Chapter Text
Eddie desperately needs to delete twitter.
Like- so bad. He did away with it for a while (or rather Gareth had after he claimed Eddie’s ‘addiction’ was getting in the way of practice, while Eddie looked on. Kicking and screaming in an undignified manner), but the app itself is regularly re-downloaded and remains a temptation on his phone in moments of boredom such as these- sitting in the tour bus hiding from Chrissy as she tries to hunt him down over some stunt he’d pulled last show, or procrastinating working on whatever lyrics he’d been penning down for the album they want to put out next fall. It’s easy, far too easy- click and scroll.
Brain off.
He needs that now- delirious with lack of sleep after last night’s show, last night’s afterparty. Isn’t really thinking straight at all anyway.
He lounges on the floor of the dressing room they’ll be occupying before the last show tonight, mindlessly flicking his way through recycled memes, edits thieved from tiktok, AI slop (gross. He NEEDS to delete twitter again, gross), musings about everything from ongoing political scandals in the Middle East to pondering's over the top five sandwich fillings you could get at Subway (people were actually voting for tuna? Jail.)
He likes to scroll through fan replies, on their socials. Not for the ego boost- that’s worn off over time by now, but for the funny reactions, the clips fans take at their shows where one of them is acting particularly wild or manic (or sometimes homoerotic, for funsies) on stage. It never gets old- the fact people like their music. Love their sound, love Eddie’s words- it’s a gift, a privilege that took him years to recognise properly. He’s scrolling now, under their latest post (Chrissy definitely oversaw this one rather than one of his bandmates, the spelling is all correct)- sees someone reply with some sick fanart of him and Jeff jamming on their guitars. Tags: #CorrodedCoffin #EddieMunson #JeffCarey #music #fanart.
His thumb slips on the #music tag, and he squints at his phone, looking at the latest tweets under it. It’s another big range of stuff, mostly tweets from older people or artists- he eventually hits a video uploaded from an account with no profile picture, tagged #music #coworkers. Who tags stuff like that anymore, he snorts. He clicks play.
It’s a video taken on someone’s snapchat- with a little caption saying dingus performance #2 of today’s shift- someone walking out from what looks to be a storefront. There’s plants everywhere- lining the walls, bunches of vibrantly coloured flowers sprouting in bouquets in big buckets of water on the floor, up against a little wooden door. Music blares in the background- sounds tinny, like from an old radio. Eddie recognises the song immediately- it’s one of Wayne’s old favourites, consummate fan of the Stones that he is. Wild Horses. Someone’s singing over it loudly, off-tune and uncaring. It is kinda funny, the way their voice wavers as they sing, passionate, bright.
The person recording is snickering quietly, walks out into what looks to be a back yard, walled in and covered in greenery. There’s a central courtyard with scattered crates everywhere, tools and dirt littered over the ground. A row of trees against the back wall, and big raised beds overflowing with life- and Eddie finally sees the singer.
Woah.
It’s a guy- young-ish, he’d hazard a guess at mid twenties- he’s wearing a dark green apron and rubber boots over a faded t-shirt and blue jeans with mud caked all over his knees and hands. His hair flops about as he sings and lunges around dramatically, entirely unaware of the fact he’s being filmed- light brown, lit up gold in the late afternoon sunshine.
And he’s fucking stunning.
Like- Eddie pauses the video, gawks. He’s dancing around with a rake like a huge dork, grinning broadly in the frame Eddie’s frozen him in. Strong jaw, full lips- he’s really pretty. He’s broad and kind of muscly looking, biceps flexing as he grips the rake- his skin is tan, looks golden in the light against his stonewashed red tee.
Eddie’s drooling a little. His type, very much his type.
He plays the rest of the video- the guy dances around a bit like the rake is his partner, then switches to playing air guitar on his knees dramatically, eyes squeezed shut as he belts out the chorus. In the last ten seconds he finally notices his hidden audience- the person filming is shaking with laughter- yelps “Robin!”, stumbles towards her with his cheeks aflame- and the video cuts out.
Eddie replays it, all two minutes and five seconds.
Pauses it over and over, staring at the guy like a fucking creep. Sue him- it’s rare he finds someone that physically attractive over a grainy video depicting them singing along very badly to the Rolling Stones. Rarely does he see somebody he wants that badly at all these days- not to brag, but it’s a lot easier to get laid after you catapult to fame (not that he really takes advantage of that, given how picky he is). He downloads the video- easier to pause, scroll.
Eddie wonders if the guy has heard of them. Heard their stuff, heard Eddie’s lyrics. Maybe he’s seen them online or on a billboard or a podcast.
Maybe not. His look doesn’t scream I-listen-to-glam-metal-and-prog-rock, but- you never know. Maybe.
He scrolls the replies- there’s a surprising amount, given the fact it’s a random video from a faceless account under the moniker ‘@buckley554’- but there’s a lot of heart eyes emojis, people commenting on the guy’s singing skills, inquiring who he is. Eddie smirks. He would never normally reply to this shit, he never replies to anything online. Just lurks on the burner account he has- but who’s going to notice a reply from his own account under a tweet with less than ten likes? And the guy is sexy as fuck- can’t hurt.
