Chapter Text
The day Eddie Munson officially retires as a rockstar is a doozy.
Not only because it made international headlines (though, not for the reasons one might think), nor because he was laughing the whole way through it, wiping joyful tears from his eyes— no, no. The most remarkable thing about Eddie’s unforeseen (but entirely inevitable) retirement was how wrong everyone had gotten it.
There’s something to be said about gossip mags and paparazzi, the glitz and glamour, the dirty and the damaged and the loved: it was all L.A. It was an all-encompassing sort of magic you had to believe in to feel.
And, boy, did Eddie feel it. Naturally, his magic was a little different from the average person's. For one, he wasn’t particularly fond of partying. The speeding, the clubs, the licking-various-substances-off-of-ladies just didn’t appeal to him the way it did for so many others. (Not that it mattered, really– it didn’t make him better or worse, it’s just the way he is. He’d much rather be working on a DnD campaign. Not that he’d ever let that slip.)
For another, he had never quite settled the internal debate he’d had waging inside of him since early teenagehood— thrash metal or glam metal? Well, Eddie had thought, why not both?
Voicing this did absolutely nothing to placate the external debate happening in every dive bar across the country— shockingly, it did even less for his image. Until it became his image.
And so, the (in)famous Eddie Munson was born: a small town kid with big dreams turned controversial rockstar overnight. (Read: five gruelling years).
Eddie didn’t exactly emulate any band in particular, or anything— he liked to say he borrowed things, when inspiration struck. Primarily, he wrote thrash metal. Hardcore, vibrate-your-skull-out-of-your-face fast, music.
He didn’t dress like it, though.
No, Eddie had an affinity for the extreme. For the loud and shameless. Waltzing onto a stage every night to a chorus of cheers, Eddie wanted to feel seen. He wanted to show the world he could be a tough guy, and wear lace. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. And, well, the positive feedback emboldened him.
The worst part had nothing to do with magazines writing scathing articles about him, tearing into him and Winged Trailblazers’ band members instead of the music— no, the worst part was the reaction his fellow peers had.
Or rather, the non-reaction.
For a year and a half, Eddie’s name came up in interviews with the likes of Metallica, Megadeth- fuckin’ Mötley Crüe. There was no begrudging respect in their answers — oh, the kid with the makeup? Nah, never met him. Think he might really embrace all that, uh, bat imagery. He’s a recluse — and it was all so very poetic, wasn’t it? Eddie Munson made it to the top, only to find he’d been digging the whole time.
But he didn’t stop. Not for a second. With Gareth by his side, he marched right outta hell— for a second, much less violent time (dwelling on high school has never been Eddie’s favourite pastime). They wrote the music they wanted to write, stuck to the image they wanted to have — fuck you, Dave Mustaine — and found their footing. They cultivated their own, unique style– carved a place for themselves in the metal world and proclaimed through actions what they couldn’t in words: we are queer, and we are making history. Suck on that, motherfuckers.
There’s something very satisfying about beating your favourite band at their own game. Something maybe a little mean-spirited in it, but like hell did Eddie care when it happened. He shot Lars Ulrich a wide grin as he stepped up to the microphone that day, the spotlight damn near searing his eyeballs off as he said: even a recluse comes out once every blue moon. I mean— for a Grammy, I might as well, right?
It was kind of beautiful.
Winged Trailblazers made it another year before disbanding. Correction: before Eddie was forcibly removed from the spotlight he'd come to know so well. (No, okay, he’s being dramatic. He chose to leave, but it’s funnier this way.)
He thinks he’s built enough anticipation now, anyway, so— here it is. How it happened.
It goes like this: Eddie Munson bumps into Chrissy Cunningham, a cheerleader he’d sold weed to in high school, on his walk home from a “business” meeting with Gareth (i.e: getting into heated arguments about Nightmare On Elm Street). Chrissy suggests lunch, excited to catch up with Eddie since he rocketed to stardom; Eddie agrees, equally as excited to hear about her career as a physical therapist. Eddie drinks three glasses of wine at an expensive restaurant downtown, and thinks nothing of it.
