Crazy Jenny

He would walk for miles muttering

“I’m sure this rain won’t last

I’m sure its time is up

Though it’s pouring down, I’m sure this rain won’t last”

As it fell on Job’s eyes, this water of doubt

He said, “I’m wading in lies, it’s wearing me out

But if you want it, alright

I’ll buy it 

I’ll buy it 

I’ll buy it

I’ll buy it

I’ll buy it”

The wind screamed, “Blood too dirty for mosquitos

I hope that you die soon

Pray to any god you believe in”

—Job’s Eyes by Far

Eddie pats the pockets of his jacket, then his jeans, missing the obvious lump of his wallet. He lifts random items on the counter, checking beneath them for the folded leather. A glance at the microwave’s digital clock reminds him—he’s running late.

“Fuck,” he mutters, running back into his room to search the pockets of discarded jeans. Once he finds the missing item, he secures it to the chain on the pair he’s wearing, swiping the van keys off the table, ready to head out the front door. 

When he opens the door, he jumps at the sight of you on his front stoop, your fist raised to knock. Stumbling back, he presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “Jesus, dude! You scared the shit outta me!” 

Your shock melts into amusement, huffing out a laugh as you lower your hand. “Sorry, Eds.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I was just about to meet up with Chris. What’re you doin’ here? D’you need something?” He’s more jittery than usual, the clock ticking down the seconds until he’s well and truly late for the date with his girlfriend. 

Instead of answering, you climb up the last step entering his trailer, brushing past him into the living room. He watches you turn around to face him, standing with your hands clasped in front of you, hanging from your body. Letting the door swing shut, he glances at the clock again.

“Sweetheart, I really gotta go. What’s up?”

Any amusement you showed is now wiped clean from your face. Wide eyes and fluttering lashes gaze at him as you let out a mumble, “She’s not right for you.”

“What?”

He heard you, but he’s not sure if he heard you correctly. 

Letting go of your hands, you carefully move toward him, but your timid steps don’t stop until you’re almost toe-to-toe with him, sharing the same shallow breaths. Wide brown eyes follow the way your tongue slides over your dry lips, wetting them with a shine in the low lamp light of his trailer. 

The sight of you nearly chest to chest with him has his heart rate picking up. He’s been your best friend since preschool, but he’s only ever been this close to you a handful of times, and neither of you are in formal wear—so it can’t be one of those times.

The staring contest breaks with the downward tip of your chin, glancing at the minimal space between both of your bodies. His stare remains on the crown of your head—where your nervous eyes just were. His stomach twitches at the feeling of wandering fingers inching up the side of his abdomen. 

“You heard me,” the mutter is almost unintelligible until you look up at him again through painted black lashes. “She’s not right for you.” 

His huffing breath hitches at the smooth fingers weaseling their way under his band tee, the skin on his stomach jerks at the unfamiliar, cool touch. Sucking in a stuttering breath, his eyes flutter shut at the teasing tips of painted nails as they dance across his waistband. Forcing his eyes open with a struggle, he gulps. “I–I d–don’t…under–understand.”

Meeting his wide, brown irises with drawn brows and pouty lips, you whisper, “No? Wan’ me to explain?”

Nodding his head, he nervously clears his throat as your lips creep closer to his. This isn’t what he was expecting in terms of an explanation. He’s trying so hard not to lean in, but it’s like there’s a gravitational pull—like he’s stuck spinning aimlessly in your orbit. 

A strangled sound escapes his throat as you pull him by the shirt to the couch, shoving him down before settling onto his lap, legs bent on either side of his thighs. He calls your name softly, a miserable attempt to deter your actions.

“Y–You know I’m with Chris…” he shakily defends, an earnest attempt to remind you he’s a taken man. But you won’t hear it, sitting your weight onto the bulge beneath his fly. 

Roving hands slide up his chest, past his throat, and into the curls at the nape of his neck. His eyes close on their own volition, the scratching sensation of your nails on his scalp too much for his nervous system to handle. He can feel the soft puff of breath on his lips, the heat from your taunting mouth. He can almost feel the words you speak, your lips are practically on his own.

“Yeah? Well, maybe I have someone too. So let’s call it even.” 

The mention of you having a boyfriend or someone—as you put it—has him frowning. He doesn’t recall you mentioning anybody. You two told each other everything. Who is this guy? Eddie doesn’t get the chance to interrogate you when he feels your soft hand on his bare cock. 

Looking down, he watches you spread a bead of precum around the ruddy tip. He doesn’t remember you undoing his pants or pulling them down enough to free his length, but he also feels like he doesn’t remember the past minute since you walked in, guns blazing. 

“W–What are you doing?”

You let out what almost sounds like a whine, the noise makes his cock twitch in your firm grip. You breathe desperate breaths into his mouth, head bobbing forward to graze deprived lips to his. “I need you, Eddie. Please…I’ve needed you for so long,” you mewl, guiding his head through your drenched folds.

His forehead presses to yours, mouth dropped open in anguished pants. He’s trying so hard to understand what’s going on, but all the blood from his brain has rushed south. An unwilling moan leaves his throat at the feel of your warm arousal. Looking down his nose, he watches you sink down on his cock, the skirt he hadn’t even noticed you wearing now offering perfect, easy access. 

Biting back a groan at the way your walls adhere to him, squeezing him so well, he musters up enough power to utter a single word. “B–But–”

Rolling your hips, you hurriedly peck the lips you’ve been grazing with your own for the past twenty seconds, assuring him, “Nobody has to know, I promise. You know I can keep a secret…”

The way your head tilts has him following your lips, entranced by the small peck you granted him. Ringed fingers slide up your thighs, settling on your slow moving hips. Moaning at the feeling of you everywhere—breath on his lips, hands in his hair, cunt on his cock, scent in his nose—he can’t stop himself from guiding your hips faster. 

“T–This is wrong, we sh–shouldn’t be d–doing this.” His words are interrupted with stuttering moans and hissing pleasure as your pussy squeezes him so tightly. He’s getting close and he has no fucking clue how any of this happened. 

He was going somewhere when you arrived, somewhere he can’t remember now…

He was meant to do something—meet someone? Thoughts are functioning at a third of their typical speed in his head, every idea is dragged down by the drawl of your sinful hips. The pulsing of your walls mark each passing second his morality degrades in the flames of his desire. 

He feels your soft hands pull his head, catching his foggy gaze. “Don’t you know, baby? It’s not cheating if you don’t cum inside me… Be good, Eddie, baby. You can be good for me, right?” 

Melting at your saccharine words, he has to grit his teeth not to cum right then. Moans are free falling from his lips as your hips pick up the pace, fucking yourself on his hard cock. 

Planting a wet kiss to the corner of his lips, you mumble against his hot skin. “Or maybe…you want me to be good for you? I can do that… Is that how you wanna play, lover?”

A growl leaves his lips, hips twitching upwards, needing more from you. He’s never heard you speak like this, your voice is so fucked out, the things you’re saying—he feels like he’s losing his mind. Large hands grope your ass, working you up and down on his throbbing cock. 

“You’ll be good for her and I’ll be good for you. Or how about, you’ll be good for her…and I’ll be bad for you. Would you like that?” The question is tainted by a moan, the unfamiliar cadence makes his brain whir with static. 

Your words are all registering as dirty promises to Eddie. With no thoughts in his head to stop him, he flips you over as you squeal, your back falling to the old couch—the one you’ve spent many nights sleeping on. He watches with hunger as your breasts jiggle from the sudden movement—he doesn’t remember when your shirt came off, but he’s been a little preoccupied with every near kiss you tease him with. 

The new angle and his unforgiving thrusts have you moaning uncontrollably, gyrating hips making a pitiful attempt to meet his movements. Mumbling curses and hitching breaths into your neck, he cages you in. Beside his ear, he hears a combination of what sounds like panting breaths and giggling laughs from you—the same laugh you’d let out when you won every arcade game against him. 

“Oh, I knew there was something about you,” you pant out, whining as he bites the junction of your neck. “You like to be all sweet and silly, but you’re a beast aren’t you? 

Just take what you want in bed, hm?”

Your sultry words have his hips stuttering, losing the rhythm he built up. Running a sweaty hand down your conjoined bodies, he rubs the little button he’s been dying to play with. Hearing your breath catch in your throat, he relishes the way you moan his name as your walls squeeze the life out of his cock, throbbing around him in fluttering pulses. 

“Mm, fuck, sweetheart. Cunt feels s’fucking good, pretty.” 

He feels your hot gaze on his face as his eyes roll back, stomach clenching, balls pulling taut to his body. For the life of him, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to do right now. Can’t remember if there's a formality he should partake in, a question he should ask you before the fiery feeling becomes too much. 

“Remember the rules, lover boy,” you warn with a moan.

“F–Fuck,” he drawls, languid hips carry him through his orgasm as rope after rope of his cum paints your warm walls. 

He drops onto your chest in exhaustion, and you smack the back of his shoulder blade. “Oh, naughty boy,” you chide, giving a punishing yank to his curls—only to earn a moan in response.

Drawing his head from your neck, you hold his hot cheek, looking into hazy eyes. “You wanna see your mess, pretty boy? Wanna see what you’ve done to me?” 

Struggling to catch his breath, Eddie nods tiredly, backing off of you. Right as he feels the squirming feeling of his soft cock sliding out of your wet hole—prepared to look at the oozing mess—he wakes with a start.

Face down into his sheets, the pillow shoved further up the bed than his body, he feels the most uncomfortable sensation he’s ever felt. He knows he was just humping the bed, he wouldn’t be in this position otherwise. Beneath his crotch, he feels a squelching wetness. Jumping up in a rush, he looks down, panting at the sight before him. 

His sheets are damp with a big, blotchy stain, and his boxers have a matching wetness. “Shit,” he mutters, scrambling off the bed and shoving the soiled underwear down his twitching legs. Grabbing a fresh pair of boxer briefs from the half-open dresser drawer against the wall, he glances back at the stain, tugging the fabric up before stripping the sheets off the lumpy, old mattress.

Eddie doesn’t remember anything, but it must’ve been some dream—this is the most he’s cum since he first discovered masturbation. Peeking out of his bedroom door, he notes Wayne’s absence. Sunday means diner day with his buddies from the plant, Sunday also means hang outs with you and the gang. You. He’s getting the weirdest sense of déjà vu having to do with you. Was he supposed to do something? Say something to you? 

Shaking off the confusing train of thought, he shuffles out of his room, shoves the dirty sheets into the wash with some detergent, and starts the cycle. Yanking open the refrigerator door, he grabs the orange juice, drinking right out of the carton—a habit you always yell at him for. 

He swipes away a stray drop of juice from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, messy in his movements, as he considers the last time he had an 'accident' like that—couldn’t be any less than five years ago. Snorting at the memory, the day after his first prom night was a doozy, one he doesn’t often like to reflect on. 

The phone rings, shaking against the wall with the shrill noise. He checks the clock on the microwave, giving himself another bout of déjà vu. Ignoring the strange feeling, he sets the carton of juice down, heading to the phone. 

“Munson residence, how may I direct your call?” he asks with a hoity-toity accent. 

A smile grows on his face as he hears your familiar giggle through the phone, you always laugh at every new way he answers your calls. “Hi, Edward.”

Despite the clear smile in your voice, he cringes at the name you use. “Oo, gross, hate it.”

“Well, it seemed right with the way you answered the phone.” You laugh at his dramatic gagging. 

“Okay, noted. I’ll never use that voice again.” 

“The world will thank you. What are you up to?”

“Uhh,” he hesitates, eyes darting between the washer and the cum soaked underwear still on his bedroom floor—he doesn’t think you need to know every detail of his morning. “Just drinkin’ some orange juice.”

“Out of a glass?” 

