insteviewetrust - Tumblr blog

insteviewetrust · 8 hours ago

Text

adios, motherfucker

@steddiebingo prompt: anniversary | 3.5k words | T/M | ao3 |

Steve got himself all dolled up just to sit and wait here at this table in this stupid fancy restaurant for an hour by himself. The waiters and waitresses have long started giving him awkward and/or sympathetic glances as they pass by.

“Are you sure you don't want to order anything yet?” a waitress asks again hesitantly on her next pass.

“Yeah,” Steve says. He checks his watch. “Actually-” He's over this. He stands up and raps his knuckles lightly against a table. “Just give my table to some happy couple, alright? Someone in love.”

“Oh-” The waitress nods, still a little awkwardly. “Yeah, alright.”

Steve nods back in acknowledgment before taking a deep breath, running his hands through his hair, and striding on out of there as if he hasn't just been stood up by his own boyfriend.

He walks a whole block down to some shitty dive bar on a street corner and plops himself down on an empty barstool, waving down the nearest bartender. “Get me something strong that doesn't taste like shit,” he says.

A man about his age with curly dark hair leans against the counter in front of him. “Sure.” He grins, taking four bottles of alcohol—two in each hand, ringed fingers curled expertly around the bottlenecks—and tipping them into a glass filled with ice. “Rough night?”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs, just a bit bitterly, “definitely not my best, that's for sure.”

“Hmm,” the bartender hums sympathetically, although his grin doesn’t fade. He pours in a bit of two more bottles, sprays a soda gun on top, and then slides the completed bright blue drink across the counter. “Mind if I guess?”

Steve scoffs out another laugh and waves his left hand as he grabs the drink with his right. “Knock yourself out,” he says, glad at least someone is having fun with his misery. Amusement looks good on this bartender anyways, cheeks full and brown eyes crinkled.

“Fancy dinner date didn't go well,” the bartender guesses, then holds up a hand. “Wait, no,” he amends almost immediately, looking Steve up and down, “fancy dinner date stood you up.”

“Bingo,” Steve mutters around his straw, sipping steadily at his drink—which hardly tastes like alcohol at all despite the fact that he literally saw the guy grab at least four different types of straight spirits while making it. “How did you know?”

The bartender rests his elbows on the bartop, settling his weight onto his inked-up forearms and gesturing with little flicks of his fingers as he elaborates, “You’re dressed up nice, far too nice for this shitty place to be where you meant to end up tonight, and I happen to know that there’s a fancy restaurant just down the street from here. Could’ve been a business meeting or a family dinner, but the tight shirt, cologne, and hair gel scream date—and yet you’re here alone, so, something went wrong. You’re upset, but not devastated, so no one died or got broken up with, and there’s not quite enough anger in your eyes for there to have been a fight or some huge betrayal, but there is enough that you were clearly wronged in some way. Your expression is more hurt and disappointed than anything, and your shoulders are hunched and a bit tense like you’re very aware of the fact that you’re here alone and you’re not happy about it. So, put all that together and there you have it: fancy dinner date stood you up.”

“Holy shit,” Steve says. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nah,” the bartender laughs, deep and musical. “I’ve just been doing this a long time, gotten real good at reading people. It’s kind of my job.”

Steve can't help but smile a little at the sound of this guy's laugh. He blames the alcohol, however much he's had so far clearly already beginning to work its magic fuzzing out the edges of his mind and making everything seem lovelier. “Well, I'm impressed,” he says. He takes another several long sips of his drink, hoping to alleviate a bit more of the bitterness still festering in his heart. “Although you did miss a few details. It wasn't just some random date who stood me up-”

“It was your girlfriend,” the bartender says, like he's so sure he already knows.

“Boyfriend,” Steve corrects.

“Ah.” The bartender barely even blinks and his smug smile doesn't falter. “Close enough.” He goes right back to showing off, leaning forward and tapping his fingers against the counter as those dark, discerning eyes attempt to glean even more clues from Steve’s appearance. “And it was a special occasion, wasn't it? The fancy dinner was meant to be a celebration,” he says. “A birthday?”

“Anniversary,” Steve tells him. “One year.”