Gareth meets Eddie in the green room at half past four, Chrissy Cunningham left to enjoy the rest of her day Eddie-less. Soundcheck goes well. So well, in fact, that Gareth goads Eddie into doing shots of vodka with him.
And the thing is, normally, Eddie follows a very strict protocol regarding alcohol and showbusiness. Business and pleasure are to be held separately, enjoyed separately, so that the few times they bleed into one another, one can well and thoroughly reap the benefits of it without making it a habit.
Gareth Emerson is a demon, is the problem. Once their laughter tapers off and the bassist – the one and only Sophie Graham – is done sound-checking, Gareth lays a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and tells him he’ll lay off the jokes, for real this time. They’re gonna rock, and Eddie’s gotta do his makeup, so, like, let's head back to the green room and chill.
It is there that, unbeknownst to them, Gareth makes a fatal mistake.
Eddie can’t really be blamed for not noticing the barely-concealed grin on Gareth’s face when he hands him a tall glass of water, seeing as he’s – well – a little drunk. What Gareth hadn’t accounted for was that Eddie would manage to swallow nearly half the glass before realising what he was drinking was not, in fact, aqua.
No, no. It was tequila.
Eddie had thought, for sixty fateful minutes, that he was going to die. If Eddie wasn’t emetophobic as all hell, maybe things would’ve worked out. He could’ve yakked the tequila up and performed a magnificent show, side by side with his band– the band he’d bled and cried and fought for.
But, no. What the tabloids don’t know is this: Eddie Munson cannot hold his alcohol.
That’s how it happens.
Eddie Munson marches onto stage that night, glammed up and dizzy, and squawks. Right at the audience! Gone is the suave, confident frontman who wears his body like he designed it, who winks at interviewers who poke and prod at the queer subtext in his lyricism. In his stead is an extremely (unwillingly) drunk man, who cannot for the life of him remember how to be a rockstar.
It was a disaster, to say the least.
But it was also really, really funny.
And well-timed.
See, there’s an entire separate chain of events Eddie’s never really told anyone about. The one that starts with a deep exhaustion, chronic insomnia, and the rehashing of old wounds— the one that ends with Sophie Graham telling him she'd like to do her own thing, sometime soon. The one Eddie’s more than a little ashamed of, because it tells the truth: Eddie Munson loves being a rockstar, but he doesn’t like it.
Eddie had decided months prior to the drunken mindfuck of a night to dip at the most convenient opportunity. Adios, smelly tour buses. Au revoir, stress headaches. Don’t get him wrong– he loves music, would never stop writing it, but– as a session musician, maybe. As someone low-key. Someone his friends don't have to work for, but with. And what better way to leave with a legacy full of controversy than this?
So, yeah. Eddie Munson retires from rock-stardom and becomes a radio show host at the ripe old age of 25. Wayne, bless him, tells Eddie he can breathe easy for the first time in years.
Eddie’s life is a lot more exciting now. No, really– it is. Without a label clinging to him like a needy child, Eddie sort of… relaxes, for the first time in a long, long time. He feels grounded, the fluidity with which he moves coming to him naturally, all of a sudden. He even sleeps through the night, most days. And all at once, it's exciting to be alive again. No longer is it simply a burden to carry for friends who rely on him to carry it. And with downtime comes the opportunity to revisit the stuff he used to love, like DnD, and driving just to drive. He finds it again— the excitement borne out of contentment. Excitement that’s present just because he’s alive, and as it turns out, that’s pretty damn cool.
It’s kind of incredible. Fantastic, even.
There’s one small problem, though. An annoyance, really. An annoyance that calls the radio's hotline like it’s his job.
The first time Eddie's mystery caller made himself known was on a sunny Tuesday evening at precisely 6:18. Eddie has not known peace since.
“You’re live with us here at Munson’s Mega-Metal Broadcast, where we bring the magic to your speakers. To whom do I owe the pleasure of speaking with?”
“My friends call me Casanova,” the caller had said, and Jesus Christ– “D’you take requests?”
Eddie had been forced to take a second to, like, collect himself. Who the hell introduces themselves like that?
…Smug bastards, that’s who.