Replying to @buckley554: @CorrodedCoffinOfficial: nice dance moves, pretty boy. yr fine as hell, damn ;)
He goes to click on the account- maybe they post more from their store- the chances of it being ‘local’ to where he’s finally returning to after this last show from the closing leg of their tour are slim to none, but hey. Can’t hurt to check-
“Eddie?”
He hears Gareth call out in the hall- slams the door open. Eddie drops the phone.
“Huh? I wasn’t?”
Gareth narrows his eyes.
“Were you-”
“I was napping!” he snaps. “Is that okay, mom?”
Gareth peeks at his phone suspiciously, but Eddie springs to his feet, shoving it in his pocket. “What, are you fuckin’ babysitting me now? Or-”
“We were due at soundcheck like ten minutes ago dude. Is your head screwed on right? You know Chrissy-”
Eddie groans, facepalms. “Soundcheck waits for no man.” He spots a familiar figure with her hands on her hips at the end of the hallway.
“Neither do managers,” Gareth replies dryly. “She’s pissed.”
Chrissy swats him over the head as he passes, but lets him go unscathed beyond that- lets him set up his guitar, pace around the stage, vibrate impatiently as techs come and go and mic him up, fix him in place. He’s jiggling, over-energised, come on, hurry up.
Eddie stands stage right- Jeff in the centre, Doug to the left on bass. Gets ready to run through a song to practice, picks out a complex riff. Jeff is the frontman- their singer, with his dramatic grungey vocals. He stays centre stage mostly, reasonably stationery. The rest of the domain is Eddie’s playground- he’s the liveliest. Lead guitar, backing vocals, songwriting. All of my favourite things, he thinks. Lucky me.
He’s feeling less lucky ten minutes later however- Chrissy storms across the stage, brandishing her phone like a baton in her hand as if she’s ready to club him over the head. They crowd round her, Gareth tentatively removing himself from behind the drumkit.
Chrissy looks like an angel- acts like one too, most of the time- but when this particular expression is painted across her face Eddie knows to mind his tongue.
“Which of you morons,” she hisses, “let Eddie log into twitter today?”
Eddie blinks.
The other three start blabbering over each other accusatorially- until Eddie starts to protest, whining. “You watched Gareth delete the app, Chris! Last week!”
“I did,” she concedes, deadpan. “So- you never commented on anything today? You didn’t re-download it?”
Fuck.
“How do you-”
“Because, Eddie- you commented using the band account. You logged in on our official socials.”
Eddie stares at her dumbly. Then-
“Oh fuck.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “Oh fuck.”
“I’ll- delete that, then,” he laughs nervously. “Before-”
“Before someone picks up on it, screenshots it, begins distributing it across the internet at a frankly alarming pace and starts a series of hashtags up in an effort to find the ‘pretty boy’ gardener you were lusting over?”
“Um. Yes?”
Chrissy moans pathetically. “Eddie- you can’t do shit like that on our official account. Not now we have one point two million people watching on and sponsors and- it’s… when it blows up like this-”
“Fuck, Chrissy- I’m sorry- I had no clue I was logged in as- I mean, I should have realised, obviously… but it’s whatever, right? We can just swing it as a joke- ‘who let the intern at the account’ or some shit, right? I mean no one even knows I tweeted it.”
“You are severely underestimating the sleuthing skills of your fans, Munson. You think people haven’t cross referenced the reply against all of your old tweets they’ve saved- you’re the only one out of the four of you that spells ‘you’re’ like ‘yr’, every other tweet you made used that winky- smiley thing- and half the band are in relationships, so that kind of narrows it down. People act out, when celebrities do this shit-”
Eddie groans and sinks to the floor dramatically. I mean- thirst tweet. Whatever, not embarrassing. Thirst tweet the internet is going to make a huge fucking meal out of, while his band mates watch on, ripping into him- bit of a fucking pain in the ass.
“Just- is it deleted?”
“Yes-”
“Aw man,” Gareth grins, “I wanted to see it. Who’s gardener boy? You never tweeted shit like that on your personal account. No wonder people are going mad over this.”
“My brain is fried today Chris, I wasn’t thinking, I forgot,” he despairs, rolling on the ground and poking at her shoes. She kicks at him lightly, sighing exasperatedly. She’s melting though, he can tell- pity and years of fondness wearing down at her frustrated demeanour.
“It’s done now- it’ll blow over. Just log out,” she demands, “and for chrissakes delete twitter.”
*
Eddie tries to put it out of his mind before the show. Their last show for months- he wants to go into it unfettered with dread over fans circulating his stupid tweets and pointed looks from Gareth and Jeff and just. General bad feelings. Bad vibes.
So he gets gently shitfaced.
Eddie’s calmed down massively over the past three years of stardom- ever since their debut album blew up and they started actually selling out venues, it’s been a long journey of realising that most of his wild-child-man-whore-do-what-I-fucking-want shit is a very elaborate performance, and not actually something he really enjoys. It’s what’s expected of him as a Very Cool rockstar.
They all used to act a bit depraved at the start anyway- drunk or high for every other show, acting like maniacs during interviews, sex scandal rumours and groupies trailing after them- Eddie might not sleep with like, ninety nine percent of people who make him offers but he does enjoy a good flirt. Then it happens.
