Chapter Text
Collage by Maya (its_steddie_time)
one
Just run it back, give me five whole minutes
I am thick tar on the inside burning
I've got a ghost in the hallway grinning
And a heavy head that won't stop turning
If my fate is a bad collision
And if my mind is an open highway
Give me the twilight two-way vision
Give me one last ride on a sunset skylane
-Sleep Token, Euclid
*
Bitter wind bites into his skin, so he pulls his shoulders up toward his ears and tries to keep warm beneath layers of felted wool as he makes his way to his office. It’s early—6:00 AM—he loves campus at this hour. Today it’s cloudy with the promise of rain, but even still he spots the hidden beauty in piles of late fall leaves, where squirrels forage for acorns to add to their winter hordes.
Birds with flocked feathers perch on storied stone walls singing morning greetings to their mates; melodic assurances that they survived another night.
Eddie finds beauty in small things, quiet things, in the simple pleasures of a life well-lived. He’s come a long way from his trailer park misanthropic youth, and while he’s glad he made it out of rural Indiana, he’s grateful for those years too. He draws inspiration and empathy from every facet of his life—especially the sharp parts.
At 36, he’s got shit like everyone—his parents kicked him out when he came out, so he went to live with the only family that gave a flying fuck about him, god bless Uncle Wayne, and then in his early twenties he’d been in an abusive relationship—so yeah, Eddie’s got baggage or whatever, but with the help of a lot of therapy, he’s able to be a glass-half-full kind of guy, like, eighty percent of the time.
Unlocking his office door, Eddie drops his black wool trench coat and scarf by the door and returns to the stack of poems left to grade that he’d abandoned last night. His office is small, but cozy. There’s the standard oak desk and contemporary leather couch that nearly every office on campus comes with, and he’d salvaged two spare chairs from a conference room that got redecorated last year.
With his book collection, the decorative pillows and throw blankets he’d added, and the assortment of paintings he had collected over the years, it has an almost gothic vibe to it. It’s the kind of office you’d expect a warlock to write spells in—one you weren’t sure if you could trust, but got a good vibe from. It’s not necessarily the vibe he’d choose per se, if this were his home office, but considering the setting of the two hundred plus year-old campus, he leans into the vibe of cozy-if-slightly-foreboding.
He’s always been great at playing any role other than the one society expects of him. Never great at “acting his age,” his colleagues tend to avoid him, but his students adore him. He doesn’t mind…much. It does get lonely sometimes. But he feels a sense of home here, and every time he sees a student’s eyes light up with inspiration, it feels worth it.
Picking up where he left off last night, he reads the poem on top of the stack. It’s a free verse piece by one of his most promising students. The guy is not the best test-taker; he’s heard in the professor’s lounge among the other English department folks. His papers always exceed their expectations, his test taking is subpar. It irritates Eddie that many professors place so much weight on testing and miss the true genius of their students.
And okay, maybe he has a soft spot for those students because he himself was never great at studying. He’s teaching on this campus by the skin of his teeth and with the help of a fuck ton of charm. He’s certainly not here because of his test scores from high school or college. He's here because his debut poetry collection ended up on the Times’ best seller list within a month of being released. He’s here because some fedora-wearing journalist had called him “One of the most noteworthy poets of a generation.” He’d gotten lucky , you see, and he doesn’t let himself forget it.
Steve Harrington’s poem sits with him. It’s compelling, pretty well-written, and makes him want to know more. He re-reads the lines, typed neatly in a bookish, serif font, without a capital letter to be found.
sharp edges
this rock of ours is full of sharp edges
jagged peaks and straight drops
switchbacks run amok
it’s no wonder we’re all broken
every one of us has shattered places
mended with superglue love
or duct tape coping mechanisms
comparing cracks where we find
unique beauty marks
your sharp edges
match mine, see?
we can fit together
fill in the gaps
with too much glue
and not nearly enough time
file down the bits that don’t quite align
bar-clamp them together
bracket ourselves in distractions
until scar tissue mends us together
binds our broken bits and promises:
welded joints are stronger
anyway
Steve’s poems always reach into his chest cavity and squeeze his heart. The guy writes like he’s pouring his soul onto paper, and Eddie can’t help but feel like he’s reading the words of his younger self. What broke you? He wonders.