“...Yeah.”

You’ve known him long enough to be able to hear the lie in his voice. “Egh, you big fibber! You’re drinking out of the carton again, aren’t you?” 

“Hey! I resent that very true accusation!” Eddie’s cheeks ache from the wild grin stretched across his face—he loves getting to talk to you first thing in the morning. It reminds him of all those school years when you’d meet up before classes and every moment in between.

“Ugh, you’re a beast. You should be taken out back and shot Old Yeller style.” 

Snorting at your words, he can’t help the furrow of his brows. Something about your sentence sounds familiar—like you’ve said that very same thing to him before. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he scrambles for a response.

“Yeah, well, I’d like to see you catch me. It’d be like hunting wabbits,” he finishes in his best Elmer Fudd impression. 

“Whatever, weirdo. Hey, what are we doing tonight, by the way? Steve was asking me.” 

“Uhh, I dunno,” too hung up on the mention of Steve, he can’t think straight until he lets the question fly. “You talked to Steve?”

He didn’t know you talked to Steve. He thought you two were only connected via his joint friendship with you both—only conversing when the group was together. 

“Yeah, he was over at my place the other day. Came to ask for that ‘Dirty Dancing’ VHS.”

The frown never leaves Eddie's face as he hums into the phone. “Hm…Family Video does house calls now? What, did they increase their budget?” 

He hears crackling static and your giggle over the line. “I don’t know,” you muse, “I think it was an excuse to come look at my dad’s new car. I mentioned the luxurious purchase last week, and well, you know Steve.” 

He does know Steve. He knows Steve better than you. He knows that the guy loves cars, but he loves women even more, and that’s what concerns him.

“Right,” Eddie feels a weird prickling sensation in his chest, choosing to ignore it, he carries on the conversation. “Uh, what about the arcade tonight?” 

“Sounds good to me. I’ll let Rob know. I’m sure she’s at work with Harrington right now.” 

The line goes quiet for a second. He pauses, it doesn't sound like you were done speaking. Then your voice picks up again, a quiet tone—different from the light and teasing smile he heard through the receiver a second ago. 

“Is Chrissy coming?”

Eddie’s eyes widen, this is the first time today he’s thought about Chrissy. Usually he gives her a call right when he wakes up, but he was so distracted with the mess he made, then you called, and he can never resist joking around with you. Shit, he needs to call his girlfriend. 

“Uh, you know what? I’m gonna call her right now and ask.” He rushes out a quick, “See you soon, sweetheart,” before hanging up. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.”

Dialling the number he knows by heart, he presses the yellow telephone to his ear, listening to the ring. 

“Hello?” The soft voice of his girlfriend pours through the static. 

“Oh, Chris! I’m so sorry, I forgot to call you when I woke up—it’s been a crazy morning.”

Muffled giggles preface her words, “It’s okay, Eddie. I was just about to go for a run. How’d you sleep?”

Suddenly uncomfortable with her question, he obfuscates, “Uh, I…it–slept fine. You?” 

Deeming less words better, he listens to her talk about the dream she had. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to divulge the events of his morning—cleaning up after his wet dream. It’s not like he hasn’t had sex with his girlfriend or that they abstain from talking about sex. It’s just that he doesn’t exactly remember the dream, so he’s not in the mood to flounder at her inevitable probing questions. 

He must’ve zoned out on her tale because he jumps when he hears a question directed at him. “Have you ever had a crazy dream where you’re like, ‘Woah, that felt so real’?”

Heart rate picking up, he doesn’t know why her question gives him so much anxiety all of a sudden. “Uh, not one I can remember—I don’t think… Hey, listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come to the arcade tonight with me and the group.” 

“Sure! Sounds fun! You’ll pick me up?”

“Yep, let’s do seven.”

After getting off the phone with her, he calls you back. He gets your machine but leaves a message confirming the time for tonight. With plans solidified, he goes about his day—making his bed with fresh sheets, writing down some notes for Hellfire, and doing more laundry. Seven approaches and he hasn’t thought about the mystery dream once. 

Arriving at the arcade with Chrissy, he greets you, Steve, and Robin. He notes that you look different than normal, but he can’t put his finger on it. Never exactly great with observations, he lets it slide—there’s been one too many times throughout the years where you’ve waited expectantly for him to notice your new haircut. Eventually you always have to tell him or it’ll be grown out again by the time he notices the change. 

The night is filled with fun and laughter—he watches contently as Steve and Robin argue over who will play Ms. Pac-Man first, and laughs at how Chrissy swoops in to play while they’re too busy bickering. You beat him at Joust like you always do, causing him to groan and complain and you to giggle maniacally. 

“Be good, Eddie,” you chide, telling him to behave like a man instead of a sore loser. 

The one time you lose to him is during a round of Ghosts ‘n Goblins—and only because he’s too busy sabotaging your gameplay. He constantly blows air in your ear, pinches your waist, and moans obnoxiously loud, drawing attention from those around you until you finally smack him.

When you don’t even make it past the stone hopping—instead sinking into the water—you slam your hands on the control board. Whipping around to Eddie, you angrily watch as he’s doubled over in laughter at his successful attempt to bring you down a peg. 

“You did that! That doesn’t count, it’s your fault I died! Look at what you’ve done to me!” You gesture to the pitiful end score, barely even making it off the first piece of land. 

His laughter dies down at the unsteady feeling in his body, he looks around at all of the young adults and kids in the bustling arcade. Déjà vu again, but he hasn’t been here in a while. Your words draw him back, his body feeling steady again.

“You owe me a game of Q*bert,” you threaten, marching off without looking back. 

Eddie moves to follow you, but Chrissy pops up in front of him. “Hey! Can I watch you play Dragon’s Lair? I really like when the princess is on screen, she’s so pretty.” 

Glancing down at his girlfriend’s big blue eyes, he realizes he hasn’t hung out with her much tonight. Looking around, he spots Steve and Robin bickering over a game of Punch Out—Robin laughing in Steve’s face while he complains about the machine being rigged. 

“Uhh, I was gonna–” his words catch in his throat. Telling his girlfriend ‘no’ to go hang out with his best friend who he’s been with all night sounds like a bad boyfriend move, so he doesn’t. 

Meeting your eyes from across the room, he sees you standing guard by the machine, keeping any annoying kids at bay while you wait for him. A faint smile lingers on your lips, but your eyes flick between Chrissy’s back and his wide brown ones.

He’s not sure if he saw what he thought he saw, but your smile seems to falter as he squeezes Chrissy’s hand. Glancing back down at his expectant girlfriend, he asks her to go wait by the Dragon’s Lair machine.

“I’ll be right there, I just need to go do something really quick.” 

Eddie feels awful when your smile brightens as he comes closer. “Ready to get pissed at the idiotic movements of a little ball of orange obsessed with geometry?” 

A rueful smile creeps across his face at your quip, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, he gestures vaguely to where Chrissy just was. “I would love to, sweetheart, but I think I–I should play a round with Chris. Don’t wan’ her to feel left out.”

The bright smile slowly falls off your face, a neutral look of understanding replaces it. “Yeah, of course! You should go–play with your–girlfriend.” 

He knows you're upset by the way you're overcompensating—being overly accommodating and offering stilted encouragement—and he wishes he could just play Q*bert with you. He’d much rather hear your evil laugh as you beat him yet again than play Dragon’s Lair, but he doesn’t want to upset Chrissy.

“How about this, we can come back here—just you and me—I’ll provide the change and you can bulldoze me all you want. I’ll even play Dig Dug with you.” He knows how much you love that game, especially because it’s your best one—and he has never won against you on that damn machine. 

The smile that pulls at your lips makes him want to run a mile in celebration—he’s got you. “Sure. But only if you get me pizza afterwards.”

“Deal,” he grins, shaking your hand.

All it took were a couple more dreams and wet sheets for Eddie to catch on. He couldn’t remember them at first, but then he started having weird reactions while around you or hearing your voice. Bit by bit, the dreams started to come back to him. 

Wandering hands, breathy sighs, your voice saying strings of words he never thought he’d hear come from your lips. It’s almost indiscernible. Dream you and you you. He’s known you for so long, you must have a whole room of files in his mind—information, memories, the way you speak, the cadence of your voice, the gait of your walk. 

Shock takes over his body, flooding his nervous system with unease every time he wakes up. Every single dream feels real. You feel real. He’s certain he knows the exact feel of your–

But then comes the guilt. The morose shame that threatens to drown him in the wet ashes of his morality. He’s tried everything—going to bed early, going to bed late, smoking weed before bed, drinking himself to sleep, not going to bed at all. 

You still worm your way into his unconscious mind. He’s so tired all the time, all he wants to do is sleep. At least in his dreams, everything is clear. You want him and he–

He won’t admit it. Admitting it would be the worst thing he could do. No. He loves his girlfriend. His sweet, kind, gentle girlfriend. He refuses to hurt her, she doesn’t deserve that. He can get better, he has to get better. 

This is just a weird perverted phase. Probably happens to every guy with a girl best friend as pretty as you–

No. 

Not pretty. 

Normal looking. 

A girl. 

With attractive qualities that most girls have. Nothing special and nothing new. 

He loves his girlfriend. He loves his girlfriend. He loves his girlfriend. 

And he’ll do anything to keep her. 

So he starts bailing on individual hangouts, making up excuses to avoid movie nights with you—barely answering the phone for fear he’ll hear your soothing voice right in his ear, just like–

Eddie’s refusal to pick up the telephone pisses Wayne off a lot, but he just can’t risk it. He can’t handle the shame that fills him every time he hears your giggle. 

He can’t cut you out of his life entirely—nor would he want to. He’d be lost without you. He just can’t be alone with you until this illness has surrendered its grip on his subconscious. Having the group as a buffer is fine, though—helpful, even—as it allows him to pretend he’s not cutting you off completely.

It’s four in the afternoon when he wakes up, drooling on his pillow and an uncomfortable hard-on pinned to the bed beneath restless hips. He’s learned to take what he can—at least he didn’t cum in his boxers this time. 

The time on the digital clock next to his mattress has him shooting out of bed, stumbling as the tangled sheets refuse to free his legs. Knocking into the bedside table, he scrambles to catch some knickknacks tumbling to the ground. “Shit, shit, shit!” 

Wayne must be close by in the kitchen because he hears his uncle’s gruff mumble. “Damn bull in a china shop.”

Throwing on whatever semi-clean clothes he can find, he tucks his unyielding erection into the waistband of his jeans before jogging into the kitchen for his keys. 

“Hey, Ed, that girlfrien’ o’ yours called. Said she was just gonna meet’ya there—wherever ‘there’ is. She wasn’t very specific.”

Eddie freezes at the relayed message from Chrissy, halting his attempt to pull on his dirty Reeboks. He straightens up to look at his uncle.

“What? Why didn’t you wake me up when she called? I was supposed to pick her up!”

Wayne shrugs, unfazed by Eddie’s admonishment, as he pulls a TV dinner from the tiny freezer and unwraps it. The lack of urgency in the man’s explanation is driving Eddie crazy—he’s already late, and now he knows his girlfriend had to drive herself because he couldn’t wake the hell up.

“Y’looked like you needed the sleep,” the old man grumbles, his eyes never leaving the task as he fiddles with the plastic wrapping.

Groaning, Eddie continues shoving his feet into his shoes before heading to the door. “That’s the last thing I need.” 

Wayne calls after him, asking about your whereabouts and why you haven’t been over lately. Eddie only gives a passive shrug, yelling out a half-assed, “Dunno,” before jumping in his van and tearing out of there.

Eddie’s running up to the group as they hover outside the Hideout, chains jingle as his heavy footsteps hit the gravel. “Hey, shit–sorry guys! I overslept.” Ignoring your wave, he stops right in front of a miffed Chrissy. 