Jeff gets a girlfriend.
Another musician- she’s a country singer with puffy blonde hair and big blue eyes and a stern attitude- and she puts him on a fuckin’ leash. Tammy’s cool- nice to them all, but it doesn’t take long for Jeff to start sobering up, acting responsible, skipping afterparties, rolling his eyes when Eddie starts pretending to deep throat his mic on stage. It’s fine, whatever- he still acts up during shows- he’s still fun to play with, to perform with, so what. He’s ‘growing up’ a little, as Chrissy puts it.
Doug follows suit a couple months later, starts dating some chick he met on Raya- and it’s starting to get depressing now anyway, him and Gareth drinking themselves stupid backstage and making fun of Gareth’s awful attempts at keeping in touch with girls who very clearly wanted a one-night fling with a ‘rockstar’. Making fun of the fact that Eddie’s persona in public and online paints him out to be a total heartbreaker, when in fact he isn’t getting any- hasn’t slept with anyone in like six months. Doesn’t bother correcting rumours online about anything- about whether he’s queer, gay, straight, fucking fans, fucking influencers, fucking hollywood actresses and actors and half the band (there’s a diehard sect of fans still convinced he’s doing Jeff. Gag.)
Eddie is just… picky. Very picky. And he’s really bad at casual- try as he might, he always ends up fucking attached and shit gets messy and it never works out and- it’s easier, in the end, to just avoid it all. Flirt as much as he likes, then get himself off later and not have to worry about the consequences, giggle over whatever crap the tabloids are pushing the next day about him dating someone he’s never even been in the same room with before.
The drunk-before-the-show thing slows a little too, in year two of their touring era. And the drunk-after-the-show thing. He still smokes like a fuckin’ chimney, but if he’s honest with himself- kind of nice not constantly relying on hair of the dog in the morning, head pounding, stomach roiling. Nice to play the odd show with clarity, letting the adrenaline rush push his performance instead.
Not tonight though.
“Fuck,” Doug comments, walking into the room. Eddie’s on the floor again- it’s nice, okay- and he’s giggling at the ceiling lights spinning around him, half empty bottle of Jack beside him.
“Douglas,” Eddie sighs. “Do I look hot?”
“You look shitfaced, you fuck,” Doug grumbles, messing with his hair in the mirror. “Don’t do anything too braindead tonight, I don’t want to see shit online tomorrow about ‘Eddie Munson memorial’ after a dramatic death by stage dive or whatever. Last show, Munson, c’mon.”
“You do look hot though,” Gareth adds, wandering over and plucking the bottle off the ground. “Total waste since you’re not gonna get any- not unless we have any greenthumbs in the audience tonight.
Eddie scowls. Sits up and groans, then goes to fix his eyeliner, kicking Gareth as he does so.
“Prick. Be nice to me, I deleted twitter again and everything,” he huffs.
“Why’d you do that?”
“What do you mean-”
“The love of your life is on there,” Gareth exclaims dramatically, swooning. “You, Eddie Munson- thirst tweeted. You never do that man, you barely interact with fans online- you just lurk on there. What was this guy packin’ to make you-”
“Fuck off-”
“Is he ripped? I see the way you look at the frat boy lookin’ types, was he shirtless?”
“No,” Eddie snaps. “It was- fuck, why is this even a big deal?”
“Haha- dude! Look how red he’s going!” Gareth snickers, poking Doug. They crowd him, jibing at him and cooing while Eddie bats them off, furious- cheeks burning up hot. Fucking assholes.
“Why were you even logged in on our socials anyway?” Jeff asks, joining him beside the mirror and inspecting his chipped black nail polish.
“I- don’t laugh, but I wanted to check what Chrissy had in our drafts. You guys forget I made that account, before we got big. I used to run it- meant to log out, but…”
“But you’re a nosy moron,” Jeff commiserates. “Bad luck Munson.”
And then-
“So who is he?”
“Who?”
“The fucking Michelin man- your gardener, dipshit. He some influencer?”
“Can we drop it? Fuck- we’re on in thirty and I’m too sober for this.”
“This says otherwise,” Gareth replies, matter-of-fact. He swishes the half-empty bottle.
Jeff sighs. “Just- whatever. Don’t fuck up the last show, yeah?”
Eddie rolls his eyes.
Eddie kind of fucks up the last show.
It’s so deeply fucking irritating.
Because it’s not even down to the drink- he’s just distracted. Out of it. He messes up two of their songs- slow on the intro, ignoring Jeff's glares. He trips and nearly goes flying into Gareth’s cymbals as he cavorts across the stage in his usual routine, and he crashes into his own mic stand when he slides to his knees to shred the solo in ‘Crash Out And Burn’.
The second half of the show is normally for fan interactions- Eddie usually leans over stage, screaming his backing vocals- throws some item of clothing (a belt, his bandana, a fingerless glove) into the crowd, sometimes he’ll crowd surf, sometimes he’ll try drag one of em’ on stage.