He scribbles a big “A+” on the poem and writes “Great work! Very compelling!” below it before wishing he could reign in his use of exclamation marks.
Soggy leaves squelch underfoot as Steve hurries across campus. Cursing under his breath when he checks his phone: 8:07 AM. He’s already seven minutes late and he’s got another four minutes of walking in this cold rain. The tiny droplets of mist feel like needles stabbing his wind-burned cheeks, and he kind of wishes they were. He kind of wishes someone would stab him out of his misery. Late again—the fourth time in as many weeks—and he doesn’t even have a good excuse. He just…didn’t leave his apartment on time. He slept like shit so he didn’t want to get up, then traffic was hell and parking on campus was worse, and now he’s trudging into the English building with dread filling out all of the empty spaces in his body.
“Nice of you to join us, Harrington,” says Dr. Griffolds, the ancient Lit professor whose voice is permanently stained with disdain. Steve’s sneakers squeak across the linoleum as he finds a seat near the door. They’re discussing Catcher in the Rye for the second week and Steve almost immediately zones out. Which might explain his unimpressive average in the class thus far, but he’s not considering that today. He’s focused on editing his poem for his Creative Writing class—the only class this semester that doesn’t make him want to rip out his own fingernails.
The prompt had been simple: pick something from nature, a favorite bird, flower, tree, etc; and use it in a metaphor for a human condition. Personification. He had written some words down pretty quickly, inspiration bursting from within him, but he wasn’t thrilled with the outcome yet. It felt unfinished, somehow. So, a week later, he’s still fine-tuning—something his professor warned about repeatedly.
“Of course, you should always read over your work—check for typos, misspellings, grammatical errors—but there is such a thing as over-editing,” he’d said after grading one of their first assignments. He’d looked pointedly at Steve, those dark, deep, soul-reading eyes boring into him, “Trust yourselves. I can feel the talent in this room; you all have good instincts, and editing away your creativity will not make you better writers.”
The poem is to a place he’s mildly satisfied with when Lit ends and his classmates begin packing up. Before he has his things together, Dr. Griffolds’ indelicate tone beckons him.
“Harrington. See me before you leave.” Instant dread. Fuck.
“Yes, sir?” he says as he approaches his desk.
“One would imagine that a student who is currently failing a class would make more of an effort to arrive at said class on time. One would also imagine that this student would pay attention during discussions which will be tested on midterms. American Lit might be boring, but it is a core component of your major. I suggest you treat it as such.”
Steve would welcome a sinkhole swallowing him whole right now. He can’t meet Griffolds’ eyes. Knows his own are filling with tears full of nervousness, shame, and self-hatred. God, why is he such a shitty student? It’s American fucking Lit—everyone has to take this class.
“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again,” he says, thickly.
“I hope not. Your papers show promise, but you’ve got to put the same effort into learning the material for tests if you expect to graduate. That’ll be all, Steve.”
He walks as quickly as his legs will carry him to the nearest bathroom where he implodes, collapsing in on himself. Steve wonders what the point is. He feels aimless. He’s muddling through school with no real career plan, no real direction, and zero support. Why is he here anyway? Deep down, he wants to drop out. Doesn’t see a point in finishing a degree that he doesn’t have a real plan for actually using.
Yet at the same time, he feels like the one bright spot in his situation is that his tuition is paid for. His dad had earmarked a substantial savings account for his education long ago, and even though he was ambivalent about most aspects of his relationship with his son, he did keep his promise to give him a high-quality education. If nothing else, if he could manage to graduate, plenty of doors would open for an Ivy League alum. He would probably have enough of his trust fund to get a Master’s if he could kick his ass in gear.
Checking his watch, his heart leaps again at the realization that he’s now late for his next class. He hastily blows his nose, wipes his eyes, and heads to the only class he even likes wishing he weren’t such a shitty student.
Creative Writing is his own personal haven; a break from having his soul sucked out of his body twice a week in American Lit and a Composition class—one that feels like he’s being shoved into a box built from proper sentence structures and semicolons. Creative Writing covers authors he’s actually interested in and allows him to do what he actually wants to do: write. All of the assignments in this class are written; there are no multiple-choice tests—another godsend. Steve has never excelled at tests even when he studies, even when he knows the material. His brain just…doesn’t find the answers.
