#pentaficlet

Exhausted after a double shift, Steve dragged himself past the threshold of his apartment on autopilot before he even registered that the door was already open.

There was a strange man standing in the middle of his living room.

Now, just because Steve had no furniture, that didn’t mean he had no weapons. He wasn’t a complete idiot. There weren’t any couch cushions to stash daggers underneath or whatever, but he'd stashed the nail bat behind the front door, a can of mace under the milk crate he sometimes sat on, and a housewarming gift from Nancy in the form of a revolver duct-taped to the underside of the wire spool he'd been using as a table.

He was mid-decision of which of his weapons to lunge for when the guy turned around to face him.

He was gorgeous— Steve cursed his survival instinct for that being the first and only thing he noticed— with dark hair pulled up to reveal the tattoos on every inch of his skin. He looked like he belonged in a punk band, or maybe prison.

To add insult to injury, he wasn’t concerned or even surprised to see Steve there, despite the empty muslin laundry sack thrown over his shoulder like Santa Claus's sketchy nephew, leaving no mystery of what he was there to do.

"This your place?" the guy asked dubiously, as if he had any right to ask questions. "Cuz I broke in to rob you, but shit, man, you got nothing." He laughed, casual as anything despite being caught red-handed. Steve could only stare, open-mouthed and stunned by the confession.

"Wait here," the man said, sauntering over and bracing an arm on Steve’s shoulder as if they were old friends.

Bizarrely, there were still no warning bells going off in Steve's head, even as he took in the stranger’s face: sharp features pulled into a hard line, with tattoos creeping up his neck, onto his jaw and cheekbones. 

He looked like the kind of guy that Steve's mother would cross the street to avoid, clutching her purse tightly and refusing to make eye contact. 

But Steve held his gaze without fear, caught up in the warmth of his beautiful brown eyes, made only more striking by the scar slicing through one eyebrow. There was something soft there that caught Steve off guard and left him wanting to know more, a gentle curiosity even as Steve's eyes darted down, drawn to the movement of the man skillfully flipping a butterfly knife shut with one hand and slipping it into his pocket. 

The man gave him an apologetic smile. Steve studied it, told himself he was analysing it for signs of danger, trying to suss out the likelihood he was about to be stabbed.

But the truth was, all he could focus on was the plush curve of the stranger’s lips, pulled taut into a perfect cupid’s bow.

The gentle curiosity was back in full force as the man's hand slid up from Steve's shoulder to the side of his neck, a far more intimate touch that had Steve frozen, unable to think of anything but his own pulse hammering away under the pads of the stranger's gentle fingers.

"I'll be right back," the man promised with a soft, reassuring squeeze to his neck. And with a wink and a reckless grin, he turned and slipped out the door.

Steve stood there stunned, only sitting down on his milk crate when the world went dark around the edges and he realized he was hyperventilating, and in real danger of passing out.

The man was not right back. By the time Steve fell asleep hours later, comforted only by a single pillow and blanket on the floor of his lonely apartment, he still wasn't sure if his a reaction was to the danger, or to the stab of desire he felt the moment the man touched him.

Steve was awoken the next morning by a knock on the door. He crept over to look through the peephole with his hand hovering over his nailbat in the corner, but let his hand fall to his side when he saw that the man from yesterday, his burglar, was back— and he'd brought friends. Even while mentally berating himself for his own stupid naivety, Steve opened the door. 

Not a second later, somebody pushed past him to enter the apartment. Or tried to, anyway. Two new strangers stood in the doorway, holding a heavy wooden dining room table, bickering and ignoring him completely as they attempted to angle it this way and that to get it through the doorway without snagging the legs.

"Manners, gentlemen, where are your manners?" the man from yesterday called loudly from behind them, obviously irritated. "Sorry to intrude, pretty boy. We come bearing gifts,” he said with a mischievous smile that sent a shiver down Steve’s spine. “This here is Jeff and Gareth," the man announced, pointing to them each in turn: Jeff was dressed all in black, with thick locs covered by a slouchy black beanie, with a heavy padlock and matching key around his neck, and Gareth, in red plaid pants, a Mohawk and a noise piercing. "And this is Freak," the man continued, gesturing at the heavy-set one with curly hair, dressed in more leather than seasonally appropriate, carrying a television— with a built-in VCR, no less.

