#eddiesgaymustache

[iinryer]

a little scene prompt game to get me writing!

from @eddiesgaymustache: “what about 3....... 😳🤝🫠 or 🌈🦭✨ ........ the world is your oyster”

[😳🤝🫠 + 3: hiding face in neck]

“Don’t think I can’t see that!” Chim calls, sing-songy and bright, from where he’s making his way to the kitchen.

Eddie tears himself away and immediately tucks his hands under his own arms, face burning. Buck just makes a disgruntled sound from where he’s been dozing with his head tilted against the back of the sofa for the past fifteen minutes, now awoken and obviously confused.

“Oh god, what are they doing now,” Hen drops her book down from where she was reading at the table, holding her empty coffee cup up for Chim to grab over her shoulder on his way past. Despite the implication of reproach, her tone is much too gleeful for Eddie’s liking. He narrows his eyes at her. She grins lazily back at him.

“I was literally asleep!” Buck groans—whines, maybe—scrubbing at his eyes, “What did I do!”

“PDA!” Chimney shouts, head in the cabinet where he’s rummaging around, before emerging with a jar of peanut butter and continuing, “PDA is what you did!”

Hen makes a disappointed tsk tsk tsk sound, putting on an air of aloofness and pretending as though she’s already returned to reading her book when she adds, “We did have an agreement,”

“The agreement!,” Chimney echoes, clenching a fist theatrically, “is nothing sacred in this house?”

“Ugh,” Buck pouts, matching Chimney’s energy, “you’re so dramatic. We’re not allowed to sit next to each other anymore?”

Eddie sinks a little into the sofa, absolutely burning with the flush across his face.

“Sitting, I can forgive. But hand-holding?,” Chim says, closing a drawer as punctuation, “I dare say that’s a public display of affection, little brother,”

Buck’s posturing immediately melts into sleepy fondness as his gaze snaps to Eddie, and says, “Aw… you were holding my hand?”

Which just causes Hen and Chim to break out into a chorus of gagging and groaning.

“Alright, alright,” Bobby placates from where he’s cresting the stairs to the loft, amusement clearly painted across his put-upon captain’s demeanor, “I think they have a right to a little unobtrusive hand holding,”

“Excuse you!” Chim says with mock affront, pointing with the spoonful of peanut butter he’s just scavenged, “It is my right—nay, my privilege—nay! My duty! My privileged duty, as newly minted brother, to embarrass one Evan Buckley,”

Eddie opens his mouth to argue that Buck is not the only one being embarrassed here, when Chimney directs his peanut butter scepter Eddie’s way and adds,

“And if his boyfriend gets caught in the crossfire,” he pauses for dramatic effect, before decreeing with a lofted spoon: “so be it!”

And the thing is, it’s new.

The boyfriend of it all.

And it just makes his flush blaze anew as something pleased and hungry and elated blooms so strongly and suddenly in his chest and has to fold over into Buck.

“Ohh, that got you, huh?” Buck coos, teasing and affectionate and full of love as he wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, easily accepting the way Eddie tucks his face into the juncture of his shoulder and neck to hide his blush.

The heckling picks up, Buck shakes with laughter underneath him, and Eddie snakes his arm across Buck’s lap to grasp onto his hand again.

[eddiesgaymustache]

rip eddie's gay mustache I would have done cocaine with you and kept you alive forever

[gayeddieagenda]

scene prompt game - 41: sitting close and knees touching + 😈🍻🎇

for @eddiesgaymustache <3

--

“Whoa,” Buck said. “Someone’s late.”

He tilted his head back to take in the burst of light as the firework exploded overhead. Midnight had come and gone a while ago. The bar wasn’t empty yet, but it had been clearing out slowly, since the countdown and the cheering and the champagne an hour and change ago.

Hen and Karen left minutes after midnight, barely giving Buck enough time to kiss them both on the cheek. Bobby and Athena didn’t even wait for midnight; Athena announced they were celebrating on central time, kissed her husband, and said good-bye. Chimney and Maddie lasted slightly longer, but only because Buck kept trying to buy Maddie drinks and whining when she tried to remind him she had a kid to pick up from the Lees’ in the morning.

Buck and Eddie hadn’t made a move to leave.