Mr. Munson—Eddie, rather, as he prefers his students call him—doesn’t admonish him when he opens the door, walking as quietly as a mouse and taking the seat closest to the door. He simply nods in greeting, and Steve feels worse somehow. He thinks he deserves to be dressed down in front of class, but he just offers an apologetic tight smile and sits down. He pulls his notebook out and begins taking notes.
The lecture is interesting; a discussion on meter (and the lack thereof) in the work of e.e. cummings. It’s clear that Eddie enjoys it as well; going down rabbit holes on particular poems he finds intriguing, and eliciting conversation around their connotations. Steve likes listening to the discussions in this class but rarely chimes in. He writes down his thoughts instead; revisiting them later when they’re relevant for assignments.
At the end of class, Eddie gives a prompt for their next assignment: write a poem, then add line breaks or punctuation in such a way that could change the meaning or draw attention to a particular word or phrase. Steve thinks it will be a fun assignment, and as ideas start to pinball around in his brain, he makes notes while the rest of the class starts to file out of the room. He doesn’t realize that his professor has walked up to his desk until he sees his sleek leather shoes that look like they cost as much as his car.
“Hi Steve,” he says, “I collected last week’s assignment at the beginning of class. Did you want to turn yours in before you go?”
“Oh—yes,” he pulls the poem out of his notebook and hands it over. “I kind of struggled on this one. It still doesn’t feel quite finished, but I hope it’s okay…Sorry I was late again.” Steve’s eyes bounce around, anxiety refusing to allow him to maintain eye contact with his too-handsome teacher while he’s looking like a sad rat that escaped from a sewer this morning.
Eddie sits on the desk across from Steve and looks at him with kind eyes. “It’s all good, Steve, don’t stress over being late. You’re here, and that’s what I care about.”
His kindness makes Steve feel worse; because he doesn’t deserve it. He looks at his notebook, his fingers, his shoes…anywhere but Eddie’s face.
"How are the rest of your classes going this semester?" Eddie asks, casual concern for his student coloring his warm face. He plays with the loose strands on his ripped black jeans; tattoos peeking out of the holes on his thighs and sprawling down his forearms, he looks every bit of the part of English-teacher-who’s-too-cool-to-be-a-teacher. Eddie’s younger than most professors; he doesn’t know his age but he’d guess around 35. Steve mentally subtracts his own age…26…ten or so years…just toeing the line of inappropriate. He shakes that thought from his brain, tries to focus on the conversation at hand instead of his brain which constantly vacillates between horny and sad.
"Uh, fine, I guess," Steve shrugs as he packs up his notebook, "I'm passing everything except American Lit 2,” his eyes flit up to check Eddie’s reaction—expecting disappointment but finding none, so he continues, “I just hate the reading list…I can't get into it. I'd rather scratch out my eyeballs than read one more sentence of The Catcher in the Rye."
The chuckle that bubbles out of Eddie warms Steve.
“That’s one-hundred percent valid. I’ve always found its tropes mind-numbing, and the whole narrative is self-serving and bland as all fuck.”
Steve’s eyes brighten at Eddie’s unexpected validation, “Right! Who decided it needed to be on every Lit syllabus forever?”
“I fully agree. I don’t know why Griffolds insists on keeping it on his reading list; plenty of schools are beginning to cull some “classics” in favor of more modern works, and I’ve been advocating that our English department as a whole consider that as well. That’s why I have a mix of poets like e.e. cummings with more modern ones like Silas House. I think it’s important to study the direction of creative writing, up to and including modern writers.”
“I love that about your class,” Steve says honestly.
“I’m glad. Griffolds certainly loves Salinger though, so try to push through. There’s a great YouTube breakdown of its major themes that I’ll email you. He loves to test on details, though, so don’t rely on that alone. Have you tried the audiobook? The library has it available. I like to listen to audiobooks while I do chores. Helps my brain focus.”
“I’ll try that. Thank you…I really appreciate it.” Steve pauses, wanting to say more. He feels like he’s being thrown a life raft that’s just slightly out of reach. He needs connection so desperately that he’s clinging to everything that even remotely resembles it.