Tonight, he leans over and sees the sign. There’s always signs- usually accompanied by freely-given bras (thank you ladies. He’s gay as a two dollar bill, but it’s sweet,) and they say shit like #FuckMeUpEddie and Play All Cheerleaders Go To Hell and other stuff- but tonight the biggest one he sees has a different message: I’ll Be Yr Pretty Boy.
He whirls away, heart thumping a little- it’s not even the sign that does it- it's the fact that his stupid rodent brain actually looked at who was holding it, hopefully- it’s not him, obviously. It’s some other guy with brown hair the same length as Eddie’s. Pathetic. Why is he over-thinking this? It was a two minute clip of some hot guy on the internet, fuck. Whatever.
He plays the rest of the set in a somewhat subdued manner- he doesn’t even lick Jeff’s face during the encore song. Wrong. It’s all wrong.
“You’re out of it, man,” Gareth tells him later on- they’re back at the hotel, and Chrissy’s put together this little end of tour afterparty do. It’s sweet- she has it fucking catered. Organised. Far cry from how they used to celebrate after shows, with a lot more drugs and over saturated nightclubs and laughing at Gareth striking out with some model he’s stupidly set his sights on for the night.
“Fuck off.”
“Jesus, screw me. Just concerned,” he says lightly, “as a friend. You seem really-”
“I just smoked too much man, I’m good. So good, very good. Excellent.”
Gareth hums.
“So the account’s gone,” he adds.
“What?”
“The one that posted the video. It’s privated. I checked, to try and-”
Eddie groans, mumbles drop it, fuuuuck.
“You don’t even want to-”
“No. No I don’t.”
An hour (and the remaining half bottle of jack) later, and Eddie is back at Gareth’s feet.
“I doooo,” he despairs. “I- hic- why did the- is the video gone?”
Gareth sighs. He hasn’t even moved from where he was sitting before, just methodically eating away at whatever canape shit Chrissy ordered.
“Devilled egg?”
Eddie stares at him. Hisses, “No I don’t want a fucking devilled-”
“Did you download the video?”
“Wha?”
“Oh my god you are fucking useless, Munson- give me the phone. Now.”
Eddie slumps against his leg, hands it over. The room is spinning so bad now. So much and so fast. He’s gonna throw up, all over the devilled eggs. All over Gareth, all over his jeans.
“Don’t do that, please,” Gareth sighs. “Not on my jeans.”
He’s watching the video now- Eddie can hear it playing. The tinny radio sound of the Rolling Stones, the off-tune singing.
“God you’re predictable,” Gareth tells him flatly. “He’s corn-fed all american frat boy-next-door-”
“Yeah, yes, whatever,” Eddie slurs. “But that’s besides th’point. The account… I never saw the-”
“So this is the reason you guys are being so antisocial?” Chrissy muses, appearing out of thin air behind Gareth and peering over his shoulder at the phone. “He’s cute. Looks a bit like that guy you were seeing ages ago, Eddie- you have a-”
“Just know I’m wishing death on you both for doing this- I’m exploding you with my mind.”
“You do that, big guy,” Gareth cajoles, patting his head. “There- is that a logo? No. Nevermind-”
“He’s probably- fucking miles away, what’re the chances of him being in Chicago? Or anywhere near here? What is the point of this exercise other than humiliating me?”
“Isn’t that reason enough? Can’t a guy have hobbies?”
Eddie stands, swaying, jabbing a finger in Gareth’s face- starts complaining at him again- but Chrissy interrupts them, pushing them apart and grabbing at the phone. “Wait- hang on,” she squeals. “There is a logo.”
“Where?”
“Not the store or whatever- but look, look at those big pots. On the ground?”
Eddie and Gareth squint at the phone. “Wha?”
“Those ceramics- I know that logo, that’s Kady Fire.”
They blink at her, dumbly. Chrissy sighs. She loves this shit- interior decorating stuff, artsy ceramics and custom hand-crafted mahogany whatever the fuck- Eddie’s seen her apartment, and he knows the salary she gets must be good because damn. Girlie has it kitted out real nice.
“She’s a local designer, Eddie. Wherever this place is, they’re stocking a local- and pretty small- ceramics designer. As in- Chicago local.”
Gareth whoops, jostles Eddie in celebration. The drink swirls round in his stomach dangerously, and he has to lean on Chrissy to steady himself.
“God you reek of booze-”
“But- what does that even- who caresbout fuckin’ pots, how does that-”
“Jesus,” Gareth says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “open the schools. Use your brain, Munson- there can’t be that many shops that stock these fuckass pots if it’s a small brand.”
Chrissy nods enthusiastically, pulling up a site on her phone. “Says on her page- the physical stockists. There’s seven places in Chicago selling them, three in Indianapolis, one in Cincinnati. Your boy is probably kind of local.”
“Nice,” Gareth grins. “I was wondering how to fill my sad and single hours during tour break- this is perfect.”
“Uh- you could do your fuckin’ job maybe- write some fucking-”
“Nah. Don’t worry man,” he beams, patting Eddie’s head again. “We’ll find your cinderella.”
*
“Did you say five or six boutonniere’s?” Steve yells, distracted. He’s plastering his left thumb- he’s already stained one of the blue silk ribbons he’s been using with blood after pricking himself on a rose thorn. Stupid thorn on the stupid stem that should have been stripped. Who even likes roses- especially for a wedding. So cliche. This has to be Mrs Wheeler’s influence.