“Oof.” The bartender leans back, sucking in air through his teeth and grimacing sympathetically. “Yeah, okay, that's worse.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah.” He stabs his straw idly at the ice in his glass. It's nearly empty already (has he really had that much that fast?). “Our relationship hasn't been the most solid lately and I was hoping I could try to fix that tonight—rekindle it or patch things up or whatever,” he mutters in unnecessary explanation, just to say it, really, as if talking about it might make it feel less shitty. He shakes his head and sighs. “But I guess not.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I think your boyfriend’s a fucking idiot,” the bartender says bluntly. He gives a grin that's equal parts friendly solidarity and casual flirtation as he presses a hand dramatically to his chest and adds, “If I had gotten lucky enough to bag a decent and devastatingly gorgeous guy like you, I don't think I'd ever leave his side.”

Steve laughs and his heart feels lighter. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.” He finishes off the last sip of his drink, only just now beginning to become aware of the buzz of it in his veins. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Eddie.” The bartender—Eddie—clears Steve's empty glass off the counter. “Are you starting a tab, Steve?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “Can I have another one of the same thing?”

“‘Course you can.” Eddie's smile has turned amused again, if not just a touch concerned. “But you might want to start slowing down a bit there, big boy. That drink you just downed is gonna hit you like a truck in a minute; they don't call it an ‘Adios, Motherfucker’ for nothing.”

Steve exhales a short puff of laughter. “It's called a what?”

Eddie grins. “An Adios, Motherfucker,” he repeats as he starts pouring the drink. “Well, colloquially, at least. I think fancier bars’ll name it, like, Electric Iced Tea or Blue Motorcycle or something, but yeah, pretty much everyone just calls it an Adios.” He looks at Steve now with a slightly more serious edge to his eyes, raising his eyebrows. “So take it easy, alright?”

“Yeah, alright,” Steve agrees, still chuckling at the drink name. “I’ll drink this one slower, I promise.”

“Good.” Eddie nods in satisfaction, all charm and easy smiles again.

The bar is getting busier—an after dinner rush, probably—and Eddie receives a not-so-subtle hip check from one of his fellow bartenders in an obvious nudge to quit lingering on Steve and start helping some other customers.

“Sorry, duty calls,” Eddie says, and he really does sound reluctant about it. He pushes the drink across the counter towards Steve. “Adios, motherfucker,” he signs off with a smirk and a little two-finger salute before he slides down the bar to serve someone else.

Steve smiles, straw caught mindlessly between his teeth as his eyes follow Eddie. He watches him flash that bright grin at more customers, laughing with a group of girls as he pours them shots. Watches him grab someone a beer, pulling a bottle opener from his back pocket, spinning it around his finger into his palm, and cracking the bottle cap off all in one fluid motion. Watches him reach up for liquor on the top shelf, fitted black shirt riding up to give a glimpse of smooth white skin and a tattoo snaking across his hip.

It's enough to make Steve’s cheeks flush and his blood run hotter—even without the extra heat from the alcohol that is hitting him, as Eddie said, like a truck. If he didn't feel so fuzzy, giddy, drunk, maybe he'd feel a bit guilty for the way he's staring at this other man while he's still in a relationship. But it's not like Steve would ever actually do anything, and a stare alone is not an infidelity. There’s no harm in looking.

Besides, Eddie's eyes were all over him too, even now stealing glances just as Steve is. And that feels good too. It's nice to be looked at, to feel desirable, wanted. God knows he hasn't been getting that from his own boyfriend lately. He can hardly remember the last time he was looked at as anything other than a nuisance or a chore, touched out of anything more than obligation or a means of placation, loved in a way that burned. It had been there once, desire and warmth, but somewhere down the line it’d been lost. Steve had almost forgotten what it felt like, how much he’s missed it.

So Steve lets himself indulge in looking and being looked at, and that's all that it will ever be. Whatever fire he feels for this random hot bartender is for himself and himself only, whatever lustful thoughts he has about Eddie’s lips or hands or hips locked away firmly in the realm of imagination and fantasy, never to enter reality. Because even like this, drunk and jilted, the idea of cheating is unfathomable to Steve.

“You look very pensive,” Eddie comments when he makes his way back around to Steve, and his voice distracts him.

Steve blinks. “What?”

“Deep in thought,” Eddie clarifies. He leans against the bar and raises his eyebrows, another little smirk playing on those pretty lips. “You contemplating breaking up with your dumbass boyfriend?”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Steve matches his expression without missing a beat. There’s no harm in flirting either.

“Yeah, I would.” Eddie’s grin widens and he shrugs innocently. “He sounds like a piece of shit, taking you for granted and ditching you on your anniversary. I got a feeling you probably deserve a whole lot better than that.”