Fuck it. He lets his words rush out. “This semester has been really hard. I’m supposed to graduate this semester, and I’m just trying to push through, but…it’s just been hard. So I really appreciate you taking the time.” The relief is instant, and it’s compounded when he sees Eddie’s eyes soften further.
“College is hard, Steve. And you’re at one of the country’s premier schools where the expectations are overwhelming. Most students here need extra support from time to time.”
Steve’s eyes start to fill and he wonders why his emotions seem to always trigger tears.
“But,” Eddie lays a comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder, “you are talented and capable. I see it in your writing; I’m certain you can do it. I would encourage you to reach out to the university’s counseling center. They have a great group of people who can really help. I see someone there every other week and it really helps me.” The hand drops and Steve instantly misses it.
“You go to counseling?”
“Yeah, every other week for five years now. It really does help.” Eddie smiles.
“They might commit me,” Steve laughs self-deprecatingly.
“They’re therapists not psychiatrists. They only recommend in-patient treatment if someone is a danger to themselves or others.” Eddie lets that hang in the air and Steve’s skin starts to crawl. Is he a danger to himself? He doesn’t know, can’t dwell on it for too long.
“Thank you. I’ll—uh—look into that.” He’s fidgeting with his jacket. Eddie lets him off the hook.
“I’ll send you that link this afternoon. Have a good day, Steve.”
“You too. Thank you, again.” Steve tries to make his face look like he thinks it should.
Walking back to his car, he wonders why every social interaction sends him into a spiral or makes him feel like he’d like the earth to crack open and swallow him. Why does his brain ping pong from unbearably horny to depressed as fuck? Why is nearly every thought some kind of inappropriate? He knows he’s depressed, knows logically that his brain is probably craving connection with other humans so badly that it’s giving him bad ideas, but he can’t help but wonder if he’s broken beyond repair. Counseling probably wouldn’t be a bad idea, but the thought of showing this part of himself to someone else makes him physically ill. For now he’ll squash these thoughts and try to focus on not failing Lit.
Back in his apartment, Steve decides to take some of Eddie’s advice and try the audiobook. He downloads it from the library and starts listening while he cleans his apartment, then he goes for a walk to pick up dinner. The next day he goes for a walk again, and before he knows it, he’s finished it. He borrows two other books he’d half-read and makes it through one of them that weekend too.
The next week, Lit is slightly less-shitty. Griffolds still sucks and Steve is still depressed, but it feels remotely manageable now that he doesn’t feel like he’s at the end of his rope.
Steve wades through murky waters to midterms. His Creative Writing midterm is, of course, an A+. It is a curation of his work thus far in the semester, edited according to feedback he’d received in assignments. Steve is proud when he gets the result.
His Lit mid-term is acceptable, and for a moment he’s really proud of that too, but then he runs the numbers and realizes with shock that he’ll still have to ace his final to pass. He’ll have to swing a 95 on the final to pass Lit with a C, the minimum grade for English majors.
In a moment of panic, he goes to see Eddie. It’s late, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s got no support system outside of this one teacher who has shown him kindness.
He knocks on his office door and almost immediately regrets it. This is a mistake. It’s clearly not his Creative Writing professor’s job to help him pass another class. He turns to leave just as Eddie opens the door.
“Steve! Come on in, what can I do for you?” He opens the door and Steve fidgets with his jacket as he goes inside and sits down on a chair in front of Eddie’s desk. Eddie looks him over as he leans back onto the front of his desk and clocks his tense state, his fidgeting fingernails picking at one another. “Is everything okay?”
“I took your advice about the audiobooks. It worked. I passed my Lit mid-term.” he starts.
“That’s great! Congrats—I knew you could do it.” Eddie claps his hands together once, but stops when he sees that Steve is not matching his enthusiasm, “What’s wrong, Steve?”
“I calculated my average so far—in order to pass the class I need to pass every quiz and I have to make a 95 on the final. Eddie, I’ve never made a 95 on anything in that class. There’s no way I can pull that off. I’m going to fail and I’ll have to retake it next semester and wait until December to graduate and I don’t know if I can handle that class again.” Steve’s breathing fast and rough as his shaky fingers threaten to rip his cuticles off. He looks like a scared cat trapped in a cage.