“Seven, dingus,” Robin sighs, coming in from the back door, all damp from the gentle spring rain coming down. “If you had a brain you’d be-”
“Even more irresistible than I am currently?” Steve looks at her, hopeful.
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t reply. He knows she’s still feeling guilty about the other day.
The betrayal.
Steve doesn’t actually care about the video, or whatever stupid shit she even uploaded with his face in it. It’s the principle of the thing. They agreed.
A break from social media. A cleanse.
Robin is adamant it's a waste of time- but Steve was starting to get really pissy about how much time Dustin and Mike were spending on their phones, especially when they were helping out in the store. And he’s kind of always hated it- twitter and tiktok and instagram. It's a necessary evil for promoting the store, but that doesn’t mean he’s any good at it. Or that he has to have his own personal accounts. Or that he hasn’t fallen for more than one scam- which Robin thinks is the funniest shit to happen possibly ever.
So yeah. A Cleanse. At least at work.
And since he and Robin live together, and Steve is incapable of leaving work at Work and not bringing it home with them- that means at home too.
He’d first heard the notifications blowing up her phone when Robin was in the shower after they’d closed up shop- trudged upstairs to their shared apartment, rinsing off the muck.
Steve had lost the race to first shower- Robin was lethal that day, elbowing him and standing on his foot, leaving her phone on the hallway table in her desperation to rinse off the grime. After two minutes straight of non stop pings and dull vibrations- Steve had snapped, unlocked the phone- they use the same passcode for both of theirs.
He’d expected it to be some shit from a tinder match, or maybe finally their official store account blowing up on tiktok- but no.
Twitter.
He watched the video with growing indignation- what the fuck Robin- and was shocked to see hundreds- thousands??- of comments and likes and- what the fuck, he thought Robin had like twenty followers. Why this video?
He’d stormed up to the bathroom, screeching at her- what is wrong with you, are you tryna piss me off- then promptly deleted the video and set her account to private. Then deleted the app off her phone.
“I mean- you didn’t even let me see the reactions!” Robin whined. “You said there were loads of replies and stuff.”
“A cleanse Robin- you weren’t even meant to have the app downloaded, shitbrain! No more twitter, no more bullying me for my enviable singing skills- and you’re making dinner tonight. Or ordering out, I don’t care. Actually- I do, order out. I want-”
“Taco bell. You want taco bell.”
“Yeah you’re goddamn right I want taco bell.”
Then he’d slammed the bathroom door and taken a very long and very necessary shower.
Fuck.
At least she’s been nicer to him since then.
This morning she’d even gone to that overpriced hipster place one block over, brought him a danish and a coffee with loads of foam. He is Appeased. Life is returning to normal.
“You gonna be okay over the next few days?” she asks, helping him box up the last of the order he’s been working on for the Wheeler’s wedding, ready to chuck in the van and drive over tomorrow morning. Robin’s still in school- final year studying International Relations at UIC- and she’s been helping out on less and less shifts recently as finals come up. She’s away for a couple days to shadow at a company in Fort Wayne- can’t be avoided, part of a final grade, she’d sighed.
Steve is fine. Steve isn’t panicking about losing a vital amount of labour during the week of a big wedding along with a million other orders. Especially not when Mike’s big sister is the bride, and she scares him a lot. He used to be half in love with her before she met Jonathan- thinks it was kind of related to the intimidation factor Nancy packed. Now that Mike works part time for him, Steve’s spent enough time around her to realise that they would never have worked out romantically, but he cares about her- and wants her wedding to be perfect. Perfect flowers, perfect everything. She deserves that.
“I’ll be great,” he promises Robin. “Are you even packed yet? You’re hopeless. Go, shoo. I’m almost done here, gonna lock up early and drive some of this stuff over to the venue and get a head start.”
She stares at him, chews her lip.
“Buckley. Don’t make me chase you with the rake- I will,” he grins, picks it up threateningly, waving it at her.
“You’re so fucking lame,” she tells him, then salutes, leaves.
Steve sighs. Yeah. Probably, he is very lame.
The wedding goes perfectly.
He gets everything set up exactly how they’d discussed it- lowkey floral arrangements spilling around the place, centerpieces (with those ugly ass roses) in rippling shades of blues and greens and cream- then gets ready, pins his own boutonniere in place. Definitely Does Not tear up during Jonathan’s vows- he loves the guy. Loves how much he cares about Nance and everyone else. He eats way too much cake and Dustin spins him round and round and round on the dancefloor until Steve nearly pukes. Drinks too much champagne- but it’s fine because so does everyone else, even chats up a girl that Max works for after school- she’s cool, a year older than him- kind of his type. Nerdy, curly hair. He’s closing the deal- and then he catches sight of them. Nancy and Jonathan, slow dancing together, swaying gently.
Steve is so jealous.
Not of either of them personally- he’s completely over Nance, and Jonathan isn’t really his type- but just. Of that. Of the way they have each other. He wants that. Doesn’t want what the girl he’s talking to has been insinuating at him all night- a casual fling, not looking for anything serious.