Those words, though said light and casual, land with more impact than Eddie likely intended. It thuds solidly into Steve’s chest, the realization that yeah, actually, maybe he kind of does deserve better. It's funny, up until now the idea of leaving had seemed unfathomable to him too. He ducks his head, taking a thoughtful sip of his drink. “Yeah, I think you're probably right.”

“‘Course I’m right, sweetheart,” Eddie says confidently. “I told you, I'm good at reading people.”

Steve unsuccessfully bites back a smile at the pet name, eyes slow and wandering as he looks back up at Eddie. “Do you think-”

“Fucking hell, Steve, there you are!” a familiar and pissed off voice interrupts what he was about to say. Steve turns around to find his boyfriend marching over to him in a huff. “I went to the restaurant but they told me you already gave our table away.”

Steve stares at him, more shocked and bewildered than anything. “Our reservation was two hours ago, Tommy.”

Tommy stops in front of Steve with his arms crossed. “Okay, so I'm a little bit late-”

“Two hours is not a little-”

“I’m a little bit late and I have to find you here in this shitty bar already practically eye-fucking some grungy-ass bartender!”

“I was not-”

“Are you actually fucking him too? Is that why you just couldn't wait to run off here?”

“Oh my god.” Steve laughs incredulously, grabbing his drink and gulping down nearly half of what's left—because fuck taking it slow, he needs all the help that alcohol can give him right now. He shakes his head. “Do you even know how insane you sound right now?”

Tommy scoffs. “Oh, right, so you can accuse me of cheating like every other week, but when I turn it back on you suddenly I’m the crazy one?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah. Because I wouldn't—I haven't, but you have. I know you have!” His voice rises with anger and emotion, loud enough to get the whole bar turning to stare at them. “You come home fucking smelling like it!”

“Jesus, Steve, you really wanna do this now?” Tommy says, sighing wearily as if he's not the one who started the damn argument in the first place. “It's our anniversary.”

“Yeah, it is.” Another laugh shudders out of him; Steve can't help it; he can't fucking believe this. “It's our fucking anniversary, and you know what? I think it's the last one we're ever gonna have. I can't do this anymore, Tommy. I’m done—we're done.”

Tommy seems taken aback for a second, like the idea of Steve leaving had been unfathomable to him as well, but then he blinks and shakes his head, dismissive as always. “You're drunk, babe. You don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes, I do-”

“No, you don't.” Tommy grabs Steve's arm, fingers pressing hard into his bicep as he tries to tug him from his seat. “Come on, let's go home. We can still-”

Steve recoils, yanks his arm out of Tommy's grasp. “Don't fucking touch me.”

Tommy reaches for him again. “Steve-”

“Hey!” Eddie intervenes then, tone sharp and dangerous enough that it makes Tommy stop before he can get another grip on Steve. “Let’s keep our hands to ourselves, alright?”

Tommy turns his ire onto the bartender, sneering, “Stay out of this, freak.”

“Get out of my bar, dickwad,” Eddie retorts.

“That's exactly what I'm trying to do,” Tommy snaps. He rolls his eyes irritably and levels a stern glare back on Steve. “Steve, let's go. You're making a scene.”

“You're making a scene,” Steve protests. He feels like he's going crazy, unsolid in his body and dizzy from the emotional rollercoaster of this argument. “You're the one who came in here shouting at me first! God-” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair like that might help ground him a little. “I can't believe I was going to try to fix us tonight. I'm not your fucking dog on a leash, Tommy, not anymore. I meant it when I said I’m done. So just leave- just leave me alone.”

A muscle jumps in Tommy’s jaw and he seethes like he wants to keep fighting, but between Eddie’s warning glare and the giant security guard slowly shifting closer at the bartender’s subtle gesturing, he seems to come to the conclusion that Steve isn’t worth all that trouble. “Fine.” Tommy throws up his hands and takes a step back. “Suit yourself. You can go shack up with that loser bartender now, you fucking slut, see if I care. We’ll just see how long it takes for you to come crawling back once you sober up and realize that you're nothing without me,” he snarls before finally turning on his heel to leave.

Steve takes a swig of his drink. “Adios, motherfucker,” he retorts to Tommy’s retreating back. He watches until his now-ex-boyfriend is completely gone and then looks around, flinging an arm out as if to dismiss all the nosy onlookers still staring at him. “Show’s over!” He turns back to the bar and slumps against it, dropping his head heavily into his hands, fingers curling in his hair. “Fuck.”

