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Baron knows the best way to an uncle/father figure's heart is a good turnover. Well, he sure hopes so. He’s got his fingers crossed. Maybe he should pray on it.
But there ain’t no time to sit ‘round and dilly-dally, not with the glass baking dish straining his arms and the sweat glistenin’ on his forehead standing in the early September breeze. The front door of Eddie’s house creaks open, and he don’t reckon it’d be smart to immediately haul tail outta the trailer park.
Even though they done been together near ‘bout a month now, Eddie ain't never brung Baron ‘round to meet Wayne before. Not cause of no ill will, they just ain’t never crossed paths. Baron's place done got better AC, so that’s where they usually kick it. And when they do hang at Eddie’s, ain’t nobody home ‘cept them too and the noisy blackbirds outside.
It ain’t the worst situation in the world, though. Baron ain’t fixin’ to get busy in the bedroom when his boyfriend’s uncle is just a holler away.
He done gone ahead and mentally composed a whole heap of positive things to say about the guy; helpful, supportive — well above any absent fucking father in Hawkins Eddie had mentioned the other day while licking Cheeto dust off his fingers. So far, Baron’s been able to draw a rough draft of what Wayne Munson must look like; thick glasses, chubby cheeks, big beer belly under a gingham shirt all sprawled out an’ lazy on a leather recliner like in the movies.
But when the actual Wayne Munson peeks through the screen door, well, he sure as heck ain’t what Baron was expecting. Out walks a tall, skinny, gruff-lookin’ man dressed in worn denim and flannel, face all wrinkled up and stiff with age. Gray, unkempt hair sprouts from his chin and upper lip, and he’s got icy hazel-blue eyes that could pierce through bone.
Baron gulps down the fear churnin’ in the pit of his stomach. Shoot.
“Mr. Munson?” He clears his throat and ignores the shakiness in his knees. He done robbed a bank and outsmarted the law plenty times before, he can muscle through starin’ down this rough-an’-tough fella straight in the eyes, no matter how scary it is. “Is Eddie here?”
“Who’s asking?” Wayne’s voice is as gravelly as it is skeptical. Got somewhat of an Appalachian drawl, too, compared to Eddie’s. Hm. Maybe they ain’t from the same region? The mean cross of his arms sure ain’t like Eddie to do, neither. Not a lick of brawl or browbeat in him. Not like his uncle, anyway.
“Uh,” Baron says, all dumb-like. In a daze of social ineptitude, he thrusts out the bakeware in his arms loaded with apple turnovers. “Granny Smith?”
Thank goodness Eddie comes to his rescue and saves him from his awkwardness; pops his head out the door grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet potato. “Welcome to the dragon’s lair, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He then rolls his eyes at his uncle’s sour mood and nudges him outta the way to let Baron in. “Jesus, Wayne, do you always have to be so terrifying? You’re standing there like a fucking Stone Giant.”
Like always, the inside of the Munson trailer is cluttered, cozy, and smells of old books and cigarettes. Baron feels mighty at home — his other home, he reckons — strollin’ in and settin’ the baking dish on the kitchen counter next to a pile of dirty dishes and an empty egg carton.
When he turns ‘round, Eddie’s already there on his tippy-toes — a few hairs shorter than the other — to wrap his arms ‘round Baron’s neck. He presses hungry little smooches to the stretch of his jaw and murmurs, “Missed you so fucking much.”
“You saw me yesterday,” Baron snorts, cradling Eddie’s face in his palms to tuck them unruly strands of hair behind his ears. He’d stay like this forever if he could; just them in the kitchen all tangled up like rattlesnakes, mouths curled into lovey-dovey smiles whisperin’ inside jokes and sweet serenades.
Lord, he’s so over the moon with this fella he’s ‘bout to hit Mars. Or maybe Mercury? He ain’t too sharp on his planets.
“ Tell me about it,” Eddie groans, but the charmed smirk on his lips betrays his dramatics. “That’s much too long to go without seeing your beautiful mug. I swear to god, the five-minute distance between us is killing me.” He wipes a fake tear from his eye and snivels, cheeks all squished up in Baron's hands. “My soul is empty without you, Lamram. I’m about to keel over and die, and you don’t even care .”
“Uh-huh,” Baron says in the most monotone drawl he can muster, not fixin’ to fan the flames of his theatrics. “I reckon you’ll be okay. ‘Sides, you got me now, don’t you?”
Eddie hums like he's deep in thought, eyes shining clever with flirtation and mischievous contentment. “I suppose I can let it slide. Although, you haven't kissed me yet. What’s the holdup?”
Baron raises a brow, somethin’ snarky and hot in the way he suddenly seizes Eddie’s waist and backs him against the counter, fixin’ to wrap a hand ‘round his pretty throat and coax out them sinful, syrupy secrets in his head all over the porcelain tile.
“All hat and no cattle, that's what’chu are,” He drawls, fingers bunched in Eddie’s shirt to keep him steady. Knows how squirmy he gets. “Where’d my good boy wander off to, huh? What done happened to sayin’ please?”