“The year’s still new, I guess,” Eddie said.

Buck looked at him. Another firework soared through the sky and Buck watched it burst in the reflection in Eddie’s eyes.

They were the first two to the bar. After their shift let out in the afternoon, Buck drove himself home, then to Eddie’s after a shower and changing into his outfit for tonight. Eddie wasn’t dressed when Buck showed up, so Buck followed him around the house, helping him tidy and making sure Chris was actually packing his backpack for his sleepover, Buck in his dress pants and silky green button-up shirt and Eddie in his socks and t-shirt.

Buck didn’t remember the last time they had a New Year’s Eve off. The bar was Maddie’s idea, a cute rooftop bar she and Chimney found for a date night. Buck and Eddie showed up early, Eddie grabbing them a couple beers and Buck laying claim to the big booth in the corner. Eddie slid in to sit next to him, tilting one of the beers at Buck.

As the rest of the 118 and partners arrived, Buck and Eddie found themselves scooting closer and closer together to squeeze everyone in. By the time the countdown started, they were pressed together, shoulder to hip to thigh. Eddie bumped Buck’s knee with his when Buck made him laugh.

It was a fun, loud night. It was too hard for Buck or Eddie to get out of the booth once they were in it, so everyone kept bringing them drinks, more beer and complicated cocktails with fruit and umbrellas sticking out of them that Chimney insisted they try. They were a pair: Buck and Eddie, stuck together shoulder to toe, served the same drinks and answering questions for each other, Buck explaining the fight with Eddie’s neighbors about the recycling bins and Eddie answering when Karen asked why Buck texted her asking what the deal was with some article about the Webb telescope (Chris was looking for a science project).

And when everyone started to filter out, Buck and Eddie didn’t make a move to separate from each other.

Eddie knocked his knee into Buck’s. It wasn’t a particularly cool night, but Buck leaned into the warm line of Eddie’s body against his anyway.

Buck bumped his knee back. “Are you tired?”

“Nah,” Eddie said. “Not really.”

“Me neither,” Buck said.

It was a late night, but they had a lot of late nights together. Sitting in the loft at the station and waiting for something, anything to happen. Driving to a night call, when it was late enough for the traffic to finally take a break for the day. Sitting on Eddie’s couch, credits rolling across the screen, playing chicken with who would admit they needed to go to sleep first.

“I can’t believe they all went home,” Eddie said. He nodded at the empty chairs around the table without taking his eyes off Buck.

“They’re all old,” Buck said. He pressed his knee into Eddie’s again. “Not like us, right?”

Eddie laughed, low and quiet in his throat. “Not like us,” he repeated.

His smile was small, a private thing between them. His eyes were lit up with something bright and amused. Buck couldn’t stop looking at them.

The only funny moment of the evening was when the New Year’s countdown finished and the (replay) of the ball dropping played on the bar TVs and the fireworks started exploding over the heads. It was only then that Buck remembered, with sudden, startling clarity, that he and Eddie were the only single ones at this little party. Everyone yelled zero and screamed and cheered and the couples at the table all turned to kiss each other—all except Buck and Eddie.

It was fine. It was minute, not even, and then Buck was smacking a kiss on Hen’s cheek and trying to get Chimney lean close enough for him to kiss him on the forehead. It was nothing, except, for a second, everyone was kissing and Buck and Eddie were looking at each other. For a second, it was just the two of them.

Kind of like now.

“It freaks me out sometimes,” Buck said quietly. “New Year’s. I get this feeling like, I don’t know. Like I’m waiting for something.”

“Waiting for wait?”

Buck shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Eddie was so warm against him. They were both in short sleeves. Their elbows were touching, bare skin on bare skin.

“The future?” Eddie offered.

“I guess,” Buck said. “Sometimes it’s like, I know it’s all right around the corner. But I don’t know what it is, or where the corner is, or how I’m going to get there.”

Eddie hums. “I get that,” he said. “Sometimes—sometimes, there’s things I want, but they feel so far away. I want them, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to get to them.”

“Things like what?” Buck said.

“Lots of things,” Eddie said quietly.

"Name one," Buck insisted.

Buck looked at him. Eddie looked back. Somewhere out in the bar, someone was calling for their friend over the music. Buck didn’t hear it at all.

