✨ Munson Mayhem ✨

THAT BEING SAID ALL I COULD THINK OF IS JQ IN HIS GLASSES. Look how cute he is. (The second one might be Photoshop?)

I imagine this look with a black button up or something. Like it’s different enough but still him. I imagine a situation where Eddie is so unrecognizable and someone finds him that only can confirm who he actually is by catching a glimpse of a tattoo. So yes, full on Clark Kent.

But you can’t. There’s no fucking way. There are two people on planet Earth that know about the deal—well, maybe a few more than that, ‘cause if he’s told Sean, he could’ve told any other of his brainless lackeys, and then there’s Jeff, of course, but Jeff would never betray him by coming clean to you on Eddie’s behalf, he’s pretty sure—and letting you find out about it would be fucking things up for both of them. He attempts another mental scan of basically every word he’s ever spoken to you, trying to figure out if he accidentally left some moronic trail of breadcrumbs hinting towards the reality of this sorry situation, but it’s pretty hard to focus when he’s getting stopped every few minutes by another tipsy peer trying to score.

Looking for you is made similarly difficult. He can’t seem to enter a new room without hearing a boisterous exclamation of his name by someone who, under literally any other circumstances, would gladly, exuberantly take a piss in his sneakers. 

Last he saw, you turned and sped down the hallway past the dining room, so he makes his way in that direction but he doesn’t find you there or in any of the attached rooms. Looped around to the front entrance, there isn’t a glimpse of you to be found in any direction. Eddie pauses, scratching the back of his head, thinking. It finally occurs to him that, given your apparent disinterest in being found by him, calling your name as he goes is probably as good as playing Marco Polo in reverse.

…Whatever. He’ll try upstairs.

It’s much quieter on the second floor and darker too, only a few huddled groups and pairs spread around the loft, chatting in low voices. Most of the rooms he checks are empty. One is locked and occupied, but the voice that shouts through to indicate as much definitely doesn’t belong to you. 

Behind one door at the end of the hall seems to be a home theater—the concept alone more than enough to piss him off—with plush leather seats staged around the biggest TV Eddie’s ever seen. It isn’t currently playing anything, but some of the seats are occupied by a trio of girls, and when they turn towards his intrusion, one face jumps out at him.

“Chrissy?” For a moment, he thinks it means he’s found you, but it only takes a split second to realize neither of the other two are shrouded in moody black.

He isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to how easily she smiles at him—none of the other girls care to look at him at all. “Oh, hi,” she says. Then, she asks where you are.

His stomach sinks in disappointment. “That’s, uh… That’s what I was gonna ask you, actually.”

“You haven’t seen her?”

“I have, but she, um…” He decides that “she keeps running away from me” isn’t a great look. “...I lost track of her.”

Chrissy frowns in thought. “That’s weird. She totally disappeared on me. I figured she saw you somewhere, or went looking for you on her own.”

Eddie just shakes his head. 

“Maybe she’s hiding somewhere?” she suggests. “From…people, or from the noise.”

Like you are? he wants to ask. But if that were the case, you’d probably have stepped outside where he was. He’s almost certain that the only thing you’re hiding from is him. 

“...Yeah, probably.” He nods, scratching his jaw. “I’ll just…keep looking, I guess.”

Apparently, he isn’t subtle enough. “...You don’t think something’s wrong, do you?” she asks, and her brow furrows in that special way that’s very hard for him to look at.

“No, no, I’m sure she’s fine,” he insists. “Probably just—hiding from the noise, like you said. I’ll find her.”

Chrissy nods, but still looks troubled. Eddie does his best to smile reassuringly as he exits the room, but as soon as the door closes behind him, he lets his head fall forward and exhales a weary breath. Back to the drawing board.

Eddie retraces his steps.

Back down the stairs, he peeks out the front door, but doesn’t find you on the porch or front lawn. If he really can’t find you, he’ll look down the street for your car.

There’s a line for the bathroom he passed, now. You aren’t in it, but he joins the back of it anyway, waiting until whoever’s currently occupying it comes out—not you, either. Damnit.

You aren’t in the dining room, but a junior from his Algebra class who really, really wants to get high is. Eddie waves him off with such incoherent, vehement refusal that he probably comes off like he could stand to take a few hits himself.

He snakes his way back through the living room, getting bumped and jostled egregiously as he goes, and one girl he accidentally nudges into jumps back from him in disgust, with the loudest, most unambiguous “ew!” that he’s heard in… well, at least a couple days.

But then, he sees you stumbling out of the kitchen. Freezing in place, his entire abdomen seizes up, and he comes about a hair’s breadth from instinctively shouting your name again before remembering to stop himself. Instead he just watches, eagle-eyed and deeply puzzled as you wobble this way and that and abruptly catch yourself against the wall, sloshing some of the drink in your hand over the side of the cup. The host and his entourage, posted just outside the kitchen, swell up and snicker at the sight of you.

“Holy shit!” Tommy cackles, more than loud enough to be heard over the music. “What’d I tell you about the punch?”

“Jesus, she can’t even walk straight.”

Eddie can’t figure out what he’s looking at. You whip your head around to face your hecklers and stick your tongue all the way out as a childish rebuff, and he’d probably find it pretty funny and charming if he wasn’t so furiously, dread-inducingly confused. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about any given teenager getting inadvisably drunk at a house party, but…you really, really don’t seem the type, and after the game of hide and seek you’ve been playing with him this evening, watching you struggle so obviously to negotiate your relationship to gravity is setting off every alarm bell in his head. 

“You puke on the carpet, you’re paying for it, you crazy bitch!”

You ignore Tommy’s warning and continue on wherever you’re headed, clumsily raising your drink back up to your lips as you go, and once you disappear down the hall, Eddie starts pushing himself fervently in the same direction. Like hell he’s gonna let you out of his sight again in the state you’re in.

Finally escaping the thick of it, Eddie nearly trips in his urgency to swing himself around the corner, and as soon as he does, he…finds you. 

…Pressed bodily up against Billy fucking Hargrove of all people, your hand on his chest, his own curled around your wrist to keep it there. Every thought vacates his mind beyond three glimmering words: what the fuck?

There’s a split second where Eddie feels his heart weaken, turning brittle at the edges. Then, as he realizes that you aren’t leaning into him of your own accord—he’s holding you there, anchoring you to him—it abruptly begins to pound, and Eddie’s face hardens to stone. Billy’s lips are moving, murmuring something to you with a smirk that oozes slime, and when Eddie notices the way you try and fail to reclaim your arm, shoving haphazardly at his chest in an attempt to dislodge yourself, a fire ignites under his feet, pushing him forward and lighting a fuse that burns rapidly in the direction of his rushing head. 

As he draws nearer, a snippet of your conversation reaches him through the fog of music and chatter. “I’m ugly?” he pretends to gasp, raising his eyebrows at you. “...Well, then, what does that make you, precious?”

It isn't until he gets close enough to catch Hargrove’s attention that it occurs to him; this could go badly, very badly, but so long as it might present an opportunity for you to get the hell away from him, he doesn’t really care at all.

“...Uh oh,” Billy jeers, his nasty smile stretching even wider as he looks Eddie up and down. “...This your boyfriend? Looks like he’s mad at you.”

Your head jerks over to investigate and you still yourself instantly to gawk at him, just the same as you have the last two times you caught his eye; only now, even unmoving, your balance sways precariously. One look at you from this close, and it’s clear that you’re pretty far gone; even as you stare straight at him, you aren’t all there, and it’s enough to send a chill down his spine.

“I didn't know you had a thing for druggies,” Billy continues to taunt as though only you can hear him, but Eddie hardly processes it—too busy staring right back at you, wondering why the hell you seem more distressed by the mere sight of him than you do by Hargrove’s bullying. Whatever Eddie planned on saying when he got here is long gone, if it ever existed at all. “...Then again, maybe you were made for each other. You two meet in rehab, or what?”

Eddie says your name—the only thing that comes to mind—and all at once you start to struggle, pushing more insistently against Billy, grunting your frustration. When your other hand reels back, the one holding whatever you’ve been drinking, Eddie panics and jumps forward to wrestle it out of your weak grasp, spilling some of the reeking liquid over his fingers in the process. As satisfying as it might’ve been to see you drench that smug, malicious grin in sticky red, he has no clue whether Billy Hargrove has any particular hangups when it comes to hitting girls, and Eddie is not remotely willing to let you find out.

“Nice save,” Hargrove spits. He has such a funny way of making every word out of his mouth sound like a heinous insult.

Eddie flashes a tense, unamused grin, bursting at the seams. “Let her go.”

Billy just stares—it makes him feel like his skin has thinned down to tissue paper. The red cup crinkles in his hand.

Hargrove doesn’t say anything, ignoring the command, ignoring your frantic need to escape, and the tension in Eddie’s face travels down to his shoulders as the fuse burns to its end. “...You can see she doesn’t fuckin’ want you touching her, man, just let her—!”

“Oh, if you insist,” Hargrove barks over him, twice as loud, and his pale eyes seem to darken.

You’re in the middle of another full-body attempt, your free hand planted against his collarbone in search of greater leverage, so when Billy releases your wrist, you go flying. Eddie reaches out instinctively, a clipped little “fuck!” bursting out of his throat in panic, but he isn’t close enough to catch you or alter your trajectory. You catch yourself, mostly, but with a distressed yelp, your shoulder bashes into the other side of the hallway hard enough to make Eddie flinch. You were already making enough of a ruckus to attract attention, but the thud of your impact triggers a momentary hush and catches the eye of pretty much everyone in viewing distance. Hargrove only smiles at the sight, boiling his blood even hotter.

You recover faster than he expects, and almost immediately you’re off again, dragging awkward feet down the hall, wobbling past sneering and snickering onlookers. Before Eddie can follow, Hargrove catches him by his jacket sleeve and startles him out of his boots.

“Better keep an eye on your girl,” he warns. Low, raspy, and absurdly fucking ominous. “...She could get herself into real trouble.”

“...Thanks, man,” Eddie spits back through five layers of bitter sarcasm. If looks could kill, that meticulously styled mullet would’ve just blown a hole straight through the ceiling. 

Ripping his arm back, he hurries after you, but pauses briefly, glancing down at the inconvenient cup in his hand. To his right is a random underclassman, geeky-looking enough that he might succeed in making a casual demand without getting laughed out of the room. Edgy and impulsive, Eddie holds the cup out towards him. 

“Take it,” he says.  The kid just stares at him blankly. He extends the cup further, shakes it insistently. “...Take it!”

Reluctant and puzzled, he accepts, and no sooner does Eddie tear off after you—not that you’ve made it very far. Both hands clinging onto the bannister, you drag yourself awkwardly up the stairs. 

Eddie calls your name. You look down at him over your shoulder and startle again, climbing faster and nearly tripping over yourself as you do. “Jesus, you’re— Slow down!” 

He starts bounding up the staircase two at a time, largely to put himself where he can catch you, if it comes to that, but his rapid approach just agitates you further—with a reluctant groan, you swing one leg out precariously behind you, and Eddie has to cling to the bannister himself to avoid getting hit. He stares up at you with wide eyes.

“I… Did you just try to kick me?”

Down the stairs, no less. Your only response is incomprehensible, whiny grumbling as you continue trying to throw yourself up the stairs faster than your limbs can reliably carry you. Eddie clicks his tongue and keeps following. 

“I’m sorry,” he assures you, helpless. “I don’t want to be chasing you right now, but you’re making me have to chase you. Please slow down, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

At the top of the stairs, your leg slips out from under you, and it gives him about a third of a heart attack. Thankfully, you still have the wherewithal to prevent yourself from faceplanting straight into a ninety-degree angle.

“Oh, Christ,” he breathes, dragging one hand down his face. “You okay?”

You ignore the question. He can’t tell if the frustrated grunt you let out as you reach for the bannister again and stiffly begin to pull yourself back to your feet is directed more at him or at the unwieldy meat suit you’re being forced to navigate at the moment.

“...Did something happen?” he asks as discreetly as he thinks you’ll hear, not overly expecting to get a response. The handful of loiterers still hanging around the second floor are all staring at you—he does his best to communicate the sentiment of “fuck off and die” with his eyes without taking them off of you for too long. “Y’wanna talk about it?”

“No,” you spit. Well, there’s your first coherent response.

Eddie thinks to try and bring you to Chrissy, maybe, or to call for her if she’s still up here, but with the audience you’ve already amassed, something in his stomach starts to squirm at the thought of deliberately embarrassing you in front of your popular cousin and her popular friends. He’d much rather just…wait it out, get you somewhere safe and private and let you sober up enough to decide for yourself. 

Unfortunately, this entails getting you into one of these rooms and keeping you there for an extended amount of time, and he can’t picture you being particularly cooperative about either of those things at the moment.

Back on your feet, you set off again, and Eddie follows from as much of a distance as he’s willing to give you, which essentially amounts to hovering just outside your bubble with both hands readily prepared to adjust your course.

He tries the first door you pass, but it’s still locked—someone shouts drunken nonsense at him from the other side. The next door opens, dark and empty, but the second and a half that he took his eyes off of you to check was evidently too long. You start tipping sideways and, his heart skipping a beat or two at the sight, Eddie hooks a hand around your elbow to tug you back upright. He releases you as quickly as he can, hating the thought of yanking you around after the ordeal that Hargrove just put you through, but the gesture doesn’t mean much to you right now. It’s almost like you didn’t even realize he was still there; you startle and raise your hackles at him all at once.

