Christopher grins a toothy smile.

“Awesome,” he breathes, as Buck says, “What?”

“Dude.” Eddie vaults off the couch. He corrals Buck in the hall, away from the crew. “I told you I had this stupid thing today. Weren’t you going to the zoo?”

“Zoo’s closed,” Buck answers, sneaking a peak at the interview crew over Eddie’s shoulder. “Something happened to one of the elephants. Some kid saw and totally freaked. There’s a lawsuit pending.”

“So you came back here?”

“Yeah, man, what’s the big deal? I’ll go to Christopher’s room. We’ll be quiet.”

Eddie drags a hand down his face, sighing heavily. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. This is stressful.”

Buck smiles, something soft and fond and amusing all at the same time. He rubs a hand down Eddie’s arm. “I know. Tough being in the spotlight, huh?”

“Screw you.”

“Mmhm.” He nudges his shoulder and follows Christopher down the hall. “Well be in the room. Definitely not listening to everything you say.”

Eddie groans and waits for the door to click shut before sitting back down on the couch. “Sorry. Where were we?”

“Biggest inspiration,” Julie repeats.

“Right,” Eddie says, and fumbles his way through an explanation. Something scuffs against the floor, and the camera switches to the nearest doorway where Buck is propped. He puts a finger to his lips when he sees the camera, eyes falling back on Eddie as he listens. He’s smiling.

After Eddie's interview, Julie talks quietly with the crew as everybody packs up. Eddie disappears down the hall with a mumbled excuse. Buck materializes by the camera and scoots closer. “I have my own copy of the magazine,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I’m going to keep it on my nightstand until the day I die.” And then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouts, “Hey, Eddie, will you sign a copy of the magazine for me?”

Something clatters in another room, followed by a muffled slew of words.

Buck turns back to the camera and grins.

Buck's first interview at the station got cut off by a call, so he lets the crew in his apartment to wrap it up.

“Oh, yeah, he signed it alright,” Buck says, a far off look in his eyes. After an awkward period of silence, he jerks to attention, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t—what? What is that look for? Is there something on my face?” He pats at his cheeks just as the door to his apartment opens and Eddie walks in, Christopher behind him.

“Oh, Jesus." Eddie ducks behind the bag of groceries in his arms. “Seriously? You could have warned me, man.”

Christopher gasps. “Am I going to be on TV?”

Buck scoffs, hopping up from the couch. The camera follows him as he walks toward the kitchen. “Sorry, buddy, it’s just for a magazine. Your dad isn’t that cool.”

“Wow. Ouch.”

Buck cackles, absorbing himself into the world of his two guests, seemingly forgetting that the camera crew is present. The camera pans over to the magazine forgotten on the couch, zooming in on the words scrawled across the inside flap in sharpie:

Thanks for always being my biggest inspiration.

—Eddie

#kitkat writes #interior designer!eddie #dont ask how long it took me to make that amateurish magazine cover the answer will be embarrassing for me #i had way too much fun with this it got away from me for sure

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stevebabey · 1 year

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you thought it would be all sweetness??? nooo u got to have a little miscommunication angst before anyone gets any hickies. but they will. in time >:) part one. part two. this is a part three :)

Steve blames it all on the clock.

That stupid cuckoo clock on the wall of the Munson trailer. It's an absolute horror of interior design that would make Steve’s mom shiver if she ever laid eyes on it. It’s probably why Eddie loves it — and the god-awful cuckoo! noise it makes when it goes off.

Because the moment Eddie utters that delightful question, asking for a hickie, the nerve of him, Steve loves it — and Steve is more than ready to oblige him — the stupid clock goes off.

It gives them both a fright, Steve more than Eddie. He gives a whole-body twitch that shifts them both, his head snapping to the wall, a breath forced out of his lungs at the sight of the mustard-coloured bird. Shit. Stupid fuckin’ clock, Steve thinks.

But it seems to break the trance over the room. The sweet tension of their shared closeness is sucked out of the room in an instant. Steve is suddenly aware of the time the popping out bird is announcing. It’s late. Far later than Steve intended to stay over, especially considering work tomorrow.

Without meaning to, the prickle under Steve’s skin rolls through his body. It steals away the comfort that he usually feels with Eddie, tenseness filling his body. Steve hates it — hates how he can’t stop himself from tensing up beneath Eddie.

Eddie notices. He's quick to to retract himself from Steve, pushing up and back, giving Steve his space. He sits beside Steve on the couch, still close. Not close enough to touch.

