Chapter Text
It was a terrible begining. The only thing worse would've been starting with Calibri font.
Waylon hated text documents. Either the blame was on his childhood-aquired dyslexia or mathematical turn of mind. Anyway, thank God, first didn't affect his counting numbers ability, otherwise Waylon could've never do the job that he did. But who knew, maybe the blame was exactly on his professy.
On that nasty morning, already getting late for his fucking work, he ran into Eddie Gluskin.
Underground parking was pretty creepy place on it's own. There was twilight, hollow echo and for some reason always all sorts of suspicious guys hanging around here, like carjackers or Eddie, who was stuffing trunck of his gray Ford with somethig cumbersome at the moment.
Though they went ten years to the same school, Waylon didn't even recognize him at first. Eddie had changed a lot since then. This bulk of a guy with Rammstein soloist's haircut had absolutely nothing in common with scrawny snot in rags bullied by whoever wanted to.
"Waylon! Waylon Park! It's me, Eddie! You know, Eddie! Eddie Gluskin!"
Eddie grabbed his sleeve and started talking that he lived at the same building on whatever floor, invited to visit him and promised to cook lasagna or something. Damn wrong time. Well, any encounter with Eddie could be named like this, but now time was really wrong and short.
To got company off his back Waylon promised everything in the world, and forgot about this after a second. He had bigger problems now. The week was only beginning and It already was his second delay. At work he immediately got in business whirl that irrevocably erased from his memory not only his promises, but even the fact of meeting Eddie itself.
So, it wasn't surprising that Waylon got really surprised when, while nuking his TV dinner, he heard doorbell ringing.
He wasn't expecting anyone and didn't even think of Eddie. So many times he accidentally confronted with his classmates, they made non-binding promises "to meet someday" and never ever met each other again. But Eddie, he was fricking exception to the rule. He was standing here in the doorway, dressed in a shirt, vest and bowtie, holding a pan of steaming lasagna like a lost waiter.
"Eddie? What are you doing here?"
"Hello. We were supposed to meet," Eddie reminded, entering and smiling like a psycho. "You were gone for a while, lasagna was getting cold, and I thought maybe you just overworked and forgot to come."
'What an astute asshole,' Waylon was dwelling with annoyance, but abruptly stoped himself.
"I don't remember saying my apartment number."
"You didn't. I asked parking guard," Eddie just shrugged it off, clearing coffee table from a pile of various scrap. Lasagna was lonely waiting on the edge of no less littered sofa, smelling awfully pleasant.
"And he just told it to you?" Waylon didn't believe him and gulped running drool.
"Of course, he knows me after all. I told him you scratched my car. Where're the plates?"
In that split second there was a telltale microwave ring, and Eddie after brazen look inside, started pouring himself out about manufactured food being made from garbage and his mother would've never...
Waylon was trying not to listen to and was telling himself it would end soon. It was just a coincidence after all. Dinner was the price for having such a bad luck studing together with Gluskin in past. They would share a meal, maybe remember school days, since there was nothing more between them, and after, Eddie would leave his life as suddenly as he showed up in it.
Eddie continued to talk about his mother, occasionally humming that ancient song about how it's necessarily and wonderful to get married. Waylon could hardly agree with that. Only lasagna, which turned out to be delicious, helped him to get through Eddie's moronic chatter. He didn't eat home cooking since last year, after he separeted with Lisa.
Eddie still wasn't leaving. He also had a bottle of wine with him. How did he smuggle it? In a pocket? Waylon to his shame, couldn't remember. It could very well be that Eddie had a jercky or cake up his sleeve.
"To our meeting!"
They each drank a glass, Eddie moved from armchair to a couch, closer to Waylon, and put his bear claw on Waylon's hip who wasn't drunk enough not to notice this.
"Eddie, what are you doing?" Waylon wandered with taped smile.
"Oh, I'm sorry, that must've been too forward of me," Eddie removed his huge paw and guiltily dropped his eyes. "My mother always told me to keep my hands to myself on the first date. Decend girls are so protective of their honour."
"Shit, what?" Waylon asked after he swallowed his wine and somehow not spitted it in Eddie's face. "What on Earth are you talking about?"
"Sorry. I guess, my manners shoked you," Eddie repented, lowering his voice and sliding closer. "But in the future, you should better watch your language. Decent girls don't swear like a sailor."