“Go away!” you groan, loud and slurred, and before he knows it, you’ve whipped around and started swinging your arms at him, trying to fend him off. “Jus’ stop! Leave me alone!”

It isn’t very hard to defend himself and stand his ground during your clumsy attacks, but he feels bad for upsetting you nonetheless. “Sorry– I'm sorry, I just don't want you to hurt yourself, okay?”

You’re mad at him for sure. The next time you swing, you aim for his face, and he only narrowly avoids getting a cheekful of awkward fist. “Fuck, did I—do something to you, or—?”

“Jus’ go somewhere and die,” you slur out elegantly.

“Alright, I got it,” he groans, carefully holding one of your wrists at bay, “but can’t you just—? Don’t you wanna lay down for a while, and—?”

“No!”

Yanking both hands back to yourself, you spin around to speed off again and almost immediately trip over your own feet, leaning into the wall for stability. Eddie’s shoulders jump in stress. 

He really, truly wants to give you the space you’re asking for, but he can’t really bring himself to let you wander out of his reach like this. “...I promise I’ll leave you alone if you just do me one huge favor and sit down. Can you do that for me?”

Grumbling something that probably constitutes a refusal, you start flailing one arm behind you to keep him at bay. Compromise is a hard sell when you’re stone cold sober—as wasted as you are right now, it’s probably no more than a pipe dream, but Eddie doesn’t really know what else to do. At this rate, he’ll be following you around pleading for your cooperation until the sun comes up. He says your name again, experimenting with a sterner tone.

“Listen, I’m begging you to just—”

Another swing of your arm nearly whacks him in the head—he catches your wrist and immediately regrets it for the way it distresses you, twisting around in frustration, pulling and shoving at him in equal measure while still, to his horror, stumbling backwards, leaning into it even harder in your fight to get away. 

“Shit,” he curses, calling your name out in warning, but you’re clearly too worried about him to worry about yourself. “Watch where you’re—!”

A split second later and his fear comes to pass—you trip over yourself, prepared to go hurtling down and possibly bust your head against the door behind you in the process, but Eddie moves faster, scoops his arm around your waist and tugs you back towards him, and then forces out a harsh breath of relief. “...Jesus Christ,” he mutters, “you’re killing me here.”

Struggling to support yourself on tangled legs, you slump into him at first, grabbing random handfuls of his clothes to regain your footing. Then, presumably, your sluggish brain catches up to the position you’re in and you start to use your grip to push away from him, whining and mumbling your many objections, but after multiple failed attempts at rudimentary balance and coordination, he’s pretty reluctant to let you take another unassisted shot at it. Something compels him to look over his shoulder, and his stomach turns to find the mouth of the hallway crowded with amused onlookers. 

…Okay, no, fuck this. If he had to follow you around like this all night, he’d do it, but what he’s not willing to put up with right now is either of you being reduced to some…glaring, dysfunctional spectacle for sheltered party kids to point and titter at. There’s no way to relocate you manually that doesn’t feel like crossing a multitude of lines, so Eddie decides to suck it up and make it as quick as he can.

“...Alright, c’mon,” he decides, wrapping one arm fully around your midsection to keep you stable. The door you nearly crashed into is unlocked, someone’s bedroom—thank God. “You can beat me up as much as you want to, okay? Just not out here.” 

“Stop, stop it,” you mumble, pushing, wriggling, turning in his grasp like a fish out of water, and Eddie’s jaw tightens. He really fucking hates this. 

Eddie has to half-drag you across the threshold, and he can feel you overheating, sweating down your sides. The lightswitch beside the doorway is a dial; he turns it about halfway and then goes to shut the two of you in, blissfully cut off from prying and ridiculing eyes, but as soon as he maneuvers you around to reach for the door, you start struggling even worse, grunting loudly in complaint. 

“Sorry, hold on, I just—” Dropping you on your face becomes another concern; he wraps his arm a little tighter, your back pressed to his front. Somehow, you’ve pulled off a complete one-eighty in his arms. “I need to—”

He manages to get the door closed behind you but his other hand slips in doing so and he struggles to correct it, cringing as his hold lands higher than he intended, but the moment it does, your reluctant squirming turns to thrashing with an abrupt, wild intensity that Eddie has no idea how to react to. 

“Off— No, get off!” you insist, your voice pitching higher than he's ever heard it. “Don't—fucking touch me!”

If he lets go of you, you’ll fall, but, fearful that he’s hurting you somehow, he does it anyway. He winces at the sight of you hitting the carpet, twisting and yelping as you crumple, but your face whips back up to look at him in an instant, and—

Eddie's heart stops. For one infinite, heartbreaking, blood-curdling moment, you look…terrified. Completely and unequivocally fucking terrified of him. 

It fades fast, shrinking down into a defiant glare, still shaken enough to leave him paralyzed. Then, the tears start to fall. His mind tumbles down a jagged hill, catching painfully on each awful half-conception of what the hell you could’ve thought he was trying to do, and lands bruised and nauseated at your feet, sending panicked chills up and down his spine. 

“I…” As it often does in times of stress, his tongue fails him. He blinks at you in shock, disoriented on every level, his mouth hung open uselessly.

Your lips tremble before you rein them in to speak. “...I know what you’re doing,” you accuse, thick and slurred in your constricted throat. 

Glass shatters somewhere nearby—maybe on the inside. His chest crushes in so tight that his lungs forget to function and his mind spills mortifyingly blank; no meager self-defense, no questions of why or when or how you could’ve possibly found out, just pure, white-hot dread.

“Just…fucking admit it,” you spit. Louder, unwieldy. “You…fffucking creep. You’re a pig!”

Any fear left over submerges itself in anger, and the chemical reaction of it hisses and boils and finally detonates into wrath. You bare your teeth at him like a guard dog encroached upon, dark grey tear trails streaming down your cheeks. A painful, sympathetic sting manifests behind Eddie’s gaping eyes and his heartbeat echoes in his ears, drowning out any thoughts before they can begin to form. 

“Stop…fucking staring at me!” 

Eddie cuts his eyes away in an instant. His pathetic mouth quavers but he still can’t move, or say anything at all for himself as a sweltering, mortified heat rises to the skin of his face. It feels like his body has gained a thousand pounds of pure shame, rooting him in place, too dense to lift a finger.

…Is that it? He really thought he’d have more time. More than just one date, hardly long enough to measure the fine little cracks in your shell, to see how many more he might get away with forming; to touch and tease and smile without the flinching disgust that naturally follows. But somehow, unknowingly, he’s fucked himself already.

It’s probably more than he deserves, but the child in him could care less. It’s not fair. He never even got to kiss you. You’re going to leave him alone and unwanted all over again when he’d only just started to put together what being wanted could really mean, what it might feel like, to set aside the cynicism and dare to imagine it for himself, and now, all that races through his mind is how not to let you. To…leave first and never come back, never have to suffer the sight of it (graduating never meant much to him, anyway) or to put everything else aside, the pride that, for some reason, you can batter to your heart’s content without ever bruising, and beg, beg you not to go, to abandon him down here where he belongs, to rip the quiet wound back open and drag your feet through the blood as you go. 

He hasn’t been brave enough to lift the hood on it yet—to take a proper look and sully his hands in the undercarriage—but ever since the night you came to his show, for the first time in years, he’s been dreaming about his mom again. Only in short bursts, made softer by diluted memory, but her nonetheless. If you really do go and he can't find some way to stop you, a part of him is terrified you’ll take her with you.

You try to get up. Graceless, apathetic limbs fight to locate your balance, but you don’t make it far before you scowl and clutch your head, the floor beneath you made unstable by the whirling in your mind. 

It’s no use. You give up just as quick, falling flat and limp, staring at him with eyes so dim and teary that it hurts his teeth to meet them. A deep, shuddering breath and they flick vacantly up to the ceiling.

“...Whatever,” you mumble, your voice barely there. “...Jus’ do it, then. I don't care.”

Eddie’s brow furrows tight. “...What?”

“S’what you want, isn’t it?” you jeer with a sniffle. An uncoordinated hand floats precariously up to your face, rubbing harshly, smearing your watery makeup into an inkblot. “...This whooole fuckin’ time, being…fuckin’ annoying… Following me. ...Fuckin’ creep. Get it over with ‘n leave me th’fuck alone.”

It feels like a hole opens up at the bottom of Eddie’s stomach and every organ in his chest falls through, filling all the space inside of him with cold, empty shock. He doesn’t know exactly what you mean, but what it sounds like—that you’d expect that from him, from anyone—is enough to have his dinner crawling back up his digestive tract.

“...What are you talking about?” he dares to ask. Hoping, maybe stupidly, that he's wildly off the mark.

You don't say anything. After a moment, you meet his eye again, but you don't even look angry anymore, just…tired. Resigned in a way that makes his skin crawl.

“...I’m not gonna touch you,” he says. Slow, measured, and pale-faced. He raises his hands, open and emphatically harmless, but even that makes you twitch. He freezes again, trying to turn himself inanimate for you. “I’m not gonna— Jesus, I swear to fucking God, I’m not trying to…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, or if there is anything he can say that would help. Maybe saying anything at all is making it worse, and he should just leave you the hell alone like you’ve been begging him to all night, but…how the fuck could he walk away from you like this?

“I don’t want…anything,” he tries to assure you, projecting every ounce of sincerity he’s capable of through wide-stretched eyes. “I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry I…grabbed you like that, I didn’t mean to— I was scared. I didn’t want you to…hurt yourself, or… Fuck, I just…I want you to be okay. That’s it. I promise.”

But you aren’t. He’s had his suspicions, of course, but right now it’s in focus, spilling out of you like the rivulets of sweat and tears against your skin. Practically every moment you’ve shared together flashes before his eyes—the way it probably should've a couple minutes ago, when he thought it was all coming to an abrupt and violent end. He feels like a self-obsessed moron, assuming that all of this must be his doing, his pain inflicted on you. You haven’t been okay for as long as he’s known you. You wouldn't act the way you do if you were. 

And as it clicks into place, his blood boils over—he can feel it throbbing in his head. His doing or not, seeing you like this makes him want to beat himself bloody; him, and Tommy Hagan, and fucking Hargrove; every snickering, unfeeling bystander at this shitty fucking party and anyone else who could’ve contributed even the slightest bit to making you feel like this.

His hands are starting to shake. From the moment he found you, he assumed you must've, for whatever alarming reason, decided to drink yourself dumb on purpose, but now his thoughts spiral somewhere darker. Eddie doesn't sell shit like that—once nearly surrendered to the urge to suckerpunch some dirtbag square in the teeth for even asking—but it's not like he's the only dealer in Hawkins. His eyes flit around as faces start to flash behind them, rotating through potential culprits, where he last saw them, how much damage he might be able to do before they get the better of him, but just before the pressure mounts enough to burst, Eddie clamps down on it, releases as much as he can in hissing streams through his teeth. Because blowing his lid on your behalf won't fix this, or make anything about this moment less awful for you. 

The way you look up at him, this shrunken, extinguished mess on the spotless peach carpet, can only be described as mournful. Like you want to believe him, but something inside of you just can’t.

Eddie blinks, and all of the sudden his eyes catch on your dress. It has the same patchwork look as your signature slouch bag—multiple garments cut up and sewn back together to make something new and distinctly yours. He noticed it before, but didn’t process the information until just now.

“...Did you make that dress?” he asks. 

You glance down at yourself and then back to him with a frown; your monumental suspicion is almost relieving next to the sorrow it replaces. “...You don't care.”

“Yeah, I do,” he scoffs, barely suppressing a startled laugh. “...Of course I do. Why wouldn't I care?”

He gets a long, doubtful glare. “...You don't care about me,” you insist harder.

“Yes, I do!” he argues with gentle outrage. “I care about you…” 

With your eyes on him like this, it isn’t very hard to come out with it—he’d read out every mushy thought he’s ever had back to back if he thought it might make you feel better. 

“...I care about you a lot, actually. …Maybe too much, I dunno.” He shrugs, smiles compulsively, and it takes real effort not to duck his face in embarrassment. “I'm…not really used to this shit, if I'm being honest.”

You’re still just staring at him, but softer now; with rounder eyes. He decides to take the plunge.

“...Can I sit with you?” 

Just asking makes his heart skip a beat or two, and the wary, wet-eyed pout you give him in response strums harsh against his heartstrings. Eventually, you nod.

“Yeah?” he checks. “You sure?”

Another sullen dip of your chin. Eddie has to wield his flesh against his own skeleton to content himself with merely inching slightly closer and lowering himself to sit criss-cross a couple feet away from you, rather than throwing himself headfirst into the hug it really fucking looks like you need.

Settled down on the floor, hands entwined in his lap, he gnaws on his lip indecisively. Your eyes are glued to the carpet between you.

“What…” What happened? Does it fucking matter? “...What can I do?”

…Nothing. Stupid question, probably. He searches his internal archive for any sort of protocol he might have on hand for a situation even vaguely resembling the here and now, and all that comes to mind is something Wayne used to do when he was a kid—to rein him in when he was bouncing off the walls or derail a meltdown before he could fully commit to it, to focus his scattered brain when it started to overwhelm him. It feels a little like a revelation; he isn’t sure how he forgot about it.

“You, uh… You wanna play a game?”

You look up at him and blink. He’ll take it as a maybe.

“Y’know hot hands?” he asks. Your brow furrows—that’s a no. “...Don’t worry, it’s super easy. Um, can you come a little closer?”