Eddie pushes himself off his desk and drops to a knee in front of Steve.
“Hey. Look at me, Steve,” his voice drops an octave, exuding confidence and authority, and Steve’s brain latches onto it and tries to obey. He tries but there are tears forming and fuck he does not want his hot teacher to see him—a fully grown adult man—crying over his grades. Everything about this was a terrible mistake.
“It’s okay,” Eddie reassures. “You’re okay, Steve. You’re having a panic attack and that sucks ass but I promise you that you’re okay.”
Steve hears him but the words aren’t computing. He’s just spiraling deeper and breathing faster, and the tears are falling freely now so historically speaking, he’ll probably black out soon so that’s just super great.
Eddie’s hand hovers over Steve’s which are wringing the life out of themselves.
“Can I touch your hands? Contact always helps me calm down. Is it okay if I try to help you calm down, Steve?” His tone is not condescending; it’s understanding and deep and warm and empathetic and it is everything Steve needs. He clings to it.
“Y-yes,” it’s broken but certain.
Eddie’s hands are on his in a second and he lets out a long breath. His hands are warm and their weight is grounding. He grips Steve’s shaking and cold hands, and starts drawing slow circles with his thumbs.
“That’s it. Breathe slowly and deeply. Count to five as you inhale then keep counting to ten as you exhale.”
“I’m s-so sorry,” Steve tries when he starts to catch his breath.
“You don’t need to apologize; I literally had a panic attack the other day. They suck and you can’t control when they come sometimes. You’re doing great. Keep breathing slowly and deeply for me.”
Steve nods and Eddie starts counting with him, voice like dark amber honey. Bravely, Steve makes eye contact as Eddie keeps counting. He starts to calm down as his body refocuses on the three points of contact: the warm hands embracing his, the warm brown eyes that seem to know his soul, and the soft, deep voice that guides him.
His shoulders drop and his face relaxes after several long moments, and Eddie smiles.
“Little better?”
“A lot better. Thank you. You didn’t have to—”
“It was nothing, Steve, really. It’s okay.”
Steve wants to tell him that it was everything, actually, but he can’t make his lips shape those words so he just nods and lets his gaze drop to their hands, still entwined. Their hands fit well together, Steve’s brain very helpfully supplies. Eddie’s hands are big, Steve notices, long fingers with thick knuckles that look like they could knock you out, tattoos on each knuckle of some kind of rune. Steve’s broken from his trance when Eddie gives him one last little squeeze before releasing him and standing to return to his spot on his desk.
“About Lit—I could help you study, if you’d like?” Eddie offers, thumbs twiddling as if he’s nervous now.
“What? Seriously? No, I couldn't ask you to do that.”
“You aren’t asking. I offered, and it’s no trouble. You keep listening to the audiobooks, then come by my office once a week. We’ll go over what you’ve read and I’ll quiz you with flashcards.” Eddie shrugs like it’s nothing. Steve feels like it’s too much.
“You’re serious?”
“Of course. I care about my students succeeding, and you are an incredible writer. You deserve to get your degree, and I want to help you.”
Steve regards him; he doesn’t look like he’s being dishonest or feigning interest. Steve believes he genuinely wants to help him, and he feels bad but honestly this is probably the only way he has a chance in hell at passing.
“Okay. As long as you’re sure it’s not too much trouble, I will take you up on that.”
“You could never be too much trouble, Steve,” Eddie says in a rush that sounds like he bypassed his internal filter. Steve has an inkling that maybe he didn’t mean to say that out loud, but he smiles genuinely because he’s only ever felt like an inconvenience before.
“Let’s say Fridays at 5 if that works for your schedule?” Eddie suggests.
“That’s perfect. Thank you so much, Eddie. Really.” Steve tries to inject the proper amount of gratitude into his tone without sounding over-eager because the thought of spending more alone time with him is setting off a frankly obscene number of butterflies in his stomach and he hopes he’ll actually be able to concentrate on studying.
“You’re welcome, Steve. Now, go home and get some rest. Try not to worry, okay? You’ve got this.” Eddie is very good at reassuring him with that deep edge of his voice making him take his words as gospel, and Steve is very good at letting it permeate every pore of his skin.