“Well, Prince Charming,” Eddie had started, catty and short, “I have been known to dabble in requests, on occasion.” Pausing, he'd squinted at the desk. “Is this an occasion?”
“It’s my friend’s birthday,” the caller said. “He’s, like, big into metal, or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” Eddie had repeated, keeping a false smile in his voice. “Glad to hear it. The youth of today really do have such a refined taste. Tell me, Romeo, what might your friend want to hear on his big day?”
“Uh. Metal?” the caller said, snarked, really, and–
“Wow,” Eddie said flatly. “I never would’ve guessed.”
His producer, Eden, had at this moment knocked on the glass separating them, telling him to wrap it up. Eddie had thrown a thumbs up her way, and vowed to blow the caller up with his mind.
“You thinking Dio? Metallica? Black Sabbath?” he’d listed off, drumming idly on the desk. “Or maybe Megadeth? Judas Priest? Mötley Cr–”
“Jesus, dude,” the caller had interrupted, and Eddie had pretended not to thrill at the way he sounded kind of annoyed. “How about, um, the– the Judas guys?”
Eddie had hummed, already pulling up the track he had – coincidentally – been humming all day. “Judas Priest, right. A mighty fine choice, if I do say so myself. You heard him, folks! Prepare yourselves to be rocked – or shall I say nailed – between the hammer and the anvil.” The beautiful, transcendent guitar faded in, and Eddie’s thumb hovered over the mute button for his mic. “Here it is, folks. Enjoy.”
As soon as he had muted himself, he’d pressed the phone to his ear to say something kind of evil, but the guy – Casanova – had simply said, thanks, dude, and hung up.
And so it began.
That had been three weeks ago now, and against all odds, the guy had kept calling.
At this point, Eddie sort of looks forward to it. The verbal sparring does him good. It’s exercise for the brain, or whatever. It keeps him sharp, keeps him on his toes.
And the thing is, Casanova’s picked up the habit of calling him right as a song starts playing, giving them ample time (three to four minutes) to talk. Er, spar.
“You’re insulting me now? On my own turf?” Eddie’s saying, stuffing half a muffin into his mouth. (Chrissy had brought them over to the station for him and the team earlier that day. He’s glad they stayed in touch, and that she even wanted to in the first place, despite his– everything.)
“Stop talking with your mouth full, asshole,” the guy says.
Eddie chews obnoxiously, deciding to say for the millionth time in the three weeks they'd known each other, “If you tell me your name.”
“What, you don’t remember?”
Oh. Oh, this fuckin' guy.
Eddie suspects, in his darker moments, that he may have a bit of a rage-boner over him. Worse still, Eddie kind of has a crush-boner (ugh, gross. He’s gotta reword that in his head at some point) on his neighbor. But that’s not the point.
The point is that Eddie is so very gay for beautiful and/or mean men who–
No, that’s not the point either.
The point is–
“Casanova’s a shit alias,” Eddie says, proud of himself for not getting distracted.
“What if that was my legal name?” Casanova asks. It sounds like he’s shuffling around, like he might be in bed, or on the couch. “What if my, like, parents called me Casa, or something?”
“Then you’ve got shit parents,” Eddie decides.
Casanova huffs a laugh. “Don’t need a shit name to prove that.”
For a second, Eddie worries he’s misstepped, even though it was Casanova who freely offered him that piece of information.
He worries his lip, listening to the silence on the other end of the line. He had sounded like he was joking, but- well. You don't joke about your parents like that unless you mean it, on some level. And the thing is, at the end of the day, Eddie has no idea what Casanova is really like. He doesn’t even know what he looks like- he shouldn't be this emotionally involved with a voice.
Carefully, Eddie says, “Well, uh. Welcome to the shitty parents club.”
“Been here a while, but, um. Thanks.”
Eddie clears his throat. He’s got another minute before the song is over.
“So,” he says, deciding to pivot. “What do you do, when you’re not harassing little ol’ me?”
Casanova snorts. “Work. I model, and stuff.”
Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up into his bangs, because that’s gotta be a line.
“A model,” he says, deeply unconvinced. “Right.”