With little hesitation, you scoot yourself towards him, nearly close enough for your legs to rest against each other. Eddie has to shake his head to set it back on track.

“Alright, uh— Hold your hands out like this.” He demonstrates with both hands palm-up, and you do the same. “Perfect. Now, mine go here—” He gently rests his palm-down on top of yours. “—and what you’re gonna do is try to slap your hands on top of mine before I move them away. You got that?”

Staring down at his hands, you nod with full confidence.

“You wanna try it first before we start?” he offers. He isn’t one-hundred-percent sure how present you are. Even sitting down, you’re still swaying around a bit. 

“I know how to slap,” you assure him, like the mere implication offends you.

He thinks of the welt you once bestowed upon him—Christ, it feels like a month ago. “You’re right,” he agrees. “You really do. That’s my bad. Go for it, then. Ready when you are.”

Eddie doesn’t go easy on you the first time. He slips his hands away the moment he feels you move yours, and you miss the window by about a mile. 

“That’s okay, the first time’s always tricky. Again?”

You nod. Eddie goes slower this time; you graze his fingertips, sort of, and then grunt at him in complaint. 

“Sorry,” he offers. “One more try, you got this.”

Since the point of this is to cheer you up (rather than teach you a valuable lesson about the unfairness of life and inevitability of failure), Eddie lets you win pretty blatantly on the third go, but thankfully, you aren’t quite cognizant enough to realize. He hisses as your palms strike down on the back of his hands with full uninhibited force, but it morphs into a laugh at the sight of your big, evil, satisfied grin. 

“Owww, fuck,” he complains as he shakes his hands out, playing it up in hopes of lighting your eyes even brighter. “...Jesus, you get way too much pleasure out of doing that.”

“I got you,” you rub in happily.

He might be smiling even wider than you are. “Yeah, you got me good. Now it’s your turn.”

Reversing the positions, Eddie…hesitates.

“...You gotta move your hands outta the way before I can smack ‘em, alright?” he reminds you pointedly.

You nod and nod and nod while he speaks like you’re trying to hurry him up.

“...Both of them,” he stresses harder. “As soon as I move, you gotta pull ‘em back.”

“I know, you told me."

“Okay, okay,” he sighs, studying you a moment longer. “Just making sure. You ready?” 

“Yeah.”

Eddie moves half as quickly as he’s capable of and effortlessly taps the backs of your hands on the first try. You click your tongue at him belatedly.

“That’s alright,” he rushes to say. “Let’s try again.”

On your second attempt, Eddie goes slow enough that it looks a little ridiculous to his own eyes, and you do react this time, but the pressure must short circuit your brain; he gets you anyway.

“Oops,” he says. He really thought you had that one. “You gotta move ‘em away.”

“I know, Eddie!”

He bites down hard on his cheek to keep his smile down. “Okay, I’m sorry. Wanna try again?”

You consider it and nod. Eddie tries, really tries to make it easy for you, but something about the opposite role just doesn’t compute in your brain. 

“Ah, shit,” he laments as he wins again. “Okay, um... How about we—whuh?!”

He doesn’t see your frustration get the better of you—one second you’re scowling, and the next, you’re rising to your knees and trying to whack him in the head again. He raises his arms to shield himself on instinct, but it quickly becomes apparent that you aren’t really trying to hurt him. You are, a little bit, because you’re drunk and oblivious and wailing on him, but it’s a far cry from the genuine self-defense of your earlier attacks. 

“You’re doing it on purpose!” you accuse.

“No, I’m— Doing what? Winning? That's how games work!”

One hand planted on his shoulder for stability, you smack him and grab him and shake him around while Eddie grunts and groans like you’re ripping him to shreds, and he could swear he hears you laughing under one of his louder cries. Eventually, he lets you topple him over completely, falling spread eagle onto the carpet with one last, theatrical grunt. Then, he plays dead. You don’t suffer it for very long.

“...You’re sooo dramatic,” you gripe.

“I’m dramatic?” He whips his head up to address you with a ridiculously severe expression that makes you snort. “You totally just tried to kill me over a hand game.”

You roll your eyes at him, and even that seems lazier than usual. “If I was gonna kill you, then I would just stab you.”

Eddie throws your eye-roll right back at you, blown way out of proportion. “Right, of course, how could I forget? What’d I do to deserve this abuse, anyhow?”

“You’re so annoying,” you remind him, fighting endearingly hard against a smile. “And I don’t like you.”

He sits back up and grins at you. “I kinda think you do, though.” You shake your head, insistent, and Eddie wants to pinch you. He raises two pinched fingers instead. “Just a little bit?”

“Ugh,” you grunt, and your head falls limp to pout at your lap. You raise a clumsy hand to scratch your cheek. “...I do.” 

Eddie never knew what butterflies really felt like until he went and caught some for you. He's pretty sure there are fireworks bursting in his chest.

Very abruptly, you attempt to stand up again—possibly fleeing from the scene of your confession—and Eddie’s eyes pop open wide.

“Where, uh— Where ya goin’?” 

“I need to pee,” you announce.

“Ah,” he notes. “Nature calls.”

Eddie leads you out into the hall with your hand curled in a death grip around his sleeve. Part of him was mildly terrified that leaving the room would reveal the presence of some shameless eavesdropper, lingering around with an ear pressed to the crack in the door in hopes of hearing something juicy, but the coast is reassuringly clear; the entire second floor seems to be deserted. The music is much, much quieter now too—he has to strain his ears to catch the faint wisp of it that floats upstairs, muddled together with distant voices.

He remembers where the bathroom is from earlier and takes you to it without a hitch, pushing the door in and flicking the light on for you.

“There ya go,” he says with a bow, inviting your entry. “Your porcelain throne awaits.”

You walk past him only slightly off-kilter and ignore his theatrics exactly the same as you do sober. Only, you’re still holding onto his sleeve. At first he assumes that, in your drunken state, you simply forgot to let go of him, but when he plants his feet to stay in place and you tug on him even harder with a little grunt, he jolts in realization.

“Oh, uh— you need me?” On your third tug (more of a yank, really) he relents, letting you drag him cluelessly into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him with an endeared little grin. “What are we, um…?” 

You head straight for the toilet as planned, and Eddie’s stomach does a flip as you start to pull up the hem of your dress without a care. “Okay, that’s—” He spins all the way around, possibly the fastest he ever has in his life, and squints his eyes shut, letting his forehead thunk lightly against the door—probably singing it black with the way his face catches fire. “A little warning would be nice, next time. Christ.”

“I told you I need to pee.”

“Well—shit, yeah, you did tell me that.” He tips his head back towards the ceiling, but still dares not open his eyes. “That’s… yeah. Silly me.”

He waits until the toilet flushes and the water turns on to brave a glance and finds you leaning deep into the mirror, frowning at your reflection and wiping at your waterlogged makeup with wet hands.

“Still the prettiest girl in town,” he throws out.

You cut your eyes at him in the mirror. “You’re the stupidest.”

Eddie can’t help himself. “I’m the stupidest girl in town?”

You hang your head in defeat, eyes squinting shut. “Please be quiet.”

Shit, right—you may very well have a headache. Eddie nods, exaggerated enough that you might process the gesture in your peripheral vision. He mimes zipping his lips closed for added emphasis, but you probably don’t catch that part.

Grasping the counter tightly with one hand, you continue awkwardly scrubbing at your makeup, staring and grimacing at yourself in the mirror, then rubbing at your eyes, your temples, pinching the bridge of your nose. A shudder hits you so hard that Eddie can see it travel down your spine, and you let out a low, throaty, unhappy groan in response. 

Another full-body shudder and Eddie recognizes it for what it really is at the same time that you scramble back to the toilet and start purging your stomach contents with an awful retch. He sucks his teeth in sympathy as he comes over to kneel beside you, making sure no hair or jewelry gets in your way and rubbing your back in encouragement.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Get it all out. I promise, you’re gonna feel so much better.”

It doesn’t take too long—the only thing you seem to have ingested recently is that godforsaken punch. A couple dry heaves confirm your tank is empty, and you finally lift your head again, wiping the water from your eyes.

“Great job,” he tells you with a gentle pat. “Want some water?”

You nod. Eddie helps you back to the sink so you can rinse out your mouth and flushes the toilet on your behalf, grimacing as neon red swirls down the drain.

When you’re finished, you plop yourself back down on the floor, and Eddie swiftly joins you—he figures you’ve earned a rest.

You’re carrying a smaller bag this evening, simple black leather slung across your torso. You wrestle it over your head, struggling for a moment as the strap catches in your hair, and clumsily yank it open to dump its contents onto the floor in front of you. 

“Oh,” Eddie notes. Your keys tumble out, an eyeliner pencil, the lipstick you’re wearing, a pack of cigarettes, and… “Uh… Wh— Is that a knife?”

“No,” you mumble, like he’s a huge idiot. “It’s a dagger.”

“Right, sorry,” he corrects with a grin. “Dunno what I was thinking.”

Either way, it’s kind of awesome—a small, double sided blade with an ornate handle, just loose in your fucking purse, no sheath or anything. Your hands skips over it entirely, snatching up your Djarums and a stray lighter instead. 

“S’that what you were gonna stab me with?” he jokes.

“Probably,” you mumble around your cigarette.

Eddie’s hands are twitching. “...Can I touch it?”

You click the lighter thrice before it ignites, and then take a long inhale. “...I don’t care.”

Given permission, he snatches it up for a closer look, running his thumb over the carved metal on the handle, but his attention is cut short by the feeling of your head thunking onto his shoulder. He blinks a few times, processing, and then carefully sets your dagger back down. You curl yourself in and lean against him more fully, and Eddie tries to focus on breathing, relaxing—willing himself a more comfortable pillow. 

Clove-scented smoke curls and effuses, making the air a little thicker. It isn’t long before the first sniffle. As much as you try to hold it back, minimize it, he can feel the shaking in your breath, the way you tilt your face to let your tears soak into his vest. He really wants to wrap his arm around you, pull you in closer, but if you wanted that, you’d probably put it there yourself. 

Eddie stays quiet, giving you room to let go of whatever else needs to spill out of you, until eventually, you hold out the cigarette in offering, burnt most of the way down. He accepts it with a smile and takes a quick puff, humming at the flavor of it. 

“...Wow,” he mutters. “These things taste…way better when you smoke ‘em with your mouth.”

Rather than your gentle sobbing, the way you shake against him now is unambiguously silent laughter. You snatch it back from him to finish it off.

All cried out, you snuff the filter on the bathroom tile and sigh. Eddie’s pretty antsy for a change in scenery.

“Ready to get the fuck out of here?” he asks. You nod against him, and then, regrettably, lift your head off of his shoulder.  “...Yeah, me too.”

He carefully refills your purse for you and then hurries to his feet, holding both hands out to pull you up. You spring up pretty fast and it gives Eddie a fright, thinking he accidentally yanked you up too hard or something, but when you collide with the front of him, you stay there; face nestled into his collar, clutching onto his jacket like a lifeline.

Eddie’s face screws up—every inch of him scrunched tight with fondness, his heart stuttering and cracking open in his chest. His palm rests automatically against your back.

“...Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes.

…

Eddie keeps you close as he guides you back to the first floor, as quickly as he can while taking your still-clumsy limbs into account. The party still goes on though it’s shrunken considerably in size, seemingly centered around the living room area. At first, it’s relieving—maybe he can slip the both of you out unseen—but of course, nothing’s ever that easy for him. 

You’ve barely stepped away from the stairs when you catch a couple pairs of eyes. Colin and Danny; your garden variety brainless jocks in two different shades. 

“What the hell?” Colin squints at the sight. Just a couple hours ago, he’d clapped Eddie on the shoulder after buying an eighth off of him.

“Told you he was still around,” says Danny, starting towards him. He eyes the pair of you up and down and scoffs. “...Looks like the freak’s trying to get lucky tonight.”

In the absence of demand for his mercantile services, “Eddie” has devolved back down to “the freak.” On the bright side, it signals definitively that this shitty night is finally fucking over.

“We’re leaving,” is all Eddie can be bothered to say, holding onto you a little tighter.

“What’s the rush?” Danny asks; either genuinely suspicious or just looking to fuck with him. The last thing he needs right now is an unprovoked interrogation.

Colin, a step or two behind, squints even harder before bumping Danny with his elbow. “...Wait, isn’t that her cousin?”

“...Shit, it is, isn’t it?”

Eddie feels the tone shift, the damning verdict closing around his neck, and his hackles raise to the ceiling. “Listen, man, I’m really not in the fucking mood to play ‘hammer down the nail’ with you right now—”

“What’d you just say?”

“You really think we’d let you sneak out of here with—?”

The commotion summons an audience, and Chrissy all but wailing your name at the sight of you cuts out every other agitated voice. The sound of it makes you twitch and press into him even harder. She bounds down the hall in an instant, face twisted up with worry.

“Chrissy,” Danny notes, jerking a thumb at Eddie. “This fuckin’ pervert is trying to—”

“Oh, leave him alone,” she groans, shoving him aside. Like a real, two-handed shove that has him stumbling out of her way. Eddie’s eyebrows jump to the ceiling. 

In front of you, Chrissy pauses with a thousand questions in her eyes, but only one of them makes it out. “...Is she okay?”

“She’ll be alright,” Eddie assures her quietly. “I gotta get her home.”

She nods, firmly in agreement. “I’m coming, too.”

The wrecking ball of Chrissy’s arrival distracted Eddie from the sight of Carver, lingering a few paces behind with his eyes glued to the back of her head. “Chrissy?”