Steve nods and heads back to his apartment. He’s still worried, but with Eddie’s help and with an action plan, graduating feels possible now, whereas earlier he was certain he was doomed.
It starts out fine. It's fine . It's studying. Steve tells himself it's totally just studying. It doesn't matter that his teacher is hot as fuck. It's fine. He's a professional. Steve can be a professional too.
Honestly, it feels good to let himself spiral a bit over Eddie's delectability. It gets his mind off depression and anxiety. Gives him something to look forward to every week. It's good. It’s good.
They quickly settle into a routine. Eddie sets a lighthearted tone which feels like a funny contrast in his dimly light gothic office, but it somehow fits perfectly. He’s like a spicy golden retriever. If a golden retriever could be goth, that would be Eddie.
Steve listens to the audiobook they’re currently studying in Lit during the week, then Eddie runs through a series of flash card questions, and Steve starts to retain more and more. For a little while, that's all it is. Okay, maybe three weeks is a little less than "a little while," but it's whatever! It's week four that Steve starts to realize he has a problem . It's week four of studying with his professor when Eddie asks Steve if he's hungry and then things start to shift into murky waters.
To Eddie's credit, Steve is hungry, and it is obvious. His stomach is audibly growling, so what’s Eddie—Eddie, with all his golden retriever energy and all that New York Times Best Seller money—going to do? Let him sit there and starve? Of course not.
Grnghhh —"Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, that sounds so gross," Steve laughs, "I clearly should have eaten dinner beforehand." He's embarrassed, as is evident from the rosy blush on the apples of his cheeks.
"Don't worry about it, seriously, my stomach sounds like Oscar the Grouch when I forget to eat." Eddie just has this way of setting Steve at ease that feels effortless. “Pizza?”
“I could go for pizza,” Steve admits.
“Pepperoni or veggie?”
“Veggie?”
“Hell yeah,” he pulls out his phone and taps for a few moments. “Sweet. It’ll be here in 30. Let’s get through a few more and then we can review last week’s to make sure they stuck.”
“Can I Venmo you for the pizza?”
“Absolutely not, Steve,” Eddie smiles. “My treat.”
“Eddie. You’re tutoring me. For another class. For free . The least I can do is cover dinner.”
“Nope,” he pops the “p” and pulls his legs up into his corner of the couch to get comfy. The man can not sit in a chair normally, and why is that so endearing?
“C’mon, you’re a college kid and I’m a professor. No way in hell am I letting you buy dinner.”
“Okay first of all,” Steve laughs. “I’m 26—hardly a kid. Secondly,” Steve continues, “you’re also a best-selling author—surely there are more fun things you could be doing like fancy wine parties with the New York Times or some shit. I already feel like I’m intruding into your life and now you’re buying dinner, too?”
“Hey,” Eddie says, voice doing that thing it does when he switches from joking to serious. Steve feels his heart wrap itself around his esophagus. “I told you, Steve, it’s no trouble. I want you to succeed because you deserve it. You deserve to have someone look out for you.”
It takes Steve a moment, throws him for a complete loop, because, wow. He doesn’t know if he wants to burst into tears or jump Eddie’s bones. Both, probably. Definitely both. He tries to find the words and manages a series of broken half sentences.
“I’ve never…No one’s ever…I mean my parents are kinda absent . I don’t have any family. No real friends that kept in touch from back home and it’s been hard to make new ones here so I just don’t…have…anyone who's ever really…looked out for me? God, I’m sorry. I sound pathetic. But I guess I just don’t know how to respond because this is a new thing for me…being looked out for, I mean.” He’s picking his cuticles raw which he really needs to stop doing but it feels right because all of him feels raw around Eddie—in a good way—a vulnerable-but-safe kind of way.
“Well. That’s a damn shame, Steve, because you’re a great person. A good person with amazing talent. Everyone else is missing out on having a Steve Harrington in their life. I’m sorry no one has made you feel that before. You deserve to feel that. So. I’ve got the pizza. Okay?” Eddie’s words come out gravely, as if his lips are fighting some internal battle with his brain.
