Chapter Text
Eddie doesn’t see Dustin again for a few days, but much like a certain Tinkerdude, the little guy keeps running through his mind. He knows how it feels to never quite fit it, and what vicious bullies kids can be. So he worries. He thinks it’s only natural.
It’s also, as it turns out, completely unnecessary, because when he spots the brood on deck with Steve and Robin at the big Moonlight Soiree marking the halfway point of the cruise, Dustin is right there, laughing and joking with the other ankle biters.
One of the cruise managers - a sour-faced, freckled guy who probably thinks he looks smart in his all-white uniform with the fucking shoulder flaps - calls after him as he hops off the stage and gestures for the rest of the band to wait.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going? The fireworks start in five minutes and you’re supposed to provide background-”
Eddie ignores him. His chances of landing a repeat gig with the Harrington Line are looking slim as it is, so he doesn’t exactly see the point of being on his best behavior.
Robin sees him approach first. She turns to Steve, who has his back turned, and says something. Eddie can’t make out words over the buzz of the crowd, but Steve punches her in the arm and blushes a violent red, all the way down to the spaghetti straps of his little green dress. It makes him look a bit like a traffic light. A sexy traffic light. Eddie doesn’t pause to examine what that thought says about him.
“Well, it’s true,” Robin says as he gets into earshot. “I’ll get them off you, no need to thank me. Good evening, fine sir!”
She tips her Peter Pan hat and ushers the kids off to somewhere near the railing, probably to secure them a good spot for the fireworks.
“What did you do?” Eddie hisses the second they're out of earshot. Steve turns to him. The blush has faded to a dark pink.
“Oh, that?” he says, and does a slow twirl, showing off his muscled back and delicate tulle wings. “It was my free afternoon yesterday, so I hit the sundeck. What’s the point in being on a cruise if you don’t work on that tan, right?”
Eddie, who would probably burn to a pile of ashes the second he set foot on the sundeck, nods distractedly. Steve’s tan has, in fact, deepened - the caramel undertones of his skin are even more pronounced now, bringing out the golden specks in his eyes and the newly formed blond highlights in his windswept hair, and w ait, stop, that’s not why he came over!
“That’s not what I meant!” he blurts. Steve stops in the middle of his second twirl and turns back around, head tilted. “I meant the kids! Dustin! Last time I saw him, you practically had to drag him back by the ear, and now they’re- … How did you do this?”
Steve shrugs. It makes one strap of the dress slip a little. He doesn’t push it back up.
“Kids are social creatures at their core. I sat them down and reminded them that it’s our differences that make us strong, and how we should value each other’s uniqueness rather than condemning it. I also may have mentioned that bullies are a certain crocodile’s favorite food, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Eddie stares. Steve raises a brow.
“I don’t believe you,” Eddie whispers, trying to keep his face solemn, even though one corner of his mouth is spasming violently. “You're a fiend! A fairy and a fiend, oh my God!”
“Steve is fine,” says Steve. “And for the record, I think I'm allowed some fiendishness. As compensation for having to wear this stupid thing. I should be entitled to, like one complementary fiendery a day.”
He puts his hands on his hips, all fake affront. Eddie isn't sure what to look at first. The way the dress rides up his freshly bronzed thighs? The way the shimmery fabric stretches tight over his chest? The way his eyes light up with barely concealed mirth, outsparkling his wings and the moonlight bouncing off the ocean?
He doesn't know, but what he does know is that he's fucked. Fucked beyond hope, because not only is the guy drop dead gorgeous and sassy and funny and looks spectacular in a skirt, he's also good with kids and a hopeless dork? How is Eddie supposed to resist that?
Not at all, that's how.
“Eddie?” Steve murmurs. “I think you should …”
“Hm?” Eddie hums. There's a smattering of fresh freckles on Steve’s nose, mingling with the small and large moles. Eddie wants to count them with his lips and tongue. See if they taste like saltwater and sunscreen. “What should I do?”
He leans in.
And that's when the first fireworks burst in the night sky.
“Oh shit,” Eddie curses. “I need to- … I gotta-...”
“It's okay,” Steve beams. The lights bounce off his skin, starbursts of purple and red and blue. “We’ll pick it back up next time. Go get them.”
He shoves Eddie lightly in the chest, and he whirls, flying towards the stage as if propelled by fairy dust. There must be magic at play because he only almost brains himself once on the deck and once on an amplifier as he trips onto the stage. Ignoring the manager's outraged shrieks and his band mates’ glares, he slings his guitar over his shoulders and launches into the dreadful slow jazz piece they're supposed to be playing.
Nobody even notices the delay. Everyone is too busy tilting their heads into their necks and oooh-ing and aaaah-ing at the colorful lights in the sky.
Except for one pair of eyes, at the very edge of the crowd. Eddie can feel them on himself for the entirety of his performance. They’re the only ones that matter, anyhow.