"Buck," Eddie said quietly.

"Eddie," Buck parroted.

Eddie pressed his knee into Buck’s. He had a look in his eyes that Buck couldn’t read at all—unless he just meant what it looked like. Unless he just meant, this.

“What kind of things, Eddie?” Buck asked.

Overhead, a firework burst into sparkling blues and golds. Buck felt the boom in his chest. Eddie’s eyes flicked up to the sky, then back to Buck’s.

“Happy New Year, Buck,” he said, and leaned in.

Eddie kissed him. Under the dark sky of the new year, at an empty table an hour and change after midnight—Eddie set one hand on the back of Buck’s neck, gentle. 

Buck kissed him back. He got lost in it in a second, in all the places Eddie was touching him, the press of his fingertips on Buck’s neck and his mouth on Buck’s mouth and their knees, knocking close under the table. He’d chosen Eddie’s cologne for him tonight, a task Eddie set to keep him busy while he second-guessed his outfit, picking through the options on the top of his dresser until he found one he liked. Buck could smell it now.

Buck blinked his eyes open when they separated. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the bar had closed around them, or the sun had come up. They could have been kissing for an hour, two hours, a day. Instead, he just saw Eddie, looking back at him with something bright in his eyes.

Eddie took a slow breath in. Quietly, he asked, "Am I too late?"

“No,” Buck said. He didn’t know when this started��a week ago, six months, seven years, longer. He couldn’t remember when he’d started hoping for this, and he couldn’t imagine ever stopping wanting it. “Never.”

[try-set-me-on-fire]

It’s Sunday here are some sentences…… @eddiesgaymustache @eddiebabygirldiaz @bigfootsmom @shitouttabuck @homerforsure @iinryer @colonoscopys if you have any sentences to share…

—

They drive home together after the earthquake. To Eddie's house. It's not home yet at this point in time but it will be shortly, and it's so much his home it's like an infection, spreading back to this moment so it's true even then. Christopher talks about dinosaurs and dogs and how boy deers are called bucks.

“Boy rabbits, too,” Buck grins in the rear view at an adorable, astonished little face.

Chris is asleep by the time they reach the househome but Eddie nods Buck inside anyway, puts his kid to bed and brings a couple of beers out to the couch.

“Is LA always like this?” He laughs a little around the question, tired.

“Like what?”

Eddie shrugs. “Grenades and earthquakes.”

“I had to climb up a roller coaster, once,” Buck says. “And a plane crashed in the ocean.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, laughs again, nervous this time. It's wild that he can be nervous. Buck didn't think he was capable of it. He's so human, suddenly, sitting here in a half dark living room, a real person who exists who could be Buck's friend.

“Do you want my house keys?” He asks, at the same time Eddie asks “How did those go?”

“What?” Eddie asks, and “People died. Bobby almost drowned,” Buck says.

“Jesus,” Eddie says. “Do I want your house keys?”

“In case something happens,” Buck says.

“Grenades and earthquakes,” Eddie says.

And car crashes. A boy dog is called a dog, as far as he knows. “Mhm.”

Eddie sighs. Not put upon, just, like, a heavy exhale. “Sure. I'll make you a spare.”

—

“I asked you if you were in love with him.” There's a devastated wrinkle to Tommy's mouth, a heartbroken furrow in his brow. “Months ago, I asked you-”

“I'm sorry,” the bad dog whines. “I'm so sorry, I didn't know-”

—

[half-bakedboy]

Jee Yun and Eddie playing princesses inspired by one single static frame by signetsealed on AO3.

A gift to @gayeddieagenda from @eddiesgaymustache for @911Actions 🤗🥰

[meepmoopdraws2]

Complicated Creation - Eddie Diaz

Prompt submission from @eddiesgaymustache for @iinryer

This is a prompt fill for the @911actions gotcha for 🍉 fundraiser. Submissions have closed but you can still support the families here

I haven’t made an edit since January. My audio spazzed out when I exported it, and the timing of my captions ran away for some reason cause I swear it WAS fine… anyway I love this song too much I had to.

[incelrorschach]

Eddie and Snoopy for @gayeddieagenda, prompt submitted by @eddiesgaymustache

.

.