"Eddie, I'm not a girl at all," remarked Waylon and slid to the opposite a bit.
But Eddie didn't notice this obvious detail as well as gender differences and Waylon's words, continuing to brood on manners of modern youth and what in his day kids weren't like this. Though the Eddie Waylon knew, Eddie whose every day begun from rinsing his head in school toilet, must've known better than anyone what a sick bastards kids could be. Apparently, his head was slammed way too hard during one of those wash sessions and he completely lost his mind. Waylon had no other explanation.
Eddie already changed the subject, somehow switching on wedding fashion. Waylon decided to remain silent. He was periodically nodding and answering on sporadic questions as short and vaguely as he could, just for appearance's sake. His hope that Eddie would get bored and leave was slowly fading away, while digital clock upon microwave was turning it's green numbers to zeros. Yawning quite naturally, Waylon pointed out that he needed to get up early tomorrow, plus he was weary and really ought to sleep.
"Yeah-yeah, I completely tired you out, darling," Eddie deterred his speach last minute. "Thanks, that was a great night! We’ll meet again, won’t we?"
"Probably," Waylon was evasive, hoping to never actually. "I work a lot these days, get pretty tired and... Yeah. Good! Bye! Have a good night! You too! Yeah! Yeah..." Waylon droned on, almost kicking his guest out.
At parting Eddie weaseled somehow and managed to peck him on the cheek, before Waylon slammed the door shut. Leftover of his power was only enough to shift cold microwave dinner to fridge where it would turn into breakfast, take lukewarm shower and pass out on dismantled bed.
The following morning Waylon miraculously wasn't late for work. And one thing made him happy — there wasn't a soul in the parking lot. His day in front of a screen ended with familiar dry eyes and paper aftertaste of coffee. The best gift tonight would've been hanging out in a bar with his fellow co-workers, sipping beer, but no, he needed to survive till Friday for that.
And well, he survived.
Waylon wasn't thinking about Eddie whole week. And not because Eddie wasn't trying to remind about himself. Waylon simply was working all nights these days, he wasn't at home at all, thus he just couldn't know about any possible visitors. First, he was really busy, second, there was awesome couch in his corner. Too bad he couldn't stay here for a weekend. On weekdays security could allow such shenanigans, but on days-off office was closed for everyone. Such a pity. He could've been coding there in peace and quiet without any hurry, but instead he went in a bar boozing with Miles and Billy.
Waylon crawled back home far after midnight, feeling a little bit more crushed than he could've been feeling in sober condition. At least he was luckier than Miles who carried whole dead drunk Billy.
Waylon was almost sleeping, when the doorbell rang. He would've not open even if there were firefighters and all house was on fire. That was all. He didn't exist.
God curse everything alive and this ringing dickhead foremost!
Waylon was stubbornly nodding off when through his drunk oblivion he heard scrapping of the key in the lock.
'Thieves,' he figured. That could be only thieves, checking if there was someone inside. When no-one opend, they decided to let themselves in on their own. He gathered himself from a couch and then also a telescopic selfie stick, and went in the hall, wholeheartedly reling on the element of surprise and remnants of his alcohol courage.
At the door stayed Eddie. In a vest and red bowtie like couple of days ago, like he didn't leave anywhere at all.
Goddamn waiter-thief.
"Eddie? 'Da hell are you doing here?
"Don't bother yourself, Waylon," Eddie held out his hands, there was the key with a trinket dangling in one of them. "I just wanted to retrieve my pan, I forgot it there on Tuesday."
"What pan, Eddie? It's three a.m! How'd you come in? How'd you got the key?"
"Landlord gave it to me," Eddie shrugged like it was completely normal to give away keys of residents to fuck knows who. "I wanted to bake charlotte when I remembered what I left my pan here. So I put the dough in the fridge and went to landlord for a spare key."
"And he just gave you a key to someone else's apartment?"
"Someone else's? Of course not. I said I lost my key, but told him your flat number. I was going to return it right after I got my pan back."
"You seriously wanted to break into my home for fucking pan?" Asked Waylon, rubbing his closing eyes. Light from hallway was really painful.
"It's a non-stick pan," Eddie pouted. "I inherit it from my mother. Did you soak it at least?"
"What? No. I don't even know there you left it." Waylon threw his hands up to the ceiling of his one-bedroom apartment, each room of which was evenly cluttered with laptops' components, wires, and pizza boxes.