“I’m serious!” Casanova insists. “Dude, I can say with, like, ninety percent certainty you’ve seen me on a poster somewhere.”
Pursing his lips around a grin, Eddie says, “What do you model, Heartbreaker? Shoes? Underwear?”
Casanova laughs, and the sound is so rich and full, even through the tinny speakers. “Hand stuff, actually.”
Hand stuff. Huh.
Eddie narrows his eyes. “Is that slang for porn?”
“No, Jesus,” Casanova says. “Think watches, or rings, that kinda stuff.”
Now that actually sounds plausible.
Huh.
Eddie kind of really wants to know what his hands look like now.
The song winds to an end, and Eddie sighs. “I gotta go, model-man. Duty calls.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Casanova says. “I’ll, um, catch you later?”
“Sure thing, baby.”
Eddie’s hung up before he realizes what he’s said. He stares blankly at the phone, vaguely horrified.
…Maybe he can just– play it off. He’ll tell Casanova he calls everyone baby, no exceptions.
Jesus.
Eddie’s not looking where he’s going when he enters his apartment building later that night, head buried in his notebook as he strolls down the hallway. He'd written a half-assed verse of what could become a song, if he’s smart about it, and he just needs to work out the rhythm.
He’s muttering the words under his breath when he collides with something.
Or, someone, rather.
“Oh, shit–” Eddie fumbles to catch his notebook, smacking it against his own chest to secure it. He looks up, opening his mouth to apologize, and is at once struck dumb.
He’d known, in a vague sense, that his neighbor was hot. The boy next door type, charming right down to his boots. Not that Eddie had ever exchanged more than a wave with the guy, but he could just tell. (Gareth would call him mildly delusional). It’s undeniable up close, though: the guy is gorgeous, and unfortunately, exactly Eddie’s type. He’s preppy in a douchey-cute way (yes, one can be both simultaneously), with these pouty lips and downturned eyes. Eddie thinks he must’ve swallowed his tongue, because words suddenly feel like an entirely foreign concept, one which Eddie has never partaken in, no siree.
For Christ’s sake, the guy’s wearing a plain white tee and jeans and Eddie feels faint.
Get ahold of yourself.
“Close one,” his neighbor says breathlessly, moving as if to reach out and steady Eddie, before changing his mind. He’s got this look on his face, like he's shocked, but is trying really hard to play it off. Maybe he knows who Eddie is? He doesn't look like the type who would, but, well. Never say never.
When Eddie keeps staring at him, the guy readjusts the bag of groceries he's carrying.
“Sorry,” Eddie says belatedly. He holds up his notebook stupidly. “I was in my own world.”
The guy shrugs the apology off, lips quirking up into a lopsided smile. “No worries, dude. So was I.”
There’s a pause, where they both just kind of… stare at each other, and Eddie clears his throat again.
“I don’t think I’ve officially introduced myself,” he says, nervously tucking his hair behind his ear– like he’s some sort of lovestruck teenager, or something. Like he wasn’t grinding shamelessly against his guitar in front of hundreds of people – on purpose – a couple of months ago. Tucking his notebook under his arm, he sticks his hand out. “I’m Eddie.”
Nodding, the guy takes Eddie’s hand. He’s got a firm but gentle grip, and Eddie goes warm all over.
“I’m Steve,” he says. “Steve Harrington.”
Letting go of his hand - because there is an appropriate length of time a handshake should be - Eddie rocks back on his heels.
“Well, Steve Harrington,” Eddie says. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” Steve says, a playful little smile on his lips like he knows something Eddie doesn’t. God, Eddie wants to- lick him, or something.
Idly, Eddie wonders if Steve’s some kind of movie star. He’s just– stunning. From his sun-tanned skin to his tousled hair, he looks every bit the blockbuster heartthrob he probably is.
Aaand Eddie's staring again. Someone needs to put him on a leash.
Jerking his thumb at his own door, Eddie takes a step back. “Well, uh. See you around, Steve.”
“Yeah.” Steve smiles again. He's got a real Mona Lisa thing going on, mysterious and gentle. “Soon, I hope.”
Eddie salutes him, before turning to march into his apartment and melt through the floor.