This is a prompt fill for @911Actions. Submissions are closed but please keep supporting families and people in Palestine!

[butchdiaz]

tags <3

@diazisms @chronicowboy @goldenbcnes @poughkeepsies @faethfigueroth

@eddiebabygirldiaz @mustachediaz @exhuastedpigeon @sibylsleaves @cranberrymoons

@hunybody @eddiesfagstache @wellcollapse @maddiebuckettebuckley @buckgettingstruck

@eddiegettingshot @nicolegendary @buckevanley @heterosexistly @oneawkwardcookie

@chaoticeddie @eddiesgaymustache @team-118 @gayeddieagenda @faggotjonesss

leave tonight or live and die this way

1k, dyke buddie. on lesbianism + shaving ur head

art by @iinryer + @try-set-me-on-fire !!! LOOK AT THEM !!!!!

When Eddie was a kid, she hated haircuts. Or more accurately, she was terrified of them. She would refuse to go to the salon until her split ends could be seen from across the room, and even then her parents would drag her kicking and screaming. "It's just hair," her mom always said, "It will grow back. And, actually it will grow faster if you get it trimmed regularly." It was sound logic. Logic that even eight year old Eddie could wrap her head around. But she didn't know how to explain that every time she got even the tiniest trim, she felt the loss for days. That she would run her fingers through her hair and keep going past where it ended, and it felt like sand falling through her fingers, and it hurt.  Now, she's sitting on a stool in the bathtub to try and minimize the mess, and Buck is behind her holding the razor high, like a weapon, or a flag of truce.  "Ready?" She asks. Eddie nods, "Let's fucking do this."

read on ao3

[iinryer]

yes your son is asking to cut in. no neither of you can leave. this is a three person waltz now, keep up!

buck and eddie dancing with chris at their wedding, for my darlingest dearest @eddiesgaymustache 😚💕

this is a prompt fill with the @911actions gotcha for gaza—the submission period has come to an end, but you can still donate to a good cause!

[iinryer]

a little scene prompt game to get me writing!

from @eddiesgaymustache : prompt 2 cheddy boogaloo: 10, 📚😁🥂

bonus visuals if you want to know how i picture them [ 1 ] [ 2 ]

—

[📚😁🥂 + cheddy + 10: spooning at night]

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Teddy looks up from the glass she’s pouring, blinks at Chuck, blinks again, and says, “What,”

Chuck blinks back at her, stalling out like they’re playing back what they said, before suddenly snorting into their drink and having to hold a hand under their chin to save their shirt from falling victim to rogue rosé.

Teddy watches them fondly, raising her brow and waiting for Chuck to try again.

“No, wait, not like—,” Chuck laughs, waving their hand like they’re clearing the question from the record, “I meant like… when you were little, who did you think you were going to be?”

Teddy shakes her head, endeared, and says faux-wistfully, “I dunno. I think as a kid I always envisioned myself getting to go by Teo when I left home,”

Teo, unfortunately, did not fly. Not only was it deemed too boyish by her mom, but it was also her Abuelo’s nickname of choice—who she was named after, by the way. So it was either nothing or Dora—which, to this day, still makes her feel like she’s breaking out in hives. Teddy came later though, when she ran track in high school. One of the girls she got close with that year called out to her with it during practice, and it just stuck. It’s not Teo, but she’s grown quite fond of it.

At the mention of the name, though, Chuck brightens, straightening up from where they’d been trying to set the bottle and nearly empty glass safely on the floor from the bed, and says, so earnestly it’s almost comical, “I call you Teo!”

Teddy barks out a laugh. Okay. So Chuck is maybe a little deeper into the bottle of rosé than she is. She just nods, acquiescing, “You sure do, rockstar,”

Chuck just tips their head—followed by their torso—to the side like it weighs too much, grinning from ear to ear. They end up toppling down the rest of the way, the side of their face smushed into the pillow at Teddy’s hip.

They grin up at Teddy, body folded awkwardly but looking pleased as punch about it, before scrunching up their nose and saying, “Okay, for real this time. What did little Teodora Vásquez want to be when she grew up?”

Teddy makes a face, and flicks Chuck’s forehead, “Don’t government-name me, you ass,”

Laughter bubbles up from their chest, followed by a snort that should really be unflattering, but somehow never is.