“Sorry, I gotta go now!” she calls behind her urgently—barely throwing him a final glance. “...Thanks, Tommy!” 

Chrissy leads the way, practically bursting through the front door like she might be even more eager to get you out of there than Eddie is. But because of it, she doesn’t see the look on Jason’s face as she goes—or hear what Tommy steps up to taunt him with.

“Jesus, Carver, you really let your girl hang out with that freak?”

Eddie’s jaw sets tight. The glare Jason levels at him is…worse than usual. Less of an apathetic blizzard, more of a smoldering, seething fury, and Eddie hates the way it jolts his spine, sets his nerves on fire. He can’t close the door behind him fast enough. 

…

In the car, Eddie’s ears perk up as the stereo comes on, a couple minutes into The Figurehead—he recognizes it instantly. The ride is otherwise silent. 

It’s clear that Chrissy wants to say something, her concerns resting on the tip of her tongue, but she knows you, knows you aren’t ready yet. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promises as Eddie pulls up in front of her house. You don’t say anything; you’ve been staring out the passenger side window since he helped you into your seat.

On the way to your place, the stereo onto A Strange Day, your voice quietly returns.

“...Do you actually listen to The Cure?”

Eddie sighs. He can’t bring himself to lie to you any more than he has to at the moment. “I…do now,” he admits.

You scoff, and it’s probably the weakest he’s ever heard from you. “Fuckin’ knew it.”

Eddie tries not to wince. “Sorry.”

“You're a poser.”

“Fuck, I know,” he groans with a regretful chuckle. “...Goddamnit.”

Eddie cuts the engine in front of the psychic’s parlor again—fuzzy purple lighting you from behind, giving him deja vu. You stare down at your lap for a long time.

“...I’m sorry,” you mutter.

He winces harder—he can’t suppress it. “What for?”

“I know you aren’t…like that.” You speak slowly, deliberately, taking time to consider each word. “You wouldn’t… You’re not a creep.”

Eddie wishes that were true. “No, don’t— don’t apologize, alright?” he insists, bursting out with stilted horror. “Not to me. You didn’t…do anything wrong.”

“I know,” you say. “I just…wanted to. I was…angry, and I—”

“I get it,” he says. “Seriously, sweetheart, I get it. You don’t need to explain yourself. I mean—at all.” 

As for himself, on the other hand…

His blood runs cold at the thought of it. He should’ve told you ages ago, he knows that, but now—with that violent look on Carver’s face still fresh in his memory—he has a terrible fucking feeling that this exact moment might be his last chance, and his mind freezes over with anxiety. 

“...Are you okay?”

The question startles him, wrenching his zoned-out gaze back in your direction. You always notice, and it always makes him feel funny.

…He can’t do it—can’t even picture it. Your still-puffy face contorting with misery all over again; the gushing wound of betrayal cauterizing with righteous fire, scarring over into irrevocable, piercing hatred. You should hate him, but the child in him resurfaces. After everything—after all he’s seen of you tonight, all you’ve shared with him—he just can’t bring himself to let you. 

“Yeah, I just… I meant what I said, alright?” He cringes furiously on the inside—the cop out of the fucking century. “I care about you, and it…matters to me that you're okay. I really mean it.”

His eyes wander back to his lap in shame, his brow furrowing as he bears it. You shift around in your seat to face him and one of your hands crosses the invisible boundary, planting itself atop the center console.

“...Eddie.”

Reluctantly, he lifts his head, and the look in your eyes makes every hair on the back of his neck stand up, dread flooding into his stomach all over again. His eyes blow open wide, disbelieving. 

“I— You don’t have to—”

“Shut up for once.”

Eddie’s mouth drops open a second time but it falters, useless, his heart sent racing into overdrive. Don’t let her kiss you, he begs himself. Do not let her kiss you, you stupid, spineless fucking asshole, whatever you do, you can't—

There's nothing slow or tentative about it. You're sure of yourself, wholly decided as you grab him by his collar and tug him in, and it's as easy as that. Eddie doesn't stand a chance. 

You kiss him, and a second later, he gives in; cups his hand around the back of your neck to keep you there, gentle and desperate.

It wasn’t until he thought he was losing you that he realized just how fucking thrilled he is that he hasn’t yet, that there’s still time; how badly he wants to hold on to you, to bother you, to make you laugh and glare and roll your eyes as many times as humanly possible before it runs out. 

But kissing you… it almost hurts. The moment your lips touch, he knows he’s a goner. One simple, lightheaded kiss and every bone in his body starts to ache, oozing premature grief and pure delight into his veins in equal measure. He didn’t know it could feel like this, so far beyond wet spit and puckered lips that the physical sensation hardly even registers—he can feel himself, all of himself spilling into you, and any empty space left behind is sated instantly by your eager acceptance. Your palm unmoving against his cheek, the other clutched tight around his vest collar; every urgent press of his lips met with mind-boggling reciprocation.

When you finally manage what Eddie cannot and begin to pull away, he whines, low and shameful in the back of his throat, smushing one last peck into your upper lip before he pulls his sorry ass together and leans back into his seat. A heavy hand wipes down his face, dragging his skin down as he catches his breath—he might’ve forgotten to exhale even once in the heat of it.

“...Fuck,” he breathes, split slightly down the middle, and you giggle at him. His eyes squint shut at the sound. God fucking damnit. 

He’s on top of the world, and drowning in heartache—the blood-pumping high of it dulled by how painfully aware he is that he may never get another, that he didn't even deserve this one. Sitting heavy like a block of lead in his gut. 

At some point, you reach over and steal one of his hands from his lap; squeezing and pinching, carefully scratching and digging your nails in, and he’d probably let you keep at it until the sun comes up. He has no clue how much time passes before you break the pleasant silence.

“...Um,” you begin, unusually tentative. “...Do you wanna come upstairs?”

Like the plunge of a guillotine, the rosy haze between you dissolves, and Eddie is dropped right back into the gruesome, colorless reality where none of this is real and he’s doing something awful to you. 

It could be real. Clearly, it could’ve been real from the start if the two of you have made it this far, but because of him, it isn’t, and that’s why he can’t come upstairs. Because, as much as it makes him feel like a total scumbag to even consider the idea that, after the night you’ve had, you could possibly be thinking about sleeping with him, he just doesn’t know. He can’t be certain. And if he goes up there with you, he’s going to give you, without exaggeration, any fucking thing that you could ever want from him, and potentially come out the other end as the biggest piece of shit on planet Earth. He’s done a lot to you already, as oblivious as you may be to it, but one thing he refuses to do to you is that. 

And by the look you’re giving him, the alternative isn’t going to be much easier.

“I just…don’t wanna be alone,” you go on when he hesitates. He’s never seen you shy like this before.

Fuck. Eddie’s heart twists in on itself, seizing up until pain and tension warms his chest and pressure builds at the joints of his ribcage.  He opens his mouth thrice before he can force a single word out. 

“I…don’t think that’s a good idea.”

A silence passes. A terrible fucking silence where he can't even do you the courtesy of looking you in the eye as he pulls the rug out from under you, because if he catches the slightest hint of disappointment on your face, he'll cave—carry you straight up those stairs himself. He decides it’s for the best to take his hand back.

“...Why?” you ask. “...If it’s because I was drunk—”

“It’s not.” 

He sort of regrets it as soon as it flies out—it makes more sense than whatever other lie he might come up with, but the last thing he wants is for you to think he was put off or disgusted by what he saw of you tonight.

“Then why?” Your voice is small and thick—only barely squeezing through the awful constriction of his hands around your throat. 

“...It's getting late, and—”

“Bullshit,” you accuse. “...What is it? What changed?”

Eddie blinks in shock. “I… Nothing changed, I just—”

“Bullshit!” He can sense you leaning closer, trying to make him look at you. “Why are you—?”

“I don’t want to, alright?” he grits out in stress, ripping a hand through his hair. “I just…don’t want to.”

It hangs in the air like a noose. He could throttle himself. The harsh, incredulous scoff you let out makes his face twitch in regret. 

“...I’m sorry,” he tries to correct, “I didn’t mean—”

“Save it,” you spit at him. You reach over to rip the keys out of the ignition, and Eddie wants to rip his own hair out by the handful.

“...See you at—” 

The door slams behind you. Now that he’s out of the frying pan, he watches you go until the parlor door slams behind you as well, the bead curtain in front of it jittering wildly beyond the glass. 

“Fuck.” He rams his forehead into the top of the steering wheel, squeezes it with both hands until his arms shudder with exertion. “God…fucking damnit.” 

A minute or two to ride out the frustration, and Eddie steps out of the car.

It’s starting to drive him crazy. Why does it keep ending like this? Why can’t you ever say goodbye to each other on a high note? 

It’s his fault, he knows that. But how the hell he’s going to make it up to you this time, he isn’t sure. You might as well be a sickly kitten this evening, and Eddie’s just punted you into the Eno River to save his own skin. 

At the very least, he’ll have the entire walk across town to stew it over. 

-

thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 likes, comments, + reblogs would be much appreciated!

When you don’t respond soon enough, she continues. “Cause I called your place, trying to do the bigger person thing and apologize, you know? But your folks picked up instead, and your mom said you were staying with Steph.”

She pauses, watching you with a gaped mouth like you were some sort of puzzle she was on the edge of solving. 

Ashley grins with an amused huff. “But you know what’s funny? Steph was staying with me.”

“So, what? I lied to my parents. Big whoop,” you say, rolling your eyes that this is the big threat she’s holding over you. “I do that every weekend when I say I’m studying at yours instead of going to parties.”

“Yeah, true. True. But usually we get a heads-up when we’re used as a cover. So, I’m just wondering, where were you? What could be so bad that you wouldn’t even tell your best friends?” she says with a faux look of innocence, the kind she uses to win over teachers and parents.

“You’re not entitled to my business, Ash. And we’re hardly friends.” Friends are people you can actually stand to be around. Turns out you don’t have a lot of those.

“That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me,” she says, shrugging away the dismissal. “The thing is I already know what you were doing. Or should I say who you were doing. I just wanted to see if you would own up to it.”

You glance at her so quickly that she responds with a satisfied grin. She has the power, and she knows it.

“The Freak, really?” she tuts, sealing your fate. “I knew your standards were low, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, trying to bluff even though your heart pounds with dread.

“Right,” Ashley hums. You wish she would keep her mouth shut, but she just keeps going. “See, I dropped by on Sunday. That’s right. I saw you, so don’t play dumb.”

“Ashley,” you grit. “I would keep my mouth shut if I were you.”

“Oh, I bet you’d like that, huh? Don’t want everybody knowing that you’re such a fucking, depraved piece of shit that you went to The Freak King to get yourself off. Must be really fucking desperate to let that cock anywhere near you. Is the fucking Antichrist cooking inside you, right now?”

The bell rings before you can wring her throat between your hands. You push back from your desk. The metal studs screech against the floor, earning an admonishment from your teacher that falls on deaf ears as you storm through the door into the hallway.

How many people has she told? Ashley’s got a fucking mouth on her. By now, the whole upper echelon of Hawkins High is probably saying all sorts of things about you. A hot rage simmers beneath your skin as you march through the halls to your next class, glaring at people as you pass, wondering if they know something, too. If they do, they only shift their gazes, pretending they didn’t see you.

You hear a screeching laughter as you turn a corner and spin around to see Carol Perkins and Tommy H snickering against a locker like a pair of hyenas.

“I didn’t think you’d show your face today, Freak Slut,” Carol sneers.

“Oh, I’m the slut? Maybe you should be looking at who your boyfriend is before you throw those kinds of words around, Carol. Tommy sure didn’t seem to mind that I was a slut when we fucked in his car last December.”

Gasps sound from the quickly forming crowd. You glance at them, body steeling at the way their eyes don’t shy away from you. They stare at you like a puppet in a show.

“What the fuck?” Carol says, glancing at Tommy in disgust.

“We were on a break,” he says, throwing his hands up in defense. “Doesn’t make you any less pathetic for letting the Freak make you his bitch.”

“I am no one’s bitch, Tommy.” 

“Bet you weren’t saying that when you let him hit it from the back,” Tommy laughs.

“Oh, God! Give me your babies, Freak!” Carol moans in a pitched jeer.

“Why the hell is everyone so concerned with who I’m fucking? Yes, we had sex! It’s not like I’m in love with the Freak!”

The words feel toxic on your tongue. You are in love with Eddie, but they don’t know that. They don’t need to know anything. 

What they need to do is get off your fucking back.

“Aw,” Carol pouts, looking over your shoulder. “Guess he didn’t know that.”

Over your shoulder, Eddie is walking away, slamming his body through the double doors leading outside. You flip off Carol, who’s cackling her witch laugh again, and follow after Eddie.

He’s almost made it to his van when you catch up to him, tugging his sleeve to stop his momentum. “Eddie, you have to realize I just said all that so they would back off.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” he scoffs, sliding his hand down his arm to dislodge your grip. “You’re ashamed of me. At the end of the day, I’m still just a freak to you.”

You clench the hand that’s been discarded, furrowing your brow at his dismissal. “That is not true. You know how I feel about you.”

“Do I? You sneak me around like contraband. You’re all sweet on me in private, but as soon as people find out you’re shacking up with the Freak, I’m worse than nothing to you. I’m the gum in your fucking shoe.”

“Eddie, you’re not gum!” you almost spit at the concept, fighting an eye roll that will do nothing in your favor. “You’re everything to me.”