“Sorry,” Steve smiles. “I- I’ve had too much to drink. Maybe we could-”
The girl sighs. “Lame.”
Yeah, figures.
His head is pounding the next day- thank fuck it’s Sunday, and he’s closed shop. The apartment is eerily quiet without Robin storming around making a racket- he sleeps until well after noon, then sits on the balcony out back overlooking the back yard until it starts raining again softly. Wraps up in the giant blanket Joyce and El made him last year, drinks lukewarm coffee and eats stale poptarts while Gilmore Girls reruns play in the background. He starts to actually feel human again around five o’clock- showers and throws on sweats and a hoodie- needs to accomplish one thing today- the same thing he always has to do. He hurries downstairs to let himself into the store, then out back to their back yard.
They don’t sell much that actually grows here- a lot of it isn’t anything they could sell anyway, apart from the two beds he has dedicated to cut flowers. It’s a good storage area for shipments that can stay outdoors, for tools and mess. And for the food he grows out here. This back yard is the reason Steve picked out the place for the store, what he used the last of his inheritance on. It’s the reason he even got into horticulture in the first place- the feeling you get watching something grow and thrive under your care. Nurtured.
He moves through the weeding routine mindlessly- doesn’t need to water anything outside since it rained. Picks up a basket, poking his way under protective netting- fishing out anything ready for harvest. Late April’s not the greatest time for in-season produce, but he gets some rhubarb, some (partially eaten, fuck snails) kale- there’s even a couple of strawberries beginning to ripen in the patch he’s been vigilantly guarding as it blooms. Not too shabby.
He hums tunelessly as he finishes up, locking the back door again and watering the indoor potted plants they’re advertising as needed.
He notices it then, glancing up.
A car- sleek and expensive looking, a Miata maybe? Steve isn’t much of a car guy. The windows are tinted dark, and it's parked opposite the store. He hasn’t seen it before- their block is actually mostly residential, with only two other storefronts on the street of redbrick townhouses they occupy. Rich new neighbour, maybe.
He locks up- can’t shake the feeling he’s being watched somehow, weird. Peels off his muddy gloves- then trips over his own sneakers as he leaves the front door, dropping the gloves and the basket and the kale and the everything, landing on his ass. Lame. Street’s empty at least- and no Robin here to point and laugh at him (or film me, he thinks vindictively).
He’s gathered it all back up when he hears a car door open behind him- and yeah, Steve doesn’t want to stick around in front of some rich guy if it's Miata man- not in his muddy sweats after tripping over his own feet like a clown. He hurries back into the door leading into the stairway between the lower floor storefront and the upper floor apartment, sighing in relief.
Minor setback, but who cares. He’s gonna make rhubarb pie tonight- make the most of his Sunday evening before work tomorrow so he can eat it on shift. Start the week off right, start the week off perfect.
*
It takes them two days.
Eddie isn’t sure if it’s through Gareth and Chrissy’s willpower or through his own deeply hidden and deeply pathetic manifestations (he did at one point consider hiring a witch off Etsy. Only considered it, okay)- but they hit gold on Sunday, store number three.
He wasn’t even going to look on Sunday- everywhere’s closed anyway- but they’d been out to brunch and Chrissy whines at him that it’s on the way home anyway, what’s the harm- not like he’s going to go in, they can just take a peek and see if the storefront matches that of the one in the video. Eddie’s not in any kind of ‘disguise’ getup- he’s dressed kind of nice with all his jewelry in and his hair down- asking to be recognised, basically.
So he doesn’t want to leave the car.
They pull up later in the day across the street, and Eddie is half-heartedly trying to convince Gareth not to get out and look through the window like a creep (at least let Chrissy do it, fucking hell- lowest chance of random recognition?) when he spies a figure in the window.
It’s a cute window.
Filled with displays of hanging plants, vines, fancy looking pots- with the store name painted on it in metallic gold- tigerlily. The red brick facade houses a door painted mossy green with a little ‘closed’ sign hanging underneath a stained glass half-moon window- a door which opens, revealing a dude in a big blue hoodie and sweats carrying way too much stuff.
The three of them freeze mid argument, staring.
It’s him. It’s definitely him- he’s even hotter in person, jesus christ- even in sweatpants with his hair all fucked up. Eddie’s heart is in his mouth.
“It’s him!” Chrissy hisses.
Gareth rolls his eyes. “Yes, Einstein- we got that.”
The guy stumbles as he leaves the doorway, yelping and dropping a bunch of stuff- plants? Stalks of- stuff?- all over the ground. Chrissy giggles.
“Smooth.”
“Shut up. He’s hot enough to get away with being an airhead,” Eddie sighs.
“Okay then Eddie- you’re up,” Gareth says sweetly- tries to open the fucking door.
“Jesus- Gareth, no-”
“Gareth yes-”
“Fuck off!! I’m not-”
“Be a gentleman, Munson- go swoop in and help him!”
“If you don’t let go of the door I will bite you. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Too late, anyway,” Chrissy tells them. Hot Gardening Guy has managed to retrieve his fallen items and slipped back inside another door beside the store- vanishing from sight.
“Just as fucking well,” Gareth grumbles. “I don’t doubt you have rabies.”