“Dunno,” Teddy eventually sighs, wine-heavy in her own way, absently curling her finger through an errant lock of Chuck’s hair, “I think I always thought I’d be a doctor or something like that. Something helpful,”

Chuck’s eyes, glazed and unfocused with alcohol, go wide and adoring, “You are. You are helpful,”

Teddy hums on a smile. Takes a prolonged sip from her glass.

“And! You’ll be even more helpful once you pass your paramedic cert next month,” they add, conspiratorially, nodding over at the textbooks that Teddy abandoned on the nightstand earlier in the evening, like it’s a sure thing. Their confidence always makes Teddy’s heart feel warm and full, “and that’s like, basically a doctor, right? Look at you! Growing up to be the thing you wanted,”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Teddy snorts, then sighs. It is a thought she’s had in the past. That maybe all the time she spent in and out of hospitals growing up would actually land her somewhere good. Somewhere useful. Worthwhile.

“You’re the coolest,” Chuck adds, one uncoordinated finger coming up to poke Teddy in the chin.

Or maybe it just landed her here, who-knows-how-many glasses of wine deep into Chuck’s mattress, during a 48-off. Heavy, slow. Happy.

Maybe, somehow, it’s the same thing.

“Yeah yeah, says the Wunderkind,” Teddy laughs, swatting the hand out of her face before she finally wiggles her way to slide down further against the headboard, getting settled with her cheek in hand and elbow propped up on the pillow next to Chuck, looking down at them, “What about you, huh? What did the little cherub-faced Beverly Charlton want to be when they grew up?”

Between one breath and the next, Chuck gets a faraway look in their eye—almost like they weren’t expecting to have their own question sent back around. Knowing them, they maybe weren’t.

Teddy watches their lashes flutter, something somber pulling across their face like a wave. For a moment, she’s worried she shouldn’t have pulled the full name out, even in jest—but then Chuck is swallowing harshly and taking a breath.

Their eyes stay trained on the ceiling past Teddy’s head when they say, “Loved, I think,”

Teddy feels her own expression collapse, a wounded sound in her throat.

Then, with a with a gasp of a breath through their nose, it’s like Chuck comes back to themself; sitting upright so suddenly they almost collide with Teddy.

Chuckling awkwardly, they clear their throat, “Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t—I didn’t mean… um. Didn’t mean for that to sound so pathetic,”

Teddy doesn’t like that Chuck’s back is to her.

“Chuck,” she says.

Chuck hesitates for a moment before peering sheepishly back over their shoulder.

Teddy gives her best pleading eyes and pout, sets her glass on the nightstand with her coursework, and just reaches her newly freed hand out to Chuck, wiggling her fingers for good measure.

Chuck looks a little watery, but it seems like that’s all the permission they need before they’re collapsing back down at Teddy’s side, letting her arrange the two of them however she pleases.

They’ve done this enough over the years for it to not be too odd, as long as she doesn’t think about it too hard. How much she likes having Chuck close like this. How Chuck lets her, every time. So Teddy tucks them together, back to chest, arms wrapped around Chuck’s middle. Reaches over them to fumble with the lamp to turn out one of the two dim lights they’d had on, and settles.

They lay quietly for a while, just breathing, before Teddy finds the courage to murmur, sleepy and slow to the back of Chuck’s neck, “You did too,”

A beat of quiet. Then Chuck hums in question.

“You said I grew up to be the thing I wanted to be as a kid,” Teddy mumbles, teetering on the edge of sleep, “You did too,”

Chuck doesn’t say anything else, but Teddy feels the sniffle in their chest, and she doesn’t say anything either. Just squeezes a little tighter, and lets sleep come for them both.

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Tagged by @iinryer for wip Wednesday! I’m making Bobby go to therapy. He’s not having a good time.

“Things that happen to the people we care about affect us, too. Witnessing a loved one hurt — or killed — can have a profound impact on us.”

Bobby shakes his head. It’s… not untrue, maybe, but it doesn’t sit well with him. “That’s not fair.”

“To who?”

“Buck. Or- anyone- the person who got hurt. They’re the ones that need- help. Support. Why should I get to wave everything to a halt to get my feelings catered to?”