"Oh, Waylon, you should better look after your flat." Eddie let a suffering sigh, pulling out his pan from under a blanket on the couch.
"Found it?"
"Yes. Everything stuck and dried indeed. I'm not even sure I'll mange to bake charlotte by the morning..." Said Eddie, and for one second Waylon felt like Eddie was going to beat him to death with that pan.
Well, Waylon couldn't care less actually.
"You're the one who left it here. So take it and get out before I call the cops. And return the key to the landlord right now! And don't dare ever to come to my place without my permission!"
He guessed, it sounded too edgy, but Waylon was loosing his temper. It was the third time he was dealing with Gluskin, and every time he felt like he got himself into some shit.
"Waylon, you're oddly nervous today..." Eddie approached and sniffed like some bitchy wife. "Are you drunk?"
Waylon backed away and put out selfie stick as a futuristic epee.
"Stay back! Just getta hell outta here! I... I want sleep!"
Eddie didn't budge, he was condescendingly looking at Waylon like he was his relative or besty, like he had a right to. And it was enraging very badly.
"How much, Waylon?" Eddie asked in an extremely stern tone.
"Two pints of beer! Happy with that? Then get out right now!"
Eddie continued to look at him like he was a child and smiled even more condescendingly.
"Why're you lying to me, sweetie? You miss, are completely wasted."
"God, Eddie..." Waylon wanted to finally explain that he wasn't a woman, if Eddie's eyes were so deep down in his ass that he hadn't seen it so far, but that would've only prolonged the conversation. "None of your business, Eddie. I just need to sleep it off and tomorrow I'll be fresh as a daisy. Now, leave me alone. Really..."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but if we not take measures now, tomorrow you'll have sever hangover."
Eddie locked the door and stayed inside.
"My God... Why you clinged specifically to me?" Waylon asked the Universe, not expecting any coherent answer from Eddie.
"Oh, Waylon. I've been in love with you since high school." Sighed Eddie, taking away his stick and hauling him by the belt. "Let's go. You need to shower and after I'll make you a cocktail for hangover, it's my mom's secret recipe."
It was hard to disobey. Eddie was bigger and could've carried Waylon in his arms if he would've not been able to stay. Waylon wouldn't give him that pleasure. He managed to undress himself and even puked right in the shower on his own, not reaching a toilet only a couple of steps. Eddie was petting his back with such a care that Waylon wanned to puke on him too, but nausea let go right in time.
"Come out. I can wash on my own," Waylon grunted, adjusting the temperature with infirm hand like he was cracking a safe.
"Darling, you're swaying like a slender tree in the wind. I can't bear it if you slip and smash your pretty head." Eddie told and took over control of valves, tightly holding Waylon's waist.
Waylon screamed as the ice shower came, he could only twitch in a steady grip of that maniac.
"Fuck-k, Ed-d-die," He exhaled, chattering his teeth, after water became warmer.
"Let me take care of you," satisfied, Eddie squeezed Waylon's favourite shampoo on the sponge.
"Ain't let you. I can wash myself."
"I would scrub your back?"
The whole situation sucked. Eddie was eyeing him so greedily Waylon didn't want to turn his back on him at all.
"Eddie, I don't like this. You..."
"You don't have to worry, Waylon. I'm a gentleman. I won't trespass your honour before the wedding night."
Waylon suddenly felt like knocking his head on piles, and he knocked.
While Eddie was humming his signature song, Waylon was sluggishly trying to solve a task in his mind:
Could he cut up Eddie with a razor - which shaves cleaner than the cleanest - and manage to get rid of the body by the dawn, given that drunk can't drive?
He also attempted to recall any articles about cases of exceeded self-defence and statistics on jail rapes, but didn't succeed in both.
It turned out to be useless though.
Eddie in fact kept his word and didn't go beyond washing him and rubbing with a towel. After, he tucked Waylon into bed and made that drink of his, which woke another wave of nausea, but Waylon stoically assured Eddie that he felt much better all at once. God, he was ready to lie that this cocktail cured him of all disease and made him immortal, only to make Eddie leave.
When Waylon heard him shut the door, he immediately fled to the toilet, tripping over his own feet. At least he got there just in time.
And indeed the next morning he woke up more than ever feeling like a withered plant.
Almost a daisy.