It helps. The rigidness of Steve's body relaxes just a bit but Steve doesn’t want that. He wants Eddie back on him. Wants his hands gripping Steve’s side. His breath fanning over Steve’s face, cheeks cherry red and pupils blown wide. Steve doesn’t say any of that and he sure is shit isn't brave enough to ask for it.

Instead, he croaks, “It’s late.”

Steve reluctantly pushes himself up from his slumped position, eyes already searching for his scattered shoes. He misses the way Eddie’s face falls, the way he tries to tug his hair in front of his face to hide the hurt. It takes another second to school his expression.

Steve hears a cough and then Eddie agrees with a murmur. “Yeah, sure.”

The words ache. No part of Steve is relieved to have Eddie agree with him. He’s not sure what he wanted; for Eddie to egg him to stay just a little while longer? To prove that their kisses hadn’t been a heat of the moment impulsivity? There's nothing to prove they weren't.

No, it was Steve who said he had to go. It is late. But then again maybe, Eddie wanted him to leave. But, no— Eddie just asked for a hickie, he wouldn’t—

“Don’t you have work early tomorrow?” Steve’s spiral cuts short at Eddie’s voice, tinged with… irritation?

O-kay. Now Steve’s not sure what to think. What had been the source of immense joy because Steve had asked for a kiss and Eddie said yes is suddenly… tilted.

The beginnings of embarrassment begin to cling to Steve like a thick fog. He’s done it again. Been overly eager. Asked for too much, too soon— fuck, that had been Eddie’s first kiss too.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, standing and shoving his foot into the one shoe he can find. He spies the other one under the table and wiggles it out with his toe. He can’t find in it to look at Eddie, not just yet. “Yeah, uh, I should get going.”

It’s all wrong. Steve shouldn’t be leaving — not on these terms. Not when he can’t look at Eddie for fear of what he’ll find. Regret? Steve’s not sure if he could face Eddie again, not if there’s even a trace of it on his face. It would feel like Halloween all over again, a bludgeon on Steve’s too-soft heart. It’ll crumble, he just knows it.

Steve wants to stay. He really wants to. He wants to ask for another kiss, ask for a dozen more kisses. Wants to give the hickie Eddie asked so nicely for and receive one back; matching love bites, like a gentler version of their matching twisted scars adorning their sides.

But he’s always asking for more. Steve always needs more. It’s greedy. It’s embarrassing how much he wants it, how he’s already gotten patient touches from Eddie but it’s not enough. Eddie had sounded a pinch annoyed — even aggravated at Steve.

It doesn't cross his mind that it might be for any other reason. Really, Steve thinks he’s doing Eddie a favour.

“Um,” Steve clears his throat, takes the wobble out of his words. Nods to himself and chances a glimpse at Eddie. The older is staring down at his lap, locks of hair trapped between twitchy fingers. They should talk about it. Steve’s not brave enough to risk his heart tonight.

“Well, g’night.” He says quietly, letting himself out the trailer door. He closes it behind him gently, shoes tapping against the stairs on the way down. It feels wrong, it feels wrong — but it would be selfish to turn back.

He repeats the sentiment over and over, raspy whispers beneath his breath as he climbs into his car. It would be selfish. The engine turns over and he hesitates for just a moment, hoping to catch a silhouette in the kitchen window. It’s empty. Of course, it’s empty.

Of course, Eddie is not chancing for a glance at him on his way out because Steve just asked for more and more and more, and he took Eddie’s first kiss and then— He whispers it to himself again. It would be selfish to turn back.

When he thinks about it on the drive home, Steve’s sure it all comes back to that stupid fucking clock.

Eddie stares in the mirror.

He’s not sure why he was so convinced there would be some radical change in him upon popping his make-out cherry but… well, here he was. Staring in the mirror like he had this morning. Except 10 hours earlier, he had been unkissed.

Tonight, the difference shows. His lips are rosier than usual, a swell to them given by hasty sweet kisses. It’s the only evidence of his spit-sharing moment of passion with Steve on the couch. The rosy colour is already beginning to fade.

Eddie sinks his teeth in. He doesn’t want the only physical proof that he even got to kiss Steve to be gone so soon. Even if that fact seems terribly bitter now.

“What the shit did you do, Munson?” He murmurs to himself in the tiny bathroom mirror.

It’s got toothpaste specks splayed across it. Eddie stares past them. Stares into his own face, reading every change in his features as emotions inside him churn. It’s heading for a distraught expression, the upturn of his brows and quiver in his lips giving him away. He always was a crier. Eddie really wishes he wasn’t.

