w/c: 8033
part 6 // part 8
masterlist
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Moving in with Eddie, Steve, and Robin felt like the most natural thing in the world, even if Steve’s apartment was suddenly bursting at the seams with band gear, camera equipment, and Robin’s ever-growing collection of vinyls. The guest room became our room- Eddie’s clothes mixed with mine in the closet, my photos pinned to the walls alongside his scribbled lyric sheets and setlists. Mornings started with coffee in the kitchen while Steve burned toast and Robin blasted demos through the speakers. Nights ended tangled up with Eddie, the city humming outside our window like a distant soundtrack.
Corroded Coffin was blowing up. Really blowing up. Eddie’s band had snowballed from underground Hawkins legends into something massive after the Capitol meetings. Their single was climbing charts, radio stations across the country were spinning “Bat Wing Heart” on repeat, and the label was pushing hard. Hellfire had caught fire too, Robin's raw stage presence and songwriting turning heads in ways no one expected.
Every free moment outside of class, I was at shows. Small club gigs in Brooklyn, bigger venues in Manhattan, even a couple of last-minute college town runs. My camera became an extension of my hands again, freezing Eddie mid shred with Corroded Coffin, Robin commanding the stage like a force of nature, the crowds losing their minds in sweaty, beautiful synchronicity.
I loved it. The adrenaline, the lights, the way Eddie would find me in the crowd after every set, pulling me backstage with that wide, proud grin and kissing me like we’d been apart for years instead of hours.
Fall semester ended in a blur of finals, darkroom marathons, and critiques that left me both exhilarated and drained. I’d passed everything- barely- but I’d done it. Now Christmas lights still twinkled in shop windows, and New Year’s Eve loomed like a promise (or a warning). The four of us had big plans- rooftop party, cheap champagne, watching the ball drop from Steve’s building if the weather held.
Then Eddie got the call.
We were all crammed in the living room two days after Christmas- me curled against Eddie’s side on the couch, Robin sprawled across the armchair flipping through a music magazine, Steve attempting to assemble some ridiculous end table in the corner- when Eddie’s phone rang. He answered with that casual “Munson” drawl, but his whole body went still within seconds.
“Yeah… Cross country? When?” His eyes flicked to me, then to Robin. “Both bands? Corroded Coffin and Hellfire on the same bill? Holy shit.”
The room quieted. Robin sat up straight. Steve paused mid hammer.
Eddie listened for what felt like forever, nodding, murmuring agreements, his free hand tightening around mine. When he finally hung up, he let out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite hide the awe in his voice.
“They want us on a three month cross country tour starting mid January. Corroded Coffin and Hellfire co-headlining the bill- supporting a bigger act, but the label’s giving both bands serious stage time. Proper venues, buses, the whole deal. This is… this is it.”
Robin let out a wild whoop and launched herself at Eddie in a chaotic hug before tackling me next. Steve clapped Eddie on the back, grinning like an idiot. I smiled, squeezing Eddie’s hand, but something heavy twisted in my chest.
Three months. On the road. Across the whole country. With both bands.
Eddie turned to me, eyes bright but searching. “You’d come, right? Official photographer for the whole tour. They loved your shots from the showcases- said the way you capture Corroded Coffin’s energy and Robin’s sets is exactly what they want for promo, the tour book, everything. We could make it official. Pay you properly.”
I swallowed hard. The offer hung there- perfect, terrifying, everything I’d secretly dreamed about during those lonely early weeks in the city. Traveling with them. Documenting every wild, eccentric moment of Eddie shredding with Corroded Coffin and Robin destroying stages. No more rushing back to classes or squeezing shoots between critiques. Just the road, the music, us.
But then the other voice crept in. The one that sounded like my old Hawkins doubts, like every careful plan I’d made to prove I could do this “right.” School of Visual Arts. The degree. The structure. The box I’d built for myself because staying inside it felt safer than failing spectacularly at the thing I actually loved. I tried to have both- be with Eddie, Robin and Steve in the big city and go to school but was it really worth it being torn in two so often? I was tired of being stretched thin.
“I… I don’t know,” I whispered later that night, when it was just the two of us in our room. The city lights filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across Eddie’s bare chest as he held me close. “Dropping out feels like throwing away everything I worked for. What if I regret it? What if I stay in school and I’m just… stuck? Walk safe path, the same damn box I’ve always put myself in.”
Eddie’s fingers traced slow circles on my back, his voice low and steady against my hair. “Baby girl, you’re not stuck anywhere. Not anymore. You’ve already broken out of Hawkins. Look at everything you’ve done here- your photos are good. Better than good. The label sees it. I see it every damn night when you’re shooting Corroded Coffin or catching Robin in the zone.” He tilted my chin up so I could meet his eyes, soft and fierce all at once. “But I get it. This is your call. I’m not asking you to choose me- or the bands- over school. I’m asking you to choose what you want. The road with Corroded Coffin and Hellfire… or finishing the degree. Either way, I’m here. We all are.”