In light of the sheer brutality of being seen, Steve’s certainly feeling a lot of things right now. None of them are appropriate and almost all of them are way too horny. He tries — really, he does try — to reel himself in and just say thank you like a normal human but Eddie makes him feel wanted in a way that he’s never experienced. He feels allowed to take up space in Eddie’s presence, and that kind of revelation sends his heart into overdrive. The permission to be; the encouragement to exist fuels a desire to expand and for a moment he feels himself leaning toward Eddie. He’s taking more space, he’s inserting himself into Eddie’s space, and he doesn’t really know his goal other than just to get closer.
Steve is looking directly at Eddie’s deep brown eyes which are shifting wildly from Steve’s lips to his eyes, and just as he’s thinking about what might happen if he were to climb into his professor’s lap, there’s a knock at the door and he flings himself back as if a rubber band stretched between them had broken.
Eddie startles at the sound as if he, too, were feeling some big feelings, but gets up quickly to retrieve their pizza. He thanks and tips the Uber Eats person before setting the pizza down.
“Okay hang tight. I’m going to steal some plates and sodas from the lounge. Be right back,” Eddie leaves and Steve exhales a burst of air.
Realizing he very nearly climbed into Eddie’s lap forces him to acknowledge that he’s losing every inch of his tightly wound control around Eddie. It’s unsurprising, really. Eddie is so good at making him feel safe. It’s not really the goal of studying together, but Steve feels connected to this person who keeps doing these selfless little things for him. Keeps making him feel like a person who deserves care. He thinks that maybe it shouldn’t affect him as much as it is. It should be as simple as Eddie makes it out to be, but for Steve it’s the first real connection he’s felt in a long time.
He’s spent the last three years wading through a mental pain puddle, barely passing each semester and spending all his spare time writing sad horny poetry in his apartment. But now he’s got a weekly standing study session with his hot, tatted up teacher who keeps telling him what a great writer he is, what a good person he is, and keeps showing up in fucking tweed pants that Steve wants to rip off of him.
Steve cares about how he looks too, of course, but most of the time it feels like too much work. He supposes he’s lucky that this slouchy, carefree, artistic vibe is so on trend right now because he can pull together an outfit from shit that’s still laying on his floor and people probably think he fits right in with his untied boots and his slightly crooked glasses and his totally-on-purpose bedhead.
***
Down the hall, unbeknownst to Steve, Eddie is having a moment of his own. Steve’s fucking glasses, man. And those god damned boots. Eddie wants to lick them which — so inappropriate, Jesus Christ, he’s got to reel it in. But that’s pretty hard when Steve’s looking at him like a half-drowned puppy that Eddie has to bodily restrain himself from smothering with love and warmth and kindness and only the best things.
But…is that what Steve wants too? Because it had certainly seemed he wanted something when he was leaning towards Eddie just minutes ago. It’s…an awful lot to wrestle with in a dark teacher’s lounge at 8 PM on a Friday. He grabs two Diet Cokes from the fridge and wishes he had a bottle of whiskey to calm his nerves.
Paper plates procured; Eddie returns to his office to find Steve making himself comfy on his couch. Eddie’s heart does a little flipflop as he watches Steve pull his boots off before tucking his socked feet under his legs and sitting cross-legged on his couch. He looks adorable.
Eddie shakes it off and they divvy up slices and the Diet Cokes Eddie stole found in the lounge fridge.
“Okay! We just have a few cards left so let’s finish them while we eat.” Eddie says, rubbing his hands together before picking up the next index card in his deck of homemade flash cards with one hand and a slice with the other. “Back to Dead Poets Society. Who is the author of the quote Mr. Keating has his students call him?”
“Easy. Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass .”
“Very good!” Eddie beams. “Bonus question: which president was O Captain! My Captain! about?”
“Oh, um…” Steve pauses for a moment, “Lincoln?”
“Yes!” Eddie cheers and Steve releases a relieved sigh, “Okay last one: each Dead Poets Society meeting begins with the reading of the quote, “I came to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately…” From which Henry David Thoreau work is it taken?”
“Walden,” Steve says confidently.
“Perfect! You got every question right tonight, Steve. Great job!” Eddie’s excitement is so apparent it’s a tangible thing.