“Doesn’t feel like it. I love you. I’d do anything for you. But you can’t even say my name in public. And you know what? I don’t deserve that.”

He takes a step back, looking at you like a speck of dust on his clothes.

“This whole time I’ve let you walk all over me because I felt lucky that you even looked at me. Who cares if you want to hide me like some guilty pleasure? Some perverted fetish? Who could blame you? No one in their right mind would want to be seen with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson.”

You barge into his rambling, an anger starting to bubble in your veins at the way he’s putting words in your mouth. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you! Do you understand what it felt like? To have all those people saying things about me, getting in my face when what we are is none of their fucking business?”

“Of course I fucking do!” Eddie screams, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s every minute of my fucking life! And the fact that you couldn’t take even a second of it proves that this would’ve never worked.”

Your anger is extinguished by the looming implication of his words.

“No. Eddie, don’t say that,” you plead, but the path has already been paved.

“I deserve better than to be loved behind closed doors. I deserve better than someone who will go back to calling me Freak when times get tough.

“I deserve better than you.”

It’s true, what he’s saying, but that doesn’t make it hurt less. You deserve it, the punishment he’s set aside for you, but you’re far from ready to be sentenced.

“Eddie, please. Don’t do this.”

“You did this to yourself.”

Next Chapter

Surrender to Dreams Taglist: @vampire-kissi3s Stranger Things Taglist: @ggdawgg Eddie Munson Taglist: @itzpixiebabe, @loonylups, @sisteramycatherine, @clairecrive Fic Taglist: @brrrainst3w, @bonnieprincess

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “You said that when she starts dating, Chrissy can start dating,” he mutters, jaw set with resolve. The clouds overhead really compliment the dreary fucking vibe of the interaction. “I took her out, alright? We started. That should be more than enough to fulfill this…insane goddamn restriction she’s under.” 

Carver couldn’t be less impressed. “Dating isn’t the only thing Chrissy’s parents are strict about,” he spits. Then he shakes his head, eyes flitting off to the side in thought; almost like he’s just as frustrated with the whole endeavor as Eddie is. “I swear, it’s like— She can’t do anything unless that freak is chaperoning her. We’re done when I say we’re done.”

The f-word sounds a thousand times dirtier directed at you than it ever has at himself, but Eddie bites his tongue—almost to the point of bleeding. Carver isn’t fucking worth it. 

“...I assume you’re gonna be at Hagan’s party Friday night,” he goes on flatly, tense arms crossed over his chest. “Get your girlfriend to come with you.” 

Eddie’s known about the party for a few days now, through no desire of his own. One of the few occasions on which he’s liable to be willingly approached by peers who would otherwise prefer to ignore his existence or add to its misery is to solicit or demand his availability at the next big rager—a good excuse, it occurs to him, if anyone does happen to witness this particular exchange. As unpleasant as it is to be the only stone cold sober person at a high school house party where everybody seems to mistake you for a living, breathing vending machine, the payout is generally well worth it. Eddie was, in fact, already planning on being there. 

“You really think I’d be able to sell her on that? I don’t even wanna be there.”

“If you managed to sell her on giving you the time of day at all, then yeah, I do,” Carver scoffs, dryly amused by his own jab. “Chrissy can’t go unless she does too. Make it happen.”

As ridiculous as this proposition is, all Eddie cares about at the moment is ending this conversation as soon as possible. Obviously, he wouldn’t mind having you as company while he clocks in for an evening of loud, unpleasant, soul-draining commerce, but not so much that he’d go out of his way to beg you for it just so that the lunatic in front of him can keep up his trend of getting whatever the hell he wants, all the time. 

“...I’ll invite her,” Eddie concedes. “But I told you before, I can’t force her to do anything.” 

Carver rolls his frigid eyes. “I don’t care what you do, just get her there,” he spits with the same flippant tyranny as usual, inclining his head in a glare that, after three goddamn weeks of this absurdity, has entirely lost its menace. “It’s only your ass on the line if you don’t.” 

As he stalks off back to whichever wretched bog he crawled out of, Eddie releases the passive tension from his limbs with a long exhale.

There’s not a chance in hell that he’s getting you at this party, but that’s alright. He can’t for the life of him remember a time when his ass reliably wasn’t on the line.

…

“So? How’d it go?”

The eyeliner pencil pauses halfway along your waterline as you glance at Chrissy’s poorly restrained anticipation in the mirror. You managed to avoid spilling the beans on Monday by preventing any encounters in person and hanging up on her when she called that evening, but today, she caught you on your way to the bathroom between third and fourth periods and practically shoved you past the threshold to give you the relative privacy to talk about it. 

“...Fine,” you say.

The product transfer leaves much to be desired. You lower the pencil and start rifling through your bag in search of a lighter.

“Just fine?” Chrissy spits in outrage, leaning against the wall beside the sink. 

“Yeah. Just fine.”

You flick on the flame and hold it beside the end of your pencil until the dull black tip turns glassy, and then drop the lighter back inside to try again. After a half-hearted blow to cool it off, the smooth black glides on easily, replacing the pigment blinked away during your first three classes.

“Seriously? The first first-date of your life, and all you have to say about it is that it was fine?”

You roll your eyes. “Why don’t you open the door and yell that down the hall?”

“Oh, like you actually care,” she groans. “...Well, what did you do? Where did he take you?”

“We saw a movie,” you say, moving to the other eye. 

“Which movie?”

“You don’t know it.” 

“Oh my God, you’re ridiculous.” She covers her face with both hands in theatrical frustration and shakes her head at you, curly ponytail bouncing to and fro. “What was he like, then? Can you at least tell me that?”

You pause to give her a side-eye. “What do you mean, ‘what was he like?’”

“Did he put his arm around you?” 

“No.”

“No?”

You furrow your brow at her potent disbelief as you pop the cap back on your liner and drop it into the cavern of your bag, pivoting around to lean against the sink. She crosses her arms over her chest and scoffs, but you can’t tell if she’s offended on your behalf, or offended by the fact that you aren’t.

“...He took you to see a movie and he didn’t even try to put his arm around you?”

“He probably wanted to keep it attached, so no.” It failed to occur to you until now that he might’ve considered it or wanted to, but if he did, he clearly knew better. 

“Well, did he—” Her eyes widen just slightly—she cuts herself off and glances around as if being overheard by the two girls occupying bathroom stalls is suddenly a major concern, then inclines herself towards you to ask in a lower voice: “...Did he kiss you?”

Your entire face shrivels up into a sneer. “No.”

Chrissy sags in disappointment. “Did you do anything interesting at all?”

Your mind summons a clipped siren piercing through the evening air; red and blue lights flashing, swirling together, softening into a sheer purple vapor. “...Not really, no.”

She sighs and surrenders to your stubborn nondisclosure. “...I guess ‘fine’ is pretty good by your standards. Are you gonna go out again?”

Probably. It comes to mind with shocking, subliminal ease, natural in the same sense as thunder after lightning, but that’s kind of fucking gross, so you frown and shrug and strain your voice as flat as it’ll go. 

“...I don’t know,” you mutter.

Chrissy smiles, but by the look in her eyes, not nearly as wide as she wants to. “Do you like him?”

You couldn’t work out a more aggravating question if you tried. Before you can rebuff or redirect the offensive line of interrogation, another voice jumps out in your direction. 

“Like who?”

One of the girls in the stalls was Laurie, also of the cheer squad. She steps up to the sink beside you to wash her hands, and the way that she tries to stroll right into the conversation despite how fiercely she avoids interacting with you most of the time would be perplexing—paradoxical, even—if you weren’t already used to it.

Normally, you’re ignored. It’s only in relation to Chrissy that anyone possessing an ounce of social credit pays you even the slightest bit of voluntary attention. It’s almost like the sheepish customers that loiter outside your mother’s shop—only when Chrissy acknowledges you do any of them find it natural to do the same. 

You wish they’d just save both of you the displeasure.

“Mr. Greenwalt,” you spit out on instinct, flaring your lined eyes at the unwelcome eavesdropper. “The comb-over really does it for me, and I hear he always offers the girls extra credit.”

Laurie’s upper lip curls in disgust, pleasing enough to stretch yours into a nasty grin. She quickly dries her hands and throws a puzzled glance at her teammate before making her exit.

“...Why do you always do that?” Chrissy asks quietly once the door closes behind her, wearing a less intense frown of her own.

“It’s funny,” you insist.

“It’s gross.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s why it’s funny.”

“...Whatever,” she relents. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, clearly good and ready to leave, and that must be why Chrissy scrambles to spit something else out. “...Um, I have my first date with Jason this week, by the way.”

Now, it’s your turn to sneer. “He asked you out?”

“He’s been asking me out.”

“Why the hell did you say yes?”

Chrissy blinks at you a few times, and your brow furrows. Something in her posture looks close to guilty—similar to when she accidentally breaks curfew (or any other of her mother’s authoritarian rules) at your place and knows you’ll be getting a disparaging call from Judith the next day for being a malignant influence and corrupting her wayward daughter and what not because of it—but you have no clue why she would be. Even if you regard Jason Carver as little more than the useless hunk of sculpted plastic on toy store shelves that he was no doubt modeled after with an even more egregious staring problem than yours, Chrissy should know full well that you’d never actually look down on her for doing whatever the hell she wants.

“...I already told you,” she mutters, “he’s—”

“Nice, I know.”

Chrissy huffs at you. “He likes me a lot, and he’s always…well, a gentleman. So, I figured…why not?” Her head falls forward, staring at the toes of her white sneakers. “…And besides, I…don’t really have a good reason to turn him down anymore.”

The scoff you let out could bust through plywood. “You don’t need a reason to turn him down.”

“I know that, I just…” She rubs at her temples and groans. “It’s complicated, alright?”

“Complicated how?”

“Plus, it’s just one date,” she goes on, slapping her hands down on her thighs and murmuring to herself. “It can’t hurt. I’ll…get to know him more. Kathy said we’ll look really good together, too.”

“Kathy also thinks her abysmal fucking side-pony looks good, so I wouldn’t take her word for it.”

“You’re being mean again,” she sighs, but without much outrage. The side-pony really is abysmal. 

Your stare hones in on her even sharper. “...I’m hoping it’ll rub off.” 

If she really wanted to give Jason a chance, she wouldn’t have to convince herself of it. You don’t think you could stomach her dating him just because, for whatever horrific reason, she thinks that lunkheaded creep deserves it.

Chrissy doesn’t say anything else, just keeps flicking that weird, vaguely guilty expression at you, so with a pointed sigh, you turn and head on your way. 

When she’s ready to explain herself properly, she will. 

…

You’re starting to wonder if Eddie moonlights as a heat-seeking missile.

When the lunch bell goes off, you have no intentions of seeking him out or spending the period with him. If you did, you’d know exactly where to go looking—the few times you’ve set foot in the cafeteria in the past couple years, you’re pretty sure you’ve always seen him in the exact same spot; seated at the head of the far-middle table by the windows like the outcast overlord that he apparently is. Your headphones are up as soon as you leave the classroom, about a third of the way through In the Flat Field as you debate which of your rolling lunch spots to go for today, and you don’t even make it halfway to the perpetually empty corner near the library before Eddie apparates at your side and makes you leap out of your boots.

Yanking your headphones down to your neck, you elbow him in the side as hard as you can in retaliation. 

“Ow!” he screeches, gripping the wound site with wide, insulted eyes. “What the hell did I—?! Oh, shit, you didn’t hear me, did you?” He’s snickering by the end of it.

“No.” If not for the headphones, you definitely would have. He jingles a lot when he walks.

“Alright, then I’ll give you a pass this time, but only cause you’re so pretty,” he says, rubbing his injury a little more before letting his hand fall back to his side. Someone speeding in the opposite direction clips him on the shoulder as they pass, but it doesn’t seem to register to him at all. He points a warning finger at you. “Next time, we’re gonna tussle. And you should know, I’m a feminist.”

He pauses, audibly waiting to be asked about it. Your unimpressed glance will have to do.

“...Which means,” he continues deliberately, leaning over into your space, “don’t expect me to go easy on you just cause you’re a girl. We’re gonna have it out. I’m talking all-out warfare.”

As usual, he’s amusing himself much more than he’s amusing you. “Is biting allowed?”

He jerks away like you startled him. “Uh, sure. Yeah. No holds barred.”

“How hard?”

Eddie’s sneakers scuff awkwardly against the linoleum; he has to speed up to keep in step with you. “Uh… Are you trying to say that you wanna bite me?”

“I’m saying what you’re saying,” you correct. “Fucking anything. Why are you following me?”

“Following you? We’re walking together.”

“Where are we going, then?” you drone.

“Uh…” He looks around like he only just remembered where he was and then shakes his head, rumbling with a little laugh. “...Okay, fine, I’m following you. Thought we’d eat lunch together.”

“Why?” 

Eddie’s smile turns awful. “Well, since we’re kind of an item now—”

“Keep thinking that,” you stop him short, straight-faced. He only smiles wider. “Won’t your little nerds miss you?”

“Yeah, they will, actually,” he says, brows raised proudly to his hairline. “Which is exactly why you should appreciate the fact that I’m hanging out with you.” 

Arriving at your destination, you press your back against one wall of the corner, sliding down to sit with your knees bent, and Eddie settles against the perpendicular wall, criss-cross with his metal lunchbox in his lap. When you go to pull Frankenstein out of your bag, he does a double-take in your direction.

“You aren’t actually gonna read, are you?” he complains.