I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in- cigarettes, cheap cologne, and that indefinable Eddie smell that always grounded me. Robin and Steve’s laughter drifted faintly from the living room, already hyping up tour ideas for both bands. The future stretched out in front of me, split down the middle- one path neat and planned, the other wild and uncertain and full of the kind of stories I actually wanted to tell through my lens.
New Year’s Eve was two days away.
I didn’t know what I was going to do yet. But I started to realize that the box didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like training wheels I’d outgrown.
The next 48 hours were a whirlwind of late night talks, label emails forwarded to my inbox with contract outlines for both bands, and quiet moments alone with my camera roll- flipping through shots from the last few months. Eddie commanding the stage with Corroded Coffin. Robin owning every inch of it with Hellfire. The crowds. The quiet moments backstage in the green room. The moments we shared in this apartment. The life.
On New Year’s Eve, as we stood on the rooftop bundled in coats and scarves, cheap sparkling wine in hand, the city sparkling below us, Eddie pulled me close during the countdown.
“Whatever you decide,” he murmured against my temple, “we’re doing this together. Tour or no tour. New York or the road. Corroded Coffin, Hellfire, all of it- I love you. The real kind. The forever kind.”
The ball dropped. Fireworks exploded over the skyline. Robin and Steve cheered, clinking bottles. I kissed Eddie hard, tasting hope and fear and possibility all at once.
In that moment I made my choice.
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New Year’s Day dawned cold and bright, the kind of crisp winter morning that made the city feel brand new. I woke up tangled in Eddie’s arms, his steady breathing warm against my neck, and something inside me finally clicked into place. No more endless overthinking. No more fear.
I was going on tour.
The decision settled over me like a warm blanket instead of the panic I’d expected. School of Visual Arts would still be there if I needed to come back- I’d already checked with my advisor about a leave of absence. Photography wasn’t something you could only learn in a classroom anyway. The real education was out there, lens to the world, capturing Corroded Coffin tearing through arenas and Robin destroying stages with ease. I wanted to be part of it. I needed to be part of it.
Eddie stirred as I shifted, cracking one eye open. “Morning, baby girl,” he mumbled, voice sleep rough. “You look like you made a decision.”
I smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I’m coming on tour. With you. With Corroded Coffin and Hellfire. Official photographer. All of it.”
His whole face lit up, that boyish, rockstar grin breaking across his features as he rolled us so I was pinned beneath him. “Yeah? You sure?”
“I’m sure. I can always go back to school if I need to. But I don’t want to miss this. Not with you. Not with all of us.”
He kissed me like the world was ending and beginning at the same time. When we finally came up for air, he rested his forehead against mine. “You’re gonna kill it out there. Best shots this tour’s ever seen.”
The next few days were a whirlwind of paperwork, packing lists, and excited chaos in the apartment. Robin nearly tackled me when I told her, screaming something about “the dream team together on the road.” Steve immediately started planning road trip games and “security protocols” like he was born for tour life.
But there was one call I had to make.
I waited until the apartment was quiet one afternoon- Eddie and Robin at a last-minute label meeting, Steve out grabbing supplies for the bus- then curled up on the couch with the phone. Nancy picked up on the second ring.
“Hey! Happy New Year,” she said, her voice bright and familiar. “How’s the big city treating you?”
I took a deep breath. “Nance… I’m dropping out. Well, taking a leave from SVA. I’m going on tour with Eddie and Robin. Official photographer for Corroded Coffin and Hellfire. They’re doing a full cross-country thing starting mid January.”
There was a pause, and for a second my stomach twisted. Then Nancy laughed softly, warm and proud. “Of course you are. God, that sounds perfect for you. You’ve been happier with that camera at their shows than you ever sounded with those darkroom stories.”
“You’re not going to tell me I’m making a mistake?” I asked, half-joking, half-serious.
“Mistake? No way. This is you. Chasing the thing that lights you up. Eddie, Robin, the music, the photos… you’d regret staying behind more than you’d ever regret trying this. And if it doesn’t feel right, you come back. School will still be here. I’m so proud of you.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “Thanks, Nance. I needed to hear that.”
We talked for almost an hour- about her life at Emerson, Jonathan’s latest photography gig, how weird and wonderful it felt that we were all scattering but somehow still connected. She made me promise to send photos from the road and to call if things got overwhelming.
I didn’t tell my parents.
The thought alone made my chest tighten with anxiety. Dad’s cautious questions (that bordered on interrogation) about Eddie, Mom’s careful notes about staying safe- they’d finally started accepting my move to New York, but dropping out of art school for a rock tour? That conversation could wait. Maybe until we were already on the road and it was too late to talk me out of it. Maybe until I had tour stories and published photos to prove it was the right choice. For now, it was my decision. Mine and the family I’d chosen.
