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Eddie normally wouldn’t let anything even close to makeup touch his face, but when he saw the way Jason poked his tongue out while applying his own eye-liner, the first words out of his mouth were “do me.”
The makeup was clean because Eddie insisted that he get a new pencil for himself rather than sharing germs, but it still burned on his skin with the phantom promise of infection. He rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrist because he didn’t trust his hands. And also, maybe, to cover any potential blush that might have made its way onto his traitor of a face.
Jason, blessedly, had a skull too thick to notice Eddie’s panic, because he just pulled away with a faux-thoughtful expression, rubbed his chin, then slapped Eddie’s cheek lightly. “We have turned this disaster of a face into a masterpiece!” he crowed in a shitty French accent, and Eddie had rolled his eyes in exasperation.
The eyeliner was the most punk thing about Jason at the time if Eddie's opinion counted for anything. Eddie would be the first to admit that the blue and grey fanny pack was ruining his own look, but at least the rest of his outfit was black. Jason, meanwhile, looks like a clown, and despite Eddie being into punk as long as he was, Jason had been in the concert scene for far longer. There was really no excuse.
All of the colours in his outfit were bright pastels and clashed horribly. Eddie was mad at how good he looked in it. Jason also had enormous glasses that made his eyes look twice as big as they actually were, and his hair was a mess — not in a punk type of way, but in an "I run my hands through my hair every five seconds specifically to give Edward Thomas Kaspbrak an aneurysm" type of way.
Supposedly, the layers were supposed to avoid the hassle of the coat-check. Supposedly. There was a distinct chance that Jason just wanted to kill Eddie.
“Do you have any idea how much you fucked that plan up by bringing a jacket?” he asked while they’re in line, because Eddie wasn't an idiot and preferred to avoid getting pneumonia from being cold.
“Bite me, preferably before you’re hacking up your lungs with this cold dry shit of a winter.” Eddie zipped the ticket from the coat check into his fanny pack and exchanged it for a few dollars.
“Typical,” Jason sighed. “The guy with asthma doesn’t find a cold sexy. An incredible double standard.”
Eddie shoved him towards the bar.
The two of them had gravitated to each other so naturally that the story of their friendship had many beginnings. You could say it started when Jason asked Eddie for his notes at the beginning of the semester. He had made a joke about ditching school for Disneyworld but being so turned off by the price of a churro that he came running back. Or that it was when they were paired up as study buddies and Eddie swore loudly at how beautifully detailed Jason’s notes were. Or that it was when they accidentally met up in line at a food truck and both had the same order in mind. Either way, the universe seemed to push the two of them together. Jason was just everything Eddie wanted in a friend: caring, but vulgar, funny, and an organized mess.
Somehow, at the end of a lecture the week before the concert, this walking, talking disaster had convinced Eddie to check out this band — a punk band from fucking Canada, of all places. While the other students had left the auditorium, the two of them huddled in their seats, with Jason's Discman headphones between them so he could introduce Eddie to the band.
He was sold on the idea. Didn't mean he wasn't allowed to bitch about it, though.
"What do they have to rebel against? Don't they have free health care or something?" Eddie had griped, even as he bought the ticket.
Jason laughed. "Apparently nothing. These assholes just like to whine about their feelings and shit. Still, they've got a pretty tight guitarist."
This was Eddie's first concert, ever. And he, like a genius, decided that his first concert ever should be in a place filled with churning, drunk, sweaty people and blaring, angry music.
If his mother could see him now, she'd lose it.
Good , he thought, sipping his first beer. Then choking on his first beer.
"Christ, that tastes like piss! What, are you trying to poison me?!" Eddie griped, wiping his mouth.
For some reason, Eddie expected an extended bit on how that’s exactly what Jason was planning, probably having something to do with stunting his height or having unrestricted access to his mom or some bullshit. Instead, Jason raised an eyebrow, meeting his eyes cooly as he took a long gulp from his own can.
"Oh, fuck you," Eddie bit out and slid the beer over to him before ordering a coke. He didn’t miss the wide grin on Jason's face.