“Idiot!” He pairs the word with a bang on the wall beside the mirror, frustration leaking out. The toothbrush on the sink shudders in its cup with a clink.

Eddie hates the welling in his eyes. He hates that he ruined the first fuckin’ good thing to happen to him in this town. Loathes that he drives away the first person who actually knows him and still wants to kiss him.

Well, wanted to kiss him.

Eddie’s pretty sure Steve scampering out of the trailer is more than a big enough sign. It’s a blazingly bright neon sign — light up words that say ‘This was a mistake!’

Except, it hadn’t felt at all like a mistake to Eddie. It had felt wonderful, better than anything he had thought, the soft curve of Steve’s lips, the grip on his hands on Eddie’s face, the heat in his face, the— Eddie growls, wiping his hand down his face to shake the thoughts. Too good to be true was what it was.

It’s because of what he said. Of what he asked for. It had to be that. But— but Steve had looked eager and almost excited and then the stupid clock had gone off, scaring the shit out of them both. Maybe it was then that Eddie’s words had sunk in and Steve realised what he’d gotten into— and who he’d gotten into it with.

“You had to ask for more, huh?” Eddie scolds himself angrily, wiping his cheeks harshly when a tear streaks free. Another follows, just as fast. Eddie wipes roughly at his face to clear them. Doesn’t care about the streaks of red he leaves on his cheeks. Another trembling reprimand comes out. “You just had to push it, huh? You fuckin’ idiot.”

Eddie can’t stand his reflection anymore. He tears his gaze away as he spins and heads straight for his room.

The button on his stereo is sticky and it takes a few forceful clicks to turn it on, but when he does, he cranks it. It’s loud enough he’ll surely wake some neighbours. Eddie can’t find it in him to care, not even when the neighbours dog starts off with its incessant barking. Anything to stop hearing himself cry.

“Something’s up with Eddie.” is the first thing Robin says when she comes in the front door.

Steve’s mid-yawn when she does, a result of a night of tossing and turning, and he somehow manages a strange choke at her words. In a haste to shut his mouth, he chomps on his fingers covering his mouth — then hisses, pulling it away from his face. He ignores Robin’s perplexed expression, shoving the hand deep in his pocket. His ears feel a tad hotter.

“What? Why? What makes you think that?” Steve asks the questions in rapid succession. Very chill, he chides himself. At this rate, Robin would have him all figured out 10 minutes into their shift.

And it’s not like— well, Robin’s advice is usually great. A bit cut-throat, sure. She doesn’t have a problem trodding on his feelings on her way to tell him the hard truth. Usually, it’s fine. Steve could probably do with a bit of ego-bruising.

Today, he’s… It’s different. That’s what Steve tells himself. This thing with Eddie, he wants to fix it himself. And with too much meddling from Robin’s advice, even if it was with the best intentions, might mix things up too much. It’s hard enough keeping his half-baked apology that’s been brewing since last night in proper order in his mind.

Thankfully, Robin doesn’t comment on his odd demeanor. She just bustles into the back room — there are a couple sounds of her dumping her stuff. When she comes back out the front, she’s fixing her Family Video vest. It looks perfectly straight to Steve.

He checks his own — it’s sitting askew, part of the collar flipped over. He hastily fixes it, running his hands down the front to smooth it a bit.

“Just,” Robin starts, talking as she sits in front of the computer, beginning to take a crack at the admin she managed. She likes doing things as she talks, Steve knows. Helps keep her from letting words run away from her.

Steve’s thankful for it now because she isn’t looking at him when she says, “I think he might have had a bad nightmare last night, or something of that sort. I don’t know. Maybe I’m way off — you know how I am with trying to read people, Steve. I’m not good at it! But when I saw him, he just seemed…”

Robin seems to take an extra moment to deliberate her word choice. Steve’s really glad she’s still facing the computer so she can’t see the myriad of emotions that show on his face.

“…Off.” is the word she decides on.

Which means bad. Steve feels like he’s swallowed a stone. It sinks deep into his stomach. It burns, sour and scorned, twisting up his gut. It means Eddie is bad — it means disappointment, means he regretted it. That Steve had been right; that he’d been too eager, too soon. Too much.

Right. Of course, this happens again. Really, Steve had brought it on himself by asking for so much. It had been one thing to ask for a hug — who actually has to do that? — and then to expect he might get Eddie to kiss him too? What a overstep. Christ, he's an idiot.