“Dude, it’s 5:13…p.m.”

Scowling at Steve’s comment, Eddie wraps an arm around his girlfriend. “It was a nap,” he lies, leaning into the short blonde. 

“Sorry, baby, I overslept.”

Crossing her arms, she purses her lips at him, “I heard.”

Sparing a quick glance at you, his body jolts in surprise as he accidentally makes direct eye contact with you. You look upset at him—he hates that look. But guilt eats at him for even looking at you, so he turns back to his girlfriend. Grabbing her soft cheeks, he pulls her in for a messy kiss.

A shocked hum leaves Chrissy’s throat as she leans into him, arms unfolding and hands settling on his hips. He tries to ignore the discomfort her small, soft hands bring—that’s never something he’s felt when being touched by her before. Chalking it up to the unusual PDA, he breaks the wet kiss when Robin groans. 

“Egh! Get a room, guys. That’s so nasty.”

The group secures their usual booth once inside the busy bar. Typically, Chrissy doesn’t attend Thursday night drinks, so Eddie sits on one side of the booth with you while Steve and Robin take the other side. Today, when you slide into the seat opposite the already bickering knuckleheads, Eddie doesn’t follow. Instead, he hovers awkwardly at the end of the table with Chrissy, acutely aware of your expectant gaze on his face.

Biting the bullet, he avoids eye contact as he says, “Hey, uh…do you think you could let me and Chris sit there?” 

He’d rather walk over hot coals than sit next to you on that cracked leather seat. You’d be so close, there’d be no direct line of sight to your lower bodies under the table, he’d feel the dip of the cushion where your supple thighs splay–

He can’t sit next to you. Not until he’s better.

“Oh, Eddie, it’s fine. I can just pull up a chair.” 

The blonde moves to grab a nearby chair from a four-top, but his warm hand on her arm stops her. There’s a quarter-second lull—Steve and Robin falling silent at his request to you, your inability to move from your seat, his hand stopping Chrissy’s attempt to accommodate the usual seating chart. It’s only a fraction of a second, but it feels like ages when he catches sight of the hurt behind your eyes.

It’s like everything is transitioning from slow motion to regular speed when you scooch out of the booth, making room for the couple to sit down. 

Chrissy looks at you with wide eyes and pinched brows, “Are you sure? I’m fine sitting on the chair–”

“Sit down, Chris.” 

The girl’s attempt to check in with you is cut off by Eddie’s order, tension crackles in the air and nobody but Eddie understands why. 

Throwing a tight-lipped smile at the worried blonde, you pull a chair to the edge of the table. “It’s fine, Chrissy. Thank you, though.”

The rhythm of conversation wears down the tension—mostly thanks to the never-ending noise spilling from Steve and Robin. Something, something, Steve sucks at taking inventory and Robin is better—Eddie can’t really be bothered to keep up. The most he can offer are half-assed ‘yeahs’ and ‘uh-huhs’ to Chrissy as he toys with the condensation on his pint glass. Thankfully, you don’t have much to say tonight either.

Eddie knows you know he’s avoiding you—has been since Sunday. The two of you haven’t gone this long without talking or hanging out since before you even knew each other—which is saying something, considering he wasn’t exactly hitting the social scene before the age of five. 

Knowing you, you’re pissed at his ‘boyish’ ways—which is really just another way of calling him stupid for how he handles his emotions. That’s something you’ve always called him out on without hesitation. But he knows you won’t say a word in front of other people, so all he has to do is avoid being alone with you until his ailment passes. Then everything will go back to normal. He’ll be guilt-free with Chrissy, you’ll accept him back with open arms and a lecture, just like you always have, and everything will be as it should be.

There’s too much guilt in his body to feel shame over the way he’s leaning into his girlfriend, overcompensating with affection he wouldn’t otherwise display so publicly. This is his first real relationship, but even then, he’s never been the type to hang all over her like he is now, arm firmly around her shoulders, playing with her hair.

He touches you with no problem—well, he used to. He’d play with your hair, hug you, tug on your clothes, shove you when you’re being annoying—he’d do all of that in public and in private. But he’s never been very touchy with Chrissy, he’s not sure why. It’s not like she doesn’t touch him constantly. Maybe that’s why. She touches him so much already, he doesn’t feel the need to touch her. 

A lull in the conversation has you readjusting in your chair. You look like you’re about to say something and Eddie’s heart rate spikes. 

“Hey, Eds, I was able to secure a copy of Child’s Play if you wanna do movie night on Friday?” 

“Yeah, thanks to me reserving the first copy that came in,” Steve butts in, causing Robin to roll her eyes.  

“Sure, it was him—totally not me because he couldn’t remember what movie you wanted…” 

You laugh at her crossed arms and pinched brows. “Okay, thanks for the group effort, guys. You can share your kudos,” you placate.

Steve sits up at that, jaw dropped and tone resembling a petulant child. “I don’t wanna share with her, she’s a kudos hog!”

Robin cocks her head in consideration, “Kudos hog, huh. Odd way to refer to someone who’s always right.” 

Eddie watches as Steve looks at you, a hand gesturing to Robin’s face, “See what I mean?”

Chrissy's giggles echo around the table; unused to how annoying the bickering can get, she finds it hilarious. You lift a warning finger in their direction, eyebrows raised as you reprimand them. “Control yourselves before I muzzle you both.” 

Eddie moves to pick at the soggy label of the empty beer bottle from Steve’s previous drink—the condensation already wiped clean on his own pint glass. Hyper-focused on his fidgeting fingers, he doesn’t catch the way you turn back to him. 

“As I was saying,” the emphasis you put on the last word tells him you probably threw the two idiots a dirty look. “I got Child’s Play, so did you want me to come over Friday?” 

Chrissy has to elbow him to get his attention away from the way his blunt nails catch on the wet paper. “Eddie, she’s talking to you.”

Startled, he looks up, eyes darting around everyone’s faces—all attention on him. “Uh, yeah. I got work tomorrow, though. So just give it to Chris or something and we can watch it on Friday.” He turns to look at his girlfriend as he finishes the stuttering sentence. 

Robin frowns, catching sight of your resigned face—she’s pretty sure Eddie just pushed you out of your own plans. 

Chrissy’s head jerks back, face screwed up in disgust. “Ew, I don’t wanna see that movie. Dolls freak me out. Plus, I don’t do horror. Why don’t you two watch it, that’s what you usually do, right?”

Before you can answer, Eddie speaks up, “Well, I’m actually really booked up at the garage this week, so–”

“That’s fine, we can push it to next week–”

“Next week, too,” he hurries, cutting you off. “It’s a really busy month, actually.”

Robin eyes Steve, silently checking to make sure he’s hearing what she’s hearing. After Eddie’s obvious excuse, you don’t speak up for the rest of the evening—resigning yourself to silent sulking. 

Laying next to a sound asleep Chrissy, he stares aimlessly at the dark ceiling, listening to the hypnotic whirring sound of the box fan by his bed and the deep breaths coming from his girlfriend. Mentally shuffling through every D&D monster he can think of, he tries to train his brain to dream of something else for the night. 

Waking with a start, he glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table—2:57 AM. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but luckily, he doesn’t recall any dreams his subconscious may have conjured in the short time he slept either.

Listening to the same old box fan, he lifts his head off the pillow, looking around the dark room. Everything is as it was when he laid down for the night and he can still hear the calming sound of his girlfriend’s deep breaths. Tired eyes fall on her sleeping form, watching the way her back moves with each expanding inhalation. 

Settling his gaze back on the ceiling—ready to count sheep back to sleep—he hears the rustle of sheets as she adjusts her position. 

“Eddie?”

He jolts upright onto his elbow, eyes snapping to the source of the voice—that’s definitely not his girlfriend. In the same spot he could’ve sworn Chrissy occupied only a second ago, you’re there, turned toward him, awake, and calling his name. Panicked breaths rush through his chest, and his eyes widen as they take in your soft, sleepy form.

He knows that look, he’s seen that look on every sleepover—every time you’d come into his room to check on him and end up staying over in his bed. But that hadn’t happened in almost a decade. Not since Wayne informed you two that boys and girls should sleep separate once they get to a certain age. 

He remembers how upset you were at the new rule change, not understanding what the big deal was—what the implication was. But Eddie knew. He understood what his uncle meant the moment he said it. He noticed the different feelings he experienced during that year, he had forcefully broken one too many longing glances during movie nights to confuse Wayne’s meaning. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Looking up at him through fluttering lashes, your head rests gently on the pillow. “I’m sleeping over…like you asked me to. What’s up with you?”

God, you sound so normal. You sound just like you. The plain tone, the straightforward answer—he has asked you to sleep over many times, but he definitely didn’t tonight. 

Eddie closes his eyes and shakes his head, hoping that maybe once he opens them, you’ll be gone and Chrissy will be back. But you’re still there when he looks down—still lying on his bed, in his sheets, your waiting eyes gazing up at him expectantly.

“Where’s Chrissy?”

Your eyebrows pinch together, “Who?”

He’s starting to get sick of these mind games. It wouldn’t shock him if he woke up in a padded room and the last few weeks were all just a very realistic hallucination. If that doesn’t happen, he’s considering looking into antipsychotics because this shit is driving him insane. 

Losing his patience, he bites out, “My girlfriend. Where is she? What did you do with her?”

Frowning, you sit up to level with him, leaning on your elbow to better address his concerns. “Eddie, I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Sitting up fully, his eyes never leave your very real looking figure. “She was just here…” he mutters.

He watches as your concerned frown melts into an annoyed eye roll. “Oh, please. You’re so guilty you can’t even properly write her out of your own dream without crying about it.” 

His eyebrows twitch, creasing in focus as he studies your face, noticing it’s almost like you broke character—as hard as that is to compute in his head. “Who are you?” He asks the question slowly and steadily; he doesn’t even know how to begin wondering who—or what—you are, or why you’ve attached yourself to him, plaguing him constantly.

Sighing, you readjust to sit up more. “Ugh, you know who I am, Teddie. Same old me since preschool,” you shrug breezily, glancing down at your body as if the sight will convince him you’re the same. 

The use of your childhood nickname for him sends him reeling. Looking down, matching the tilt of your head, he takes in your appearance—as you do the same. He hadn’t noticed until now, but you’re wearing a black silk teddy nightgown. The disheveled, flimsy triangular fabric barely covering your breasts makes him gulp.

“Except I’m all womanly now,” you shimmy with a smirk. 

The confused frown never leaves his face as he narrows his eyes at your exposed figure. Shaking his head, he pants out a dissenting, “No, you’re not her.”

Amusement flashes across your face before you mask it with a curious pout. “I’m not?” 

Brown eyes follow your hand with rapt attention as you daintily caress your body—starting at your soft, bare thighs and ending at your supple, immodestly covered breasts. Giving a light push to your bust, you lean in. “Feels real… Think you should check?”

Swallowing harshly, Eddie shakes his head ever so slightly. “No.”

“No? But you dreamt me up like this. I’m all pretty just for you and you don’t wanna cop a feel? You’re breakin’ my heart, baby.” 

Sanity slipping at your crooning tone, he almost feels shame for rejecting you—even when you’re not real. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, truly contrite. 

You coo at his sad, muddy eyes. “It’s okay, honey. I know what’ll make you feel better. Let’s play house,” you coax with a smile. “It’ll be just like old times.” 

Ignoring his silent rejection—frizzy curls moving with the shake of his head—you come nose-to-nose with him. “I’ll play mommy and you can be daddy.”

The voice, the tone, the inflection, the visage, the faint perfume—it’s so you. But you’re not here. There’s no way. Not looking like that and not offering to play childhood games. 

