and now she doesn't

Now all he had to do was build up the courage to call you.

Invite you on a date, or that aforementioned study session that you'd offered. Something, anything. Mainly, all he wanted to do was talk to you some more; how many times had he stared at the television, wishing just for that? Now he had the opportunity and he was afraid of picking up the phone.

“Just do it, don’t be a chicken.” He shook out his limbs and muttered to himself. “Just pick up the phone and call. She’s not gonna answer. Just leave a message. How bad could it be?”

He grabbed the receiver and dialed.

His heart rattled in his chest with every ring.

Leave a message after the beep.

He took a breath just as it sounded and he started talking.

“Hey, sweetheart, thanks for your number. I, uh, figured maybe if you were free on Thursday night you could come over and we could hang out. I’ll grab some soda’s, and maybe we order pizza? I'll even take up that offer for you to help with my history homework? We can listen to some music too? I dunno. Or…or whatever you wanna do. It’s fine by me. Anyways, just lemme know. I’ll see you around.”

He slammed the receiver on the cradle and then winced. It sounded terrible. It was one long breath, he was barely able to talk by the end of it. And, shit, had he even said his name? Or left a number?

“Fuck,” he groaned.

No, it was gonna be ok. Who else would call? Obviously you would know it was him.

...But what if you didn’t?

He grabbed the receiver and dialed again.

Leave a message after the beep.

He took it easier this time, slower. “Hey, sorry, I realized I didn’t even tell you who I was. Or leave my number, in case you wanted to call back. Guess I was nervous.” He laughed lightly. “Is that embarrassing to admit? That you make me nervous? God, I’m fumbling this again, aren’t I? I guess…I dunno, you’re the most interesting person who’s rolled into town in a while. Wanna make a good impression. Anyway, uh, talk to you later.”

He hung up again, a satisfied smile on his lips.

And then he realized he’d done it again.

“DAMN IT, MUNSON!”

Third time’s a charm.

“Pick up the phone, dial, leave your name and number, hang up,” he said through gritted teeth.

Leave a message after the beep.

“It’s Eddie Munson!” He shouted into the receiver, then recited his number. And hung up.

Simple.

Until he realized he sounded like an absolute nut..

“Fuck!”

Leave a message after the beep.

"Sorry that must make me sound insane. It's Eddie Munson, and if you wanna call me back, that's cool. Or you don't have to, that's cool too. If you want nothing to do with me. Maybe...maybe you should just stay away from me. You know, you'd probably be better off."

He slammed his hand against the hook switch and dialed again.

"What are you even doing anymore?!"

Leave a message after the beep.

“Hey it’s Eddie again, Eddie Munson. Sorry. I realize I’m really fucking this all up, and if you don’t wanna talk to me ever again you don’t have to. Shit, except I don't really mean that and could you possibly find it in your heart to not think I’m insane.”

There was a knock on the front door of the trailer and he groaned. He put the receiver between his shoulder and his head and yanked the cord so it would stretch as he went to see who it was.

“I’m just trying to leave a nice message and I keep messing it up and now I’m getting interrupted. Fuck! Can’t a guy just have a telephone call in peace?!”

He shouted the last bit and threw the door open, only to go slack jawed when he saw you standing there. Your lips were pressed together, as you clearly tried to hold back your laughter.

Eddie took the receiver and threw it back towards the transmitter, wincing as he heard a crash.

“Uh, hey, sweetheart,” he greeted with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “What’s...uh...up?” He shot double finger guns your way, and then winced and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You wanna hang out on Thursday?” You asked, biting your lip to keep your smile controlled.

“Sure,” he nodded.

“Great!” You leaned forward and said the next bit sotto voce. "See how easy that is?"

He sighed and leaned against the doorjamb. “So you heard all of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Sat there and just let me keep calling?”

“Well, I would’ve just picked up but…” You shrugged. “I don’t have a TV yet. A girl needs to find entertainment where she can.”

Steve slides his fingers up the small braid, closer to the scalp, tugging with a little more pressure, pulling Eddie's head backwards as he hammers into him. Eddie wishes he had half the confidence Steve has. Eddie can pretend. Steve just exists.

"It looks fucking stupid," Steve says. "You look like an asshole."

"I am an asshole," Eddie retorts.

"You look like trailer trash."

Eddie's fingers clutch the sheets. Then, he reaches back and taps Steve on the thigh. It's subtle, but Steve will get the message and redirect, just a little.

"Well, if the shoe fits," Eddie says. 