“That’s not…” He hears himself say, still lost in his thoughts. It's only when Robin turns on the stool, brows raised, that Steve realises he hasn’t finished his sentence. “Good. That’s not good. To hear.”

Steve turns and starts shuffling around the films on the returns cart, picking them up at random. He stares at a copy of ‘The Princess Bride’ in his hands, a new release, and forces out a causal question.

“What made you think that?” He asks, shoving the film into an empty slot, like he was arranging them. He’s relieved when Robin’s clicking on the keyboard resumes, along with a dramatic sigh.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can be trusted to read anyone’s emotions correctly at any given time, honestly. Remember that old lady? I thought she was being sweet that whole time and then you told me she was being rude! And I couldn’t even tell…”

Robin’s ramble is comforting and helpful to Steve in a way he didn’t know they could be. He presses the cart out, finally getting a move on with it, but delivers a quick nod to Robin when she’s looking to let her know he’s still tuned in. He listens to her get distracted by another topic and leaves Eddie’s name in the dust. It’s a silent relief.

It’s a task to multi-task, listening and devising a plan, but Steve has all shift to find the balance. It’s sometime between finishing re-stocking the action section and starting the romance that Steve decides he should apologise. He should go over today and apologise.

Eddie’s a big boy but Steve’s fairly certain now, if he regretted it, Eddie had probably felt obliged to kiss him back. Probably hadn’t minded the first kiss but- but— Something sticks in his brain; it was Eddie’s first kiss.

It makes Steve feel worse. It doesn’t matter, really, Steve should say sorry for all of it. God, he’s such an idiot.

By the time he’s clocked out, it’s all set in place. He’s got a dozen different apologies running in a loop in his head, reciting the words in time with his anxious tapping on the steering wheel. It’s not a long drive out to Forest Hills Trailer Park. The drive is well-known now. Steve tries hard not to wallow in what he might be losing today. What he lost because he’d been too greedy with want.

The sight of a brown van parked roadside yanks him from his thoughts. Eddie’s van. Steve’s stomach turns, nerves gnawing faster. He slows, trying to catch eye of the other boy as he rolls to a stop behind the van. The sun is beginning to dip closer to the horizon, the temperature going with it.

At the same time, they see each other; Eddie’s head popping around the raised hood to see who had stopped, right as Steve pops his door. Eddie retreats in an instant. Steve's chest grows a bit tighter.

Gravel crunches underfoot as Steve takes a few wary steps closer. It doesn’t take more than a couple before Eddie calls out. He doesn’t bother poking his head out again.

“Go away, Steve.”

Steve swallows thickly. Yeah, okay, he deserves that. He deserves probably worse than that. But more importantly than that, Eddie deserves to hear this. And Steve... needs to not lose Eddie.

“Can I… can we talk?” Steve asks, taking a couple steps closer. A car whizzes by on the road, hidden from Steve's view behind the van. He still keeps his distance, hovering. His hands clench nervously at his sides. Steve shoves them deep in his jean pockets, wiping the sweat off them as he goes.

“What part of ‘Go away’ isn’t clear enough for you?” Eddie snarks back. He still doesn't stick his head out, still won’t look at Steve. It stings.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Steve starts, another instinctive step forward taken. “I-I just, I shouldn’t have left like I did last night. I wanted to apologise.”

There’s a clattering from behind the hood like Eddie’s dropped a tool. He swears. Steve wants to take another step, wants to see Eddie — wants to read every emotion and apologise for causing any of the ugly ones.

“Well, apology accepted,” Eddie responds. There’s a bite in his words. His next words are grumblier, quieter. “And message fuckin’ received.”

What? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That—” Finally, Eddie steps away from the van, rounding the hood to march up to Steve. His arms cross over his chest, a wrinkle set between his brows that pull his face into a glare. Robin was right; he is off. This isn’t normal Eddie. Fuck, Steve had fucked up bad.

“That means message received, Steve.” Eddie seethes. He uncrosses his arms to gesture wildly. Steve misses the wobble in his bottom lip. “Message received loud and clear! I get it!”

And all Steve wants to ask is: get what? He doesn’t ask that. He should know what. That would be an idiotic question, would make Eddie more irritated. Lord knows, Steve has been enough of a fool in the last day. So, he doesn’t ask.

“Look, I just…” Steve starts, words a bit weak. They die in his throat as he tries to recall a single apology he had practiced all day and comes up empty. “I’m just- I just wanted—look, I’m sorry I took your first kiss!”