He feels like a sailor slowly succumbing to insanity, constantly rejecting the siren’s call. There’s no escape from you—you’re in his head. Unable to plug his ears or sing a disruptive tune, you whisper sweet nothings in his mind every time he tries. He should just let you drag him under—let you have your way with him. He’ll sleep forever, and you can keep him as yours.

It takes a little too long for guilt to trail after that thought—he really is slipping.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head fervently, wishing to wake up. “Stop,” he grits out, sounding far too pitiful. 

Feeling the breath of your words on his lips, you whisper, “But, daddy, I’m so confused. It doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.”

A stuttering exhale leaves parted lips as he feels the firm grip of your hand around his stiff cock. Placing his hand on yours, he means to remove your grasp, but his mind sends the wrong signal down his arm. Instead, he squeezes your grip tighter, moaning at the relief that shoots through him. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he pants out a useless, “S–Stop it.”

He can almost hear the smug smile in your voice. “I’ll stop once you let go of my hand…”

Ignoring your response, he keeps a pulsing rhythm of firm compression going—imitating the feel of your warm, tight walls around him. A vain attempt compared to the real thing—but what does he know about real? When his only point of reference is what unfolds behind closed eyes, in moments like these, he knows his mind is the last place to bear truth.

“Mm, but you’re not gonna, are you, daddy? You don’t want mommy to stop. You wanna play just as badly, I can feel it.”

The breathy, sultry tone of your voice has him heaving—shallow gasps of air bringing no relief in his search for oxygen.

“What are you doing?”

Falling back against his pillow with a shove of your hands, he watches you straddle his lap. Groaning at the sensation, he practically melts as you grind down onto him, your bare, slick pussy sliding along his throbbing length. Your brazen, annoyed tone from earlier comes back, reminding him this is all his fault. 

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” you bite. “Dating her, dreaming of me?” 

Eddie’s eyes roll back with a groan as you continue to drag your hips. The leaking head of his cock keeps catching your waiting entrance and it’s driving him up the wall. He’s so close to feeling you again, he’d do anything for it. The way your walls hug his thick length, the gush of your arousal every time you sink down onto him greedily—he’s so used to it now, he needs it like he needs air. But you won’t let him in. Not yet.

“Shamefully cleaning the sheets every morning. Pretending everything’s fine. Kissing her sweetly and bailing on dates in the next breath—all just to come hang out with little old imaginary me. You’re turning down your real girlfriend to go fuck a figment of your imagination, baby, and I’m what’s wrong?” 

Desperate, veiny hands grip the sheets beside his body, using every ounce of restraint to not grab you and pull you down onto his aching cock. “S–Sweetheart–”

You chuckle at his anguished voice, lining him up at your entrance, languid hips gyrating on his fat, ruddy tip. “Aht aht aht, be careful, Teddie. That ‘unwilling victim’ act is starting to slip,” you warn. “How will you justify such immoral actions then?”

You feel so real. The slick wetness seeping from your hole, drenching his cock, tosses him off the cliff of sanity, sending him barreling down, down, down into delusion. This is exactly how you’d feel in real life. It must be. You’re so…so wet. So warm. So tight. How could his mind conjure something so damningly sweet? Your greedy heat is a honey trap he’d gladly fall for—every single time. He’d bare his soul, reveal every last burning secret if you’d just allow him inside you—if you’d just relieve him of his fidelity.

“Bottom line?” You sink down on him fully, pussy swallowing him in one go. He watches the victorious look on your face as a loud, needy groan escapes him. Leaning down, lips hovering over desperate, panting ones, you grant him a quick peck. “This is all you, baby.”

“Please–” he breathes out—unsure what he’s begging for. Mercy? Movement? For you to stop your evil monologue long enough to let him go to hell—let him fuck you like he needs to? Probably the latter. But you’re not done with him yet—not ready to give in. 

“You know I’m sound asleep at my place. Probably dreaming of puppy dogs and little sheepies…” 

Eddie groans as you roll your hips experimentally, then slowly lift your core until just the tip remains inside. 

“Or maybe I’m not asleep.” Hips circling his tip again, your movements elicit a strangled whimper from deep within his throat. “...Maybe I’m with someone.” Slamming down on his hard cock, you drop so quickly the feeling of your walls fully encapsulating him again has his stomach jerking, another loud, scratchy groan tumbling past his lips. This time the groan is not just in pleasure, but annoyance too. He wants you to stop talking—needs you to. He doesn’t want to hear about you with someone else. 

“Stop,” he grits out, teeth bared as he struggles to maintain his calm demeanor. Both of his hands pull at the roots of his hair, desperately withholding any attempts to touch you. 

You lean down again, chest-to-chest as you drag your soft hands all over his body despite his refusal to do the same. Lifting your ass, you slide up and down his shaft—slowly, torturously. 

“You remember my crush on Steve in eighth grade?”

He grumbles as you toy with him—quickly losing his patience. 

“Maybe I’ve given him a chance,” you muse. “I mean, he’s only gotten more attractive with age. Plus, he’s all ‘good guy’ now.” 

Eddie can practically hear the teasing, wicked smile behind your whispered words. Your blasé attitude has him grinding his teeth, struggling not to let your—hopefully baseless—pondering get under his skin.

“Stop it.” 

He wants you to continue fucking yourself on his leaking cock, but he also wants you to leave his friend out of your dirty talk. The white-knuckled grip he’s got on his sanity is slipping with each word you let out, describing how you’re with Steve. Maybe. Maybe with him. And the ‘maybe’ is enough to drive a man mad. 

“Make me,” you challenge, your slow, languid pace keeping him hooked. 

“No, I’m not doing this again. This is wrong,” he tries, unhappy with being toyed with. Trying to convince himself to put a stop to this, the words are there, but the meaning is hollow. There’s no fire—no conviction—behind his demands. There’s barely any guilt, either. He finds himself just saying what should be said. 

Sitting up, you grab the hands that he’s been gnawing on—his hair no longer enough to stop the desperate need to touch you. Spreading his fingers, you guide rough palms up your abdomen, slowly bringing them to rest on your supple breasts.

You pout, cooing, “Oh, poor daddy. He’s all confused. You can touch me, baby, I’m here for you—use me.” 

Huffing out a frustrated breath, he shakes his head, but he leaves his hands where you placed them. “You’re not real.” 

Regretting the comment as soon as you perk up, he watches an excited grin spread across your face. His comment was meant to deter you and it seems to have reinvigorated you as you fuck yourself a little faster on him, moaning softly. 

“Exactly! That’s what’s great about me because if I were real, this would be wrong,” you lower your tone on the word, mocking his earlier sentiments. “You’d be a dirty cheater and do you think I’d wan’ a guy like that?” 

Your words swarm his mind with guilt, but it’s almost like his brain has tortured him so much that he’s come back around—no longer feeling shame in this moment. With a newly unburdened mind, he finally moves his hands, giving a groping squeeze to your breasts, tweaking the pert nipples, reveling in the moan you let out. You may not be you, but you sound exactly the same, and he’s never needed to cum so badly before. 

Breaking the trance your rolling hips put him in, he remembers you asked a question. “No.” 

He has the decency to sound ashamed, but he doesn’t feel it. He wouldn’t want you to be with a cheater. He doesn’t want to be a cheater for you. That’s the limit of his shame right now. You wouldn’t like him if he cheated, so he won’t. 

“You’re so sweet to worry about what I’d think…”

The pulsing of your warm heat, the soft, smooth skin on your chest—he’s so close to pure, fiery ecstasy. He’s nearly there, all he needs is for your wet cunt to continue gripping him like a daydream. One roll of your hips away from tipping over the edge, his stomach tightens at your words.

“But what would your girlfriend think?”

Sucking in a harsh breath, his eyes snap open. He’s exactly where he just was, but now his face is buried in strawberry-scented blonde hair. Chest moving with ragged breaths, he feels a small body in his arms. The sensation is almost unfamiliar. Almost. 

He’s held her so many times since they started dating, but he’s held you more. The sleepovers, the movie nights, the time he consoled you when Joey Humphry stood you up in tenth grade. He would know your body blindfolded and this is not you. The sharp corners and soft curves are not right.

Eddie is pulled from his consuming thoughts when he feels pressure on his erection. Moving his hips back away, he realizes Chrissy is awake and making a move. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. He usually wakes up with ‘morning wood’ and even sometimes in the middle of the night—like tonight. 

In the honeymoon stage of their relationship, when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, they’d get up to no good during the wee hours of the morning. Messy kisses and wandering hands satisfying hormonal needs. 

It’s been a while since he’s been intimate with Chrissy, the honeymoon stage long since over, and the dreams keeping him busy and guilt-ridden. So when her hips follow his retreating pelvis, he cringes at the thought of the pressure not being the right kind—not the right hips, not the right ass, not the right girl. 

He tries to wipe that thought out of his mind like windshield wipers on a car, but it sticks—like a squashed bug that won’t wash away. Giggles pierce through the silence of the dark room—not the right giggles—as she turns around to face him. 

“Let me help you, Eds. ‘S been a while.” Her sultry voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard after such a dream—your moans playing like a hymn as he worshipped at your altar.

Gulping, he tries to back up again, avoiding her reaching hand. “No, it’s–it’s okay. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

Wandering hands run down his abdomen—not the right hands—closing in on the waistband of his underwear. “Baby, I can help you. Just wanna be close to you.”

Guilt overcomes his body and mind at her words. Not only has he not been intimate with his girlfriend in a month, but he’s blown off a few dates to sleep. He tried to tell himself it was because he keeps waking up so tired, constantly trying to avoid you in his mind. But that’s not the truth. 

He’s slowly succumbing to the siren in his mind, the woman who calls to him in his dreams. The girl he’s known forever needs him when he’s asleep and he’s always wanted to feel needed. 

This sleepover was supposed to be a compromise. He was supposed to hold her properly—like a boyfriend should. He was supposed to surround her with necessary affection and, maybe, if he could, guide that affection naturally into something more explicit. Make up for lost time.

But now he’s starting to think it’s not just you he needs to avoid—at least until he’s better. If you're going to permeate his waking mind, tainting every interaction with the woman he’s supposed to love, then he needs to step back and reconsider how best to burn you out of his head.

He’s already had to pull out of group get-togethers, the barrier of Steve and Robin no longer sufficient—not with the way his brain picks up a new quirk of yours every time he sees you, perfectly implementing it into his dreams with practiced ease.

A small, soft hand wraps around his cock, but it brings no relief. It’s not what he needs. 

Eddie’s thoughts are interrupted by her confused voice.

“Wha–you were just hard. I felt it.” Her hand squeezes his now flaccid penis. He’s as surprised as her. When he woke up a minute ago, he was on the verge of cumming in his underwear. And now he can’t get it up as his girlfriend tries to provide stimulation to his usually sensitive cock. 

Cringing at the way she sounds almost upset at the sudden disappearance of his erection, he gulps. “I’m sorry. I–I don’t know what happened, we–we can just go back to sleep.”

He can tell she’s trying so hard not to take it personally as she mumbles out a quiet, “Okay,” and turns back around—notably leaving a gap between two bodies. 

Staring at the ceiling, terrified of when sleep takes him, Eddie realizes he needs to try harder. He needs to fix this; he can’t keep going on like this. Something’s got to give, and he’s afraid to find out what.

When Eddie runs into you at Bradley’s Big Buy the next day, he nearly jumps out of his skin. You’re turning the corner with a shopping cart and he’s already been discovered as he crashes right into the front of the basket. It doesn’t help that he was just thinking about you—about how you felt last night, about what you said. 

“Oh my god! Eddie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“No–uh, th–that was my bad. I wasn’t…paying attention. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting around at all the other shoppers. Nobody’s batting an eye at the interaction, meanwhile this is his worst fear coming to fruition—you’re here looking at him, he can’t run away, and you look just like you did last night in his bed dream. 