Without warning, the burglar dove to kneel at Steve’s feet, puffing his chest out boastfully as he reached to take his hand. Maintaining eye contact all the while, the man placed a loud, deliberate kiss to the back of it.

He was, without a doubt, the strangest person Steve had ever met.

And all Steve could think about was tackling him to the ground and tasting every one of his piercings. 

He laughed at the thought, loudly and helplessly, which only seemed to encourage the man to press more kisses up and down Steve’s wrist. What a bizarre moment, he thought, to become fully cognizant of his own same-sex attraction.

"As for me," the man said with a dorky little bow, releasing Steve’s hand to place one on his own heart while throwing the other out in a theatrical flourish, “you can call me tomorrow.”

His friends all groaned, dragging dining chairs into Steve’s tragically empty living room and stacking them haphazardly next to the table.

“Sorry,” the man said, shaking his head as if just realizing he’d misspoken. “I meant to say, you can call me Eddie. But, you know, now that you mention it…” The man— Eddie, apparently— reached into his back pocket, pulled out a tattered piece of corrugated cardboard, and handed it to Steve. It was clearly a torn piece of a pizza box, roughly the size of an index card. There were unmistakable smears of dried sauce, and the edges looked as though they’d been aggressively torn by hand. Steve glanced up, brows raised in question.

Eddie just gave him a hopeful little nod.

Steve flipped it over and sure enough, there was a phone number there, scrawled in barely-legible Sharpie. He looked up again to find Eddie grinning at him shamelessly.

“Yeah, let us know how that works out for you,” Jeff sighed, pulling out a cigarette, sticking it behind his ear, and tossing the pack at the back of Eddie’s head. “If you’re not back at the van in five minutes, we’re leaving without you,” he called over his shoulder as the three of them filed out of Steve’s apartment.

Eddie scoffed, bending over to pick up the pack, taking one for himself and lighting it, right there in the middle of Steve’s living room.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said, all faux innocence. “I think I got you a bed too, but that might take a couple days.”

Eddie took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling heavily in deep satisfaction. Then, eyes half-lidded, he gave Steve a look so filthy, so openly wanting, leaving no room for doubt of what was on offer.

“When can I come… give it to you?”

Steve felt like the breath had been punched out of him. He choked, whether on the smoke or the implication, coughing as he scrambled to figure out what the hell to say to that.

Because despite all rational thought… the attention wasn’t unwelcome.

Was it a bad idea to flirt back within hours of his first inkling of being interested in men? Probably. 

Was it an even worse one to flirt with the guy who broke into his apartment and then did… whatever this was? Absolutely. 

But this guy seemed to know a thing or two about bad ideas, and Steve was feeling inclined to trust the expert.

“Do these lines actually work for you?” Steve asked teasingly, letting his voice fall into the lower register he had once reserved for sweet-talking cheerleaders under the bleachers.

“I don’t know, big boy,” Eddie shot back, brown eyes gleaming as he stepped in closer until their toes were almost touching. “You tell me. Is it working?”

Between the proximity and the secondhand smoke, his head was spinning once again. "Steve," he found himself saying despite his better judgment as he allowed his eyes to sweep over Eddie’s face, taking in every detail. Feeling emboldened by the shameless, hungry look Eddie was giving him, he reached out to pluck the cigarette from Eddie’s lips, took a long drag and exhaled through his nose before carefully placing it back. 

All the while, Eddie watched him, dark eyes tracking his every move like a shark drawn to blood in the water.

"My name,” he said, voice low and gravelly, “is Steve. So when I call you tomorrow, I won't have to introduce myself as the guy you reverse-burgled."

"Revurgled," all three of his friends supplied helpfully in unison from just beyond the door, out of sight.

Steve jumped back, startled, and just like that the moment was over.

Eddie whirled around and stormed out of the apartment, berating his friends for their poor timing, not even bothering to say goodbye or close the door on his way out.

Steve stepped out after him, watching as the four of them disappeared down the hall, still bickering the whole way. He reached into his pocket, reassuring himself that the phone number was still there.