The opener's singer was singing about how a girl named Marianna broke her heart and moved away, and Eddie suddenly felt like there's a spotlight over him. Hot and bright and exposing his every nook and cranny.
He nudged Jason. "Is she like... You know?"
Jason glanced up. His eyes were a little panicked and vulnerable, and the smile faltered. "Is she...gay? Yeah, I think so." He sipped his beer, refocusing on the band and pointedly not Eddie. "Why, is it a problem for you?"
"No," Eddie said, a little quickly. He didn’t explain the part that the bits in his pants didn’t quite match his name by conventional standards, but Jason didn’t need to know that. They weren’t that close yet. "No, just. Guess I never realized."
Jason hummed, relaxing his shoulders. "Punk is a very gay genre." He said awkwardly, still not looking at Eddie.
"Cool," Eddie said.
Jason cleared his throat and paid for their drinks. He nudged Eddie. “So, Ed —”
“Not my name,” Eddie said, out of habit, even though some part of him wondered why it felt a syllable too short.
“Ed-Ed-Ed. Anyway, Ed , tell me we’re not gonna waste away at the bar while the band is gonna be right there !” He flung an arm out dramatically, gesturing to where the opening band was blaring their last song. “Tell me there’s a secret mosher deep inside you!”
Eddie's mouth twitched upwards. “That sounds disgusting.”
“A secret mosher, deep, deep inside you. Do you feel him in your guts, Ed? Pulsing and throbbing and—”
"I swear to fuck I'll walk right out and waste your fourteen bucks."
Jason gasped loudly, hand fluttering over his chest. "No! Eddie my love, not my fourteen dollars! Anything but that!"
"I know you still haven't gotten any groceries, dipshit."
"Yeah, well, Oreos are cheaper than broccoli, whaddya want from me. Stop trying to distract me. Let's fucking mosh, dude."
Eddie sighed. "Five minutes. We stay near the staircase."
Jason cheered, slamming back his beer and eagerly waiting for the opener to finish.
They were in the pit for longer than five minutes.
One simple reason: in the pit, Eddie felt fucking invincible. He felt like he could defeat anything with just his elbows. He could kill it. He could kill It! He was fucking free and powerful and he can kill It.
Suddenly, his brain went fuzzy and his stomach churned, the same way it did when he passed by a dilapidated house or an ER. To compensate, he forced himself back into the moment, slamming and swaying with the crowd.
But it was no use. He lost his footing, weighed down by the person being shoved towards him. They were caught, but he wasn’t granted that luxury. There was a moment where his elbows hit the grimy floor, knocking aside a flattened beer can. From here, the pounding music was muffled, like he was underwater. It was dark, and the light that flashed through the throng of bodies seemed distorted and green, and he thought of chemicals and algae in standing water. There was an uncomfortable sense of familiarity that pressed down on his chest, being unnerved like that, and his breaths grew shorter, ringing in his ears.
Suddenly, strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him up. The sound washed over him full-force like a wave, and Eddie was face-to-face with unruly dark hair and enormous glasses. Someone was wailing about sloppy seconds at five AM or something, and it took Eddie an embarrassingly long time to catch up and realize it was the singer.
He was so overwhelmed by the roller-coaster sensory experience he just went on by falling , of all things, that for a moment there was a name on the tip of his tongue that he couldn’t quite grasp. Riley? Robbie?
“You okay?” Eddie read the tall, gangly and strangely handsome stranger’s lips more than heard him speak, and it took a full minute for him to gather his bearings and nod.
“Yeah, yeah I’m good —” Jason. That was his name, who he came in with. Not a single “r” in his name. What the fuck, Eddie.
“Good,” Jason’s lips quirked into a crooked grin, and he folded their fingers together. “You’re more durable than you look, Kaspbrak!” Then he slammed into him with a laugh that Eddie felt when they crashed together. “Let’s put it to the test,” he shouted, and Eddie only just heard it because it was right in his ear.
He grinned right back and slammed into Jason’s side with twice the amount of force.
