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A bump in the hallway drags him out of his contemplation; Eddie sprinkles an inch of ashes in the first empty cup he spots on the bedside table, balances it on his stomach so he can lie back down. The gravity sings its siren song to his bones, leading him under, yet he can't look away from the spot of chipping paint above his head. He could draw it from memory, a puckered lightning bolt growing larger every week, on the verge of letting the shadows in.
Someone is rummaging through the kitchen like they haven't eaten in days. He’d snort, if he had the energy for it. Silence falls back on the apartment, only for it to be broken by a knock on his door a few seconds later. “Yeah,” he croaks.
Steve slips in, balancing a tray fit for a king in his hands. “Hey man,” he greets him with hazy eyes and a giddy smile, “You hungry?”
Eddie looks down at the wobbling pile of sliced bread, bologna, jellies and cheese; his stomach betrays him with a pitiful howl. He throws out the rest of his cigarette and rises, arms straining under their own weight. “I guess I am.” He watches Steve cross the room with a familiar, clumsy pep in his step. “Had fun?”
Already attacking the bologna, Steve nods with enthusiasm. Eddie can't help himself: “Met anyone cute?”
“Yeah. Went to his flat, but we were both too high to get it up.”
Eddie huffs a laugh; Steve isn't even phased, focused on the monster of a sandwich he’s making for himself. His skin is still glistening with sweat, from the dancing, the making out, the lukewarm summer night. This life suits him.
With sluggish movements, Eddie assembles his own sweet and savory delicacy. He makes an aborted gesture at the window that Steve understands anyway, getting it wide open for him. The breeze feels good against his numb body, feels like he can finally breathe.
Licking his fingers clean, Steve asks, “Did your shift go well?”
Eddie hums noncommittally.
“Score any numbers?”
“Is this a competition, Harrington?” He deflects. But Steve’s downturned eyes are on him, wide and curious, pupils blown to bits. There was a guy with tousled hair and an athletic body under his leather, all curves and sinews like the erotic sketches in their magazines. He’d shivered under his attention. He doesn't want to talk about him. “Yeah. Might call him later. But the shifts are fucking exhausting, I don't know how Lenny does it all year long.”
“He’ll be back soon. It’s almost September.” Steve discards the tray and lies down at Eddie’s side with a satisfied sigh. “He'll get back to his work, and you’ll get back to your own, and our schedules will finally line up again. I barely saw you the entire summer.”
“We live together, you insatiable drama queen.”
“Doesn’t mean shit if you’re never here when I get home.”
Eddie lights a new cigarette to escape the conversation; he knows he’s right. They have been hooking up with strangers ever since they got to Chicago, released from prying eyes and expectations. He has found freedom in reinventing himself at every encounter, bending his body until his mind runs out of ideas, but the best part happens when they come back to each other afterwards. He stretches on the mattress, exhales the smoke toward the streak of chipping paint.
Again, Steve’s voice reaches him through a stream of disjointed thoughts. “We put the finishing touches on Dave’s quilt today. I saw Phyllis cry for the first time.”
Here is the other side of the coin: they’ve settled right in the eye of the storm. Living among their peers is a comfort as much as a constant heartbreak. It means wading through the epidemic as many nerve endings to the same pulsating organ, sharing fear and anger and grief for the spouses and siblings and parents and children and friends and strangers they keep losing every day. When there is joy, though, it bleeds through every street. It’s a whirlwind of a life.
He extends the remaining half of the cigarette to Steve, who has melted against his side. Combs his fingers through his greasy hair. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“S’okay. You’re here now.” Steve’s hot breath tickles when he buries his nose between Eddie’s waist and the mattress, blindly wrapping an arm around him. He lets the cigarette consume between his limp fingers; Eddie has to save his bed from the ashes a second time, plucking it out and sticking it back between his own lips. His hand drops down to Steve’s nape, the skin warm and sun-kissed there; kneading it winds him down.
“I’m off on Monday. You wanna do something then?”