Eddie has never found anyone that could make him buzz with desire like Steve does. Eddie asked for this. To feel something. To find a way to feel the roil of desire building anywhere in the way his cock just can't anymore. He feels like he needs his brain stroked. To feel the build-up there instead. He's asked to be put down, to be put in his place, to get off in other ways, and Steve just nodded along like Eddie was asking what the weather was like.

Steve didn't ask questions. He rarely does. He's always just rolled with whatever Eddie throws at him. There's something intoxicating about having Steve Harrington, known bitch, let loose on you while he fucks you good. 

To have someone that doesn't give a fuck if Eddie takes an hour to come. Someone that knows it has nothing to do with them, honest.

Someone that doesn't mind his broken parts, inside and out.

It's something Eddie doesn't want to inspect too closely, or he's sure he'd make connections he wouldn't like.

Overall, Steve does great. He's a natural. Coachable. There's just some things that don't scratch the right itch for Eddie. Poking at his tax bracket? That's one of them.

So, yeah, Steve might miss the mark from time to time, but it never takes him long to redirect and get it right.

"You'll never amount to anything. Not looking like this."

That's much better. 

Eddie hums in agreement, loosening his jaw to take some of the pressure off that Steve's applying by holding his hair. 

"I can't stand looking at it," Steve says, leaning over and grabbing his scissors off the nightstand. 

"Steve," Eddie whines. 

Then, he hears the metallic snip, before his head falls forward landing on the pillow. 

Steve smacks his shoulder with the cut off thin braid, then tosses next to Eddie's face. It tickles his nose. 

Then, both of Steve's hands are on Eddie's sides, gripping, pushing him into the mattress. 

Fucking him harder. Eddie's just along for the ride. 

"This thing was ugly," Steve says, toying with the cut off rattail with one hand. His other, warm and heavy, is hand resting on Eddie's thigh. Grounding.

He's always so grounding that Eddie never wants to be without him. 

And that's a dangerous thought.

"You gave it to me," Eddie mumbles around the cigarette in his mouth, and Steve chuckles. 

"You let me," Steve says.

"Well, clearly I'll let you do lots of things to me." 

Steve scoffs, "Not everything."

It's Eddie's turn to be indignant. 

"Like what? Call me trailer trash?" 

Steve's grip tightens, "No. You know I don't think that. You told me to talk shit. I was talking shit. I'm not good at this. I'm so sorry that I can't read your mind."

Eddie shakes his head, "Not that. I don't care about that. Just. Nevermind."

"No, not nevermind," Steve says, getting more agitated. Eddie passes him his cigarette, and Steve takes it.

They bicker like this. It's nothing new. They've been in each other's pockets for almost a decade now. 

"It's nothing," Eddie says, trying to placate him. Because that's far easier than the truth.

"Eddie," Steve says on an exhale of smoke. Fuck. Even that is somehow smooth. Eddie does not get how Steve is just like this.

Eddie's standard feels like he's a wet cat that's still just standing around in the rain. Broken, and a little unlovable. Steve? Steve's something else entirely.

Eddie shuts this down. It's dangerous. He can't say what he wants. He can't.

If Steve wanted him like that he'd already have him. Steve always goes after what he wants.

"Are you gonna fix my hair?" Eddie asks, changing the direction of the conversation. Steve hums, letting him.

"Yep, I've got just the thing," Steve says, and Eddie should be scared, but he isn't.

The buzz of the clippers should scare him. But it doesn't. Whatever. It's hair. It'll grow back. Eddie's been through too much to worry about what his hair looks like. He likes giving Steve free rein over it.

Steve runs his fingers along Eddie's buzzed scalp, checking for strays, Eddie's sure.

Then, Steve hands him a hand mirror. 

A mohawk. Steve gave him a mohawk. 

Which, well. It's a definite improvement over the last two haircuts. 

"I'll have to trim the sides every week," Steve says, and well, that sounds like a date to Eddie. He's never gonna turn down scheduled time to spend near Steve.

"Maybe you should become a barber," Eddie says, and Steve snorts. "That's gotta be better than retail."

"Eh. I like cutting your hair, I don't give a shit about cutting anybody else's."

Eddie lets those words sink in.

"You do Gareth's," Eddie says.

"An extension of you," Steve answers, fingers still combing through the hair on the top of Eddie's head, trying to get it higher, taller.

"Wonder how tall you could grow it?" Steve ponders, and Eddie will let it grow to a foot tall if Steve keeps doing that.

Eddie leans back, his head resting against Steve's chest. Steve's hands run up and down Eddie's bare arms, and it's too much. Too soft. But Eddie's gonna allow it.

For just a minute more. Maybe two.

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