I am OBSESSED with people telling me how they met the love of their life. Just found out my director met his wife through a misdirected email - that’s fate right there.
“I saw her last name was Jewish - and I’m Jewish, so when I corrected the email I told her Shabbat Shalom with a smiley face — this was the very beginning of the emoticon era, you understand. She had a watermark of a dog rescue at the bottom of her email, and I love dogs, so I found her website and there she was — all these videos of her rehabilitating dogs and talking about the organization. I fell in love with her just from those videos.”
😭😭😭
“I asked if we could meet for coffee, told her I was looking for volunteer opportunities — which was halfway a lie — and she said ‘okay, but just so you know I have a boyfriend, so this is strictly business,’ and I was so disappointed, but I did want to meet her. We sat in that coffeeshop until they turned the lights out on us, and she broke up with her boyfriend the next day.”
MULTIPLE people in the notes have told me how important these tags are to them so here’s to keeping it in the main post.
If Steve had to level with anybody about this, yeah, he might be spending a little too much brain power on Eddie smoking. Or maybe there is no brain power at all. Just completely cut off, nobody’s home, head full of the smoke that he definitely doesn’t want to swap places with. Because that would be insane, right?
Because, honestly, what does that even mean?
He doesn’t know. He just knows that his palms are slick, his throat is dry, and the hair on the back of his neck is standing up despite the humid air wafting around his position on the makeshift balcony overlooking the roof of this brick building in the heart of downtown Indianapolis. His position, fortunately or unfortunately, gives him a damn good view of a damn good view: Eddie looking at the city view colored pastel by the setting sun, the easy lift of his hand to his mouth, the pull of smoke that makes his back expand under his dress shirt, the exhale that makes his body relax just a little bit more than the last. It’s practically indiscernible, but Steve notices. He always notices. Doesn’t know what that means.
Or maybe he does.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
No, he definitely does. The way Eddie’s lips wrap around the filter, the way his eyes close, the smoke flooding his lungs, and filling him up, replacing life-giving oxygen with smoldering vice. It makes Steve’s skin burn and ache and sweat, and he could easily blame it on the summer heat, but he knows. Following the curve of Eddie’s back when he shifts his weight, he knows.
Robin’s voice isn’t unkind when she asks, and he knows that she’s just giving him an in to talk about it, but he can’t bring himself to look over at her, to tear his eyes from Edd— oh, that’s. That’s another exhale. His eyes follow the smoke that curls up over the city, blanketing the sky in tobacco remnants and vapor from Eddie’s goddamn lungs.
He watches as Eddie ashes and can’t help but thinking, Same. He feels singed, feels spent and withered and burned, but directionless, unlike the cigarette ash that lands unceremoniously on the roof’s floor. It did its job. Now it rests. Steve doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
A soft brush against his knuckles makes Steve start and look down at his hand where it grips the railing. Robin’s pale, ringed fingers tap lightly on the pale ridges of his hand, bleeched out by the force he’s holding onto the metal. When he looks up, her expression is open and waiting.
Oh, right. The question.
“Yeah,” he breathes out with reluctant exhaustion. Tiny reliefs flood his body when he straightens his spine and alternates digging his thumbs into his palms to get the blood back in them. “I know.”
God, does he know, eyes already back on Eddie, who’s got his elbow propped up on the ledge of the building and belly laughing at whatever Gareth and Jeff are going on about animatedly at each other. He’s so beautiful with his shoulder length dark curls that catch the last glimmer of direct sunlight, and his wide smile that shows off his teeth and dimples. His head falls back for a moment before he doubles over in mirth, then lunges for Gareth because of the other losing his balance in their silly fallout.
Steve is half misery, desperately reluctant to let himself fall further because of the ebb and flow of Eddie’s presence in his life, but the way he feels now couldn’t be helped. It was inevitable.
The gathering is a closeout of the tour season, a party to wind down and hang out. Eddie’s head lifts and his eyes scan the rooftop, passing over all of their friends, family, and a few fans that have somehow become like family, but stops when he catches sight of Steve, his fingers frozen for a half second in front of his lips. Eddie leans against the ledge, body facing and eyes locked onto Steve, he pulls from the cigarette again, then tilts his head slightly to the side. He smiles around the exhale. It’s an easy thing, almost bashful if it weren’t so tantalizing, but then it morphs into a closed smile. He’s smirking, doing that smirk that makes Steve’s blood sing, then Eddie slightly jerks his head. The movement is so slight, but Steve catches it, always catches it: an invitation.
Steve sucks in a soft breath, hands still tingling, but not from lack of circulation this time.
He’s half hope, he’s—
He’s already moving when Robin grins out, “Go get him.”