Steve lets out a pleased noise. He wriggles around, his thumb catching on the hem of Eddie’s shirt. “I just wanna stay home with you. Don’t wanna think about anybody else for a while. That okay?” He lifts it up and smoothes his hand over Eddie’s bare stomach, as if Eddie could ever say no in these conditions.
“To be honest, I was hoping you’d say that.” Front collapsing under Steve's weight, he confesses, “I miss you all the time, man. Every time something happens at the club I wanna tell you about it, but then I get home and I just fall asleep, and when I wake up you’re already gone, and I’ve forgotten all about it. And I don't know when I’ll see you next, if I’ll see you next, in what state you’ll be.”
Steve squeezes him tighter, burying his entire face against Eddie’s stomach. “That can't be healthy,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, well. Sign of the times, I guess.” He drops the end of the cigarette in another empty cup and folds his arm under his head. Looks up to the ceiling for a clue, for anything. It doesn't crack open under the weight of his admission. “There was a guy, tonight. He was dancing with two other dudes. One in the front, one in the back. Everybody was watching, ‘cause they were beautiful together. Him in particular. He was young, I think our age. Kept smiling to himself like he was in on a joke with the universe. He looked good, healthy, and then he just– didn't. I blinked and he’d dropped to the floor like he was struck by lightning. We had to carry him out, Fred and I and the two guys. He got back to his senses in the break room, and they all went back to the party. But I couldn't do it. Fred had to make me go home early ‘cause I was ruining everybody’s mood.”
Kissing his navel, Steve rephrases, “You’re home now.” It soothes something in Eddie; he combs his fingers through his hair once again, grips it with more force. Steve follows the movement easily, rising up on his elbow, bunching Eddie’s shirt higher until he’s on display for him. Pauses there, taking in the expanse of skin, breathing out, “And I’m home.” He kisses each of his tattoos on the way up, lingers on the spider at his clavicle. “And we’re good. It’s all good.”
Eddie twists the back of his shirt; Steve scrambles to take it off, then Eddie’s before stalling, sitting back on his heels. He sounds short of breath when he says, “Glad I caught you tonight.” Looks all dopey and sweet like that, eyelids drooping, swaying under his own weight.
“You sure know how to make a boy feel like the Salmon of Knowledge,” Eddie teases. He might get ashamed of his own joke later, but it doesn't matter, because Steve is lowering himself back down to kiss his jaw, his cheekbone, his eyebrow. Eddie slips an arm around his shoulders, finally skin to skin, and exhales all of his worry into the hollow of his neck.
“Yeah, you’re the big fish,” Steve sighs against his cheek, nuzzling it, leaving a trail of kisses toward his mouth. An absurdity for an absurdity. “Wanna fuck on Monday? When you’re off?”
Eddie snickers, taken aback, but kisses him anyway. “Okay, let me write it down in the schedule,” he quips, squeezing his ass to soften the blow, “Monday: water the plants. Do the laundry. Fuck Steve.” Confesses with the tip of his tongue the long delayed pleasure of having Steve to himself, someone who knows the depths of him and takes the rest in stride. His friend, and lover, and family in the chaos of it all.
True to himself, Steve happily agrees to the program. He settles deeper into the mattress, his kisses slowing down to a saccharine rhythm, fingers unfurling from their grasp on Eddie. On the verge of slumber, he sighs, “Save me some for later, I needa sleep jus’ a few minutes. ‘N I forgot to set the alarm.”
“I’ll do it for you, it’s okay.”
“Hm–kay. G’night. Love you.”
Despite the obvious, and because he doesn’t tell him enough, Eddie echoes, “Love you too.” He keeps stroking Steve’s back, eyes drawn to the crack in the ceiling once more. They’re spared from the ongoing storm, again and again, lucky fools they are. Still, he longs for happier stories to tell, ones that don't overstay their welcome at night. In which Steve and him have their adventures and their feasts and their kingdom and nothing beautiful is ever a curse in disguise.
Until then, reality will have to do. It’s good enough, grand, even, that he gets to call this place home because Steve is in it, transparent and knowing and unmoored by the raging elements outside their door. He squeezes him closer to feel his languid pulse, the way it matches his own, a proof they’re still breathing.