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Baron’s never denied himself the simple pleasures in life, and he dang well ain’t about to start now.
Ever since he swept Otis off his scent, grew his hair out to a mousy, blond-highlighted mop down his neck, and refilled his mama’s prescriptions to high heaven, he’s been laying low with odd jobs and yard sales. With a flimsy wad of hundreds saved from robberies under his belt, it hasn’t been too troublesome getting along this summer. Doesn’t mean it also hasn’t been plumb-boring. Nothing like the grungy runt-of-the-litter across the diner to hopefully shake things up.
And grungy runt-of-the-litter he sure looks; coarse brown locks pulled into a messy bun, obviously queer as a three dollar bill, slouched figure cloaked in patch-ironed denim and black leather despite it being hotter than blue blazes outside in the Georgia heat. A battered Sony Walkman lays flat in his palm and his earphones part his bangs into awkward prongs. His dirty Reeboks remind Baron of someone, though he doesn’t know who. Either way, he seems like a pretty plaything to toy around with. Summer lovin’ and all.
“Need a Coke refill?” Candy-coated liquor clings to his tone as Baron slinks over to the man’s table, hopping up onto the laminated surface. Chazz Darby-lookalike’s eyes are big and cosmic like saucers, and there’s a smattering of faded scar tissue mottling the angular stretch of his jaw. He startles and struggles to slip off his headphones. On the right side of his face, a tattoo of a mean-lookin’ bat hides from the world underneath his pierced earlobe; something Baron ain’t never seen before on a fella. “You done haven’t ordered nothing. Jackie Smith back there, he ain’t no spring chicken, but he can fry up a real tasty apple fritter. Best in the whole state, I swear on my hair.”
New Kid blinks a few times, his eyelids two pale, freckled hoods to tuck away the ever-growing abyss of starry darkness surrounding his pupils. He’s jittery, odd-looking; peculiar in the way he’s got Satan on his shirt but subdued sunburn flushing his cheeks and the tip of his nose. A little too diffident for it to not knock his anarchic exterior off kilter. A tryhard, maybe? “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. Thanks.”
“I ain’t seen your face ‘round these parts,” Baron hums, decisive on getting this tough nut to crack and spill his gospel truth and rotten roses before he spooks off like them stray calicos living under his porch. He seems flaky, but that’s alright. Baron doesn’t mind a challenge. “And let me tell you, I done seen just 'bout everyone . Lived here all my life, the only place I’d ever knowed. You planning to set roots or passin’ through?”
The other man’s shoulders hunch low in defense then, wild terror twisting all the gentle curves in his face into worried creases; a naive lamb out of his depth dressed in wolf's clothing suddenly led to the slaughter with no way out. Flashes of haunting frights shimmer over the supernovas and honeycombs in his eyes, and Baron can't help but wonder who done scared this poor fella outta his wits. “Who are you, the fucking FBI? Gonna take my fingerprints before you throw me in a cell?”
Baron furrows his brow and plops down into the booth, the cherry-red leather cracked and worn, stained with maple syrup and the affection of long-time customers. “No need to be ugly. Look, I can hush up and mosey on if that's what you want, but that ain't a very hospitable welcome, now is it? I don't know where you come from or who you are but 'round here? Shoot, we don't even got no police. So if you're running from somebody, they gonna have a tough time trackin’ you down.”
He notices the guy’s hands are shaking and rolls his eyes. “Quit all that fussin’. You’re more nervous than a long-tail cat in a room full of dang rocking chairs.”
The guy gives him a sheepish glance and buries his face in his hands. Chunky rings shaped like plastic jewels and infernal critters shield his knuckles and gleam in the afternoon sun. His freckled imperfections and blushing scars, the wax and wane of him, radiate like neon lights. Gosh, if he ain’t as beautiful as a magnolia in bloom, sublime like a sunflower in July — all them petals covered in metal thorns and bizarre tattoos. There’s something tender and sweet behind all that flashy defiance. Baron’s fixin’ to have a good time with this one.