It took less than a verse for them to get separated again, but Eddie was too caught up in the movement of the crowd, of the push and pull, to really care. It was invigorating to know that he didn’t need someone watching over him here in the middle of the pit. His throat was raw from screaming the lyrics at the top of his lungs. He could feel his shirt clinging to him with a vile mix of his own sweat and the sweat of every single stranger on the dance floor. His hair was dripping, and he thinks someone splashed beer onto him at several points.
And he had never felt more fucking alive.
He’d gotten hit in so many ways, his throat and jaw and cheek and chest and shoulder and arm, but he was alive. He was still breathing and jumping and kicking, he wasn't as delicate as he’d been led to believe, and it felt so fucking good . He slammed into people, sometimes in tune to the music but mostly not. He braced himself for impact and delighted when he was practically knocked off his feet. Something inside him was snarling and hissing and he fed it with every elbow he sent into a stranger’s side.
Song after song was screamed out, by him and the band and the sea of people around him. The songs were so loud he could feel the bass in his ribs like a second heart, and Eddie was moving to all of them. He screamed out the lyrics so loudly that he actually felt himself heave in a breath, unable to sing and mosh at the same time. He didn’t mind much, though — all he cared about was this high of being in there.
He was nothing but energy, finally letting go and expanding into his true form. He got elbowed in the throat, punched in the chin, knocked so hard in the ribs that the breath was knocked out of his lungs. Someone was crowd-surfing above him and the crowd drops him enough to land on Eddie’s neck , but he was fine. Even getting the shit kicked out of him, he was still fine enough to jump and scream out the lyrics and give as good as he got. He was a feral fucking monster and he loved himself for it. Eddie made a loud, chaotic, pulsating and violent home for himself in the pit and he never wanted to leave.
All too soon, the set rounded to a close. The band gave a little speech about why they didn’t do encores before blasting into their last two songs, and Eddie shrieked along with the crowd in recognition. It was the same songs that Jason played for him in the back of the auditorium.
Finally, the crowd dispersed, and in the sudden vacuum left by the band, Eddie realized he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t quite an asthma attack; he could still get a little air in, but it wasn’t enough and he felt a little lightheaded.
He doubled over, hands on his knees, and tried to even out his breaths. No, not here, not now , he pleaded to everything and nothing, not when the night was going so perfect. He really didn’t want to use his inhaler, because he didn’t need it. It was only in his fanny pack for emergencies, this couldn’t be an emergency. He was doing so fucking well.
“You good, man?” A voice came from over him, and Eddie craned his neck to see Jason looking mildly concerned, his eyebrows knit together and his mouth turned downwards. A little voice in his head told him that he really shouldn’t, that he should be mocking him in good fun, that the sincerity meant serious trouble. It was such a weird thought that Eddie loses what progress he made in breathing normally.
“Y-yeah,” he managed between wheezes. He caved in, feeling embarrassed, and he just grabbed his inhaler. His lungs finally catch the fuck up when he took a pull, but it felt like a defeat.
Jason doesn’t seem to notice, though, because he slapped him on his back and grinned widely.
“Didn’t I tell ya they’d take your breath away?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie smiled, leaning in when Jason slung an arm over his shoulders.
“Fuck you ! Hey, you weren’t half bad out there, you know! Especially for a newbie.”
As they passed the merch stand, Jason caught Eddie's sleeve. "And I think such prowess on the battlefield deserves a reward. Come on, pick out a shirt and I'm gonna buy it for you."
"Seriously?" Eddie asked. Jason nodded eagerly. "Okay, that one." He pointed to a pastel blue monstrosity, featuring a bright yellow and orange cartoon of a girl and a skeleton, both donning party hats, chilling out on an open casket with a bottle of beer in each of their hands. Jason beamed, purchased one, and gave it to Eddie with a bow.
"All hail Sir Edward, King of the Mosh Pit."
Eddie put the shirt on over his own, feeling something flutter in his chest at the gesture. He took Jason's hand. "Thanks, Squire Jason.”
"Does that earn me a kiss from my liege?" Jason asked, puckering his lips playfully.