He hates how awkward this interaction is—your shifting eyes, his stuttering formalities. You two have been friends since childhood, he shouldn’t be fumbling over every other word. It’s even worse because you seem resigned to the fact that he’s been avoiding you as you try to end the moment early. 

“Yeah, um–anyway, I should…go.” Maneuvering your cart around the blockade his body creates, you don’t get very far when his hurried question stops you. 

“Are you seeing someone?” 

Eddie’s suddenly craving the taste of gunpowder on his tongue when he hears what the hell just came out of his mouth. Your body goes rigid at the question—something that wouldn’t happen if he wasn’t actively pushing you away. Usually you’d tell each other everything, but that kind of honesty is reserved for best friends—something you’re not, apparently. 

He knows why he asked it. He knows the exact demon on his shoulder who whispered it to him just now—the one that looks eerily similar to you. Maybe I’m with someone. 

Wincing at the way you turn around, frown on your face, hurt and confusion flashing across your eyes, he watches as you consider him. It feels like hours before you respond. Like pristine windows into your soul, your eyes say so much—and nothing at all. He can’t even begin to translate them.

“Was trying to,” you sigh. Your defeated shrug and the plain answer shatters like glass in his ears—a sound he imagines a freeze-dried heart would make if slammed against the ground. “But I realized I’ve got some stuff to work through first. Things to get over.” You mutter the last part, avoiding his prying eyes. 

Eddie opens his mouth to probe for more information, your axis-tilting answer not enough to satiate his morbid curiosity—god forbid Dream You be correct about something. But before he can get a word out, you’re already bidding him a cryptic goodbye and practically fleeing the scene.

“See you tomorrow, Eds.” 

The familiar nickname evokes a sort of stabbing pain in his heart and he’s acutely aware of your thinly veiled dismissal as you flee the scene—you’d rather be anywhere but here, answering his strange questions. Watching your retreating figure, he can’t help but feel he should be the one running. It’s worse that it’s you who does it. It only reminds him that all of his actions of the past few weeks have actual repercussions—he can’t just ignore you in real life and be held by you inside his mind. 

A million thoughts fly through his head, one that continues to stick is the question of who you were trying to see. Nausea fills him at the chance that it could be Steve, just like you said. No, not you. 

His dream. 

Him. 

His mind. 

Correction: Just like what he dreamed you said. 

Though, it’s easier for him to pretend it’s really you saying these things, because he’d like to think he wouldn’t imagine such awful truths—if they could even be labeled as such. He’d also like to think he wouldn’t purposefully dream of cheating on his girlfriend, but the writing is on the wall. 

So dream or not—can he even trust a word you say when you’re on top of him? His insecurities scream yes, but the sliver of logic he’s been holding onto lately quietly tells him no.

The other thought that is sticking sends a chill down Eddie’s spine. Tomorrow. He forgot about tomorrow. He forgot he agreed to game night a month ago—a meager attempt to pretend he hasn’t been ditching plans. Now, the date has arrived, and he’s in the midst of avoiding you. He’s going to have to show up at Steve’s place, act as if he doesn’t feel a burning disdain for the guy based on conjecture from a dream, and exist in your presence for longer than five minutes. With no ability to cancel last minute, he hopes tomorrow never comes. Maybe if he wishes hard enough, the planet will get swallowed into a black hole and he’ll evade you once again.

Unfortunately, there were no world-ending emergencies today, so Eddie sits quietly on Steve’s couch, watching as you, Robin, and Steve gather around the coffee table to play Monopoly, all of you seated on the floor. He tried his best to give the world all the extra time it needed to end, even circling the block a few times before finally arriving at Steve’s door—forty-five minutes late. 

He can’t tell if it was his tardiness or his awful behavior lately—but you barely acknowledged his existence. Which, of course, made him feel worse. For some narcissistic reason, he finds himself capable of dealing with the fallout if he doesn’t have to…deal with it. When he first flaked out on Friday movie nights, he only had to hear you speak about it briefly at the Hideout. Then he didn’t hear anything else about it, not having to meet you face-to-face and turn you away at his door.

Now it’s you turning him away—directly to his face, and without so much as a word from him. He’s not even trying to talk, not handing you any easy reason to push him away, but you do it anyway—just like he’s been doing to you. 

You’re simply icing him out, ignoring his presence in the room. It doesn’t feel like you—it feels like high school. Like he could stand up on the lunch table, ranting about conformity and the stratified social food chain, and no one would give a fuck whether he lived or died, so long as it was entertaining. Although, even then, he’d get at least one quick glance.

But you offer him no such courtesy—and he knows he deserves it. So he sits there, watching, frozen out by your disinterest, wounded by your clear discomfort at being so close to him. At least he has a whole world in his head to retreat to. Though, last night’s dream was particularly unnerving. 

The things you said made his head spin—had him rethinking every moment he’s ever spent with you. Your harsh truths and revelations unlocked vaults in his mind he thought were securely locked and sunk deep in the ocean of his idle thoughts.

“I know why you asked if I’m seeing someone. I see the way you look at me…”

Like a lioness hunting, you approached him slowly. Your piercing gaze elicited a concerning amount of trepidation in his shaking body. He sat anxiously on his worn-down couch, the low lamplight of the trailer casting daunting shadows over your face. Your words struck fear in his heart—did you really know? Eddie’s wide eyes watched as your delicate fingers crept up his thighs, the muscles twitching wantonly.

“Does it make you jealous, baby? Does it make you feel prickly all over?” 

He sucked in a harsh breath as you danced the tips of your fingers across his upper thighs, coming dangerously close to his hardening cock. He felt prickly, but not with jealousy. Not at that moment. 

“You don’t wanna share your shiny new toy?” 

The questioning tilt of your head made him squeeze his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at you when you were like this—no matter how much he wanted to. Though, you didn’t let him hide for long. Your warm palm pressed into his bulge, causing his eyes to shoot open, instantly meeting yours. 

“No, that’s right…” you muttered, as if he had corrected you—despite his mouth being pressed tightly shut, willing any betraying sound to stay buried in his throat. “I’m not new. You’ve thought about it before.”

The raw warmth of your soft hand drew his attention. He looked down, helplessly watching as you granted slow, languid strokes to his now-leaking cock. A stuttering groan tumbled past his lips, brows drawn in desperation for just a little more. 

“You remember? Prom night? When I changed in your room, and you strategically positioned yourself right in front of the mirror?” You chuckled, recounting the memory, ridiculing the perversions of a young man. “Just dying to get a peek at me—your unassuming best friend. Naughty boy, Eds… Using a poor girl like that...” Shaking your head, you admonished him with a slow, mocking tsk, tsk, tsk.

The strained whimper that tore from his throat made your head tilt, eyes raking over his pitiful form before you seemingly decided he’d given enough of himself to earn a secret. “You know I changed right there for you. I wanted you to look—wanted you to touch yourself to the thought of me…”

Eddie’s head lolled back against the couch, groaning as you whispered in his ear, your deft fingers squeezing him so well. Your thumb brushed his leaking slit, drawing more precum out, earning another drawn groan as he succumbed to your touch. 

“Have you ever touched yourself to the thought of Chrissy?” 

The name was like a bucket of ice water, pulling his attention back to you in a split second. “D–Don’t say her name,” he grumbled, unintentionally bucking his hips at the responding squeeze you gave. 

“Oh, no… No, because talking about her would be bad…” a particularly mind-numbing twist of your wrist caused another involuntary reaction—his hips haphazardly thrusting into your slick palm. “You might hurt her…”

Regretfully, that hadn’t been the reason he didn’t want you to say her name. He hadn’t wanted to explore the real reason, but he needed you to know that specific string of letters was off-limits. “Don’t wanna think about ‘er.”

Puffs of air glided across his parted mouth. He felt trapped in your gravitational pull, lips aching to rest on yours. But you weren’t done—you seemed to take great pleasure in branding the truth into him, relishing the scent of his smoldering moral shortcomings.

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? The guilt doesn’t feel very good, huh, baby?” Your sympathetic pout mocked him, filling his mind with hot, sticky shame, gluing him to his place as you spoke.

He whimpered in response, your slick fingers circling his cockhead, constricting the fat, ruddy tip. He felt your next words before he heard them—rhythmic growls against his panting mouth, charming him like a snake in a basket.

“Gnawing, festering, bubbling…corroding that sweet heart of yours, isn’t it? Bad boy,” you hissed, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. 

Clearly frustrated by his lack of response—his refusal to play your games—you gave his throbbing cock another harsh squeeze, making him jerk forward with a mewling whine, his forehead pressed to yours as he breathed through the burning desire.

Your saccharine tone bit at his heart and mind, taking chunks out of him—his will, his shame, his hunger, his sanity. “This isn’t a spectator sport, dearest,” you taunted.

Pleading eyes watched your gritted teeth as he tried to come up with any intelligible response, despite your hand teasing him—granting just enough pleasure to make him need more. 

Eddie nodded his head against yours, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced his feelings to the forefront. “Mhm, s’killing me, it’s–”

Your lips had soothed his hurried pants, pressing a chaste kiss to his pleasure-bitten mouth. The sweetness hadn’t lasted long, though—just enough to leave him wanting more, the way you always did.

“Or, maybe…you don’t wanna think about her because it’s not…arousing?” 

He choked on his breath when your warm, wet hand traveled down, down, down, cupping his swollen, sensitive sac. 

“Doesn’t do it for you, huh, baby?” 

Now he’s stuck watching his friends have fun, feeling like an outsider—as if you’ve pulled him to the dark side and don’t even know it. He has to hear you laugh, knowing he hasn’t been the cause of it in what feels like forever. He has to sit with the words you spoke to him, the revelations uncovered, the secrets thrust into daylight—shameful truths forced to be considered.

Every new dream is like a plague upon his sovereign lands. He was resolute before you shook him to his core, dismantling every belief he’s held since he met you. You didn’t even do anything. Nothing changed, nothing happened—then one day, he was cursed with the hope that you felt something.

No.

Not hope.

Worry.

A worry you felt something he had sorely missed. 

No.

Not sorely.

But that is it, isn’t it?

His mind fed him a scenario he only ever dreamed of when he was a hormonal teenager—a scenario he hadn’t thought of since. Then all of a sudden there was a possibility. A possibility in his heart. Wishful thinking, really. 

Shame, shame, shame. 

Wishful thinking to feel much guilt over. 

But his rotten mind and decaying heart seem to have gotten the better of him, because he struggles to feel guilt now. He struggles to remind himself of the pretty blonde girl yearning to spend time with him. It's only during the darkest nights he’s spent with you that he allows the creeping thought to take root—small, delicate roots like a lima bean surrounded by a wet paper towel in a plastic cup on the windowsill, a childish experiment—but digging into his mind nonetheless: he should break up with her.

The thought doesn’t last long—much like your sweetness in his dreams.

The moment he wakes up, he’s confronted with the lunacy of breaking up with his long-term girlfriend based on the sheer, unsubstantiated hope that his best friend might ever feel something for him—something he wouldn’t even know what to do with if he were given the chance.

Your words and actions in his head aren’t the same as your words and actions in reality. There’s a reason he ended up with Chrissy after prom—and not you.

That line of thinking always devolves into one clear point: he’s got a sickness of the mind—but it’s not permanent. It can’t be. He can become the good boyfriend he once was—the loving partner. Because you don’t love him in that way, and he knows that. He has something real with Chrissy. You’re not real—not the you he wants.

And yet, despite it all, he’d sleep forever just to feel your touch. 

Eddie’s dissociative state shatters when you turn around, kind eyes settling on him and a warm palm shaking his knee. 