“Fine, guess I’ll bite. Got nothing else to do. I’m Eddie, by the way,” He — Eddie says, running his fingers through his shaggy bangs. “Lucky me, I'm here for the summer. My uncle and I are from Indiana; we finally escaped this shithole called Hawkins. It’s the kinda place where everyone knows everyone, you know? Gossip spreads like wildfire, the whole place is chock-full of bible thumpers and brainless sheep.” He takes a breath and trails off with a shake of his head. “Sorry for being so irascible, man. It’s been a hard week. You’re the only person I’ve actually talked to since we got here.”
“Water under the bridge,” Baron waves his hand dismissively, and Eddie’s toothy grin just about makes his heart stop. “Name’s Baron. Indiana sure is a long haul from here, ain't it? Why didn't y'all stick ‘round the Midwest?”
“New region, fresh start,” Eddie shrugs and adjusts his hair tie to pull it into a tighter bun, unruly curls falling out of place atop his temples, revealing the trickle of sweat down the long line of his throat. A devilish little thing in Baron’s brain tells him to crawl over the table and lick it. “A few…incidents had been going on for years around town. I needed to get as far away as possible before I — before something else happened.”
“If that ain’t the most cryptic thing I done ever heard,” Baron chuckles, playfully nudging his foot against Eddie’s underneath the table, and smirks at his raspy squeak of surprise. Thank goodness this pretty oyster’s fixin’ to open up soon; the lustered pearl inside his chest glowing with weak-belly iridescence. Too tempting for him to ignore. “ Incidents ? Like, folks fallin’ into creeks and all?”
“Would you believe me if I said more like feigned deaths, government cover-ups, and extradimensional monsters that tried to kill me and my friends?”
Baron stares blankly. Good gracious, this fella’s a weird one. At least he’s easy on the eyes. “Reckon you might be better off saying a couple meemaw's got a good whackin’ or two.”
Eddie laughs like it’s tailor-made for him; like he was born with a pocketful of giggles deep in his sternum, tossing his head back so his pearly whites glint in the sun, tension melting from his shaking shoulders and grandiosity bursting out in a flurry of squawked cackles and infectious cachinnations. Cherokee roses and buttercups bloom in the apples of his cheeks, showing off them pretty dimples beside the pinkness of his mouth, and Baron has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t brain himself on the table.
This — crushin’ on a Midwestern boy all nervous and dressed like that dang metalhead from Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead — ain’t what he wanted. Baron was lookin’ for some sweet talk, maybe a quick jot-down of his phone number on a printed receipt, and that's about it. He wasn't thinking he'd feel all his insides turn to mush and his eyelids flutter to lock in on this starshine stranger laughing at his stupid joke. Possession digs its claws into his ribcage and scrambles to leap out of his mouth and claim his new prey.
“Ain’t you somethin’, sweet peach,” He says instead and watches Eddie’s chest rise and fall with wide-eyed astonishment like a moon’s rising and setting, the core of the galaxy swimming in the darkness of twilight. Lord, Baron can't remember the last time he was so smitten with a fella. The one-time crush he done had on that cornerback in high school who never paid him no mind doesn’t dare hold a candle to this. “Cute as a speckled pup, too.”
“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, but he’s smiling like it’s the devil’s birthday and blushin’ like a lovestruck fool. Cute as a speckled pup, indeed. He takes a sip of his Coke, clears his throat, and taps Baron’s ankle with the tip of his sneaker, pushing the hem of his overalls. “I’m a bit lonesome in the spill-your-guts department. Care to join me?”
He scrutinizes Eddie's quiet kindness; the soft smile on his face, the honesty in his tired, glassy eyes. If he was incognito, Baron would spot it right away if it weren't for his bouncing knees and twitchy movements, like he's about to high-tail from the fuzz any second. Probably ain’t the way them secret agents do things. Still, he can’t rightly explain he's an undercover caregiver for his foster mama duckin’ the cops with diner shifts cause he’s been swiping from the pharma company run by the sonofa’ who locked him in a cage at twelve years old and beat him black and blue in the darkness of his garage. It was always so, so dark —
Nah, ain't no way he’s gonna spit all that without crying like a baby, so he keeps it short; letting his guard down but cautious enough to steer clear of any future trouble with the law. “Well, I been here since I was a young'un like I said. Runnin’ ‘round in cornfields and banging up my knees on rocks in the river and whatnot. Got a screwed-up daddy, no kinfolk, and my mama's stuck in a nursing home.”
