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It’s all Wayne’s fault, really.
If it wasn’t for the old man’s yearly mantra of “You don’t gotta buy me a Christmas present, kid, just gimme somethin’ handmade”, Eddie would never have picked up the knitting needles.
But winter came early that year, and Wayne had been grumbling about the frost, especially after the night shifts, and Eddie felt like they were both getting too old for macaroni art and fridge magnets.
It was a pain in the ass at first - countless nights spent fighting with the needles and a tangled skein of cheap acrylic yarn - but he got the hang of it, eventually.
And then he got kind of obsessed.
By the time he presented Wayne with that first scarf - all uneven stitches and sloppily woven-in ends - he had already cast on a matching hat, and it only went downhill from there. It’s a bit unusual, maybe. He knows people on the bus have been staring at him. The long-haired guy in ripped denim, obscure band shirts and black leather, music blaring from his headphones as he knit away on a pair of fuzzy pink leg warmers, but what’s he supposed to do? Chrissy needed them for cheerleading practice. And besides, something about the steady rhythm of the needles, about seeing the patterns come together under his hands, really calms his mind. Also, his nails are healthier than they’ve been in years, because he has finally stopped biting them.
*
“Eddie, hi,” Claudia chirps when he steps inside her store. It’s a small, cozy place with shelves full of yarn and needles and other supplies. “Back already? Thought that afghan project would keep you busy for a while.”
Eddie shrugs. “See, that’s the thing, Claudia. I’ve been doing the math again and I think I need more of the crimson cotton-wool blend. You wouldn’t be able to help a guy out?”
“You’re in luck,” she smiles. “I think there might be some of it in the delivery I got this morning.”
While she’s busy rifling through the boxes in the backroom, Eddie turns to inspect the shelves. He falls in love with an incredibly soft silk and alpaca blend, looks at the price tag, and talks himself out of it again, before deciding on a new set of double-point needles. He has misplaced two of his again, and he’s promised Gareth socks for his birthday, so he needs to stock up. Humming to himself, he wanders back to the counter, leafing through the stack of magazines Claudia has fanned out next to the till …
… and spots his future husband.
He’s standing against the backdrop of a faded brick wall, smiling softly at the camera while he sweeps his chestnut hair from his eyes. It’s incredible hair. Long and - Eddie’s sorry but that’s the only word for it - luscious locks of chestnut brown that tumble around his face and pool on the shoulders of his cable-knit sweater. The sweater itself is a warm honey color that brings out the golden flecks in the guy’s eyes and looks ridiculously soft and cozy.
For a second or two, he just stands and blinks dumbly, because since when do knitting magazines have actual fucking supermodels on their covers? Then, heart beating a mile a minute, he picks up the book and starts flipping through it. Because that’s what it is, a book. A thin hardcover full of pictures of the very same gorgeous man modelling an array of equally gorgeous knitwear.
In one particularly stunning one, he is in half-profile, cradling a steaming mug and laughing at something outside of the picture. He’s dressed in a sweater in soft earthy tones that is just shy of too tight over the chest, the horizontal rib pattern hinting at his incredible pecs. Half of his hair has been swept into a loose bun at the back of his head.
Eddie is just imagining what it would feel like to bury his face in that sweater and play with that hair, to feel the guy’s soft laugh vibrate through his entire body, those hands slipping under the hem of his shirt, when a voice by his shoulder says, “Gorgeous, right?”
Eddie, by some feat of self control he didn’t know he possessed, somehow manages to not fling the book across the room.
“Yeah,” he rasps instead. Realizes that Claudia was probably talking about the sweater. Gulps. “I mean, um- … what kind of yarn d’you think that is? Wool gives me a rash most of the time, you think it would also work in cotton?”
“Hm, not sure …” Claudia clicks her tongue. “I could ask Steve, though.”
Eddie stares at her. Turns his head to look back at the vision on the page. Claudia’s chest puffs out a little.
“I taught him his first stitches myself, you know? He used to babysit Dusty when he was smaller. This is his first book, but I’m sure it won’t be his last. He’ll be so happy to hear you like it this much.”
“Huh,” Eddie says. It comes out a bit hysterical. “So what? He made all of these himself?”
“Made and designed them,” she confirms. Then, suddenly, she lights up. “Oh, I’ve got an idea! Why don’t I give you his number? He loves chatting about patterns and things, and I think he could use a knitting buddy his own age. He might even come by for the craft café on Saturday, I’m sure you two will hit it right off.”
Eddie is too dumbstruck to protest as she scrawls a number on a piece of paper and tucks it inside his jacket pocket. It’s only once he’s on the bus home, fingers absentmindedly running over the photo of Steve and his man bun, that he realizes he forgot to buy the yarn he came in for.
He supposes he’ll just need to pay Claudia another visit. Maybe he’ll have time on Saturday.