Eddie whines and arches into him, blushin’ like a ripe cherry. “I —”
“ Fellas !” Wayne spooks the two into hastily separating and looking toward his unimpressed scowl across the room. Bouquets of pink petunias swathe Baron’s cheeks being reminded they ain’t alone. “I’m not thrilled y'all are getting frisky in front of me. Quit all that kissy-kissy nonsense and lend a hand with supper. Marinara sauce needs a good stir, and the meatballs are just about finished in the oven.”
“Reckoned you was a vegetarian,” Baron mumbles, reluctantly easing away from the entanglement of their bodies.
Nothin’ just don’t feel right unless he's grasping onto Eddie’s pudgy hips or tattooed arms or knuckles turned green with rust from them chunky rings he wears — moments in time seeming abnormal without Eddie’s shiny bottom lip caught between his teeth; acrid and lovingly ruthless to puncture the bat tattoo under his ear and make him melt like a Rocket Pop in the dog days of summer.
“I am. They’re made with, I dunno, fucking quinoa instead of ground beef,” Eddie huffs, clearly not too pleased to be released from the other man’s hold. With his uncle busy scootin’ past ‘em and messin’ with the gas knobs on the stove, he takes Baron’s hand, brings it to his lips, and plants a trail of kisses on his wrist. “Wayne used the tomatoes from the front garden to make the sauce, though. Sorta ingenious, right?”
“Sure is,” Baron lies kindly. He done seen that sorry excuse of a tomato garden with the unreadable scrawl of ‘Munson Property’ written on the plant marker one too many times. ‘Least they’re tryin’.
A few minutes later, he finds himself crammed in the Munson’s small kitchen stirrin’ marinara sauce on a low simmer. By his side, Wayne swirls rigatoni in a pot of boiled water. Their talk up to now has just been the occasional mutter about needing a rag or the salt shaker, all while the shower runs on in the background cause Eddie done spilled Bud Light on himself and somehow got it in his hair. As messy as a pig rollin’ ‘round in mud, that one is.
“So,” Baron starts, tired of the quiet, tappin’ the red-stained spoon against the rim of the stock pot. “Y’all been in town, what, three months now? How them Georgia acres treatin’ ya’?”
“Fine,” Wayne confesses in a resigned sigh, folding the soaked pasta noodles on top of each other to guarantee they don’t stick to the bottom of the pot. “Ain't nothing too wild going on with me. I gotta deal with a couple of lousy workers at the plant, but that happens wherever the hell you go. It’s a sorry lesson you learn once you hit my age; there are jerks everywhere. You just have to find a few decent folks and stick with ‘em.”
“I reckon you’re plumb-lucky; this place’s full of decent folk. Mailmans and friendly church-goers and young’uns with nothin’ better to do than skip stones in the creek,” Baron cracks a crooked smile and shrugs. “I ain’t heard no good things ‘bout Hawkins, though. Why’d y’all linger ‘round so long, anyway?”
A ripple of sorrowful retrospection grabs hold in Wayne’s eyes, taking its dreamy reverie in the form of silence, deep as a tomb. Baron wrestles too long with the idea of stumblin’ outta the kitchen to inhale the comforting scent of his boyfriend’s pillow when the other finally speaks up; “Hawkins is tragic and lonely, and… terrible . But it was home — Eddie’s home, ‘till it wasn’t no more. I’m not from there. I was born in Kentucky, originally. Same with Al.”
Baron pauses to chew on it for a moment, wrackin’ his brain for a sense of familiarity just outta reach. “Al, Al, Al — shoot, that’s Eddie’s daddy, ain’t it?”
Wayne makes a low noise of confirmation as he stares at the pot, haphazardly stirrin’ the noodles in no particular order. Baron chokes on liquid venom cracklin’ and poppin’ in his stomach at the mention of him; that no-good, rotten monster who done traumatized Eddie somethin’ fierce; permanent frights when they’re twisted in Baron’s sheets tryin’ to catch some shut-eye after a hard day.
Lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut, that Al Munson is. Gosh, what’s the deal with them and deadbeats?
“Y’know, most people haven’t been too nice to him,” Wayne says quietly with a swift glance towards the bathroom door. “Not my brother, and not anyone back in Hawkins convinced he’s a devil worshiper and other crap. I know he might look it, but he ain't mean and scary. It’s just a facade he puts up to keep them bully-types at bay. The world’s not gracious; it doesn't welcome kids like him with open arms. His mom could only do so much to protect him before she overdosed. Then Al — the damn asshole — dragged him to a bad drug deal in Indy. That night, my brother got busted and fled the cops. Left Ed stranded in the middle of the street surrounded by junkies. He showed up at my doorstep one day later, just a kid, head buzzed and shivering in the rain like a dog. He’s always said I’m too stoic, too protective — I have to be, for him. Understand?”