You open the book without sympathy. “No, I’m just gonna stare at the cover for fun.”

“If I knew it was gonna be silent reading time, I would’ve brought my own.”

“That’s what happens when you hijack other peoples’ lunch plans.”

His shoulders slump in the corner of your eye. “Can you read it to me?”

“No.”

“Can we read it together?”

“No.”

“Can we at least eat together first?” he asks. One brief glance confirms he’s shameless enough to stoop to puppy dog eyes. “It’s not much of a lunch date if we don’t eat together.”

You forget to suppress your eye-roll. “It’s not a date at all if we’re legally required to be here.”

“Good point,” he says, cutting the reins on his smile. “...In that case, we should probably start planning the next one, huh?”

You set down your book with disgruntled negligence, and Eddie smiles even wider. 

Your lunches look pretty close to identical. Two white-bread sandwiches wrapped in plastic, yours with a pack of cheese sandwich crackers, his with a slim jim and a can of ginger ale from one of the vending machines. You’ve barely taken a bite of your sandwich before you notice Eddie’s too focused on your food to dig into his.

“...Whatcha got?” he asks, staring at you as little kids often do—with big, wanting eyes, enticed in all situations by whatever they don’t have.

It takes you a moment to swallow. “...Bologna.”

“Goddamnit,” he grumbles in envy. Then he raises his eyebrows, unsubtly hopeful. “...Trade ya?”

You sigh. “What’s yours?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

“Like a five year old.”

He snorts. “Exactly like a five year old.”

You consider it. You’re nearly as sick of peanut butter as you are of bologna, but you haven’t had jelly to compliment it in a while. After a long squint, you hold out your sandwich, and Eddie’s face brightens like it’s made of solid gold. 

“Fuck yes,” he exclaims, eagerly completing the transfer. He immediately takes a giant bite, throws his head back, and groans with indefensible abandon, so loud it nearly makes you spit. He waits until he swallows to speak again. “...Infinitely better. You’re a doll.”

You don’t admit it outright, but you prefer his sandwich, too. He went pretty heavy-handed with the jelly. Before his next bite, he pops the tab on his ginger ale, takes a quick sip, and sets it at a very deliberate midpoint between you.

“We’ll go halfies on the soda,” he announces, flashing you a smile. You glance at it and take another bite.

Though you eat together largely in silence—Eddie perhaps more aware of speaking with his mouth full after your date, or maybe just too hungry to stop once he’s started—he still, expectedly, throws back his food much faster than you do. You’re pretty sure he turned your entire sandwich into three and a half bites.  

Once he’s finished, he sits there looking conspicuously like he has something on his mind, but seems to think he’s being successfully nonchalant about it. His eyes flit around in constant thought, pausing now and then on you, glancing away instantly when he gets caught, and beneath his crossed legs, one of his feet shakes unendingly. You finish off the last bite of his sandwich and ball up the saran wrap that encased it.

“What?” you prompt with exasperation.

His wide eyes snap up to your face. “Huh?”

You bounce the saran wrap off of his chest, and one of his hands raises thoughtlessly to clutch the wound, still staring at you expectantly. “What do you wanna say?”

He acts surprised that you noticed, but you aren’t sure it’s fully authentic. An awkward smile stretches his lips and a faint smudge of color rises to his cheeks. “Oh, uh… Shit. It’s nothing, really, I just…” He blows out an exhale and pauses to scratch at his scalp, the side of his neck. “You know, Tommy Hagan’s throwing a party Friday night.” 

You stare at him for a while, wondering how the hell that could possibly be relevant to either of you. The words from his mouth alone make your insides unsettle.

“...Didn’t he stuff you in a locker, once?” 

It’s way too easy—he puffs up and prickles on reflex. “I— What? No, he did not— I mean, come on, he’s like, five-eight!”

You blink at him a couple times, unconvinced. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Well—okay, yeah, he tried to, but obviously, it didn’t work. I don’t fit in a goddamn locker, I haven’t since I was…” He trails off and shuts his mouth like he suddenly caught a glimpse of himself from the third person.

So he says. You narrow your eyes, graphing it out in your mind; you’re pretty sure you could fit him in one if you were determined enough.

“...Whatever,” Eddie spits, pink-faced. He waves one flustered hand to shoo away the tangent. “That’s not even— I’m talking about the party.”

“What about it?” 

“Do you…” He stretches it out, flicks his eyes around noncommittally and shrugs his denim-draped shoulders. “...wanna go?”

You look at him as hard as you can. “...Is that a joke?”

“Unfortunately not, no,” he says with a sheepish laugh.

Your laser-bright stare rips away from him, focusing even hotter on burning imaginary holes into a row of lockers down the hall. “Why the hell would I want to go to Tommy Hagan’s fucking party?”

“Believe me, I hear ya,” he says. “I wouldn’t be going either if it wasn’t, um… A prime business opportunity. But, since I am, I…woudn’t mind having someone actually cool to talk to while we’re stuck at…pretty much the worst place in town. Y’know…misery loves company, and shit.”

It makes sense, but it doesn’t quell your upset. There’s nothing to think about. The only answer twists itself into a vibrant neon sign, blinking urgently behind your eyes.

“...I don’t think so,” you mutter.

When you glance at him again, Eddie’s smile seems a little forced—disappointed, maybe, but trying not to let it show. “...Yeah, I figured. Still worth a shot, though.” 

A little breath of relief passes over you, tightening the lid on your escaping agitation. You finally pick up Frankenstein again, shifting around for greater comfort as you flip to your dog-eared page. Eddie watches you, unperturbed, with that same deliberate smile.

“...God, it’s gonna suck,” he sighs. He scrubs his eyes in exhaustion, then flashes you an even wider grin. “‘Least I can think about you to get me through it.”

You roll your eyes and privately savor the ring of his stupid chuckle.

…

On Thursday, Chrissy asks for a ride home after practice.

Normally, in your understanding, she gets a ride from her dad or from someone else on the team, but you figure for whatever reason no one else was available. She caught you at your locker this morning to ask (interrupting one of Eddie’s painfully, consciously unfunny jokes that he stubbornly doubled down on until the pure absurdity of his dedication finally forced you to crack a smile) and seemed greatly relieved to hear you accept.

You wait for her in the now-barren parking lot, working on homework and catching up on reading as the sun droops in the sky. Mask keeps your ears busy—you’ve found yourself on a Bauhaus kick. 

It’s around five-thirty when you see her coming; the first cheerleader to leave the building by a large margin, bounding across the asphalt like she thinks she’s being chased. She rips open the passenger side door and practically slams it behind her, taking a breath as she settles in her seat and yanks the seatbelt across her torso.

“...Hey,” you say. There’s definitely something going on with her lately. 

“Hi,” she responds, partially out of breath. She brought a cloud of ambient heat into the cabin, suppressed frantic energy radiating off of her. “Thanks again, you’re a total lifesaver.”

You blink at her and wait for her to settle down further. After a moment or two, she notices you staring and does a double take.

“...Gina’s been begging me every single day to let her come over and raid my closet for an outfit to wear to Tommy Hagan’s party tomorrow night, and it’s driving me crazy,” she explains. “If I let her give me a ride again today, I swear, she’d try to bust down the front door.”   

“Ugh.” You spark the engine and start to pull out of the parking spot. 

“Was that an ‘ugh’ at Gina, or at Tommy?” she asks, smiling at you in your peripheral.

“It was at your closet, actually.”

She gasps so hard, it drags the air pressure down. “You’re so mean!”

“That’s the price of making me wait at school for two and a half hours to drive you home,” you joke flatly, and Chrissy pouts. “...Doesn’t Jason have a car?” He probably has two.

Your jab was meant to fluster her further, but she goes sullen instead, staring down at her lap. “...I wanted you to drive me,” she mumbles.

You eye her for a while—as much as you can while making your way out of the parking lot. “Did you have your date yet?”

“...Um, yeah,” she says. “Yesterday, after practice.”

…That’s all she says. It throws you for a loop.

“...And?” you prompt. Chrissy just blinks at you, clueless. “How’d it go?”

“Oh, um—it went fine.”

A jolt of self-awareness goes through her belatedly; your eyes lock in mutual disbelief.

“Just fine?” you say, stretching out both words to really rub it in.

“No, well— It went great, actually,” she corrects on principle, holding her head up higher. “We…got a soda together, and it was…super great.”

“Super great.”

She dips her head in an exaggerated nod. “Mm-hm.” 

It’s so phony, you have to scoff. “Well, did he kiss you?” 

Chrissy stiffens up beside you. The dumbfounded look you throw her way finds her staring out the windshield, ignoring you vigorously with her arms crossed over her chest. Jesus. You hope, at the very least, that he asked her permission first, but something tells you that the nicest guy in Hawkins wouldn’t be quite so considerate in stealing undeserved affection from the girl he’s shallowly obsessed with.  It strikes a match against your nerves, but more immediately, you grimace and wince at the image it conjures in your mind—smarmy lips puckered in her direction. 

“...Ew.”

Her shoulders jump; she holds herself tighter. “Oh, cut it out,” she spits, harsh in a way she pretends she isn’t capable of. “Don’t you ever get tired of making fun of me? You’re lucky I even bother speaking to you.”

You pause for a moment at an empty intersection.

“...Sorry,” she says with a start. You don’t look at her, but you imagine the way she always cringes at herself when her discipline slips and lets something unpolished escape. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that at all. I don’t know why I—”

“It’s fine,” you cut her off. You’d probably act out too if Jason Carver had gone and put his slimy lips on you, and it’s not like she’s wrong, anyway.

For a minute or two, neither of you say anything. Your nails dig deeper and deeper into the leather of the steering wheel.

“...Are you going?” you ask.

“What?”

“To Hagan’s rager.”

Chrissy takes a long breath. “I…haven’t decided yet.”

About a hundred vehement discouragements come to mind, but you can only get out two words: “You shouldn’t.”

She just hums. You gnaw on the skin of your bottom lip in stress, probing around for something more emphatic that doesn’t plug up your throat.

“...What about you?” she asks, angling towards you in her seat.

It takes a moment to process, but when you do, you just scoff.

“I know you hate parties and all that,” she goes on lightly, “but, y’know… Eddie shows up to a lot of them. To, um…sell stuff.”

“...I know,” you grit out. “...He invited me.”

Her eyebrows pop up. “He did?”

You don’t say anything, but you can feel Chrissy winding herself up beside you, swirling again with her usual enthusiasm.

“Well, that’s perfect,” she says, clapping her hands together, “cause I just remembered that I really, really wanna go, but I need someone to drive me.”

Dread implants a more comforting image in your mind—the car ramming headfirst into a telephone pole, knocking you into a peaceful coma for the next week or two. “...I’m sure Gina would take you,” you grumble.

“Gina’s boyfriend is taking her, and all their seats are already filled. C’mon, you’re my only hope.”

She’s probably lying, but it’s working on you anyway. Goddamnit. There’s only one person you can actually trust to look out for Chrissy at a sleazy suburban house party, and it sure as fuck isn’t Gina. 

A dormant pit of stress inside you rouses with a shudder; unfolding its limbs, reaching out, making itself at home again. 

…

You’re a little late on purpose, because Chrissy’s never quite on time. When you honk the horn, you’re still stuck alone with your thoughts for a couple minutes, tapping your foot, gritting your teeth, and then there she is, a whirlwind.

After nearly sprinting out of the front door and down the porch steps, Chrissy yanks the door open and throws herself inside. You turn Pornography down low enough to hear her greeting.

“Hi,” she says, and, giving you a once over: “Wow, you look cool.”

All you do is grunt. Taking your time and putting much more effort into getting ready than the rotten occasion deserves seemed like the only way to stave off the horrible feeling that’s been stalking you ever since you agreed to this stupidity—the thicker the eyeliner, the sturdier your shield.

You start driving and at the same time, with a wholly unnecessary level of impatience, Chrissy wrestles herself out of her long-sleeved purple blouse, squirming and yanking so wildly that she nearly elbows you in the side of your head in the process.

“Jesus, is it killing you, or what?” you snap.

She finally rips the shirt off of her head, mussing up her fresh curls and smearing part of her lip gloss as she does. “Sorry,” she giggles.

Chrissy tosses the decoy shirt carelessly into the back seat and you reach over to flip down the visor in front of her. She catches on, sliding the mirror cover aside and grunting her annoyance as she wipes away the mess, while you take a couple glances at the carnation pink tube top you’ve never seen her in.

“Where’d you get that?” you ask. 

Judith Cunningham won’t have her only daughter gallivanting around town dressed “like a whore,” and her parenting style is invasive and distrustful enough that hiding a top like that from her would be a sizeable feat, but then again, her definition of what exactly constitutes whorish dressing is ill-defined at best. You’ve been accused of such by her on more than one occasion, and between your extensive layering and accessorization, you tend to show only slightly more skin than your average nun.

“Oh, do you like it?” Chrissy flips up the visor and smiles like a little devil. “I borrowed it from Gina.”

You roll your eyes and refocus on the road.

The last vestiges of sunlight are still clinging to the horizon by the time you and Chrissy arrive, draining slowly from the sky and taking with it what little reassurance you’d managed to muster up while getting ready.

You flip down the visor to check your makeup. Chrissy does the same again, albeit more haphazardly, smudging out eyeshadow and daubing on more lip gloss with little regard for neat lines or symmetry. You’re stalling for sure; you can’t tell if she is.