“When a plane is going down, you put on your own oxygen mask first, right?”

Bobby flinches at the ghost of cold water and resignation. “Part of my job is triage, Frank. If someone needs oxygen more than me, I’m giving it to them.”

Both of Frank’s eyebrows raise this time. “I’m not a firefighter, but I can’t imagine it actually says that in any of your rulebooks. But that’s not the point. You need to take care of yourself so you can take care of other people. You’re here in my office, Bobby, so I think some part of you knows that.”

Tagging @bigfootsmom @butchdiaz @wildehacked @homerforsure @eddiesgaymustache @gayeddieagenda @kananjarus if ya got anything to share!

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Tagged by @eddiebabygirldiaz for fuck it Friday! Going to put it under a cut for pet death and the Wells situation, so I'll put my tags up here: @iinryer @bigfootsmom @shitouttabuck @eddiesgaymustache @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

A dog- 

Some guy on a rollercoaster doesn’t take Buck’s hand. Lets go of Buck’s hand. He doesn’t really remember if they actually touched, if he felt the warmth of a palm or sweat on fingers. He hit the ground hard and very far away. It’s funny — not haha — that rollercoasters have cars. 

They kept talking after they fucked. Him and the therapist. She asked him more stuff. His tongue felt all weird and numb as he talked. Where'd you grow up Pennsylvania, what did your parents do they were teachers, what was your childhood like it was fine I don't know I guess it was fine, did you have any traumatic experiences uh I don't know, any losses I had a brother, how did he die what, how did your brother die?

Buck blinks. “I didn't have a brother. I-” he blinks again. “I had a dog.” He swallows around his buzzing teeth, licks his dry lips. “He got hit by a car.”

This is when he thinks about the rollercoaster car thing. After the therapist, when he's in the bathroom naked but instead of getting in the shower he's just kind of standing there breathing weird. Laughing. Not really laughing. It's not really funny. 

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Tagged by @eddiebabygirldiaz and @rewritetheending in the last line tag game! I think it was this from werewolf buck?

All this to say: Bobby knew Buck had passed exactly 43 minutes before his celebratory text hit the group chat.

Tagging @hotshotsxyz @eddiesgaymustache @homerforsure @iinryer @shitouttabuck @colonoscopys @wildehacked @butchdiaz

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Tagged by @eddiebabygirldiaz for seven sentence Sunday! I don’t have much new to share so I’m just going to post a screen shot of the autobiography twine game…

Tagging @shitouttabuck @bigfootsmom @rewritetheending @homerforsure @eddiesgaymustache @iinryer @ anyone who wants to share something! Old or new, do some self promo, brag a little! I’ve barely had time to look for fics lately what have you done recently what are the recs…..

[try-set-me-on-fire]

@shitouttabuck tagged me for 7 sentence Sunday and this is way more than that but its what I got…. Tagging @bigfootsmom @wildehacked @homerforsure @iinryer @eddiebabygirldiaz @eddiesgaymustache @chronicowboy @rewritetheending @butchdiaz @dr-shortsighted-owl @fruitydiaz @hotshotsxyz @pantsaretherealheroes @ anybody who’s got somethin to share!!

The Parable of the Drunken Man

A short tale about Robert Nash and the devil himself, part of a longer tale that has not yet been written

The drunken man is already drunk when he stumbles up to the liquor store, which he probably should have figured out meant trouble, big trouble, should have been able to see the walls of the hole he’d dug for himself. But it's a sunny day — five o’clock nowhere, oh how deep, oh how deep — and he’s not thinking about much besides getting through the glass push door with the little jingle bell on the top. He makes it up all the steps and only stumbles once, bangs his hip on the railing fucking ow. He makes it through the door too, jingle jingle, hey, just like Christmas, that’s coming up, it’s getting cold. Ice box inside is cold, the big fridges are cold, he could grab some Fitgers like his daddy drank but they shuttered their doors in ‘72 and his dad was in the ground pretty soon after — the hole, the hole — and anyway what’s beer gonna do. The drunken man needs something from one of the shelves up behind the counter, warm in its bottle, strong as paint stripper. And the clerk knows him — can’t you hear the shovel — and he doesn’t even really have to ask, just points and the bottle comes to him, presto magic. And then the drunken man pats his pockets and there’s nothing in this one, nothing in that one, not in his coat, not in his jeans, empty empty empty.