Mid January arrived faster than I expected. Suitcases lined the hallway, the enormous tour bus idled outside, and the four of us stood in the apartment one last time, soaking it in. Eddie slipped his hand into mine, squeezing tight.
“Ready for this, sweet girl?”
I looked at him- at Robin bouncing on her toes, at Steve loading the last of the gear- and felt more ready than I’d ever been.
“Ready.”
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The tour bus smelled like stale coffee, guitar strings, and too many bodies living in close quarters, but it already felt like home by the time we hit the highway out of New York in the dead of winter. The label had hooked us up with a more than decent sleeper bus- bunks stacked like a cozy nightmare, a tiny lounge in the back, and a kitchenette that Steve immediately claimed as his domain. It was me, Eddie, Robin, Steve, and the rest of Corroded Coffin. Eight people who somehow made chaos feel like family.
The East Coast leg kicked off with a string of shows that blurred together in the best way- Philadelphia, Baltimore, D.C., then up through New England. Every night I was in the pit or side-stage, my camera in hand, capturing the magic on film. The crowds were getting bigger, louder, more devoted. I saw people in their own handmade merch, holding signs on neon paper with love for the bands written on them.
What I didn’t expect was people starting to notice my photography.
It started small. A couple of fans at the Philly show asking if I was the one shooting the new promo shots that had appeared in local music rags. By Baltimore, someone in the crowd yelled “Bat Girl Photographer!” during soundcheck after spotting me with my camera. Word was spreading fast through the underground scene. My candids- Eddie mid-laugh backstage, Robin flipping off the crowd with a grin, the raw energy of the sweaty pits- were getting passed around at record stores and taped up in dorm rooms. A small piece in Alternative Press featured a few of my shots alongside a review of the tour, calling them “intimate, chaotic, and brutally honest.” Then Spin magazine ran a short blurb about the “emerging visual voice” documenting Corroded Coffin and Hellfire’s rise. My darkroom sessions on off days became sacred as I developed rolls and sent prints to the label for potential use in tour programs and posters.
It felt surreal, like the lens that had always been my quiet shield was suddenly putting me in the spotlight of the alt-rock world.
Eddie was ridiculously proud. He’d pull me into his lap on the bus after shows, flipping through the latest zine or magazine that had arrived via fan mail. “Told you, baby girl. You’re not just along for the ride. You’re making art out here that people are actually seeing.”
I was immensely glad that this was the path I decided to walk. Without the support of everyone here I'd still be stuck in my shitty dorm, depressed and missing the crew. Instead I was living the life I never dreamed was possible. The shows, the energy, even bus life was never boring.
There were the endless card games that always ended in Steve accusing Gareth of cheating (“You’re a drummer, not a magician, man!”). Robin’s dramatic readings of the wild letters fans sent in. Jeff and Grant’s attempts at cooking ramen on the tiny stove that somehow always ended with the fire alarm going off. One night in Maryland, the bus broke down on the side of the highway at 2 a.m. We all piled out in pajamas and hoodies, Eddie and Steve trying to look useful while the rest of us sat on the guardrail eating gas station snacks and stargazing. Robin started an impromptu acoustic sing-along that turned into a full-blown karaoke session until the tow truck arrived.
Another memorable night, somewhere in Connecticut, we got caught in a snow squall. The bus was stuck, so we had an emergency “band slumber party” in the lounge- blankets everywhere, passing around a bottle of cheap whiskey, sharing stories from Hawkins days. Eddie told the infamous “Vecna” campaign tale (heavily dramatized), I shared my first disastrous darkroom experience at SVA, and Steve admitted he still had a small crush on his high school girlfriend. We laughed until we cried.
Through it all, my camera never left my side. I shot everything- sleepy morning coffee runs, ridiculous bus pranks (Grant once woke up with drumsticks taped to his hands), quiet moments where Eddie would strum new riffs while I curled up beside him.
Boston arrived like a long-awaited exhale. The venue was bigger than some of the club shows, the crowd already buzzing when we pulled up for load in. My heart raced for a different reason this time.
Nancy and Jonathan were waiting backstage after soundcheck.
The second I spotted Nancy’s familiar determined stride and Jonathan’s shaggy hair, I broke into a run. She met me halfway, pulling me into one of her signature tight hugs.
“You absolute legend,” she laughed, squeezing hard. “I’ve been seeing your photos in the music papers. That shot of Eddie under the red lights in Philly? It’s getting passed around my journalism classes like contraband.”
Jonathan grinned, already snapping a few candids of the reunion on his own camera. “She’s not kidding. You’ve got a real eye. Super intimate. It’s killer work.”
Eddie wandered over, slinging an arm around my shoulders and greeting them both warmly. Robin practically tackled Nancy, while Steve and Jonathan bro-hugged like old times. For a little while, it felt like the old Hawkins crew back together.