"In your dreams. Come on, let's grab my coat and go."
The wind chill was brutal with how damp the two of them were. Eddie offered Jason his coat, but the latter insisted it wasn't necessary. Besides, their building wasn't too far off.
Eddie kept warm mostly by venting whatever energy wasn't expended in the pit.
"They were so fucking good live, dude, you never fucking told me! It was like the only thing that mattered was the music! And Jesus, I mean I fucking caught someone on my neck and I'm fine! I mean, I know I should probably keep an eye on it and mention it to my doctor but — what?" He asked, noticing how Jason went quiet. His expression was soft, as far as Eddie could see in the orange lamplight.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're very cute when you talk?" Jason asked, his voice even softer than his face. It makes sense; the street was silent, but there was always the feeling that anyone could be watching.
Eddie pulled him into the building, checking around quickly. No one in the lobby and the blinds were pulled on the one dingy little window. They were alone.
"No," Eddie said. He got the feeling that someone once did, but not with the same sincerity. They wouldn't be heartbroken about what would happen next, Eddie thought.
Jason laughed, leaning in slightly.
And Eddie pulled back.
It was instinct. Reflex. He cursed himself out for it. He really, really hoped that Jason would kiss him since he saw him applying makeup in a poorly lit bathroom in a crowded venue. But he pulled back because, at the end of the day, he was scared.
Jason pulled back too, something like fear flashing in his eyes. Then he laughed a little breathily, reaching up and pulling a stray gum wrapper out of Eddie’s sweaty hair.
“You, uh… had this. In your hair.”
He flapped a hand in a shitty attempt at a wave, making to move away.
“Well, see you in—”
“Jason, wait!” Eddie caught his sleeve.
“Ed, c’mon, it was just a joke. Let it go.”
“No, I know it wasn’t just—” he swallowed. “Just give me time. This is all so fucking new to me, and I know it's not — I know I'm not — look, I just...”
Jason turned to him, then, eyes wide and bright with a rare vulnerability and Eddie felt like a jackass.
“Please, Jason, just — I like you. A lot. Gimme time.”
Jason, slowly, twisted his sleeve free of Eddie’s loosening grasp, before gently putting his hands on his shoulders. The weight of his hands made Eddie feel a little less like he was being dragged through hell face first.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay. I can do time.” Then, with a smile that was only half sarcastic, “Your dorkiness is kinda irresistible, you know.”
Eddie snorted, pulling him into a hug. “Look who’s talking, jackass.”
The reality of all the pathogens crawling on him hit as soon as he entered his apartment. It was because Eddie was alone; his roommate was at a party across town, and his shitfuck brain worked double time when Eddie was left to his own devices. He quickly stripped for a shower and set the clothes aside in a corner of the bathroom. He took a second to marvel at the bruises on the front of his thighs when he peeled off his pants. He realized he had no fucking clue how they got there. He really should be worried about all the hits he took, shit like hairline fractures and whatnot (seriously, someone fell on his neck ) but he really...couldn’t. It felt far away, even if the germs thing was making his skin itch like a psychosomatic version of his mother telling him to wash his hands. He was still riding the high of the pit.
Fourteen bucks. Fuck, it was cheaper than therapy.
In the shower, he scrubs himself fifty times over and shampoos his hair vigorously in order to get rid of the feeling of germs crawling over him. He sets the clothes he wore and the new shirt to wash immediately, setting the water temp a little higher than recommended. Scrubs the tiles of the bathroom. Wipes his fanny pack down with an alcoholic wipe. Just to feel a little better, he even sprayed his shoes with Lysol.
Still, even as his brain screeched about bacteria and viruses and the dirty filthy putrid venue he found himself in, he really couldn’t give a shit. He had tasted freedom and he wanted more, and that thought carried him into the most pleasant sleep he had in months.