It’s not exactly what he means to say, but Steve certainly is sorry for it. Eddie’s expression wavers, some anger slipping away. Confusion takes its place.

“What?” Eddie says with a tone of bafflement. “What are you talking about?”

“And I’m sorry I kept… kept asking for more.” Steve continues on, pulling on the thread inside him, connected to the terrible stone he swallowed earlier. He tugs it. Hopes pulling it will unravel the guilt sitting heavy in his stomach.

Steve scrunches his eyes shut and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I know, okay? I know that I can be a lot.” He sighs and drops his hands.

“But I didn’t mean to… shit,” He wrenches his eyes open. Eddie’s a bit wide-eyed now, brown eyes watching him intently. Steve doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, can’t tell if it’s good or worse. He continues, soft words scraping out his throat.

“I didn’t mean to be like that with you.”

Eddie searches Steve’s face, eyes darting and wild. He licks his lips. His hands are in motion, fingers twisting rings, quick and fast. It’s a nervous action.

“What do you mean by ‘like that?’” Eddie asks, voice gentler. It's lost its snarl from before.

Steve blinks, a scrape of teeth worrying his bottom lip. He murmurs his admittance lowly, just one word, “Selfish.”

Eddie doesn’t try to hide his surprise; it ripples across his face in a wave. Confusion melts away into something closer to, Steve hopes desperately, relief. Steve can feel his own heart thudding hard inside his chest — can feel the beat it skips when Eddie steps closer.

“Steve?” Eddie says, sounding unlike himself. Steve’s never heard his voice that small. He nods, wordlessly. Eddie searches his face once more — wide brown eyes scanning and devouring. Steve can’t help but do the same.

He drinks in the details of Eddie’s face; the soft scruff along his top lip, the darkness of his lashes and the way they kiss in the corner that Steve adores. The pink of his lips. The familiar ache to kiss Eddie surges up within him, still as violent and strong as it had been the night before.

Steve should really stop looking at Eddie’s lips. He’s supposed to be apologising. He drags his eyes up and meets Eddie’s gaze full-on, prepared for whatever he might say. Except, he’s not expecting him at all to say;

“Can I... try this again?” It comes out a ragged breath, Eddie's scared eyes conveying the weight behind his words.

And this time Steve doesn't even need to ask what because he knows. Because Eddie's hands are reaching up and holding either side of Steve's face so gently. Steve can't recall a time he's ever been held so softly. His own hands come up slowly, draping around Eddie's wrists to hold them, to keep them there.

Eddie's thumb traces. It draws a sweet line of that familiar fire beneath Steve's skin along til it's settled on Steve's bottom lip, resting. The blood under Eddie's thumb thrums, gloriously warm, aching with want. Yes. Steve thinks. Yes, yes, yes.

"Yes, please." Steve breathes, so sincere the words comes out as a kiss against Eddie's thumb.

So, Eddie kisses him.

now with a part four !

tags below! sry if i tagged u and u didn't want it just tagging everyone who replied <3 @they-reap-what-we-sow @impeachy @anaibis @resident-gay-bitch @ediewentmissing @newtstabber @original-cypher @invisibleflame812 @hunterbow04 @leather-and-freckles @dracoswifeandlokispet @foolofentirelytoomanyfandoms @lfaewrites @sundead @call-me-big-eyes @the-redthread @goblinmanifesto @etaka @bishopextractions @ketterfuck @persephone13 @beckkthewreck @maya-custodios-dionach @autumnal-dawn @yourstrulyjoko @gleefully-macabre @princess-eddie @savory-babby

#EHEHE SORRY I CANT RESIST A LITTLE BIT OF MISCOM ANGST #MORE SWEETNESS COMING THO!!!#on god eddie needs his hickie #and im gonna GIVE HIM ONE #AND SO MUCH LOVE!!!!!!#BEST BOYS NEED TO BE HAPPY IN LOVE!!!!#maybe one more part :)#i had only one more idea for the can i's and i BET u can guess what it might be <3 #and it needs to draw back to touch cos that was the POINT of this fic originally #IM ALL BOUT PARALLELS BABEY #hope u find this delicious #gay ppl in my phone... this for u #can't wait to write the relieved kisses w the 'YOU THOUGHT WHAT???'#they're such goobers <3 #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #can i series #HOW MANY CAN I'S CAN U SPOT THIS TIME !!!#ruby writes steddie #steddie angst #steddie fluff #uhhhh don't flop challenge #or do flop. i can't control the masses #hopefully this hits the brainrot just right

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