We stole an hour before doors opened, crowding into a green room with terrible catering and the best conversations. Nancy grilled me about tour life and the growing buzz around my photos, her journalist instincts in full force. Jonathan and I geeked out over film stocks and darkroom techniques. Eddie and Robin filled them in on the wilder bus stories, including the time Steve tried to “improve” the bus bathroom and flooded half the lounge.
“Sounds like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” Nancy said softly when the others drifted off for final prep. “Proud of you. Seriously.”
The Boston show that night was electric. Corroded Coffin brought the house down with a blistering set, and Robin’s Hellfire performance had the entire venue singing along. I shot it all- sweat flying, lights pulsing, the pure joy on Eddie’s face when he caught my eye mid-song. The crowd chanted for an encore, and when the bands came back out together for a collaborative track, the energy was unreal.
After the show, as we loaded back onto the bus, Eddie pulled me close in the narrow aisle, kissing me slow and deep while the others whooped and catcalled.
“Still glad you came?” he murmured against my lips.
“Best decision I ever made.”
The tour rolled on after Boston, cutting a fiery path through the rest of the East Coast and into the Midwest. Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Detroit- the cities started blending together in a haze of stage lights, late-night drives, and the constant hum of the bus engine. My camera roll count was climbing into the hundreds, and the buzz around my photos kept growing. A full-page spread in Alternative Press featured my shot of Eddie crouched at the edge of the stage in Philly, reaching out to the crowd like a metal messiah. Robin’s fierce, sweat drenched profile from a Hellfire set made the cover of a local zine in Cleveland. People were starting to recognize me at venues now, asking for autographs on prints or shouting my name from the barricade.
Eddie insisted we celebrate the momentum.
One stop in Chicago, after a killer double bill, he dragged me to a RadioShack during a rare free afternoon. “You need this.” he said, holding up a chunky Motorola flip phone like it was Excalibur. “Label’s footing the bill. Can’t have my official photographer running around the country without a way for me to check in when we get split up at load-in.”
The thing was ridiculous- brick heavy, with an antenna I kept wanting to chew on- but it worked. I programmed in everyone’s numbers (Eddie’s on speed dial, obviously) and felt a little more anchored to the world around me.
A few nights later, somewhere outside Indianapolis, the phone rang for the first time while we were crammed in the lounge eating cold pizza. The number on the tiny screen was my parents’ house.
My stomach dropped.
Eddie noticed immediately, pausing mid-story about a botched guitar solo. “You gonna answer that, baby?”
I stepped into the narrow hallway between bunks for some semblance of privacy and flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Sweetheart?” Mom’s voice came through, crackly but unmistakable. “Is this really you? On one of those mobile phones?”
“Yeah, Mom. It’s me.” I leaned against the wall, heart hammering. “How’d you get this number?”
“Your cousin saw one of your pictures in a magazine at the bookstore. Called us right away. Then we got in touch with the label’s office- they were very nice about forwarding the number.” There was a pause, and I could hear Dad in the background. “We… we had to find out from a magazine that our daughter dropped out of art school and is touring the country with a rock band.”
Dad took over the line, his voice heavy. “We’re sad you didn’t tell us, kiddo. Really sad. We thought we were past keeping big things from each other after you moved to New York.”
“I know,” I whispered, guilt twisting in my chest. “I was scared. Scared you’d try to talk me out of it, or that you’d be disappointed.”
“We are a little disappointed about school,” Mom admitted softly when she took the phone back. “You worked so hard to get into SVA. We worried you were throwing it away for… well, for this life.”
I closed my eyes, bracing. But then her tone shifted.
“But honey… those photos. We went out and bought the magazines. Your father has the Spin one pinned up in the garage. You’ve got a real gift. And from what the label girl told us, people are really responding to your work. You sound happy. Alive.”
Dad chimed in again. “We’re proud of you, even if we don’t fully understand it. Just… be safe out there. And call more often. Don’t make us read about your adventures in a magazine next time.”
Tears stung my eyes. “I promise. I love you both. I’m thriving, I really am. Eddie, Robin, Steve- they’re taking care of me. And the photos… it feels like my purpose.”
“We love you too,” Mom said, voice thick. “Go make more art. Just don’t forget where you came from.”
I hung up and slid down the wall, letting out a shaky breath. Eddie appeared at the end of the hallway, concern etched on his face until I gave him a watery smile. He pulled me into his arms without a word, kissing the top of my head.
“Parents?” he guessed.
“Yeah. They found out.”
“Everything okay?”
I nodded against his chest. “Sad I didn’t tell them. Disappointed about school. But… happy I’m okay. They saw the photos.”
Eddie’s grin was soft and proud. “Told you the world was gonna see you, bat girl.”