At the other man’s concerned look, Baron tilts his head and tries to liven things up. “She sure does love them Moonpies, though. Got a whole mess of em’ waiting in the icebox when I head over on the weekends.”
“Pops never exactly won father of the year award, either,” Eddie says after a spell of comfortable silence, drumming his painted nails on the table and resting his chin on his palm. “Instead of playing baseball or teaching me how to fish, my old man dragged me to his fucking drug-fueled escapades in the city to sling heroin to coked-up creeps. Mom overdosed when I was ten, and after dad got locked up, good ol’ Uncle Wayne swooped in like goddamn Superman and gave up his bedroom. He’s more of a parent than my — than Al fucking Munson ever was.”
He stifles an ugly sob then, choking back hot, crocodile tears that dare to slide down his flushed cheeks before he hastily wipes them away with the sleeve of his leather jacket. His other hand trembles where it lays dormant on the sticky table, and Baron reaches out to soothingly place his on top. Eddie flinches, stares at him for a momentous pause, and then interlocks their fingers in a firm grip.
Gosh, does Baron hate seeing a pretty boy cry for all the wrong reasons. "Don't get torn up over that jerk. Lord knows I done shed enough tears over mine." He says. Shoot, is he really about to pour his soul into a flimsy, plastic cup for this stranger to drink? Screw it. "Your daddy ain't worth a hill of beans. I know we only just met, but I can tell you got something good in you. Something gentle and kind. Heck, you got somethin’ special in your heart, Ed. 'Lotta folks in this world ain't got that, so don't go givin' it to anybody who don't deserve it, you hear?”
Eddie snivels and scrubs his palm over his eyes until they're red and puffy. When their gazes meet, he's got a thankful, watery smile on his face and a ruddy nose. "Thanks, man. I made this awkward, god, sorry. Say, uh, have you heard the new Megadeth album?”
“Have I done heard the what-now?”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” Eddie’s cute little grin fades and he stops in his tracks when he realizes the accidental boldness of his words. “That is if you… want to see me? Later, I mean. Like, see me after you get off work. Later. Shit, that’s too presumptuous, I didn’t — obviously, you don’t have to. Just a suggestion. Fuck, am I fucking this up?”
Baron snorts and rubs his thumb over the veiny tendons of Eddie's wrist, slender and blanched underneath his summer-tanned fingers. His hands are bigger than Eddies, and he ain’t gonna lie and say it doesn't make his brain a little fuzzy around the edges. “Don’t go burstin’ a blood vessel on me now, baby. I’ll be off work in an hour. How about you come pick me up and we’ll listen to that funny-soundin’ record you was talkin’ ‘bout?”
A sigh of relief escapes Eddie's chest and he squeezes their hands tighter, his metallic rings cold and solid against Baron's warm, yardwork-scraped knuckles. "That sounds — that sounds really nice. Jesus, sorry for being so... this . Some crazy shit went down in Hawkins; traumatizing, angsty high school bull, you know? Not so easy being a freak in the middle of bumfuck Indiana.”
“I reckon this here town deserves some ruckus and commotion every so often,” Baron drawls, eyes lowered to the glossy plumpness of Eddie’s bottom lip. “I’m grateful it's you.”
The plumb-perfect chimera of knowing glances and black cherry-blushing pops at the shrill ringing of a service bell. Baron whips his head towards the front counter and glares at them ornery old folks that never tip, standing there with crossed arms and impatient frowns. When he looks back, Eddie’s smiling bashfully and he unlatches their fingers to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Better get back on your feet, soldier.”
“Ain’t I just blessed,” Baron mutters unhappily, getting up from the booth to stretch his legs and softly cup Eddie’s freckled face with palm, lookin’ down at his moonshine boy like he done got the whole world in his hand. “Baby, be back round’ at 4:30, m’kay?”
Eddie’s throat clicks as he swallows hard and nods dumbly. “Uh-huh. ‘Course.”
“Good boy,” Baron whispers, and if he don’t mind the feeling of Eddie's eyes lingering on his hips as he walks away, well, that's between him, the Lord, and his mama.