As you get out of the car, way down the street, your eyes catch on a familiar van—a massive eyesore in a neighborhood like this. Your stomach does a flip, and even when you squint your eyes and confirm that he isn’t still inside of it—that he hasn’t seen you yet—it doesn’t settle back in quite the right place.

You haven’t been to anything remotely constituting a party since your sophomore year, and upon entering the gargantuan Hagan residence, you’re immediately reminded of why. The air inside feels thick, dripping with the excess sleaze of its artificial inhabitants; the music shaking the walls is somehow both irritatingly loud and entirely indiscernible under the mass of voices chattering and whooping and squealing, and rowdy, amped up bodies are packed in tight enough to create an immediately noticeable, deeply repugnant increase in temperature as soon as you step through the front door. It smells like sweat and smoke and a nauseating cocktail of at least twenty different over-used perfumes, and it clings to every inch of you.  

No more than a few seconds of squeezing past familiar yet unenthused faces pass by before Chrissy runs into someone exciting. The shrill, mutual cry of two teenage girls recognizing each other briefly peaks above all other noise pollution, and, most likely assuming that you’re still right behind her, Chrissy pushes her way deeper into the crowd with vigor.

But you aren’t right behind her, because, while being related to Chrissy might afford you a pinch more consideration than you’d typically earn, it doesn’t mean much at all when she isn’t glued to your side. The same ocean of bodies that parts seamlessly to let her by—sprinkling her with eager greetings and partly-sincere compliments—freezes over instantly in her wake. Any sunny delight conjured up by Chrissy Cunningham’s unexpected appearance shrivels up and dies at the sight of you, contorting into baffled gawking, acidic side-eyes, poorly-concealed snickering, and plenty of other shameless staring that falls somewhere in between. 

The only people that voluntarily move out of your way are those who seem to be concerned about contracting something lethal from the brush of your sleeve. Everyone else is a deliberate obstacle, uncaringly so or in petty provocation, leaving you no choice but to wedge and force your way through.

And when you finally make your way into an air pocket, none other than the freckled moron himself shoots out into your path, cutting you off with an outstretched arm against the wall. The group he ejected himself out of watches on in amusement.

“Oh, shit,” Tommy snickers, looking you up and down. “If it isn’t the wicked witch of the west. Here to get trashed?”

Your eyes are glued to Chrissy’s blonde head, bobbing and receding ever deeper into the blur of denser bodies. “...Move.”

He scoffs at you. “I don’t think that’s any way to speak to the host,” he says, leaning far enough into your space that you almost surrender to the urge to cringe back. You aren’t sure if he in particular reeks of booze, or the whole house just smells that way. “You’re lucky I don’t charge a fee to get in.”

“I’m already in,” you spit. She’s moving pretty fast and this house is huge—you’ll lose her entirely at this rate.

“Yeah, well, if you want past this point, you’re gonna have to pay the freaky bitch toll.” He pauses, drawing it out, glancing at his friends before letting his greasy smile pull even sharper. “...Flash your tits real quick and I’ll let you go anywhere you want.”

He wins, in a sense. You finally put your eyes on him and leave them there for more than a split second, staring long and hard and stubbornly unreactive. You know he’s just fucking with you in the way that hopeless shitheads like him are wont to do, but your heart picks up in stress anyway. 

“Leave her alone, Tommy,” Carol insists superficially—it’s more than obvious that she finds it just as funny as he does.

Tommy rolls his eyes theatrically and steps aside, stretching his arm out in sarcastic welcome. “Mi casa es su casa,” he declares as you walk past. “...Careful with the punch, Vampira. Wouldn’t want ya to start taking your clothes off, or anything.”

One of his broodmates pipes up behind you. “Are you crazy, man?”

“Oh, relax. You don’t actually believe that shit, do you?”

You might’ve lost sight of Chrissy—you aren’t sure the blonde, curly head you spot making its way towards the kitchen is really hers, but you steer yourself in the same direction anyway. Barely five steps in, someone else sees it fit to make a nuisance of themselves. You squeeze past Tyler, or Terry maybe, the incurable stoner with the crooked nose, and no sooner than you do, he calls out your name with completely unearned familiarity. 

“Holy shit, didn’t think you’d be here,” he notes, evidently convinced that the single reluctant conversation you’ve shared in the past year makes you friends—optimistically speaking. You keep moving without a glance in his direction. “...Hold on a second, y’wanna hang out?”

“Drop it, dude,” a friend beside him laughs.

“No, hold on,” T-name insists. He reaches out, grabs at your sleeve to hold you up. “You smoke? Cause we just scored some—”

The feeling of resistance—of restraint—sends panicked thorns bursting through your skin. You turn around without thinking, hardly seeing through the veil of vengeful red, and bash his solo cup straight up into his nose.

He snorts and chokes and cries out in regret, his face and most of his t-shirt drenched in pungent booze, and some of the splashback hits your face, soaks into your sleeve. You wipe it off and keep walking.

“What the fuck?!” he sputters behind you. “That’s—so not cool!”

“I told ya, man, she’s fuckin’ psycho.”

You walk faster now, a hit of adrenaline making your pulse speed up, cold sweat starting to drip down your sides. Completely fucking over it already, you start shoving your way past people, ramming shoulders and elbows into oblivious partygoers without remorse.

Chrissy isn’t in the kitchen—only a crowd of preppy undesirables congregated around the ginormous punch bowl on the island. Open and unopened beer cans are scattered across every surface, bags and bowls of cheap snacks placed here and there. No one spares you a glance as you squeeze past. 

On the other side, the patio door hangs wide open to reveal a few handfuls of people spread around the expansive backyard. The smell of cigarettes, weed, and warm evening air filters in through it, and, kicked back in one of the patio chairs, speaking indiscernibly but unmistakably to a couple of presumable customers who couldn’t be more his visual opposite, is Eddie.

You freeze. Mind blank, ears screaming, you stand there and stare at him for so long that he notices, trailing off as he does a double take at you, stood like a rigid specter in the doorway.

Immediately, Eddie’s face lights up, his bright eyes glinting in the dark like lightning bugs, but his smile doesn’t even finish stretching across his face before you whip around to snap the connection, your heart bludgeoning your ribcage in panic. You knew he’d be here, you knew he was here, but even still, you hoped that he wouldn’t be. That he’d keep to some secluded, easily missed corner of the house, none the wiser of your own presence, or that business would dry up early and he’d take his leave without catching so much as a glance of you.

The combination of Eddie—dorky, bungling, total geek Eddie—and this vile, skin-crawling fucking environment unsettles you much deeper than you expected it to. A cringeworthy little piece of you told yourself that it might be easier to swallow with him around, that he’d function as the unlikely, aggravating exemption from the cloud of misery around you that he’s unfortunately starting to become, a pocket of clear air amid the suffocation, but the mortifying naivety of that thought revealed itself the moment you laid eyes on him; the moment he brightened in recognition.

He’s happy to see you here—why wouldn’t he be?—and the stress of it tenses every muscle in your body, straining inwards, urging you to curl up tighter and tighter until no one at all can see you anymore. Especially not him.

You’re off again. Cutting violently through the living room (where the music blasts the loudest, rattling every bone in your body), you barely even remember to glance around for Chrissy in your clawing need to put as much space as possible between you and the boy you like. 

Just focus on Chrissy. Finding her, making sure nothing happens. That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it?

The song changes. You still can’t make it out for the life of you, but it ignites a wave of excitement, tides shifting as people crowd towards the epicenter, dancing and bumping along the way. The path you were on abruptly closes up, and more than that, it spits you out—two careless collisions, and you’re all but shoved into the dining room—probably the tenth circle of hell, given that the table’s been repurposed for beer pong. 

With a deep, shuddering breath, you step in further just to give the room a proper scan, but as soon as you do, a couple faces from the far end of the table react. The attention draws the eyes of a few more people in the room, and only then, when he turns his body towards you, do you recognize the man you’ve wedged yourself next to in your search.

Billy Hargrove. If anyone could ever shut up about ocean waves and palm trees and Hollywood stars when it came to him, you’d probably assume he transferred straight from an even deeper circle of hell. He was put in your American government class, and while he’s so far been courteous enough to spare you from any direct interactions, you’ve caught him staring on more than one occasion—the kind that’s hard to tell whether he’s trying to work out what’s wrong with you, or peeling away layers of black with his eyes.

He’s smoking a cigarette, and it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest that Tommy might afford the privilege of doing so indoors to him alone. When your eyes instinctively meet his, he takes it out of his mouth and flicks his eyes down to your chest.

“...Wanna play?” he asks, jerking his head towards the table. The invitation isn’t remotely sincere.

It takes you longer than it should to summon a characteristic response—your brain feels like electrified mush. “...I’d rather eat a bullet.”

Billy grins, and the aura of doom he gives off is suffocating. There’s no Chrissy so there’s no point in staying, but as soon as you turn to leave, his hand catches your elbow. It feels like fire, burning through your layers to singe his mark against your skin. Your jaw clenches painfully hard—you nearly bite your tongue. 

“Wait a second,” he mutters. “Got a question for ya.”

He holds the filter to his lips for long enough to piss you off, his big, lazy, California blue eyes smearing themselves all over your tense face. Once he’s gotten his fill of leering at you, he blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth and coils it up into a smirk.

“...Is it true?” he finally asks. “What they say about you.”

“They” say much more about you than you’ve ever cared to keep track of, but it isn’t hard to guess the realm of what he’s referring to. Your spine’s been crawling since the moment you arrived, but it’s still enough to trigger an especially icy jolt. “What the hell do you think?”

Billy chuckles as he takes another drag. “...You’re pretty feisty,” he notes. “Thought you might be. …I like that. You wouldn’t make it easy for me, huh?”

Coming from him, it sounds like a threat. You aren’t his type at all, so you don’t know why he’s pretending.

He shakes his head, admiring; frustratingly immune to your meanest glare. “...Nah, I bet you like to put up a fight.”

Your hackles raise, your face pulls taut—you’d claw his face off if you thought you could manage it. “Eat shit, Hargrove.”

You almost, almost feel a pinch of regret as it leaves your lips—you know what he’s like, after all, and you’ve seen his temper in action at school on more than one occasion—but when all he does is snicker at you and half of the onlookers do the same, that’s when it clicks. He’s just poking the bear for fun, making a spectacle out of you. When you try again to rip your arm out of his grasp, he lets you, and you whip around to leave with a vengeance.

“Don’t be like that, baby!” he calls after you, winning even more ass-kissing laughter from the mindless crowd around him.

The blood rushes to your head and stays there, pounding in your ears, boiling beneath the skin of your face. 

You feel like you’re in a demented fucking funhouse—each room presenting you with some sadistic new hurdle to jump over, tailor-made to upset you as viscerally as possible. It’s like they can smell it on you. Time seems to be caught between two here-and-nows, ripping you back and forth between them with enough brutality to snap your neck. You’re too caught in your mind to think clearly, and the many distressing sights and sounds and smells of the party overwhelm you from every angle. 

There was a staircase near the front door. You should probably make your way back through the living room to look upstairs, and it’ll probably be less intolerable up there anyway, but just as you’re about to re-enter the fray, you spot him again, shaggy brown hair at the edge of the kitchen. He saw you first this time—his hand is raised in an awkward wave to get your attention, and even across the room, you can see the frown on his face. Confused, concerned, whatever. 

Your stomach surges so abruptly it gives you a stitch in your side. Without even thinking, you spin on your heels and start off in the opposite direction, turning down a less populated hallway. Somehow, over all the layers of agitating noise, you can just barely make out the sound of him calling your name—assuming anyone else could hear it in the first place. 

Rushing down the hall, you have no luck. You pull open a door here and there, finding three girls snorting something in a home office, a couple making out in a bathroom, but still no Chrissy.

The hallway loops around to the front of the house, and when you get there, you pause, caught between the staircase and the front door. 

Since you haven’t found a trace of her, she’s probably upstairs, but every fucking ounce of you is screaming at the top of its lungs, begging you to just leave. It’d be so easy to escape it all, wait in the car and pray that nothing happens to her in the meantime, but…you can’t. Not until you’ve at least seen her. It’s too close to you right now, fresh and sharp and nauseating all over again.

Even still, your legs don’t move like they should. Standing there, staring up the steps into the dimly lit second floor, you only feel dread. If you go up there, there’s only one way out, and who knows if there’d be anywhere to hide. If Eddie decides to come up there too, or sees you going up— If he catches up to you, and there’s nowhere to run, and you can’t get around him—

Sudden enough to make you gasp, Jason Carver drops his hand on your shoulder and turns you forcefully in his direction. Your nerves are too shot for this—the shock makes you lightheaded.

“Where’s Chrissy?” he asks predictably, hardly willing to even look at you directly. He drops it with such passive entitlement, it makes you want to strangle him.

As if you’d ever help him find her. “She’s here,” you offer unhelpfully, shoving his arm away from you.

He looks about as pleased with your answer as you are with his existence. “Isn’t it your job to look after her?”

There’s an acid to his voice that throws you off; bitter, like you’ve personally wronged him in some way. You don’t know where the hell he got that idea from, but you wouldn’t argue against it. “...Yeah, it is,” you drone. “So do me a favor and leave her the fuck alone.”

His ken-doll face twitches in annoyance; he squints at you in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Just then, you hear your name echoing down the hall and panic stiffens your spine. That goddamn heat-seeking missile. If he’s that close, you aren’t sure you can make it up the stairs without being seen, and even if you do—no. 