The tour crossed the Mississippi and kept rolling west through February and into March. Chicago gave way to St. Louis, Denver, and then the long haul toward the Pacific. The bus felt smaller with every passing mile, but the energy inside it only grew. Corroded Coffin and Hellfire were blowing up faster than any of us could process. “Bat Wing Heart” was climbing the Billboard Alternative chart, radio stations were adding it to heavy rotation, and Hellfire’s breakout single was getting serious airplay too. Venues that once held a few hundred were now selling out 2,000+ capacity rooms. Fans in denim jackets and band tees waited at load-in with homemade signs, screaming lyrics back at Eddie and Robin like they’d known the songs forever.
My chunky phone was ringing more often- with label calls, booking confirmations, and messages from people wanting prints. My photos were everywhere now- a moody black-and-white of Eddie under stage lights in Rolling Stones “On the Rise” column, a raw shot of Robin mid-scream landing in Spin. The “Bat Girl Photographer” nickname had stuck. I was bringing in money that I didn't even know what to do with just yet.
The West Coast leg felt like stepping into a different world. The air got warmer as we pushed through the mountains, and the Pacific finally came into view somewhere near Seattle.
In Seattle, after a rainy, sweat-soaked show at a packed club, we decided to explore the city for once. We ditched the hotel and wandered Pike Place Market like tourists- Robin haggling for cheap sunglasses, Steve trying (and failing) to eat a whole salmon on a dare, Eddie buying me a silver bat-wing necklace from a street vendor that I wore onstage with my camera strap every night after. That night we ended up on the hotel roof, passing a joint and watching the city lights while Gareth attempted to play “Stairway to Heaven” on a borrowed acoustic until the rain chased us inside.
Portland was pure chaos. A surprise snowstorm hit right before load in, turning the venue parking lot into a slippery mess. Grant wiped out carrying his bass rig and refused to let anyone help, leading to ten minutes of the whole band sliding around like idiots while I documented the entire disaster on film. The show itself was one of the best yet- unhinged, rowdy as hell, and even The Color Green surprised everyone with a guest performance. Afterward, we found a bar and ate hot wings at 3 a.m. while locals recognized Eddie and Robin, buying us rounds until Steve had to play reluctant bodyguard.
California felt like the dream finally hitting overdrive. San Francisco’s foggy hills, the endless stretch of Highway 1, and then Los Angeles- back where this all blew up- where the label had us doing promo and bigger theater shows. One afternoon we convinced the bus driver to pull over and stop at the beach for some much needed quiet. We hiked down to the ocean. Eddie and I walked along the water’s edge, his arm around my waist, waves crashing while I shot roll after roll of the band goofing off- Robin attempting cartwheels in the sand, Steve burying Gareth up to his neck, Jeff and Grant playing hacky sack with a pinecone. Those photos later became some of my favorites.
Through it all, the momentum kept building. Bigger crowds. More industry people showing up backstage. Corroded Coffin and Hellfire were no longer “the bands from Hawkins”- they were the next big thing on the alt-rock scene.
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We were somewhere outside West Hollywood when my phone rang again. This time it was Nancy.
“Hey, rockstar photographer,” she said, excitement clear even over the spotty connection. “Look- I’ve been following the tour updates- your photos are killing it. I’m interning at The Boston Globe now, and they’re doing a piece on the new wave of breakout bands. My editor loved the samples I sent of your work. I want to interview you, Eddie, and Robin for the feature. Official quotes, behind-the-scenes stuff. Think you can squeeze me in when you're back on the East Coast again or do a phone interview?”
I laughed, leaning against Eddie’s bunk while he tuned his guitar nearby. “You’re serious? Nancy Wheeler, big-time journalist hunting us down?”
“Dead serious. This could be huge for all of us. You’re blowing up out there. Let me tell the story right.”
I glanced at Eddie, who gave me a proud thumbs-up. Robin, eavesdropping from across the lounge, yelled “Hell yes!” loud enough for Nancy to hear.
“We’re in,” I told her. “Phone interview for now, and we’ll make time in person when we loop back east. This is insane, Nance.”
“You deserve it,” she said warmly. “All of you do. Tell Eddie and Robin I said to save some insanity for my article.”
The call ended with plans and laughter. I hung up feeling a strange, full circle kind of pride. My best friend interviewing us for a major paper while we crisscrossed the country making music and art.
That night in LA, the bands played a packed historic theater. The energy was volcanic- Corroded Coffin closing with a blistering encore, Robin joining them onstage for a surprise Hellfire collaboration that had the entire venue on its feet. I moved through the chaos with my camera, capturing every second.
Later, back on the bus heading to the next stop, Eddie pulled me into the back lounge and kissed me slow and deep.
“World’s noticing you, baby girl,” he murmured. “Just like I always knew they would.”
The West Coast leg wrapped up in a blaze of sold-out theaters and screaming crowds. Los Angeles gave us two unforgettable nights at the Troubadour, followed by San Diego and a final, emotional show in Seattle where the rain poured down outside but the energy inside threatened to blow the roof off. By the time the bus turned east for the long ride home, Corroded Coffin and Hellfire had gone from breakout buzz to legitimate sensations. Radio play was everywhere, album sales were climbing, and my photographs had become a defining visual signature for both bands.
