Work Text:
A new Mexican restaurant opens up a block away from their apartment in 1992. Taqueria Las Palomas. They make it part of their date night circle. Tuesday dates are for the queer bar ten minutes sideways. Wednesdays they’d go to the park on a picnic. Thursdays are for non-competitive bowling that Eddie somehow always turns competitive. And Friday nights, well they’re—
“Margarita nights,” Steve had given. His smirk the size of the moon. His eyes glistening in excitement. His body vibrating with it. “Nachos. And margaritas.” He’d done one of his cute little hand gestures. Nachos was his right hand jumping into the air. Margaritas was his left. Funny enough, those are also the assigned hands in which he consumes them at the restaurant.
Point is, it’s a popular date night activity.
And it’s Friday. And Steve is practically bouncing up and down the sidewalk. Drifting from Eddie’s side. Nearly skipping to the destination. Every once in a while, Eddie has to catch up to him, pull him back by his left palm, and hook their elbows together just to maintain the distance. But, somehow, Steve still gets to the restaurant’s door first.
And, somehow, Eddie never gets tired of it.
Five bucks gets them the nacho platter. Three bucks gets them bottomless margaritas. Which, technically, three bucks gets Steve bottomless margaritas. For two bucks less, Eddie settles for a single Miller. He’s got to get Steve back home, alright? Can’t do that if they’re both wasted. (Steve gets especially drunk and ditzy. Who knew he was such a lightweight in the face of greasy nachos and some fruity little drink?)
They share the plate of nachos. Eddie will sometimes get a small bean and cheese burrito. Sometimes he’ll do in for a couple of carne asada tacos. But, typically, it’s just the nachos. He’s got kind of a light appetite all the time anyway. Steve, on the other hand, will get nachos and a burrito (Depends on his overall mood which one he gets. Mad? The steak burrito. Horny? A breakfast burrito. Look, don’t ask Eddie. He doesn’t know why the eggs and potatoes seem to do it for Steve).
But, because of Steve’s heavier appetite, they tend to tear through the nachos pretty goddamn quick. Which, really, is a shame. Eddie really loves the nachos. He’d eat them all day if he could. That being said, however, he usually lets Steve get the last bite. Usually being the key word.
Tonight, though, the nachos go by pretty quick, as expected. Steve’s got his breakfast burrito halfway gobbled through. And Eddie’s leaned back in his sticky booth, Miller up to his lips, guzzling down some lukewarm beer. Steve’s worked his way through three margaritas, his lips stained a deep pink, and he’s not swaying exactly, but he’s definitely a little bit clumsier. His eyes are pointed down at the plate of nachos.
One chip with all the toppings, jalapeños included (Eddie’s personal hell).
Steve’s fingers twitch on the tacky plastic top of the table. His bottom lip is jutted out. And his eyebrows are creased slightly. He’s adorable.
“Eds,” he begins.
“Go ahead, babydoll. If you want it, you can eat it.” He thinks he gets his point across clearly. Sure, maybe his breath does something a little mournful at the last chip being whisked away from him. But, unfortunately, his stomach doesn’t do well with jalapeños. Never has. Most likely never will.
Steve reaches out his right hand, dutifully, and grabs the tortilla chip in his loose tipsy grip. He brings it up to eye level. Eyes crossing at the little slice of jalapeño. Eddie holds back a chuckle.
Well, he tries really hard. Has to snicker into his can of beer. Steve looks like some puppy noticing a butterfly on a flower for the first time. He might eat it. Might.
Then, oddly, Steve brings the chip back down. He takes his margarita hand. Plucks the jalapeño from the top of the chip, places it on his also pink stained tongue, and brings his eyes to stare at Eddie.
He momentarily looks away from Steve’s puppy dog eyes. From his magenta lips and rose petal pink cheeks and his glazed tipsy sheen to his eyes. Tries to hide how hungry he is, not for the nachos, but for Steve’s beautiful face.
“Ed…Eddie,” Steve is whispering, a slur slightly noticeable in his speech. His margarita palm flops onto the table, patting incessantly at the back of Eddie’s right. “Eddie, gotta—I gotta surprise for you.”
Eddie looks back at him and hums. “What’s up, sweetheart? Whatcha got for me?”
Steve holds out the chip. His fingers are loosely grasping it. It could fall at any moment, really. But he looks like he’s trying really hard to just raise it to Eddie’s face. “Made this,” he murmurs. “Took the spicy thing off.” He knows what it’s called. Eddie should probably cut him off from his margaritas in a second. “‘Ts for you, Eds.” And then he’s bringing it closer to Eddie’s face, so much so now he has to cross his eyes, and jams the softened edge to Eddie’s lips.
It really is the perfect chip. Cheese and guac and sour cream, steak and some of the pico de gallo. And, yeah, Steve took the jalapeño off just for him.
“Eds, you gotta open your mouth. Saved it—Made it for you.”
So, he does. Lets Steve feed it to him. Eddie wraps his hand around Steve’s wrist, steadying his hold. His thumb rubs over Steve’s pulse point, it’s fast and warm. And he looks back at Steve, his eyes dilated, yet full of love.
“Thank you, baby,” Eddie says through his mouthful. Steve’s face stretches with his syrupy smile. Gooey with something. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
“It’s cause I—Cause you were sad, Eds,” Steve conspires, leaning in—his hands spread wide and out on the table. “Was thinking of you ‘cause I like it when you’re happy.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he feels the need to say again. “You made and continue to make me very happy.”
“I also love you. Was thinking about that, too,” Steve says.
Eddie snickers a little bit. Steve’s a sentimental drunk, he should’ve pointed out sooner. A very sentimental drunk. His eyes are shiny with tears and his face is wonderfully pink, there’s guac in the corner of his mouth, his breath smells like strawberries and jalapeño. And he’s probably the most beautiful and kind person Eddie’s ever come to know.
“Love you, too, sweetheart. Now, finish up your sex burrito,” Eddie teases a little. “Gotta get you home soon and take care of you.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve slurs back.
They won’t actually do anything, Eddie knows that. He’ll get Steve some water. And they’ll curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Golden Girls until Steve falls asleep over the length of Eddie’s torso. And he’ll slither out from underneath him, carry his heavy body to bed, and cuddle him with both arms. But in the morning, Eddie will make sure Steve knows just how loved he is.
For now, he just gazes. Lets himself become drunk on what it means to truly and irrevocably love somebody like Steve Harrington.