Startled, his heavy eyes blink open as he realizes he’s fallen asleep—he wasn’t just thinking; his mind had painted the exact scenario, letting him stare at your back, watch your effervescent smile as you turned around, and remain entranced while sorting through the detritus of his thoughts.

It’s starting to get scarier—the way his mind creates vivid scenarios, passing them off as memories, and now, even as the present. But he’s grateful to be awake now, especially by your soft touch—something he’s been yearning for. Maybe through this crack in your walls, he can endear himself to you again, earn the affection he’s been entitled to for nearly two decades.

Eddie’s wide eyes dart from your hopeful gaze to Steve and Robin, both lazily wiping the board of any tokens and sorting the colorful money into organized piles while they look at him. He realizes you must have said something, given the way everyone seems to be waiting for him expectantly.

“Uh, w–what?”

“I said, ‘Do you wanna play?’” you repeat, a hint of amusement in your voice—he must look as dumb as he feels. “We’re starting a new game.”

A small look of realization passes over his features, his mouth parting slightly before he shakes his head, holding a placating hand out in front of him. “Oh, uh, n–no…thanks. I think I’ll just watch.”

At his answer, Robin slides the tokens back into place on the ‘Start’ tile, returning everyone’s original game pieces. You shrug, seemingly accepting his answer, and begin dishing out the money—two $500 bills, two $100 bills, and two $50 bills.

“You do like to do that,” you say breezily, earning a chuckle from Steve.

Confused at what that’s supposed to mean, Eddie frowns at you, your back to him as you continue sorting the money. “What?”

You glance over your shoulder, pinning him to the couch with a heavy-lidded gaze and sugared drawl. “I’m just saying—I know you like to watch me, baby.”

“Eddie!” 

Jumping at the loud shout and the kick to his leg, Eddie’s eyes shoot open as his body jerks into the couch, moving further away from you, despite your still form on the ground by the coffee table.

Frustrated impatience shifts to concern on your face. “Dude, are you okay?”

An incredulous frown overtakes his features as he glances between your worried eyes and the matching apprehension on Steve and Robin’s faces. Whipping his head back to you, his brain aches, struggling to piece together what the hell is happening. He’s losing his grip on reality—but this moment feels more real, despite his conviction that the last five minutes were real too. He needs to get out of here.

When he doesn’t respond, you tilt your head, agitation furrowing your brow. “You’ve been out for the last half hour. Are you okay?”

Your repetitive concern finally jolts Eddie into action, he mumbles a quick, “Yeah, ‘m fine,” before grabbing his jacket and rushing out of the apartment.

Robin eyes his fleeing figure, sitting in shocked silence as the door slams shut. “Okay, did he seem a little–”

“Barely lucid?” Steve finishes, frowning at the exit Eddie just disappeared through.

“I was gonna say ‘under the weather,’ but yeah, that.”

He shoots you a questioning glance. “What’s going on with him? He’s been weirder than usual lately.”

“And he’s giving Sleeping Beauty a run for her money,” Robin quips, earning a snort from Steve, who scoops up the dice and gives them a shake, opting to continue despite Eddie’s blaze of retreat.

“I don’t know, but I’m just about over it… I feel like I should go after him.”

Robin watches you spare an uneasy glance at the closed door, as if you had X-ray vision and could see through it to figure out where Eddie had fled. She shrugs, taking $100 from a disgruntled Steve, playing the role of both the bank and her own token.

“Eh, leave it. At least until we finish this game. I wanna bankrupt dingus here.” You laugh as she cocks her head toward a now-affronted Steve. “Plus, it’ll give him a chance to make up another dumb excuse. Lord knows he’s been abusing that arsenal lately,” she sardonically mutters.

Eddie runs around his dimly lit trailer searching for his wallet, wet curls soaking the collar of his faded band tee. He could’ve sworn he had it on his person before he stripped down for a shower, now the stupid thing is nowhere to be seen. 

You always used to tell him his wallet chain was pointless if he didn’t consistently reattach the folded leather when changing pants—and he’s eating your words now. Just another reason to love you: you’re always right, both to his fortune and, sometimes, his chagrin. Right now, it’s the latter, because you’re not here to help him search. If you were, you’d annoyingly find it in the first place he looked—making him seem like an incapable idiot. He needs you.

When he catches sight of the radioactive green time glowing on the microwave—over two hours since he fled Steve’s place—he curses his past self for being so careless with his belongings. He’s late, and this is something he cannot afford to be late for.

After turning out the pockets of every pair of jeans in his overflowing laundry basket, he moves on to the stacks of papers scattered around his messy room. Your voice rings in his head—past admonitions from previous years bouncing back and forth like ping-pong balls of nagging truth—as he sorts through the pigsty he lives in.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie, please clean your room—at least once in your life.” No, he likes it like this. It has to feel like a cave, so he can dwell.

“Seriously, Eds? Do you really need three copies of the June Playboy?” Yes, she looks like you—her similar features send butterflies fluttering through his stomach.

“Eddie, just say the word and I’ll go to that new Office Depot store and get you a ringed binder for all this loose-leaf—I’m not kidding, I’ll literally go right now if you just promise to organize this shit.” Silence.

A short but firm knock on the front door drags him out of his zone. An impatient groan slips from his lips as he straightens up, taking a quick glance around his room and noting which areas he’s already searched. The knock repeats as he continues to ignore it and wonders whether he might’ve accidentally tossed his wallet into the drawers of his nightstand—though that wouldn’t make much sense, since that space is usually reserved for things he wants to hide. Things like every polaroid he once had of you on display, a fruitless attempt to curb the dreams by removing any source material. At the third round of knocking, rage courses through him—doesn’t whoever’s out there understand that he’s late?

“Hold on! I’m coming, Jesus H. Christ!”

Barreling down the narrow hallway, Eddie whips open the door, only to be met with the one person he was running late for—standing there on his front stoop with her fist raised. Wide eyes meet wide eyes as he catches you off guard with his violent door swing. 

All anger melts from his body, replaced by a spark of hope as he watches you glance at the small gap between his body and the doorframe. You seem to decide it’s worth the risk, squeezing through the space, ignoring his refusal to make room for you and the way his gaze burns into the side of your face as you brush past him—his yearning eyes following your every movement. 

He didn’t mean to make you have to nearly shove him out of the way to get through—though he doesn’t quite want to admit it was because he wanted to feel you close to him either.

He can tell you’re extremely uncomfortable as you turn around, meeting his rapt attention in the middle of his messy living room. Déjà vu hits him like a comforting memory as he takes you in—your stiff posture and fidgeting fingers don’t deter the longing in his wet eyes. Unable to conjure the first sentence, he’s relieved when you beat him to it. Though, the relief is short-lived when your voice comes out strained and firm—eliciting an anxiety that only strikes when he knows he’s about to get in trouble.

Your hands are held out in front of you, warning him not to move—commanding him to just stand there and take what you have to give. “Don’t say anything. Just let me speak–”

Never one to behave—Eddie hurriedly cuts you off. 

“I can’t find my wallet.”

Your next words seem to die on your tongue as your brows pinch in confusion at his seemingly random comment. He watches as your eyes momentarily shift off of him, scanning the space around him. Then, opting to take a better look, you turn your head, taking in the torn-up state of his trailer.

The confusion lingers, quickly joined by shock. He can tell you understand now—his words weren’t just a comment on his current mess. You’ve always been able to discern his shy, pitiful requests—the quiet pleas for help he never wanted to voice.

After one hesitant glance in his direction, you sigh and take slow, measured steps toward the kitchen, eyes roving in search of the worn leather pad. Eddie’s meek demeanor shifts, though, when you curiously lift a tipped-over cereal box to reveal his wallet. You pick up the small item, turning to face him and holding it up next to your head.

His shoulders drop as he takes in your incredulous look—your lips pressed into a line, head tilted in that familiar, obnoxious way. He can already hear the lecture forming in your mind—the reminder that his wallet chain is pointless if he doesn’t use it.

An indignant expression takes over his face, jaw dropping at your uncanny ability to make him look like an idiot—it’s practically a superpower at this point. “What the fuck?”

If you asked, he’d swear up, down, and sideways that he already checked the kitchen counter. But apparently, the universe favors you. It makes sense, considering what an awful person he’s been these past couple of weeks.

You don’t ask, though. Instead, you just toss him the wallet, forcing him to scramble to catch it before you continue with your impending speech.

“Okay, now don’t speak. I have something I need to say to you.” You hesitate, Eddie’s assuming you’re making sure he stays silent this time—so he does.

“I don’t know what I did to…piss you off—god, I don’t even know if that’s it. I don’t know what emotion I elicit in you because you’ve well and truly iced me out, here.”

Your frustration is clear, and he has to fight the urge to defend himself as he watches you throw your arms out in exasperation, humorless amusement overtaking your face. Though, he doesn’t even know what he’d say in his defense. There is no defense—anything he came up with would be a lie or an excuse. He can’t claim he’s been busy, since he’s been conveniently un-busy for group hangouts—at least until he had to stop those too. And he definitely can’t say he hasn’t been avoiding you—because he has. So, he just lets you continue.

“I mean, seriously, Eddie—you haven’t been this stupid since whatever the hell happened on prom night.”

The mention of that night—the one he tries so hard to block out, all poor timing and failed attempts—makes his stomach churn, especially coming from you. He hadn’t realized you even noticed something was off afterward. He thought he’d masked his feelings well. Apparently not. Thankfully, you don’t linger on the memory, opting instead to play hardball.

“So I’m here now,” you say, and he gulps at the way you seem to batten down the hatches—planting your feet firmly on his carpet, crossing your arms defiantly over your chest, emphasizing your frustration. “And I’m not letting you shut me out any longer. You’re going to tell me everything right now or I’ll... I’ll tell Wayne you’re being mean to me.”

Having been waiting with bated breath for the end of your threat, Eddie lets out an amused huff. Your childish tone brings him back to a decade ago. Of course your go-to ultimatum is to sic his uncle on him—you’re so damn cute when you try to be intimidating. It’s not an empty threat either; he just feared you’d say something worse. Like you’d never speak to him again, or maybe that you’re tired of his wishy-washy friendship and you’ve moved on with Steve. The thought alone leaves an acidic taste on his tongue.

Come to think of it though, Wayne might be worse. That old man loves you through and through—he’d absolutely tear Eddie a new one if you actually told him how cold your supposed best friend has been. His uncle always did seem to like you more than him anyway, always picking your side in those childish fights years ago. Eventually, Eddie stopped relying on Wayne as a mediator—the no-bullshit man would just hit him with a gruff, “I don’t know what you did, but you definitely did it. Apologize to ‘er.” So he’s inclined to yield to your threat.

Tell you everything?

Where does he even start? 

First off, glad to see you, sweetheart, was just comin’ to find you. Second off, I left game night to go break up with my girlfriend because I couldn't stop having sex dreams about you. I know, crazy, right? Funny enough, they weren’t just sex dreams—they were things I thought I’d buried a long time ago. Wishes, wants...whatever. Just stuff I told myself I didn’t feel anymore. Ha! Get a load of this guy, huh? Sentimental bullshit—love so damning it’s turning me into a bleeding-heart poet or some shit.

See, I tried to hold them off for as long as I could—tried convincing myself it was a phase. But I don’t think this kind of love is a phase. Unfortunately.

And yeah, I said love. 

It’s not perversion. I know what perversion is. I’ve dealt with it. I’ve stared too long in the mirror while you changed behind me. I’ve stolen a peek or two down your top when you cleaned my room that one time—I know perversion.

This isn’t that.

Perversion doesn’t fester and corrode the way love does.

And I know you don’t love me back, and that’s fine. I can live with that. Or—I’ll try to.

But I can’t keep living with you in my head. I’m losin’ it here, sweetheart.