We took a couple of weeks to decompress in our shared apartment- sleeping in real beds, eating actual vegetables, and letting the adrenaline slowly fade. My phone still rang constantly with label people and magazine requests, but for the first time in months, there was no next load-in.
That’s when Nancy called.
“I finished the piece,” she said, excitement clear in her voice. “My editor wants to run it with fresh quotes and new photos now that the tour’s wrapped. Can you all come up to Boston for the weekend? Interview, hang out, the works. Jonathan’s already planning a fun shoot.”
We didn’t even hesitate.
Boston felt like a victory lap. We arrived on a crisp spring Friday and checked into a hotel near Emerson. The interview was scheduled for Saturday morning at a quiet café with wood paneled walls and the best coffee in the city. Nancy had her notebook, tape recorder, and a sharp, focused energy that reminded me of her Hawkins days chasing stories.
The group settled around a large back table- Eddie, Robin, me with my camera bag at my feet, and Steve tagging along as the official manager of both bands. Jonathan hovered nearby, snapping candid shots.
Nancy clicked the recorder on with a warm but professional smile.
“This is Nancy Wheeler for The Boston Globe. We’re here with Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin, Robin Buckley of Hellfire, and their official tour photographer. The tour just wrapped- congratulations. Let’s start big: from playing The Hideout in Hawkins to theaters across the country in a matter of months. What does that feel like now that it’s over?”
Eddie leaned back, arm draped casually around my shoulders. “It still doesn’t feel real. We went from selling tapes out of my van to hearing our songs on the radio in every city. The crowds knew every word. It’s validating as hell, but it also makes me grateful we had each other through it all.”
Robin jumped in, grinning. “Hellfire being a solo project now made it extra for me. Standing on stage alone after being part of the band… I was terrified the first few nights. By the end? I felt unstoppable. The crowds were singing my words back to me. It’s wild what happens when you stop hiding who you are.”
Nancy turned to me, eyes bright. “And you left SVA mid-year to become the official photographer for both bands. Your work has been everywhere- Spin, Alternative Press, even some Rolling Stone coverage. Walk us through that choice and what the tour looked like through your lens.”
I took a breath, Eddie’s thumb tracing soothing circles on my arm.
“It was terrifying,” I admitted. “I was scared I was throwing my future away by dropping out of art school. But being on the road, capturing Eddie commanding the stage with Corroded Coffin or Robin completely owning Hellfire sets… it felt more authentic than anything I’d done in a classroom. I shot everything- the highs, the exhausted 3 a.m. bus rides, the silly moments and the sad ones. The intimacy is what I wanted people to see. These aren’t just rock stars. They’re my people. The photos reflect that.”
Nancy nodded thoughtfully. “Your style has been called raw, emotional, and unfiltered. Was there a specific moment on tour where you realized your photography was resonating with fans?”
“Probably Philly,” I said, smiling at the memory. “A girl came up after the show holding a print I’d taken of Eddie reaching into the crowd. She said it made her feel seen. That’s when it hit me- this work matters beyond the tour book.”
The conversation flowed naturally for nearly two hours. Eddie recounted the wilder moments- bus breakdowns, snowed-in sing-alongs, the time Steve nearly started a fire trying to burn some loose strings off his sweater. Robin opened up about the pressure of sudden attention as a queer woman in rock, and how the stage became her safe space. Nancy asked smart, probing questions about staying grounded, the industry’s speed, and what comes next.
Eddie’s answer stuck with me. “We’ve got real friends and each other. And her,” he said, nodding to me. “She keeps us honest. No matter how big it gets, we’re still the same misfits from Hawkins.”
By the end, Nancy turned off the recorder, visibly pleased. “This is going to be a strong feature. You three are the perfect example of chasing something real and making it work.”
The rest of the weekend was relaxed and joyful. We wandered Boston with Nancy and Jonathan- bookstores in Cambridge, long talks over diner food, and a chilly walk along the Charles River where Jonathan and I geeked out over film like old times while Eddie and Robin plotted their next studio sessions. Saturday night we all crammed into Nancy’s apartment for pizza, wine, and endless stories. Sunday was lazy- brunch, more photos, and a quiet moment where Nancy hugged me tight and whispered how proud she was.
The Boston Globe piece ran the following weekend with several of my tour photos printed large. It felt like the perfect capstone to an unforgettable chapter.
With the tour behind us, the future stretched wide open- new music, new shoots, and the same chosen family by my side.
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
The apartment was finally quiet.
After months on a rumbling tour bus filled with laughter, arguments, and the constant smell of stale coffee and B.O., Steve’s New York place felt almost too still. Robin and Steve had gone out to some dive bar in the Village to celebrate being home again- Robin claiming she needed “real New York chaos” after all those theater green rooms. The door had barely clicked shut behind them before Eddie tugged me toward our room with that familiar crooked grin.