“I think it might just be that I actually like this book. All the poets referenced are ones whose work I’m already familiar with.”
“That’s good—when your interests align with your classwork it sounds to me like you chose the right major.”
“That’s a good way to look at it,” Steve admits.
They eat quietly for a while in comfortable silence, neither feeling the need to fill the air with words.
After finishing half a pizza and having zero regrets about that fact, Eddie leans back on the couch and puts his boots up on the coffee table, crossing his ankles. He looks at Steve for a moment. Steve, with his feet tucked under himself and his shoulders curled toward his knees. Steve, with his tiny bird-bites and his half-eaten crust. Steve, lost in his own head. Eddie wonders what kinds of thoughts take up residence in his head, and he can’t keep himself from asking.
“So, how’s life outside of school?” he asks, wanting to probe but trying to sound casual, friendly.
“Hmm?” Steve looks over at Eddie, adds his last piece of crust to his little pile and sits the plate down, “Oh, fine, I guess. Just ready to graduate, you know?”
“Got big plans after graduation?”
“Uh—not really. I mean, not yet. I don’t really…I don’t know what I want to do after college. I mean, I know I want to keep writing, but I don’t know what I’ll do to like… support that,” Steve rambles, “That sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?”
Eddie chuckles good naturedly.
“Not at all. It sounds like every English major I’ve ever met, Steve. I tended bar full time until I got published and landed this job. I never imagined I would be a professor. Hated the whole idea of it, to be honest, but the pay was better and it gave me more time to focus on writing,” Eddie eyes Steve. “You just need to find something you don’t hate that pays the bills that also gives you enough time to write.”
“Like bartending,” Steve smiles and Eddie returns it.
“Orrr…working at a bookstore, or a library, or a tattoo shop, or the fucking Gap, whatever you want—the point is to find something tolerable, not something that’s world-changing. You’ll do your world-changing stuff with your poetry.”
“So not the Gap then.”
“Hey, don’t bash the Gap. They have some tolerable apparel.”
“You don’t look like you’ve ever stepped foot in a Gap, Eddie.”
“Okay, fair. I don’t think I own anything from there, but you look like you could rock a button-up or some of those khaki shorts.”
“If you’re telling me you think I give off Gap vibes , I’m literally going to leave,” Steve deadpans, and it elicits a laugh from deep in Eddie’s chest. It’s the kind of laugh that makes rooms sparkle, and Steve’s whole face lights up at it.
“No, no, no, you’re definitely not giving off Gap vibes, I just meant you could pull that off if you wanted to. You could pull any look off is what I meant. Even frat-guy-who-shops-at-Gap.” Eddie’s rambling now, furiously trying to recover and making it so much worse god damn it.
Steve’s cheeks spark with fire and Eddie’s helpless but to watch the blush creep down his neck before disappearing below his shirt. Eddie wants to eat him.
“Oh. Well,” Steve stammers, “I retract my threat to leave,” he laughs a little. “Uhh…thank you.” Steve stumbles over his words. “Thank you for the pizza, too. And for what you said earlier.”
Jesus Christ. Why does the site of this adorably awkward human send Eddie into a tailspin? His brain has stopped working.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Eddie pales, “-fuck, I mean, shit. I’m sorry. I have a bad habit of calling people pet names which I am trying very hard to break.”
Steve pipes up quickly, “No, I like it!” His turn to visibly cringe. “I mean—it’s okay. It’s fine. No worries.”
“Cool,” Cool? What the fuck Eddie. “I’m just gonna — ” Eddie hops up to clean up their dinner — needs to move before he explodes or does something altogether insane. When did it get so stiflingly hot in his office? He picks up their plates and empty cans, nearly drops them, recovers, then very smoothly excuses himself to toss them.
“Just gonna–uh–toss these. Back in a flash.” He darts out of the office. Back in a flash? What the fuck.
With both having a separate moment to calm down, the evening ends like all the rest have thus far: Steve packs up his bag, Eddie tells him what a great job he’s doing with studying, and they part ways with friendly waves.
It’s after Steve’s gone, when Eddie sinks into his sofa and begins to replay the evening’s events in his mind that Eddie realizes he’s quite thoroughly fucked.