Mary on a Cross

–-𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔦𝔢 / 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 / 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫-𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔶 𝔈𝔡𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔐𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰

but after all the sorrow we'll be riding high! and the truth of the matter is, I never let you go, let you go.

Eddie only just barely manages to pry his eyes open against the Upside-down’s latest crack of lightning. It.. doesn’t make sense. The others are gone. He should be gone, too- gone with the bats, gone with Chrissy. He is dully aware of the gut-deep pain radiating from his sides as he gradually fades back into consciousness- and his lip curls when his eyes fall upon the beast who’s been on his heels for days now. The mask of the Red Death is as cruel as it is ugly.

“Pick a fair fight if you’re gonna pull bullshit like this you fuckin’ cowards, gotta get the whole gang together for one man?  It’s pussy shit!” Contrary to the shit he just talked, Billy doesn’t let them get a punch in– Dean doesn’t even get both feet on the ground over the other side of the car before Billy is swinging.  He catches him square in the jaw and sends him spiraling left, cradling the offended side of his face.  

One of them is coming up across the back of the Camaro when his boots collide with deanie-boy’s ribs.  “Gotta gang up because you’re too pussy to handle one shitbean by himself, much less me.  Get the fuck out of here.”  He pushes Dean away with his foot and turns just in time for one of them to get a good right hook in.  

–It doesn’t do them a lick of good.  He takes the punch with barely so much as a stumble and rears back.   The sound of Billy beating their multiple asses goes on for ten minutes.  By the end, his knuckles are bruised and busted and he has some scuffs.  Nothing too bad.  Nothing worse than he’s gotten before. 

They climb in their van and retreat with a useless ‘this ain’t over hargrove’ but Billy thinks– yeah, it is.  He turns around, splits blood at the concrete.  He stoops at the waist and picks up the discarded black bandana.  He folds it up, handing it back to it’s rightful owner without looking at him.  “– Don’t go waving that shit around all the time.  You’re making yourself a fucking target.” 

Eddie’s moved to sit against the side of Billy’s car by the time the fight is done, stoppering his blood-faucet with the collar of his shirt, acutely aware of the fact that we won’t ever be able to listen to Back in Black again without remembering Billy Hargrove and his fists of fury.

He doesn’t know if that's a good thing. He can hardly look at Billy as he hands over his flag without feeling a degree of heat creeping up his throat and jaw. Teeth bloody, eyes wild, shirt open to reveal a chest reflecting sweat in the headlights as it clings to his skin. He’s a beautiful thing of terror. Suddenly, Eddie understands why the Greeks worshipped Ares so.

CHRISSY’S 18TH BIRTHDAY BASH! He stares at the invitation like it were written in alien letters. Its very sweet of her. No- its downright GENEROUS. But instead of excitement, Eddie’s response to those four little words is a tight lump in his throat. He tries not to let it show. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings.

He recognizes the car before he recognizes the voice- but at first, he doesn’t believe it. Why would Billy Hargrove be stepping in to save him from the hounds of hell? (No. Not hell. They’re not cool enough for that). Eddie scrambles back on his elbows when the car gets a little TOO close for comfort. The pavement rubs the skin raw. Stones cut into his flesh. Eddie is too busy gaping in awe at his unexpected savior to notice. He still can’t understand it. Or maybe it’s the head trauma.

“He’s fucking insane!” It sounds like Gerry, who had skedaddled out of the car’s path so hard he landed on his ass on the other side. Dean Thompson slams both fists into the hood of the Camero and jabs a furious finger in the air at Billy.  “Back off, Hargrove. This is our pick, not yours!”

Patrick hauls Gerry back to his feet with one great heave, and they share a look. Gerry nods. Patrick nudges Dean and nods toward Hargrove. They think that now that he’s out of the car, he’s outnumbered.

@batsobey​  ♡ ‘d for a starter ! 

“ — Okay.”   Yeah, he’s definitely feeling it now.  His head is hanging off of Eddie’s mattress, the blood rushing.  It leaves him a little lightheaded, but it isn’t the only thing making his blood rush.  Eddie’s legs are all tangled up in his and they’re nearly done with their second blunt.  

They probably should have slowed it down. 

“Truth or dare.”  

"—mmmm," Eddie uses two fingers to drum along with the music as he thinks. He WANTS to say dare. In his fantasies, dare ends with them a little closer than this- their faces, at least- and they're so high that they don't care what happens after. The word dances at the tip of his tongue with such  potent  desire that he feels it in his chest, in his fingers-

But two blunts in he's still afraid.

Eddie Munson doesn't get bullied.

Not anymore, anyway. Not since he moved to Hawkins. He arrived in this small town a big-city kid with big-city britches- nobody could try anything he hadn't lived through before, and it quickly became known that that Munson kid? Is fucking weird. Push him, and he'll tell you to do it harder. Call him names, and he won't just embrace them, he'll come to school the next day with a brand new button pinned to his chest with pride. Once somebody grabbed him and Eddie's eyes rolled back into his head like he were possessed, convulsing, and speaking in tongues.

So he doesn't get bullied.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't get his ass beat every now and again- it just means its harder for him to predict.