Now we were tangled together in bed, the city humming faintly beyond the window. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the walls covered in tour photos I’d printed and pinned up- my favorite being blurry shots of all of us laughing on the bus. A joint burned slowly between Eddie’s fingers as he passed it to me.
I took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, then nestled deeper into his chest. His arm tightened around my waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns along my bare hip under the oversized shirt I’d stolen from him.
“Still feels weird, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice low and rough from the tour and the weed. “No schedule. No load-in at 4 p.m. Just… us. In a real bed that doesn’t try to murder your back every night.”
I smiled, passing the joint back. “I keep waking up thinking we’re still somewhere in Ohio, waiting for Gareths snore to shake the bus.”
Eddie chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. He took a hit and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift. “Look at us, sweet girl. From Hawkins trailer parks and dingy bars to… this.” He gestured vaguely at the apartment, at the stack of magazines on the nightstand with my photos in them, at the new guitar cases lined up against the wall. “Corroded Coffin’s actually on the radio. People know Hellfire. And you- fuck, baby, your pictures are in Rolling Stone. The girl who used to hide behind her camera in the back of The Hideout is now the one everyone’s talking about.”
I turned my head to look at him. His dark eyes were soft in the low light, curls laying freely against the pillow. “I still can’t believe I left school. That my parents know and they’re… okay with it. Mostly.”
“They’re proud,” he said gently, passing the joint again. “Even if it scared them. We all broke out of that damn town. You, me, Robin, Steve, Nancy, Jonathan… none of us are stuck anymore.” He paused, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Sometimes I lie here and think about that graduation party at the lake. Screaming that we were finally free. I had no idea how right we were.”
I took another drag and handed it back, letting the warmth settle in my chest. “I was so scared on that first flight to New York. Then the tour… God, Eddie, some nights I thought I’d never keep up. But every time I looked through the lens and saw you up there, or Robin, it all made sense. This is what we were supposed to do.”
Eddie stubbed out the joint and rolled us so we were facing each other, foreheads nearly touching. His hand slid under my shirt again, warm palm resting on my lower back, pulling me closer until our legs tangled.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “This. You and me. The music. The road when we choose it, home when we need it. I used to think I’d die in Hawkins, you know? The freak who never got out. Now I’ve got real fucking friends, a band that’s blowing up, and a girl whose photos make the whole world see what I always saw.”
I kissed him softly, tasting smoke and the familiar sweetness that was just Eddie. “I love what we’ve become. All of it. Even the bad parts.”
The kiss started soft, familiar- the kind we’d shared a thousand times on tour buses and in green rooms. But tonight, with the apartment empty and the weed curling warm and hazy through our veins, it shifted.
Eddie’s mouth moved against mine with slow intent, deepening almost immediately. His hand slid up my back, fingers tangling in my hair as he tilted my head just right. I sighed into him, the smoke still lingering on our tongues. The high wrapped around us like a blanket, heightening every brush of skin, every shared breath.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he murmured against my lips, voice low and rough.
I answered by pulling him closer, kissing him harder. It grew messier fast- less coordinated, more desperate. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, soft little sounds escaping us both as the world narrowed down to just this bed, just us. My hands roamed under his shirt, tracing the familiar lines of his tattoos, the warmth of his skin. He groaned quietly, the sound vibrating through me.
His fingers drifted down to my thigh, hitching my leg over his hip as he rolled us so I was half beneath him. The weight of his body felt perfect- grounding. We kissed like we had all the time in the world- deep, wet, filthy in the best way- breaking only for quick, shaky breaths before diving back in.
I felt dizzy with it. With him. With how much I loved this man who had once been the town freak and was now my entire future. Everything felt like it was glowing- the way his curls brushed my cheek, the scrape of his stubble, the heat building between us. My hands slipped lower, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants as his mouth moved to my neck, sucking lightly, then harder, leaving deep maroon marks I’d wear proudly tomorrow.
“Eddie…” I breathed, arching into him.
He lifted his head, eyes dark and glassy from the high and from want, that devastating smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
The air between us thickened from the months of pent-up need. On the road we’d stolen quick, quiet moments- rushed kisses in bunks, frantic handjobs in locked venue bathrooms- but never enough. Never like this. Never slow and uninterrupted in our own bed.
Eddie’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he hovered over me. “Been dying for you,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Just you and me. No one else with us on a fucking bus.”
I pulled him down hard, kissing him messily, all tongue and teeth. Clothes came off in a haze- his shirt yanked over his head, my stolen tee tossed somewhere across the room, sweatpants shoved down impatient legs until there was nothing between us but heated skin.
He settled between my thighs, bare and aching for him. No condom. We’d talked about it months ago- both clean, both on the same page- and right now neither of us wanted to stop. I wanted to feel him. All of him.