“You okay, man?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah.” Steve sighs and lifts his head.

“You don't live with that bastard, do you?”

“Yeah. Shit.”

“Have you got anywhere else you can go, someone else you can stay with?”

Steve shakes his head. His best friend, Robin, is out of town with her girlfriend this weekend (because she's actually in a normal healthy relationship with a partner who adores her—and no, Steve's not jealous or bitter, what are you talking about?) and she's the only one he could even think to call right now. His family doesn't really speak to him anymore and most of his other friends are friends of Tommy’s. Fuck. Maybe Tommy was right, Steve really doesn't have much left without him. He swallows down how thoroughly miserable that makes him feel. “No, I’ll, uh- I can just sleep in my car tonight probably, and I'll figure something else out tomorrow.”

Eddie considers him for a moment with a little scrunched up frown. “Yeah, I can't in good conscience let you do that,” he decides. “Look, um—not to be weird, because I know I’m a total stranger, and please don't take this the wrong way—but my place is just around the corner from here and I've got a pull-out couch you can crash on if you need to,” he offers. He gives a small smile and raises his hands in good faith, making things light though still just as genuine. “I promise I won't try to kill you in your sleep or take advantage of you or anything.”

Steve licks his teeth, tilting his head. “What if I want you to?”

“You want me to kill you in your sleep?” Eddie lifts an eyebrow, teasing, deflecting.

“No, I meant—” Steve shakes his head, bites his lip. “What if I want you to take advantage of me? What if…I don't want to be alone tonight?”

“You just ended a year-long relationship, sweetheart, give yourself a minute.”

“Yeah, no, but I'm fine. That’d been falling apart for a while now—tonight just made it official, but I’ve already had time. I’m over it, I’m okay.”

“Steve.” Eddie leans forward and reaches a hand up to Steve's face, a brief and featherlight touch as he brushes his thumb across Steve's cheek. “You're crying.”

“What- no, I’m-” Steve pulls back and wipes at his eyes. His fingers come away wet. “Shit.” He must be drunker than he thought if he couldn't even feel his own tears running down his face. He must be a lot sadder than he thought, too.

“Yeah.” Eddie smiles sympathetically, soft and kind. “So I'm not gonna sleep with you, man, not tonight, but I can give you a safe place to rest if you want it.”

Steve nods. “Okay, yeah.” He hates the way his voice sounds, rough and cracked and pathetic, still rubbing furiously at his eyes trying to get them to quit welling up. Now that he's aware of his tears he can't seem to make them fucking stop. He's stronger than this, he knows he is. God, no wonder Eddie doesn't want to fuck him. Steve’s a mess.

Finishing his drink helps, and so does simply taking a few minutes to hide in his hands and suck in several deep, measured breaths. Over the next hour or so, as Steve waits for Eddie’s shift to be over, slowly his eyes become drier and he sits a little straighter. He lets his gaze follow Eddie again, something to focus on—not quite as lustfully as before, just watching him work. That helps too.

By the time they walk to Eddie's apartment and get the couch set up, Steve has pulled himself together enough to feel like he more or less at least bears a resemblance to his usual self again. As Eddie bids him goodnight and turns to leave for his own room, Steve ventures one last attempt at seduction, taking Eddie by the hand and asking, “Are you sure I can't tempt you?”

Eddie just smiles and shakes his head. “Another time,” he says, and it sounds like a promise, squeezing Steve's hand. “Besides, it's better this way. Wouldn't want our anniversary to be on the same day as your douchebag ex anyways.”

“Yeah…” Steve agrees, managing a small smile in return and letting go.

While it’s still hard not to feel rejected, he knows that Eddie’s refusal isn't something cruel, it's sweet. Eddie’s not saying ‘never’, he’s just saying ‘not tonight’, allowing Steve the space and time to fully untangle himself from Tommy first; for now only wanting to make sure that Steve's safe and asking nothing in return. Leaving it open so that maybe one day, when Steve has settled back on his own two feet, if he still wants to come back and seek Eddie out again, maybe then they could start something real, something more than just one night of meaningless sex borne out of a sad and lonely boy’s desperation to be loved. And there’s a type of love in that too, isn't there—the kindness of a stranger? It’s not quite the love Steve had hoped for from today, but maybe it's exactly the love he needed.

So he doesn't push it, doesn't argue or insist or continue to throw himself at him. Steve just kisses Eddie quickly on the cheek instead and tells him, “Thank you.”

276 notes · View notes