Jason met him the next day with the quiet and warm understanding that last night was the start of something new. Still, they end up staying friends, with Jason mostly helping Eddie get in touch with his "inner queen", which he insisted on calling it semi-ironically. He also took him to plenty of punk concerts, and Eddie's cd and band shirt collection grew in inverse proportion to his paychecks from the school bookstore. He even started having the occasional beer and the much more frequent screwdriver (“The orange juice cancels out the effects of the vodka!” he would tell a giggling Jason. He was a giggly drunk. Eddie fucking yearned .)
It felt unfair to keep Jason hanging, though, so he set him up with a guy from Cal 2 who kept giving him a Look (one that Eddie studied closely and took notes from). Yeah, it hurt but...maybe he needed time. It wasn't fair to unload all his shit on Jason, and who knew what Eddie would do in a relationship. No, he didn't feel like he deserved one yet.
Jason wasn't the person he kept half-expecting him to be, but Eddie liked him all the same. He liked every part of Jason, even when he did something that Eddie didn't see coming.
They dance around the issue until Jason offers to take him to San Francisco. Eddie still wanted to finish his degree, even if everything was screaming at him to just fucking go . They'd have time later, he reasoned. Jason understood, and gave Eddie his Discman, promising he'd mail him his new address so Eddie could send it back when he was done, among other things.
Three months passed and Eddie's mailbox only saw takeout menus and bills.
He wore the pastel blue shirt as a pajama shirt most days, wearing out the drawings on the front.
Then Eddie’s mom got cancer.
She called him in a panic when the semester was dying down, talking about how it might be the last of everything and that she needs him to come to help her, Lord knows these nurses aren't helping , and Eddie was drawn back into her thrall.
He finished his last exam and moved down to upstate New York. His presence was apparently crucial because his mom started to magically getting better once he came around. Never healthy enough for him to leave on a clear conscious, oh no, but healthy enough to always be watching him, always be over his shoulder. Asking him why his hair was short and why his clothes were so masculine. Making sure he isn’t seeing anybody. Keeping him safe and sound in the house, one step away from bubble-wrapped.
He never told her about the concert. She didn't need the stress, even if he felt extremely guilty about keeping it from her when he was under her roof again. He didn't even wear the shirt, and instead kept it under the flap of his luggage like it was some sort of dirty secret.
But when his mom was asleep, he'd take out Jason's Discman, pop in the CD he bought after the concert, and listen to Marianna on repeat. If he closed his eyes, he'd see Jason's face as though through water, the features swimming and blurring. So he stared at the ceiling instead.
He’ll live to regret not kissing Jason. His first kiss ended up being a couple of years later, on his third date with Myra, and it felt wrong in so many ways. But hey, he never felt the way he felt with Jason with anyone else, so maybe it was a fluke. Maybe he was a hetero after all. Or fuck, maybe that was his soulmate and he missed it. At least he found familiarity in Myra.
He packed up the CDs and shirts and keeps them in a box at his office, safe and sound.
All the memories seemed to lurk for the perfect moment to strike. They find it today when Eddie has finally come back to capital-H Home.
When he sees Richie in the Jade of the Orient, he gets something close to three layers of nostalgia and familiarity and he’s awash with guilt, longing, remorse, realization, longing, a million fucking what-ifs and longing . A little voice in his head says, Oh, that’s why Jason was so fucking hot at first and guess it wasn’t a phase after all and I need to fucking relax before I start hyperventilating and when the fuck did he get so broad and why is that such a fucking turn-on and I'm gay. I am so fucking gay . He spends maybe a minute rooted to the spot, standing and smiling awkwardly, before excusing himself (read: "taking a leak") to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
When he gets back, the song keeps playing on and on inside his head as he remembered more and more.
Oh my Marianna, why'd you have to go so far away? The memory of the singer cried out, anguished and at full volume, echoing in his skull. It only becomes louder as he remembered the night that Richie packed up his junkheap of a car and sped outta town. Sped away from Eddie. It’s practically a banshee’s wail when Richie turns to look at him, his eyes mischievous and his smile blinding.
Yeah, I get it, he thinks, watching Richie and taking a deep gulp of his water. He can’t have alcohol, not anymore. He isn’t a dumb college student anymore. Shut up and let me have this .