“Eddie,” I gasped as he dragged the head of his cock through my slick folds, teasing, coating himself in me.
“Yeah, baby girl. I’ve got you.” His voice was low, almost reverent.
He pushed in slow at first, bare and thick, stretching me open in one long, delicious slide. We both moaned at the raw sensation, just wet heat and perfect friction. He bottomed out with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.
“Fuck… you feel so good,” he whispered, hips twitching like he was fighting not to lose control immediately. “So fucking warm. Missed this. Missed you.”
Then the dam broke.
We moved together like we were starving. His thrusts started deep and steady but quickly turned desperate- harder, messier, the slap of skin and our shared moans filling the quiet apartment. I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips. Every movement felt like it was the first time again- every drag of his cock inside me, every brush of his chest against my nipples, every filthy kiss.
Eddie buried his face in my neck, sucking marks into my skin as he fucked me harder, one hand gripping my thigh to spread me wider. “That’s it… take me just like that. Been thinking about this for weeks.”
I cried out, nails raking down his back, lost in the overwhelming fullness, the slick sound of him driving into me again and again. The pleasure built fast and relentless, the high making every nerve sing. I clenched around him and he cursed, pace faltering.
“Close- fuck, I’m so close,” he growled, shifting the angle so he hit that perfect spot inside me with every thrust.
I came first, hard and shaking, moaning his name like a prayer as waves of pleasure crashed through me. Eddie followed right after with a broken groan, burying himself deep as he spilled inside me, hot and pulsing. He kept moving through it, slow and lazy, drawing it out until we were both trembling and spent.
We stayed locked together, breathing ragged, bodies slick with sweat. Eddie kissed me softly, lazily, still buried inside me as the aftershocks faded.
“Love you,” he whispered against my lips, voice raw. “So fucking much.”
I smiled, boneless and glowing, running my fingers through his damp curls. “Love you more.”
Eddie’s weight was comforting, grounding. He finally shifted, slipping out of me with a shared, shaky breath, but he didn’t go far. Instead, he rolled onto his back and pulled me flush against his chest, one arm banded tightly around my waist while his other hand stroked slow, soothing lines up and down my spine.
I tucked my face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in- sweat, smoke, that familiar Eddie scent that always felt like home. His release was warm and slick between my thighs, a quiet reminder of how completely we’d given ourselves to each other tonight. Nothing else in the universe- just us.
“You okay, sweet girl?” he whispered, voice husky and tender. His lips brushed my forehead, then my temple, soft little kisses that made my chest ache in the best way.
“More than okay,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I just… I missed this. Not just the sex. The way it feels when it’s you and me, really alone. No worrying someone’s gonna bang on the door because soundcheck’s in ten.”
Eddie let out a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest under my ear. His fingers kept moving- gentle, reverent- tracing the curve of my shoulder, the line of my neck, like he was memorizing me all over again. “Yeah. Me too. On the road I’d look at you across the venue, camera in hand, completely lost in the moment and it would hit me all over again how fucking lucky I am. That you chose this. Chose us. Even when it meant kicking the shit out of that box of conformity you put yourself in. ”
I tilted my head up to meet his eyes. They were soft in the low lamplight, still a little glassy from the joint, but shining with something deeper. Vulnerability. Love so big it almost felt overwhelming.
“I was scared,” I admitted quietly, my fingers tracing the demon tattoo on his chest. “Hell- still am, sometimes. But lying here with you… You make me feel brave, Eddie. Like I can actually be the person I want to be instead of the safe version I thought I had to be.”
He cupped my face with one hand, thumb brushing tenderly across my cheekbone. “You are brave. You always have been. You saw me for me and didn’t run. You picked up your camera and turned our chaos into art that people actually care about.” His voice cracked just slightly. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. But I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret choosing me.”
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes- not sad ones, just full, overflowing ones. I kissed him slowly, deeply, pouring everything I felt into it. When we parted, I rested my forehead against his.
“We chose each other,” I whispered. “Every single day since that first real conversation at the lake. And I’m never going to stop.”
Eddie’s arms tightened around me, pulling me even closer until there was no space left between our bodies. We lay there tangled together, skin cooling, hearts slowing, just breathing the same air. The city moved on outside our window, but inside this room it was only love- raw, messy, profound.
“I love you,” he said again, simple and fierce, like a vow. “I want all of this. Just you and me, building whatever the hell we want next.”
“I love you too,” I breathed, pressing one more kiss to his lips before settling back against his chest. “All of it.”
His hand found mine, fingers lacing together over his heart. We stayed like that for what felt like hours- talking softly about nothing and everything. Dreams for the next album. Whether we’d tour again soon. If maybe, one day, we’d get a place that was really ours. The stoned haze and the emotional release left us open in a way we rarely got to be on the road.
For the first time since everything exploded, I felt completely at peace. Safe. Cherished. Deeply known.
This was what coming home really meant.