“Oh, um,” Steve says. Eddie turns back around. “I’m having kind of, like, a super-late housewarming party this Friday? Or– it’s more like a get-together, I guess, but–”
“Don’t worry,” Eddie reassures him quickly. “I won’t make any noise complaints or, uh, call the cops on you.”
Steve blinks at him, before smiling, embarrassed. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to come, actually.”
Oh. Oh.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, too quickly. “I mean, uh, yeah, shit. That’d be cool.”
The grin Steve shoots him is brilliant. “Awesome. Come over at seven?”
Eddie nods like a bobblehead. “Seven.”
“See you then, Munson,” Steve says, and then he’s gone, closing the door behind him.
It doesn’t occur to Eddie until much, much later that he never told Steve his last name.
“And we’re back on the air, ladies and freakazoids. I’m your not-so-esteemed host for the night, Eddie Munson, and I’ll be taking you on a journey like no other. First up tonight we’ve got Dio. Guy’s got pipes, what can I say?”
The opening riff of Straight Through The Heart starts playing, and Eddie leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. On his desk, he has his (comically big) cup of coffee, his notebook, and a pen he’d stolen from Gareth at some point or another. It’s gonna be a good night.
The phone rings, and Eddie scoots forward to grab it.
“Hello, you’ve reached Munson’s Mega-Metal Broadcast, who am I speaking to?”
“I like this song,” Casanova says.
Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, a surprised smile tugging at his lips. “Well, Dio’s irresistible, even to the most mainstream plebs out there.”
Casanova snorts. “Are you from this planet?”
“Uh, yeah.” Eddie twirls the phone cord between his fingers. “Why? Am I out of this world?”
“You sort of speak like an alien.”
Wow. Rude.
“Crazy thing to say with a name like Casanova, man.”
Casanova huffs a laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Oh, I bet.” Leaning back in his chair again, Eddie flickers his eyes to the computer. He’s got four minutes left, give or take. “Tell me, what do guys called Casanova get up to on evenings such as this?”
Casanova hums, shuffling on the other line. “Well, I got kinda sick of following a trail of dead bodies, so, I’m just at home.”
Eddie barks a surprised laugh. “What, you a detective now too?”
“PI,” Casanova corrects him. “It’s, like, my main gig.”
“Right, right,” Eddie says. “You model on the side. Got it.”
“Hey, I could do it full time,” Casanova tells him. God, Eddie loves it when he gets bitchy. “It’s not like solving crimes pays well, or anything.”
Interest piqued, Eddie asks, “Then why do you do it?”
Casanova’s quiet for a second, Dio the only sound in the room. And then he says, “I guess it just… sort of happened. Robin, my best friend, she’s, like, super smart, but she also works a million hours a week, so I started helping out when I could. I guess it just kind of stuck.”
Eddie furrows his eyebrows, unsure now if Casanova actually is telling the truth. He doesn’t sound like he’s pulling Eddie’s leg – no more than usual, anyway – and Eddie’s not exactly an easy guy to fool. Growing up with a guy like Eddie’s dad, you learn a thing or two.
“That’s cool,” he says belatedly, before biting the inside of his cheek.
“I guess,” Casanova says, like he isn’t sure. His voice lacks its usual easy confidence, coming out soft and hesitant.
“Nah, it is, man,” Eddie says. “Seriously. If you’re, you know, telling the truth. If not, I’ve gotta say– you lie like a pro.”
“Comes with the job,” Casanova says immediately. “But, um. I’m not lying. Not to you.”
Eddie’s not sure what to do with that. He's not good at the whole vulnerability thing- not when it's not a product he's trying to sell.
In the end, he settles on saying, “Thanks.”
For a moment, Eddie listens to Casanova breathe down the line. It’s an easy silence, one he isn’t – for once – rushing to fill. It’s only when the song starts fading out that he clears his throat.
“Sorry. Duty calls.” He hesitates, before adding, “Call again tomorrow?”
Casanova doesn’t miss a beat. “I knew I’d wear you down.”
Eddie grins. Drawling, he says, “Har har.”
And the real kicker is, he's already looking forward to tomorrow.