A certain fisherman [...] went to the same place again to fish, and he put a row of hooks on his heels in case he met the Púca again; he attached them like a horseman's spurs. When evening drew near, he made a halter of the fishing-line for the Púca.
The Púca met him the second time. He himself caught the Púca, put the fishing-line over his head like a halter, and started to ride him. He drove him wherever he wanted to go, and he kept putting his heels with the hooks like spurs to the Púca's sides, so that the Púca was shedding blood from the pricks of the hooks.
Excerpt from "The Púca: A Multi-Functional Irish Supernatural Entity" by Deasún Breatnach
All he had wanted was an adult beverage after a long ass day at work, which he certainly got. The whiskey sours were fucking great actually. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the model of a bartender.
This guy was—Shit.
Tall as hell, and lean, but his arms boasted enough corded muscle that Steve couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of him looked like.
Damn, horny brain.
This guy had a riot of curls stacked on his head in a bun, which had been another nail in the proverbial horny coffin. He had chocolate brown eyes and fucking plush lips that boasted a lip ring. A lip ring.
How was Steve supposed to remain sane under these circumstances.
Robin couldn’t come out tonight so Steve was alone and just—watching this hot ass bartender work. God, he was such a creep. But this guy was so—suave, laughing with patrons, acting like he owns the place—it was some type of dive bar, plastered with tour posters and framed photos and musicians. Guitars hung on the walls.
The guy—Eddie—his name tag read, had on ripped black jeans, tattoos covered his arms and neck—Steve wanted to see where else they were hiding—his nails were painted black and he had on a faded Metallica shirt that sat tight across his lithe frame.
God—he probably did own this place. Steve really just stopped at the first place he could find, on his way back into town from a meeting. Congratulations to him for making a great fucking choice.
Steve was being a creep, watching this guy interact with someone, when he turned his attention on Steve himself. Eddie flashed his a smile—Christ, even his teeth were fucking pretty.
“Can I top you off, sweetheart?” Eddie purrs.
God, you can just top me—Steve thinks. He watches as Eddie quirks an eyes brow, before he schools his expression, flashing Steve a simmering smile.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, big boy.”
Steve’s eyes go wide. He said that out loud didn’t he.
None of it is familiar, none of it feels like home, none of it feels like Eddie.
And why would it? Eddie’s not here, he’s with the band recording another album, far away from Hawkins and Steve.
They agreed to this, they both did. Eddie said he couldn’t wait for Steve, Steve didn’t want him to have to. Steve couldn’t leave the kids, Eddie didn’t want him to.
But that left them here, in this weird limbo where neither of them could acknowledge that they’d “broken up” and Steve was left staring at a body wash that wasn’t theirs.
It was stupid, really. Eddie always had his own body wash anyway.
But it was always right next to Steve’s. And sometimes they accidentally used each others’ when they were too tired to pay attention to the bottle they grabbed. And sometimes they’d run out of one and forget to pick up a new one at the store, so they’d smell like each other for a few days, weeks even.
And somehow Steve was expected to just use his own body wash, with no other bottle sitting on the shelf as an option.
Because Eddie wasn’t an option right now.
Or maybe ever if things kept going well for him and the guys.
Six months is a long time to not have Eddie as a comfort, as a safe place to rest, as a home.
But six months wasn’t that long when he thought about forever like this. Forever without Eddie.
Something he couldn’t have imagined the moment Eddie held a broken bottle to his neck.
He got out of the shower without washing his hair or his body; He could do it tomorrow.
He could be braver tomorrow.
He could survive another day without Eddie. Tomorrow.
Or maybe tomorrow he could finally be the one to break. He could call him and ask how things are. He could offer to come to a show. He could tell him that he loves him and he wants to follow him anywhere he goes.
But tomorrow wasn’t today and today, Steve had to accept his decision, their decision.
So today, Steve curled up in his bed, and he thought about what Eddie would sound like over the phone when he was brave. Tomorrow.