When I broke up with Chrissy, she asked if there was someone else. Probably because of how much of a dick I’ve been—avoiding her, and not to mention, you. But I couldn’t answer her question, because…yes.

No.

There is, but there’s not.

It’s not your fault. You’re not doing this to me. You’re not actually in my bed every night, whispering all the things I wanna hear.

You’re not tempting a taken man—you’d never. I know that.

I’ve placed you on this pedestal in my subconscious—something you never asked for.

I’ve prayed to you in idle worship. But now, I’m asking you to put me out of my misery.

Hear my plea. Absolve me of my sins—

So I can continue to live in your shadow. Happily. 

Alone. 

With you. 

Happily.

But that’s a bit much and just a tad crazy. He’s spiraling, sure. But you don’t need to know that. So Eddie starts simple.

“We broke up.” 

He can tell you’re taken off guard by his admission. You’re probably floundering for context, considering Chrissy was still somewhat part of the group—at least up until a bit ago.

Your brows furrow sympathetically, and he can feel your frustration melting—the tension in the air fizzling out. That inherent need to console overtakes any prior feelings.

“What? Oh my god, Eddie, I’m so sorry. You were into her for like…years, right? That’s awful.”

The reminder of his stupid schoolboy crush makes his skin crawl. It’s like a swarm of ants under his skin, crawling up his arms, his neck—itching with the memory of someone he no longer is.

That version of him—wide-eyed, hopeful, convinced longing was the same thing as love—feels like a ghost. A haunting echo of an almost-man, displaced from time and reality. Cursed to float through his mind like 2 a.m. regret. Sure, the crush led to a formative relationship. Two years. But those two years didn’t validate the fantasy. They dismantled it. 

Because through Chrissy, he finally saw it. He saw you.

And now, the girl he’s always wanted—but never let himself want—is standing in front of him, trying to console him over someone he no longer aches for. 

His bleeding heart doesn’t beat for her anymore.

If he had any shame left, he would feel like a horrible person for moving on so quickly. But he’s fresh out of shame. You drained every last drop from him with your whispered sighs and rocking hips. You’ve permanently changed the chemistry of his brain with every sweet, imaginary kiss to his greedy lips, every teasing quip about his confusing feelings over the years. He doesn’t struggle with the end of his long-term relationship because he never adjusted to it not being with you. He realizes that now. 

You’re ingrained in his DNA at this point—a golden thread weaving magic through every atom that makes up his being. He understands now, with perfect clarity, that you were always his. You’re supposed to be his.

So he’s sure the cosmic forces can forgive a love that was written on the wall the moment you shared your Goldfish crackers with him at five years old.

A stone-carved devotion, so tried and true, it manifested entire fantasy worlds where you were surely his.

Choosing not to respond to your ill-timed sympathy, Eddie’s eyes dart away from yours, restless, sweaty palms rub against his black jeans. 

“What happened?”

He curses his lack of response. Maybe if he had been proactive about his storytelling, he wouldn’t have to look you right in the eyes and tell you the truth. Maybe he could tell you a sliver of the truth. Maybe that would be enough.

Although, knowing you, it wouldn’t be. 

“I broke up with her,” he mumbles, barely maintaining eye contact when you shoot him a shocked look—clearly taken aback by the fact that he wasn’t the dumpee. 

“Why the hell would you do that? I mean…I thought you really liked her. And she was sweet. ” 

He winces at your initial outburst, but it’s your last statement that imbues him with unearned confidence. 

“Not like you,” he mutters with a slight shrug, voice low and resigned.

You shake your head as if trying to knock loose some semblance of understanding, eyeing him carefully like you’re trying to peer into the right spot, earning a momentary glance inside his mind. His words are too confusing, you need the source material. 

“What are you talking about? She was, like, perfect for you.”

Eddie doesn’t know why you’re trying to rewrite the story. Why you’re pushing this version where he and Chrissy made sense. They didn’t. Not really. Not like you and him. You know each other—every weird, wonderful part. That’s always been enough.

“She wasn’t you.”

Frustration ripples through you again, tension crackling in the air. He realizes he’s not exactly being forthcoming—with his feelings, or whatever it is he’s trying to say. He’s never been Mr. Exposition Guy, but something’s happening to him, something that keeps him from spitting it out—and it’s pissing you off. He can tell.

It’s like he’s trained his whole life for a marathon. Months of running it, mile after mile, pacing himself, pushing through the exhaustion, waiting for the end to come into view. And now that it has—now that he can see the finish line—his legs feel like they’re about to give out. Fatigued from the journey, he’s unsure if he can make it. Everything he’s ever trained for is right there in front of him, and now his body won’t cooperate. His words won’t come.

The daunting realization that this is it—that this is his chance to convey how detrimental and beautifully significant you’ve been to his mind, his life, his heart—has him stumbling. And the consequences of this confession, of his actions, rage through his mind like a category five hurricane.

Which he finds—humorlessly—kind of funny.

You’d be the one to bring a storm like that.

His hericane.

There’s a battle raging inside him. One side is certain that telling you the truth won’t change a thing—you’ll let him down easy, things will be weird for a while, and then you’ll both pretend it never happened, slipping right back into best-friend territory. The other side is cataloging every fidget, every flicker of raw emotion in your gaze, and whispering that only someone with something to hide acts like that.

Maybe your something is like his. Maybe if he shows you his, you’ll show him yours. Maybe, in your confusion, you’re trying to push him away. Maybe you think you’re taking him from Chrissy. He knows you’d hate to be the other woman, and he never meant to place you in that role. 

“Say, you didn’t happen to get really drunk and take copious amounts of drugs, did you?” 

You’re trying to pass your question off as a joke, but Eddie hears the bite behind it. He’s known that tone for years—knows it even better now, after hearing it echo through his dreams.

Shaking his head, he holds up three fingers on his right hand, giving you the Scout’s honor—despite never having been one. “Stone cold sober, sweetheart.”

A scoff leaves your smiling lips, you shake your head, incredulous. Heading over to the kitchen, you start cleaning up the mess Eddie made in his search for his wallet—your hands just needing something to do. 

He eyes you carefully, watching the way your movements are harsh and unrestrained as you close cabinets, crumple scrap papers, and pick up tipped-over cereal boxes. Despite his own inability to be straight with you, he finds himself getting frustrated at the way you refuse to believe him. He’s your best friend—he thinks he deserves the benefit of the doubt. Then again, he may have squandered all the goodwill he’s earned with you over the past few months.

Without looking up at him, you cup your hand to scoop the fallen cereal off the counter and into your other, waiting hand as you dismiss him again. “Okay, maybe the lack of sleep really is getting to you.”

Quick to shut that theory down, Eddie steps closer, squaring off with you across the counter. You still won’t look at him, focused instead on sweeping the rest of the cereal into the trash.

“Nah,” he says, quieter now, more certain. “I’ve never slept better in my life.”

And it’s not a complete lie.

There was a time the dreams drained him—left him wrung-out and raw, waking more tired than when he went to bed. But something shifted. Once he accepted that you weren’t leaving his mind until he did something about it—until he made a choice, ended what needed ending, and faced the truth—he found you again in those dreams.

And this time, you weren’t a ghost weighed down by the chains of his guilt—like some specter he’d cursed to carry the burden of his indecision.

You were a promise.

Permission to rest.

The confidence of his declaration seems to piss you off because you finally stop what you’re doing, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Then, Eddie, what the hell are you talking about?” 

Fuck it.

“I broke up with her for you,” he admits, imploring—wide, brown eyes wet with desperation, painted in truth.

You blanch at his words, eyeing him in horror. “I didn’t ask you to do that! You’ve wanted her since, like, forever. Why would you break up with someone you chased for years?” you shout.

Eddie’s heart pounds—you still don’t get it. Every second you don’t see it feels like you’re slipping further away.

“Because I’ve wanted you longer,” he says, the truth falling from his lips like it’s always been there.

The look of horror melts off your face, replaced by quiet calculation as you puzzle out what this new admission means. Eager to help you solve it, he continues. 

“Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Tell me…you never looked at me any other way than a friend, and I’ll never bring this up again.” 

Blood rushes in his ears as he stuns you into silence. If you say the words—if you reject him—he’ll go. He’ll be better. He’ll bury this thing between you and pretend it never existed. Not for himself, but for you. And it won’t be your fault. It never was.

“You can leave, I’ll try to stop these feelings, we’ll pretend nothing ever happened, and I’ll eventually be cured of this…thing.”

Disgust taints the word—thing—as he lays himself bare for you. Not disgust for you, but for the word itself, for the pitiful inadequacy of it. For the feelings he can’t name, for how he’s handled them, who he’s hurt in the process, and how long it took him to see them clearly.

His frustration is evident as he claws his way through the desperate, heart-felt pleas to you. Met with silence, a conniving, rotted kind of hope spreads through his veins like a viral infection. He can’t pin down one emotion in your shocked eyes—all he sees is a storm of confusion, surprise, petulance, and something else he won’t dare to name. 

The quiet of the trailer suffocates him—you won’t tell him no, but you’re not telling him yes. And the unfortunate truth is he’d let you string him along forever if you’d give him the bare minimum. If you chose not to answer him on this day, he’d take that crumb of hope and cut it up into a million little pieces to feast on from now until eternity. And that would be enough—just to be with you in any capacity.

But first, he has to push a little harder. He’s selfish that way.

The desperation in his tone multiplies tenfold as he tries again. The emotional turmoil of weeks upon weeks of you living in his head—showing him what he could have—is bubbling over, giving way to humorless amusement that makes him appear as if he’s gone mad. Festering, gnawing, corroding—just like you said. 

He gazes at your still form with rapt attention, hungry eyes devouring every minute movement you make. With a mad sort of tilt to his head, he leans over the counter slightly, attempting to close the distance despite the barrier.

“Please, just–just tell me. Put me out of my misery, ‘cause I can’t stand another second of dreaming about you and then seeing you like this–like none of it ever happened. Like you don’t know all the things we’ve done, all the ways I’ve held you.” 

“All the…” His voice falters, barely above a whisper. “All the ways I’ve loved you.”

You recoil, taking a step back, like his words were a blow you weren’t prepared for. He wants to scream at the way you break eye contact, the way you shut him down without a word. He’s trying his hardest to be clear, and you’re keeping him at arm’s length—or really, a kitchen counter’s length. 

“Eddie, you sound crazy,” you mutter, shaking your head and folding yourself into the comfort of your own arms.

“Maybe!” he shouts, threading his hands through the roots of his curls in exasperation. He’s going to have to spell it out for you. “Maybe I am crazy!” A humorless chuckle leaves his lips as he shakes his head, eyeing your questioning gaze. “I can’t go a night without dreaming about you—maybe that’s what’s driving me crazy. You, just living it up in my head!”

Eddie’s mocking, bitter voice makes you flinch. He can see tears well up in your eyes, causing his frustration to melt back into pathetic desperation.

“I–I don’t know what to say…”

He so badly wants to tell you what to say—to say you love him, to say you’ve just been waiting for him to pull his head out of his ass. But he doesn’t want to lead the witness…

He knows himself well enough to admit that selfishness runs through his veins like hot, life-giving blood. If he could lead you to that conclusion, and you accepted it—despite being shoehorned into the role of best-friend-turned-girlfriend—he’d selfishly take it. He’d live in yet another delusion that this was what you wanted all along.

But he also knows how that would end. He’s seen it already—in a dozen dreams, in every morning after. The illusion never survives daylight.

So, he won’t put words in your mouth. He won’t push you to decide. He won’t ask you to shatter what’s left between you just to spare him false hope. He’ll take what you give—if you choose to let him stay in your life after this disaster of a conversation and the immature way he’s been handling things lately.

