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The door swings shut behind Steve, and Eddie has to force himself to turn around. It’s not like Wayne doesn’t know he’s gay, the man fucking raised him, but finding Eddie and Steve wrapped around each other like vines on his own living room couch is a goddamn other thing.
“Alright, kiddo, c’mere,” Wayne says gruffly, like he’s calling over a version of Eddie who’s twelve with a buzzcut and a pocket full of lizards he’s trying to sneak into his room to keep as pets.
Eddie turns. “I swear it’s not what you think, Uncle Wayne,” he starts, voice high-pitched and defensive like the first time he got caught selling weed.
Wayne shakes his head, “siddown, kid.”
Eddie collapses into the kitchen chair across from him, stiffer than the wood under his own ass, and waits.
“That Harrington boy, you sure he’s one of the good ones?” Wayne asks.
Eddie blinks, thrown for a loop. “Yeah, Wayne, of course.”
Wayne nods, lips pursed. “I grew up with his old man, Eddie, y’gotta remember that. And don’t you think I forgot hearin’ you come home every goddamn day from that shithole of a school with his name on your tongue when ya had tears in those eyes.” Wayne gives him a meaningful glance, and Eddie has to look away first.
“I know,” Eddie breathes, “but he’s… different, now. He makes me feel safe, y’know?”
They both know what that means to Eddie. Wayne took him in all those years ago when he’d never felt safe in his life, when his Mama cared for him less than the dope and his Pops took him for just another tool in his scheme. He made it through school, just barely--battered and beaten at first, hardened and callous by the end of it. Safe isn’t something Eddie Munson takes lightly, and Wayne’s the first to know.
So Wayne nods, and apparently that’s that, because he says, “ok then, kiddo.” He stands, tussles Eddie’s hair like Steve tussles Dustin’s curls, and Eddie’s never felt more loved.
“Okay?” Eddie asks, because he’s a self-sabatoging asshole who apparently wants his uncle to second-guess being ok with him being gay for a Harrington.
Wayne pauses on his way out of the kitchen, leans against the doorway. “More than,” he says. Eddie smiles, but Wayne doesn’t leave.
He looks deep in thought, and a little red around the face, and Eddie suddenly remembers his grumbled version of The Talk in middle school and wants to run away screaming. But he stays put, fiddling with his rings, and waits it out for his uncle’s sake. Parenting’s hard, dammit, and Eddie won’t make it harder.
“Be careful, son, you hear me? You know about that H ‘n V thing or whatever, that virus goin’ ‘round,” Wayne finally says simply.
And fuck , Eddie wants to cling to him.
Because here Eddie is, a gay 21-year-old man in the middle of a fucking epidemic, watching versions of himself die every second of every day, one confession away from being seen not only as a satanic murderer but now a potential patient zero, and his uncle still knows just what to say.
His uncle, who’s worked in the same plant since Eddie can remember, who has the scars and scowl lines and old drinking buddies to prove it.
His uncle, who’s a God-fearing, hard-working, Southern-raised American.
His uncle, who took in the orphan son of a criminal and a junkie, who raised him better than half the white-collar bozos in this hellhole town.
His uncle, who wants so desperately to protect him, even still. Who’s trying his best to shelter Eddie from the inevitable storm, just like he used to. Who’s telling fairy tales all over again, swapping out knights with impenetrable armor for a kid who’s so safe he doesn’t even know the name of the plague sweeping his own community. Who’s keeping it simple, short and sweet, his gruff voice unwavering as he tries his damndest to soothe Eddie’s fears.
“I promise,” Eddie says, and his voice isn’t unwavering. He’s close to tears and choking back a sob because goddamnit he loves this old bastard with his whole fucking heart, and no matter how old Eddie gets, his uncle will always be bigger and stronger.
Wayne nods, turns toward his bedroom to get some shut eye before his night shift, but Eddie doesn’t feel alone when the door shuts at the end of the hall.
Because Wayne’s all around him, cradling him still.
His mugs line the cabinets, coffee-stained with rings inside. Eddie can spot the ones he picked out on joint road trips without even trying, the stupid Garfield one and the Eeore one with the chipped handle that Eddie thought looked too sad and lonely to leave behind.
A spare baseball cap lies on the couch a couple feet away, torn at the brim from age with a logo that’s half-worn off.
One of his flannels lies across the back of the chair next to Eddie, smelling like the same cologne he’s worn since he first took Eddie home all those years ago.
Even without it all, Eddie knows he can still never be rid of Wayne.
His accent lies thick on Eddie’s tongue, the same accent Mama had, and her mama before that. His brown eyes are in Eddie’s skull, his calloused hands reflected in the way Eddie holds a wrench. It’s his handwriting Eddie has tattooed into his skin, and his voice in the back of Eddie’s head each time he picks out a new record.
And Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way. Because his Uncle Wayne’s got his back, no matter what.