Eddie drives them back to his apartment, then calls an uber to ferry them off out of there. Tells them if they approach him or Hot Gardening Guy in the next two days he will enact great and Terrible violence upon them.
“Find something better to do while I work out a fucking strategy, okay? Bye bye children,” he scoffs, then returns to his own place to drink half a bottle of wine and ruminate on the fact that he’s now faced with the prospect of a) seeing the guy again or b) risking bullying from Chrissy and the band for the rest of his days.
I mean- it is fucking embarassing. He’s Eddie Munson. He has fucking excellent game, could probably get fucked six ways to sunday tonight if he wanted- this is no big deal. No Big Deal.
He’ll work out what to do after some time and revisit the store next week or something. Play it cool.
Eddie visits the next day.
Fucking embarassing.
He spends a truly terrible amount of time getting dressed- way way more lowkey than usual- baggy distressed jeans and his favourite black vivienne westwood hoodie and big boots. He ties his hair up in a loose knot with a rubber band since he never wears it up performing- no crazy jewelry either, just bare minimum rings and the studs in his ears (and tongue. But not like anyone’s seeing that). Wears his thin silver wire-rimmed glasses too- another accessory very rarely seen on his public persona, since contacts work for him fine. He looks- passable. He’ll be in the car half the time anyway, whatever, why is he overthinking this? The guy almost definitely knows who he is anyway if the tweet is anything to go by- surely he took it down after all the witch-hunt comments. He can just wait till the store is empty.
Google tells him they shut shop at six, so he heads over there a little before then, and waits to see if he’s in there. If he’s working.
It’s pretty empty at that point- he sees a woman pushing a pram out of the store as he arrives at half five, and no-one else shows up after that for ten minutes.
Then Hot Gardening Guy appears outside. Starts to drag the two crates full of bouquets of blooms inside the store, Eddie can hear him whistling along to some music. Bob Dylan- clearly a fan of the oldies. Eddie breathes out through his mouth- the street is empty now, and they close in fifteen minutes. Make or break it. Or fake it- he’s good at that.
He gets out and wanders into the store- a little bell chimes overhead, but it’s empty. It smells pleasant- like the earth after it rains, and like some unknown baked good- there’s a plate beside the register with something steaming on it. It’s like a fucking jungle in here, life and colour exploding out of every corner- Eddie admires a hanging potted plant with velvety leaves in shades of dark purple and black. Goth plant, metal. Cool. Where the fuck is Hot Guy though?
The back door is open behind the counter, and before Eddie can bottle it and make his escape (that’s enough recon for today, right?)- in he comes. In He Comes.
He has the apron on again, and dirt on his elbows and his nose- sweat shining gently over his cheeks. Eddie wants to lick him. Gross, shut up, shut upppp.
“Oh- hey, sorry man. Didn’t hear the bell,” he smiles, gesturing at the door.
Eddie needs to speak. Needs to open his mouth, say something, say anything- the guy is looking at him a little concerned now.
“Um. It’s cool. All good.”
Jesus fucking christ. Like blood from a stone. He tries to recover-
“I mean- it’s my bad, if you guys are closing up? Sorry- I know it’s kinda late.”
The guy smiles at him, brown eyes crinkling at the corner (Eddie’s life is ending. The world is ending)- and resumes bringing in the crate he’s been lugging in from out back, calling, “you’re good! All good. Time gets away from me constantly, swear I’d forget to close up if I didn’t have my coworker bugging me over it. It’s a miracle I remembered today since she’s out.”
God they’re alone in here, Eddie panics. And it also- it doesn’t seem like the guy has realised yet? Worked it out? That Eddie is the freak who caused half a million people to bombard his twitter (or his coworkers twitter?) over him acting horny on main?
He tries to come up with something clever to say, something suave or funny to keep his attention- also tries really hard not to check out the guy’s ass as he bends over the crate but. C’mon. He’s in these snug fitting blue jeans and his muscles are flexing as he lifts pots out of the crate- he’s so broad, looks like he could pin Eddie against the wall and-
“Was there- is there anything specific you’re after? Or- I can leave you be to browse if you want, I don’t mind-”
“Uh- I’m- a plant? Potted plant?”
Eddie wants the ground to swallow him.
“Yeah?” the guy says, standing up and peeling off his gloves, shoving a hand through his floppy brown hair. “I can do that,” he smiles. His teeth are so white.
God kill me now, Eddie thinks. Just please- mercy. He can feel the flush rising in his cheeks- has to look away from Hot Guy before it gets any worse, has to try and rally a bit.
“My friend- she’s just moved into a new place, so…”
“Housewarming! Cool. Is she like- a floral kinda gal? We have orchids? Or is she more likely to kill anything living in the house- we have some really nice succulents and cacti in at the moment, maybe that’s better.”
“Definitely the latter,” Eddie replies, thinking of Chrissy and the fact she’s barely home in that apartment when they tour. Obviously he can never give her this hypothetical cactus, because then she’ll know. Know that he came back, and embarrassed himself in front of the hottest guy Eddie’s ever seen. So.