Resigned, he graciously forfeits. He’s no stranger to rejection, even when it’s passive.

“Then don’t say anything,” he shrugs, lips curling inward, gaze falling to his hands, worrying the skin at his cuticles like it might distract him from the ache in his chest. “I get it. This was stupid anyway, I'm sorry. I…this was shitty of me.” A humorless snort escapes him, the understatement almost laughable. “Really shitty. Feel free to never speak to me again, by the way. I’d understand.”

Unable to meet your eyes for one last look, Eddie retreats to the couch, collapsing into a miserable slump. He’s not going to throw you out just because you rejected him—doesn’t feel like he has the right to tell you what to do. But he hopes you’ll spare him your pity and leave soon. He’d like to have at least one more good dream before they all shift into horror reruns of this conversation.

Unfortunately, he’s got hell to pay karmically, so the quiet pitter-patter of your feet approaching doesn’t surprise him. His dissociative state doesn’t break when he feels the couch shift one cushion away as you sit down, folding a leg beneath you. Eddie falls to his knees inside his own head, cursing everything in the sky above—because of course you’ve gotten comfortable. Looks like you’re staying for however long it takes to realize he’s an awful person and you should be rid of him.

Living in his peripheral vision—an ironic coincidence, given all the years he neglected to realize his feelings for you—he can vaguely make out your thoughtful expression as you stare at him for some time before taking a break to join him in his dissociation toward the turned-off TV. That trade-off continues for what feels like hours, but is probably only one. Maybe one and a half.

With time crawling by like the final mile of a race he was never meant to win, he loses track of you—too busy reliving every dream and the memories before. His mind flickers like Times Square, each screen lighting up with moments just for you.

If he’d been more aware, he would’ve noticed the way you crept closer to him every couple of minutes. Centimeters made the difference from the distance you originally kept. So deep down the rabbit hole you carved in his mind, he doesn’t realize until he feels heat bloom through his body, starting at his lips and traveling all the way to his toes.

Tears well up in his eyes, his chest tight with the unexpected flood of feelings your kiss stirs up. It's not just your lips—it's the overwhelming rush of something he didn’t see coming. Confusion clouds his mind—he thought you rejected him. The hesitation he saw in your eyes earlier, the way you fixated on Chrissy—it didn’t make sense. He thought he fucked up. You didn’t seem to accept his confession. But now, here you are, in front of him, close enough to make him question everything he thought he understood.

He can’t make sense of it. This doesn’t feel like rejection. No, this feels…like home. Like he’s finally come in from the cold. Like your sunny warmth is pouring through him, and he’s alive in a way he hasn’t been for a while.

But then, fear jolts through his veins—what if this is just another dream? What if this is the illusion of something real?

Déjà vu crashes over him like a second wave—but without the usual eerie discomfort. He’s been here before—this moment, this feeling—like it’s been lifted straight from a dream. Only now, he’s not fighting it. The warmth, the closeness, the way your lips feel against his—it’s all too familiar, too vivid. He swears he’s lived this before, seen it in his mind’s eye a hundred times. But now, it’s real, and it’s impossible to deny.

Your tongue glides along the seam of his lips, breaking him from his spiral—wordlessly begging him to reciprocate. He wants to, but his body refuses. The kiss is too real, too overwhelming, and he’s frozen in place, afraid that if he moves or speaks, it will all shatter. It’s only when he opens his eyes, feeling your warmth still lingering, that the doubt fades. There’s no escaping this. No denying it. You’re still there, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you, a thin string of saliva connecting the two of you—proof that this was real. A messy, fragile reality he never expected.

His brain functions at a quarter of its usual speed as his wide eyes rove over your face—you’re real. You’re real, and you’re really close. Closer than friends should be.

Just like in every dream he’s ever had of you, he can feel the words before he hears them. “How long?” 

Struggling to focus through heavy lids and buzzing static in his head, Eddie’s brow furrows. “What?”

The sweetest smile he’s seen almost every single day of his life pulls at your wet lips, despite your attempt to temper it. He must sound like an idiot right now, but he’d put on a dunce cap and do a little dance just to make that smile widen—and maybe, just maybe, if he’s really good—hear your melodious laugh.

“How long have you felt this way? I mean, how long have you known?”

Oh. That. 

Anxiety spreads through his chest as he realizes he’s going to have to share his feelings again—right after the disaster that happened earlier. He has to hope it’ll end differently, or he’ll never get another word out. Your kiss certainly helped feed his delusion…or maybe it’s not a delusion. 

There’s that pesky hope again.

“I–I wanna say since I met you, but I don’t think that’s really true,” he mutters regretfully—as if unconsciously loving you for the better part of two decades isn’t enough. “Wasn’t exactly ruminating on the meaning behind how much I loved you more than my other friends at five years old. I didn’t unlock the power of introspection until high school, unfortunately.”

His attempt at a joke lands, and he revels in the puff of breath you let out—more heat to his lips, more hope to his heart. He watches as you study him closely, your eyes scanning his face. His heart skips a beat when your gaze drops back down to his lips. But the weak organ feels like it’s folding in on itself, crushed beneath the weight of your next words.

“Can we just go back to normal?”

Crestfallen, Eddie struggles not to show it. Your pleading whisper harpoons his weak heart, dragging it violently from his chest and landing it in your squeezing grip. Of course you’d want that. Of course you’d want to go back to normal—it’s the least he could do for you after the way he blew up everything around him. Who would want to be with someone so incapable? You certainly don’t deserve that.

But the kiss.

The kiss was just a pity kiss. A weird way to let him down easy, but he won’t fault you. He’s been doing a lot of weird shit lately. He has no room to judge.

Forcing what he hopes is an understanding smile onto his face, he casts one last, longing glance at your lips—the lips he'll never feel again. “Y–Yeah. Yeah, we can.”

Much to his chagrin, you don’t move away from him. You’re still hovering close to his face, torturing him with what he can’t have. What he ruined. 

“And that means…movie nights and hangouts again, right?”

Gulping, Eddie puts on a brave face, ignoring the way he can feel your gravitational pull—your lips calling to him like a siren in murky waters. But he can’t give in. That would be the worst of the worst. To kiss you without your consent? He’d send himself to hell for that. Here you are, trying to become his friend again, and he can’t stop thinking about your lips. He could kick himself.

He’s got a lot of work to do—burning this feeling out of chest.

“Yeah, of course.”

The burn comes sooner than he expects—but it’s not the right kind of burn. Flames of heat engulf his body at the feel of your warm palm on his chest. Now he has two points of searing desire to deal with. Great. First, it was your sinfully soft lips; now it’s your gentle hand, your rogue thumb caressing him while he punishes himself for mistaking innocent consolation.

Unable to stop himself, his eyes flutter shut, reveling in the affection—before he forces them open again.

“Can we have sleepovers again?”

The request sets off alarm bells in his head. But you’ve proven to be real this time, so it can’t be that. Luckily, he’s fantastic at ignoring warning signs, choosing to nod a silent yes to your question.

He wants to say no. Sleepovers again? Watching you sleep, seeing the way your face melts in contentment, how you inch toward him, seeking solace in his body heat—it would be torture. But he’ll take whatever he can get. Damn his selfishness.

Eddie’s breath hitches as your head bobs, chin jutting forward, almost as if you felt the same pull he did. As if you wanted to find solace in his lips too. Like it was home to you as well.

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

The weight of the request sinks in, dragging him back to the reality of what he’s already imagined—the closeness, the heat, the way his heart would race. He’s torn, but he’ll do anything just to have you back in his life. If that means endless nights of torture and tests of his will, so be it.

“Sure…”

Before he gets a chance to follow up with how he’ll take the couch and you can have his bed, you’re whispering another question—drilling a millionth of a centimeter closer to the root of his temptation.

“Will you hold me?”

His eyes search your face, a brow raised at your request. In his quest to find any hidden meaning, all he sees is innocent curiosity. It only makes him want to punish his mind more.

Bad, bad, bad Eddie. Bad. 

Shame, shame, shame. 

“If…if you want.”

“Will you show me what you dreamed of?”

If you weren’t so close to his face, Eddie might’ve blanched at your words. Instead, he settles for a shocked tilt of his head, unable to tear his gaze from yours as he struggles to understand how this could possibly be reality. Pinching his arm, he tries to wake himself from what must be the most meta dream he’s had to date. There’s no way you just said that. After everything? He’s so confused he could cry.

At the quiet movement below, you glance down, chuckling at the way he’s desperately trying to wake himself from reality.

He finally releases a heaving breath when you back away, giving him space for the first time in what feels like forever. The relief is short-lived, though, when his heart thumps wildly like a rabbit’s foot at the feel of your warm palm sliding down his chest, then his abdomen—almost mirroring the movement from a dream he once had. But you don’t settle there. Instead, you rest your hand on his, halting his assault on his forearm.

“It’s real,” you assure, almost making him cry from the clarity he’s been sorely missing. “Now, I’m still pissed at you for being so stupid, and I’m not happy with the way you handled everything—I don’t appreciate the secondhand guilt you so graciously gifted me, considering I’m the one who came between you and Chrissy—but it’s real.”

Eddie wants to cut you off, his mouth already open to assure you that it was more like Chrissy came between him and you, given all the history there—but he swallows the argument when you shoot him a pointed look.

You suck in a steadying breath, seemingly preparing yourself for something—and he’s dying to know what.

Glancing up at him through blackened lashes, you mumble a vague, “It’s you, Eddie.”

A soft, rueful laugh slips from your shy smile as you gaze intently at your hand atop his. “It’s real, and it’s always been you.”

He watches you with rapt attention—doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this.

You hesitate, as if gathering the right words to explain how you feel, and Eddie finds himself empathizing. It’s a lot—to be real, to be transparent, to place your bleeding heart in someone else’s hands and hope they don’t crush it.

“I didn’t know if you would ever feel…the same—the way I did. Y’know…” You shrug, passively opting out of a full confession, still unsure of everything that happened between him and Chrissy—and your place in it all.

Eddie’s heart feels weightless in his chest, just pondering the past tense you used. You didn’t know. How far back? How long ago did you realize you felt…something? And that cop-out—y’know.

He doesn’t know. But god, does he want to. He won’t push you tonight, but he’ll spend the rest of his life begging for your version of every shared moment. He wants to know everything you feel for him.

And he’ll gladly, excitedly tell you his—as long as you tell him yours. He wants to hear your dreams. He wants to know if he stars in them the way you shine so brightly in his.

His train of thought crashes, cut off by the sharp jab of your fist into his shoulder. He flinches back with a wince. “Ow!” Jaw agape in full offense, he meets your determined face, your features drawn tight in admonition.

“You still owe me a game of Q*bert, jackass. And you’re definitely paying.”

Eddie’s pain melts away at the memory of the deal he made with you—how he promised to take you to the arcade, just the two of you, and pay for all your games. Pay for you to beat him on every lousy machine.

He didn’t forget. He won’t forget how much he owes you for everything he’s put you through.

Rubbing the spot where your knuckles dug in, he nods, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Think I’ll be paying for a lot from now on.”

Another fist flies into the same sore shoulder as soon as he drops his hand.

“Damn right, you will.”

Before he can whine out a complaint, your lips are on his again, pulling him into a hypnotic trance of messy, wet tongues—one hesitant, one sure. When you pull away, his lips follow instinctively—resigned to his fate at the bottom of a darkened sea, forever drawn to the siren who led him there.

A smirk pulls at your mouth, a teasing glint dancing across your eyes—the same eyes he’s stared into every night for months. “That’s what boys do on dates, after all.”

A/N: This is just like when Lady Gaga said, “That girl in your head ain’t real. How bad do you want me, for real?” Like, comment, reblog to help a writer out.

Dividers by: @/saradika