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Summary
Dressed in nothing but his stupid little green basketball shorts, and one of Eddie’s shirts (one, very loved, very worn Black Sabbath shirt, cut tastefully into a crop top). His lips parted, and puffy, and is that— is that drool? It was! Glistening at the corner of his mouth and pooling on his pillow. He looks dewey, flushed. Ethereal. Eddie could write novels about him.