“I’m good for it,” he says, “You know I am, come on.”

“Sorry, Bobby,” the clerk says, and to his credit his eyes are sad.

When the stranger says “I can cover for you,” only a step from his side the drunken man is surprised. He didn’t think anyone else was in the store. He didn’t hear the bell jingle jingle. And this guy, this stranger, he’s in a suit, a real nice suit, nothing like piss poor piss drunk pissed off clientele that usually graces these fluorescent lit halls. But the drunken man wants his drink so he shrugs.

“Sure. Mighty kind of you. I owe you one.”

The stranger has a smile that’s real wide. His teeth are all straight. “Do you now? And what might that be?”

The drunken man glances at the shelf behind the counter. “$17.95.”

That stranger makes a sound that must be a laugh because the drunken man doesn’t know what else it would be. “That’s not a very interesting deal, Bobby.”

If he stays out too long there’s people who’re gonna be mad at him, can’t he fucking wrap this up? The drunken man glances at the clerk. The bottle is there in his hand. “What do you have in mind?” He wonders for a moment what the stranger will ask, what he might be willing to give. He’s not that desperate. He has some Johnny Walker at home, he’s pretty sure. It’ll be harder to get to it around Marcy, but he could manage. If this is a sex thing, he can just say no.

The stranger shrugs. “What would you give for a drink, right now?”

The drunken man’s shoulders shiver a bit, he’s not sure why. It’s what he’d just been thinking, but, whatever, coincidence. “I- I don’t know.”

“Would you give up your apartment? Your whole floor?”

The drunken man laughs. “I don’t own my whole floor, man, I don’t even own my fucking apartment.” They’d owned the house but the medical bills had stacked up and up and up and the drunken man had dug down and down and down until the difference had been too great to ever balance out again.

All those teeth. “But would you give it? All the people in it? Trade them, right here and now?”

The drunken man is just kind of annoyed. This guy, this out of towner, fucking with him. “Sure. Yeah, and the whole rest of the building, too.”

“Now there’s a deal,” the stranger laughs again, slaps the drunken man hard enough on the back it hurts, it bruises, it’s yellow on his shoulder when he goes to work on Monday and no one even bats an eyelash that’s he’s fucked himself up in some new little way. He hands the clerk a handful of cash — more than $17.95 it seems to the drunken man’s eyes — and the clerk hands over the bottle with uneasy eye contact and then the drunken man leaves, goes home, swigs once twice in the parking lot before heading up to the roof and stashing the bottle and heading back downstairs and in to his wife and his daughter and his son, cheeks red from the cold and other things, and he wasn’t too late — too late, oh he’s too late — and they all eat dinner together.

Exactly one month later, the building goes up in flames. He’s drunk on the roof. He was high in an empty room, with a space heater plugged into the wall. The hole is deep and he doesn’t even have the grace to die at the bottom of it, next to the tiny bodies of his children, next to burnt living corpse of his wife. And now he’s sleeping in a motel his brother paid for but he’s not sleeping there, he’s trying to drink himself to death in the parking lot out back when he sees the stranger again, in the nice suit, still all his straight teeth showing.

“Was it you?” The drunken man hollers. “Was it you? Did you do this? Did you make this happen?” He’s throwing the bottle, he’s grabbing the front of that too nice suit and the guy is just smiling, just fucking grinning, big and pleased as a cat with all the cream.

“You were always gonna burn that building, Bobby,” he says, and his tone of voice, there’s something about it that’s true, there’s something about it that’s impossible not to believe. “That’s how that night was always going to go.”

“Then what- then why-”

“You just gave me permission to collect.” The drunken man hadn’t thought the stranger was taller than him, but he leers down at him now.

Like Bobby knows he was telling the truth, he knows he’s not talking about, whatever, an insurance payout. “What did I- what did I give you?”

“Souls, Bobby. You traded all their souls. And for such a grand prize.” And the stranger held up his hand, and in it was a bottle of Devil’s Springs, 151 proof.

The motel day shift front desk girl finds him there in the morning, half frozen, laying in a mess of broken glass.