“Okay- we keep em’ over here, this bit. Everything on the top shelf is eight bucks, the ones below- they depend on each plant and its pot, so just give me a shout if you see one you like.”
Eddie nods, and Hot Guy returns to unpacking his crate, humming under his breath.
Okay. Pick a plant, and then get the fuck out of here and Never Return. That’s the new gameplan.
He finds a tall looking one in a dark blue pot, and is about to pick it up when he sees it. Behind one of the smaller plants- a D20.
“Dude,” Eddie grins, entirely forgetting to be nervous. “You lose any dice?”
“Sorry?”
“Your- is this yours? The D20?” He lifts up the little orange plastic die, and the guy stands up and walks over, squinting. Oh, maybe Eddie fucked up. Maybe this is a random-
“Oh,” he says, sighing. “Yeah. That’s- my deeply irritating children trying to convince me into-”
Eddie raises an eyebrow. Hot guy has kids? Maybe he has a baby face.
“-uh not my children,” the guy assures him, pink in his cheeks. “Just- couple of the younger guys who work for me. They’re trying to convince me to play this… thing with them, hiding these around the store until I give in. It’s called-”
“Dungeons and dragons,” Eddie grins. “Yeah. You play?”
“Well- to be honest no, but I think Mike- one of the guys I mentioned- he’s going to start actually threatening me with violence if I don’t join in. I did try before, kind of,” he grumbles, making this ridiculously cute face and wrinkling his nose, “but there’s just so many. Numbers. Sounds so dumb- I’m a lot better at growing-” he gesticulates around to the back of the store- “growing stuff, than math. Not that I’m that bad at math! I won’t like, shortchange you, or whatever.”
Eddie cracks up- in the last ten seconds, his nerves have bled away down the drain. They’re replaced entirely with a new kind of warmth. This guy is fine as hell, blushes in a really attractive way, and plays (potentially will play?) DnD? Fucking wet dream. Now all he needs to do is ensure he never finds out Eddie’s identity, and also confirm if he actually likes men. Cool, easy.
“It gets a lot easier the more you play. Like- you learn on the go sort of thing.”
“You play?”
“Not as much anymore- wish I did though. I used to, loads, back in high school.”
He tried once to play on tour with the band- wrote a mini campaign- but it was hard between practices and travelling and everything else to keep track, to find the time.
“There’s local clubs and stuff,” he continues. “If- your friends want to learn. Like in gaming cafes. Or podcasts you can listen to.”
The guy smiles at him warmly. Put that away, Eddie thinks, jesus christ. Dangerous smile, that.
“Yeah I think I’m gonna cave anyway. Mike’s desperate to get more people, they only have three at the moment, so he’s hellbent on annoying everyone we know into joining.”
“Cool,” Eddie says. “I hope you- yeah. You’ll find it fun. Probably- most people do.”
Then he realises he’s staring- they both are, maybe (or is that wishful thinking?), and it’s quiet for a minute- he feels his cheeks heat up again, glances away bashfully. “Uh- this one? Can I pay for this?”
He picks up the dark blue pot, and the guy blinks.
“Oh- yeah, sure. I’ll ring you up.”
He gets to the counter, punches stuff in at the register. He’s still pointedly looking down at the counter as he asks-
“Is she moving in around here then? Your friend?”
“Uh- kind of, yeah. She’s nearby.”
The guy nods, bites his lip. Fucking hell, why does the air in here feel so dry? Jesus.
It smells really good up at the counter. The plate of Mystery Baked Good is no longer steaming, but Eddie peers at it anyway while the guy points to the card machine, says it’s ready to tap. He notices Eddie’s gaze.
“Eating on the job,” he smiles. “Unprofessional, I know.”
Eddie puts his phone up to pay, waits for the ping. “Nah, not at all. Smells fuckin’ unreal though, you make that?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty old school- I’ll put anything in a pie if it grows out back, even rhubarb.”
“Rhubarb?” Eddie inquires.
“You haven’t- you’ve not tried rhubarb before? I think it’s more of a thing in like, Europe to be fair. It’s just easy as fuck to grow. Tastes real good stewed or in pie or cake.”
Eddie nods. Rhubarb. He’ll be investigating this Rhubarb later.
“Do you- want to try some?”
Eddie blinks. So does the guy- it kind of looks like he asked that question without meaning to, because his face freezes and then goes all red.
“I mean-”
“Yeah. If you’re offering.”
Is that weird? It’s probably weird, to accept pie from a random dude in a store that could have god knows what in it. Especially when you’re technically a celebrity. But weird is kind of his MO, so fuck it.
The guy pushes the plate towards him, fork dangling off the edge. It’s untouched, still warm.
He tries not to overthink it as he scoops a chunk off the edge, puts it in his mouth. He sees the guy's eyes widen ever so slightly. Fuck this pie is good- the flavour is sharp, tangy, the pastry crust sweet and soft. Unreal.
“You have a tongue piercing,” the guy blurts out. Eddie stares. Swallows the pie.
“Uh. Yes?”
“Cool.”
And then-
“I’m Steve, by the way.”
Critical hit! Name unlocked.
“Well, Steve,” Eddie grins, “that’s the best fuckin’ pie I’ve eaten in a long time. And I’m Eddie.”