“Loud and clear,” Baron nods solemnly, a frog stuck in his throat.
“My nephew…he’s a wild spirit,” Wayne gives the rigatoni a final spin, then strains the water into a colander in the sink. Baron scooches outta the way so the other man can dump the noodles into the marinara and ladle it into three bowls. “He needs someone to reel him in every now and then. I thought I was the only one who could, but you’ve got some type of hold on him. He doesn’t ever hush up about you. He compares you to some kind of knight in shining armor , or whatever he gets from those dungeon games he plays. I might’ve even heard love tossed around a few times. What I’m trying to say, son, is that he’s caught hook, line, and sinker for you.”
Baron’s eyebrows raise in intrigue and pleasant surprise, heart skippin’ a few beats in his chest to shake up his insides, all fizzy like a Coke bottle. He done knowed Eddie liked him — good Lord, they’re courtin’ — but to hear he’s all gushy ‘bout him; feels safe with him, loves him — it’s dang-crazier than a road lizard. “Really?”
Eddie, apparently in the know he's talk of the town, strolls outta the bathroom in flannel pajama pants and one of Baron’s t-shirts. His hair, still damp, cascades in a mess of brown curls down his shoulders, getting his — getting Baron's shirt all wet.
Water seeps into the fabric of printed text for the annual county fair alongside a cartoon peach tossin’ its hands into the air while riding a roller coaster. Eddie looks soft and warm and pure as a lamb with his freckled cheeks flushed all pink and clean from the shower. Baron’s fixin’ to slam him against the wall and push up into his guts.
“I don’t appreciate being excluded from the conversation, especially when it’s about yours truly,” Eddie teases, givin’ Baron an affectionate kiss on the cheek on his way to open the oven door with a silicone pot holder and yankin’ out the tray of meatless-meatballs Baron didn’t reckon was a thing.
After the table is set, Baron takes a seat at the far end, across from where Wayne pulls up a chair and sets out a stack of paper towels and plastic utensils. Eddie sits real close to his boyfriend, locks their ankles together, and chaotically dives into his meal. When he’s done loudly slurpin’ up his pasta, Baron has to fight the urge to lick off the remaining sauce on his chin.
“Was you raised in a barn?” He titters as he stabs his fork into the pasta and actually eats like a normal person.
Eddie wipes the mess off his face with his arm, and it’s cuter than a June bug in a honeysuckle patch the way he blushes in embarrassment. “For your information, I was raised proudly ; on Hendrix and Sabbath and Aerosmith. Fucking legends . Maybe you should invest in a few metal records instead of that surf-rock bullshit you like.”
“The Beach Boys ain’t worth a wooden nickel to ya’,” Baron grumbles in offense and throws a crumpled napkin at Eddie’s head.
“Do y’all always act like toddlers, or is it special just for me?” Wayne says as he stuffs rigatoni into his mouth.
“Oh, my dear uncle Wayne,” Eddie coos with a histrionic bat of his eyelashes. “Everything I do is special for you. How else do you expect me to take care of you when your back finally gives up in the grocery store after you forget to buy me almond milk for the hundredth time?”
A second balled-up napkin is chucked at Eddie’s face, and it lands smack-dab in his bowl. Serves him right.
When dinner’s all said and done, Wayne sends Baron and Eddie off so he can tidy the kitchen, so the couple settles for a nice snuggle on the couch. Eddie done draped a throw blanket over em’ before he squeezed into Baron’s space; snugglin’ up in his lap and openin’ his mouth for his boyfriend to feed him a turnover.
“S’ really good,” Eddie hums with vanilla glaze smeared all over his top lip. Finally granted with a little peace and quiet, Baron wordlessly leans in to drag his tongue along the edges of the other’s pomegranate-pink lips, licking into his mouth; tasting sugary sweetness and cinnamon apples and tangerine chapstick. Coats his teeth with homemade icing and spiced honey.
“ Bare ,” Eddie moans softly in surprise, kissin’ him back hungrily, buzzin’ with excitement like a bee in a clover field. “Fuck, I love it when you kiss me.” His words are hushed, muffled, lost in the sound of the latest Friends episode on the TV. Baron tugs him closer and roughly digs his nails into his scalp real rough. Makes it sting, just the way he likes. “Love it when you own me, when you ruin me. Love you —”
“I know, gosh , I know. I love you too, baby.” Baron pants, nuzzlin’ his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck to suck on the black jewelry pierced in his ear. His mind goes fuzzy like cotton, all ringin’ and tunnel-vision heat in his brain when his teeth sink into his boyfriend’s neck ‘till he’s gently grabbed by the jaw and pulled away.
“Yeah? You love me?” Eddie whispers, eyes wide, bloomin’ with curious affection in the flickering picture of the TV. Lights turned down low, an angel with burnt wings in the darkness of his trailer.
“‘Course I do, Ed. Does the Earth spin ‘round?” Says Baron, and when Eddie kisses him again, it tastes like the sweetest peach anyone near this dang town could find.