Turning your back on Jason’s surly face, you move on instinct. There’s a coat closet beneath the stairs. You throw yourself into it and nearly slam the door behind you. Wading through thick fabric, you push your way to the back of it and slide to the floor, hugging your knees like a little girl hiding from the boogeyman. 

Just for a couple minutes, just until he moves on and goes looking elsewhere. It’s quieter in here, dark and insulated from the sensory hell of the party, and it should give you some reprieve, but instead, it just thrusts all your internal stressors to the forefront.

You squeeze yourself with painful intensity, smacking urgently to ward off the awful feeling of being touched and grabbed and yanked and groped when it manifests against your skin, but the lack of anything else to focus on only makes the onslaught inescapable. Eyes squinted shut, muffled music and voices beat you down from every direction, and your heart beats so rapidly in your chest that a whisper against your ear drum wonders if you’re close to dying. Your mind tries desperately to flee, sprinting from place to place, looking for anything at all to grab hold of and keep your head above water, but everything slips through your fingers within seconds. Making Chrissy watch Halloween with you on your birthday; taking two forks to the haphazard, brutalized cake she surprised you with until neither of you could fit another bite. When you were kids, and your dad took both of you to the county fair, let you go on as many rides as you wanted until Chrissy threw up in your lap—you laughed so hard you cried—she still has the stuffed dolphin Dad won for her—God, you miss your dad. Eddie’s stupid, ridiculous performance of Barracuda—no, fuck, not him. Chrissy…

Chrissy…

You’re lucky I even bother speaking to you.

She’s never cut you like that before, but it’s been a long time coming. She’s so tolerant, especially of people who don’t deserve it, you more than anyone. Of course she’d have to snap sometime. You’ve been waiting for it for years.

If not even your own mother cares to deal with you, why should she? Why should she care about what happens to you at all?

You, the angry fucking bitch that you are, lashing out against anyone in arm’s reach, biting every hand that so much as considers feeding you, unable to do anyone the basic courtesy of ever admitting why. It’s too late now—the damage is well past done.

Maybe it’s all some terrible, well-deserved joke that they’re all in on, everyone but you—payback for years of casual spite. How did Chrissy know that Eddie had been talking to you? Why did both of them invite you to this stupid fucking party they both know damn well you’d never, ever want to be at without them, both of them?

Why did she leave you behind?

There are hands all over you, squeezing and pulling; closer now, ripping, punishing you for being stupid enough to let it happen, again, again; and it hurts, blood in your palm, dripping down your wrist; screaming, praying, Daddy, why’d you leave me? You deserve it, you stupid, prude-whore— ice-cold— mental case— loveless fucking bitch!

The door slams into someone as you burst out of it. You don’t know who, you don’t care, and big, white splotches block out the corners of your vision anyway. You blink and you’re in the kitchen, shoving aside some girl with a side ponytail to grab the first cup you see and sink it deep into translucent red.

It’s borderline undrinkable. Your face screws up in disgust, almost gagging at the taste, the strength of it making your weak stomach shudder. Too many cups of this could definitely put someone in the hospital—even that would be preferable to being here right now. You can feel it streaming from the corners of your mouth but you ignore it, forcing yourself to swallow every last drop.

Turn it down, turn it off, just turn everything off. 

The less you remember, the better.

-

thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 likes, comments, + reblogs would be much appreciated!

You pulled a few small envelopes and one thick envelope embossed with the lettering you’d been waiting months for. 

You raced into the house, frantically tearing at the edge of the packet. They wouldn’t have sent a letter this thick if they were rejecting you. This had to be an acceptance and welcome packet. It had to be!

You were going to Chicago! Far away from Hawkins and everyone in it! New friends! New city! New foods to try! A whole new life of get togethers, parties with new classmates who had the same interest as you. Maybe even dating. 

Heart pounding against your chest, you quickly unsheathed the top paper and skimmed the first paragraph breathlessly. 

Thank you for applying to the University... The admissions committee has completed a very careful review of your application…The committee has placed your application on the waitlist…

Your heart briefly stuttered. Waitlist? What the hell did that mean?

We must ensure that the number of new freshmen is reasonably in line with the resources and services designed to support student success...If space becomes available in the freshman class, we will automatically re-review your application and consider you for admission...If space becomes available we will admit the overall strongest applicants who remain on the waitlist…Students who are selected for admission will receive an update on the status of their applications...

You reread the last paragraph over and over. If space becomes available…consider for admission…? Did you not get in? The more your eyes darted across the words the less sense it made. They included a course catalog. A guide outlining what classes you needed to enroll in Pre-Law. Pricing information on room, board, and dining. Why would they send all that if you weren’t…going? 

You collapsed onto the couch and sighed heavily. You were almost good enough to get in the first round. The school would wait for the other applicants to confirm their spots and if in the end they had space for you, maybe you would be picked. 

Though you tried to tell yourself it wasn’t the end of the world—that you were accepted to Indiana State—a strangled sob erupted from your throat. 

Why did everything in your life follow the same pattern? You were never anyone’s first choice. Not your parents’ who picked work over you. Nancy who preferred Barb and Johnathan’s company to yours. Patrick who booked you as a last resort girlfriend for the month. It seemed like in every aspect you were always average. Always third or fourth best. Subpar. Why would your dream school see you any differently? You never won first place at anything—why would now be the time to start?

So you cried. Buried your face into the cushion of the couch and wept through your woes, wondering if you would ever be anyone’s first choice for anything. What would it take to be good enough the first time? Would there ever be a time where you didn’t have to prove yourself? 

The remaining days to the weekend were overshadowed by misery as you let yourself wallow. Ms. Kelly said being waitlisted wasn’t a bad thing. She suggested you could go to Indiana State or Hawkins Community College to get your prerequisites out of the way in the meantime to show you were serious about your studies. 

Then came the question if you even wanted to do this anymore. You’d worked so hard the last three years to be in the top five percent of your class and what did you have to show for it? Waitlisted by your dream school. It wasn’t Harvard or some fancy Ivy League school. It was achievable and as usual you weren’t up to snuff. What was the point of working hard when you didn’t get the already mediocre reward?

You were so disheartened that you didn’t show up to school Thursday, and when Friday came around, you couldn’t be bothered to care about anything. Sulking took too much of your focus to do much else. Something that Munson made sure to comment on. 

“Get a grip,” he muttered through the side of his mouth. “We both can’t slack off.”

He hadn’t spoken to you in days. Not that you tried to say anything to the butthead since he told you to leave him alone, but still. Now he wanted to be funny? After he made you think you may have found common ground and then told you to piss off?

“Bite me,” you spat. 

Munson balked at the venom on your tone. You expected him to say ‘what’s your damage’ like a normal person, but in classic Munson fashion he had to be different. So when he said “What’s up your ass?” instead, the very poorly timed reply of “You!” sounded downright vulgar. 

“I absolutely am not!” Munson declared. 

You scowled and shifted as far away from his side of the aisle as your tiny desk would allow. “Just shut up and stop talking to me!”

“Knock it off back there!” Albrecht shouted from the front of the class. “You don’t get extra credit for bickering so zip it!”

You both sneered at each other, and neither attempted to do anything except fume silently for the rest of the lesson. 

In hindsight, you should’ve made a plan to meet sometime after school or on Saturday again to go over buying a car. You really wanted to go to the dealership or used car lot to get the full experience, but you were almost certain Munson was going to offer some back alley, under the table, barely legal method instead and after snapping at him, the last thing you wanted to do was speak to him within the same 60 minutes. 

But then Saturday came and the consequences for slacking off the last full days hit you full force. Calculus homework, a 500-700 word essay on the true theme of The Great Gatsby, physics worksheet, and other tedious busywork demanded your immediate attention. Dread filled your bones as you tried to focus on the material before you, but no amount of self bullying could keep your mind on track because Munson’s statement the day before haunted you more than the courseload on your desk. You felt restless and would remain so until you figured out exactly what you had missed. 

Nancy was out—probably with Johnathan—and no one answered the Byer’s phone when you rang to see if either of them could clue you in. So you rang the irritant himself. 

“Munson’s. What do you want?” he answered. 

You swallowed thickly. “Hey, it’s me. Can you meet today?”

“Wha—? Can—he—ar —ou. —peak—.”

Was he in fucking elementary school? Clearly he had no problems answering the first time and you could hear him choking on his words to make them sound broken. 

“I know you can hear me,” you replied gruffly. 

“H--llo? Hel—lo?” 

“Would you stop!” you snapped. “We need to go over yes—“

The line went dead. 

When you called back, he let it ring for a full minute and made no attempt to answer.you tried a third time, you were met with the rapid beeping of the busy tone. The bastard probably left the phone off the hook on purpose. 

“Son of an asshole!” you shouted into the beeping receiver.

Teeth grinding, muttering to yourself, and stomping into warmer clothes, you were gonna show Munson he can’t weasel his way out that easily. How dare he! Did he think you were stupid! That you would really fall for the oldest trick since the phone was invented?! 

Anger propelled you the seven miles towards Forrest Hills a lot faster than you would’ve gotten there on a leisurely ride. With March beginning, the bite of winter wasn’t as harsh against your cheeks or your hands—something you were grateful for as you pedaled at max speed. 

Sure enough, that butt-ugly van was sitting right in front of his trailer. He was home and probably smugly thinking he’d be free of you until Monday. Well, he certainly would have a rude awakening! 

You propped your bike against the wooden porch and hopped up the concrete steps before hammering on the door like it owed you money. 

“I know you’re in there, you jerk!” you shouted through the flimsy door, still pounding your fist rapidly against it. 

It swung open without notice, almost sending you stumbling towards Eddie Munson’s naked chest. Was that a burn near his shoulder? No, it was a tattoo—a couple of tattoos actually splattered all over his torso and forearms. 

His eyes were wide and crazed like you’d never seen before, a cigarette pinched between his lips.

You stepped back and he stomped toward you, his hair wild and frizzier than ever as he looked frantically for something behind you. When he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, he turned his demented gaze towards you. 

He pulled the cigarette from his lips and held it between fingers as he shouted at you. “Are you fucking INSANE?!”

You jumped at the volume of his voice. All anger and irritation evaporated the longer he stared you down. He looked downright frightful with his brows furrowed like this. There was no mirth behind those bulging brown eyes, no humor. Only frenzy. It only occurred to you then maybe Patrick had been right about Munson. Perhaps confronting him on his own turf wasn’t such a great idea.

You tried to hold on to some of your nerve and crossed your arms over your chest to keep your shoulders squared. “You hung up on me.”

Munson inched closer, making the height difference quite noticeable. You lowered your gaze out of fear for a split second. The tattoo you thought was a burn on the left side of his chest was just an ugly, skeletal demon that you quickly averted your eyes from. Both faces before you were unpleasant. 

Munson swelled. “So you rode all the way over here on your shitty bike?”

“So what—“

“That’s damn near seven miles!” he interrupted. “From your house to mine. Biking seven miles in Hawkins alone! By yourself! Through the goddamn woods! I ask again, are you INSANE? “Don’t do that!” he shouted, pointing his cigarette right in your face.

Understanding started to dawn on you. The manic and wide eyed expression on his face wasn’t one of aggression, but of worry. 

“Don’t ever do that! You call me next time—!”

“I did call you!” you shouted over him. 

Munson’s mouth snapped shut and his cheeks started to redden. 

You had to stop the smirk from creeping across your face. Rarely was Munson ever silenced by a challenger. “I called you, and you hung up on me.”

Munson frowned. “Well take the hint next time. Don’t just show up here. Or have someone drop you off, Jesus Christ.”

It was almost…touching that Munson worried about your safety to yell at you for biking alone. You could understand. Kind of. He probably would’ve felt bad had you gone missing on your way to berate him for being his usual annoying self. 

“Thank you for your concern, but I bike to and from school every day,” you told him flatly. You watched him inhale from his cigarette and let your eyes wander over his exposed skin. He was a little skinnier than you thought now that he was without his usual jacket and vest. A silver chain rested at his neck with a guitar pick as the centerpiece. He had a spider tattoo near his collar bone and some others that sprinkled down his forearms. He didn’t have abs like Patrick but he wasn’t thin enough to have his ribs sticking out. Eyes traveled lower to the red plaid boxers sticking out above the waistband of his black jeans, but you found yourself staring at the trail of hair below his belly button and quickly looked away with heated cheeks. 

“You don’t ride with Byers and Wheeler?” he questioned. 

“No. Can we go inside? It’s chilly.” It wasn’t totally a lie—the air was still nippy—but you really needed him to put on a shirt. 

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he grumbled. 

He waved for you to follow behind him, stamping out his cigarette in the ashtray on the porch before swinging the door open and ushering you inside. 

The place looked the same as it did a couple weeks ago, save for some big wooden maze thing on top of the living room coffee table. With Munson’s permission you took off your coat and awkwardly sat on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do next while he disappeared into the back of the trailer. When he returned, he was thankfully covered, even if it was with an ugly Metallica shirt. 

“So what exactly are you doing here?” Munson asked from the kitchenette as he dug around inside the fridge. 

That was the question, wasn’t it? You didn’t notice until you were taking off your coat that in your haste to reprimand Munson that you completely forgot your backpack at home. You doubted he even had the textbook or even a notebook since you’ve never actually seen him with one, so you weren’t really sure what to do besides ask for a ride back home. 

“I was going to ask about Albrecht’s class this week, but I didn’t bring my backpack,” you sighed. 

Munson hummed thoughtfully. “Finally got that stick out of your ass?”

Your jaw dropped. “Me?! You’re the one who started being a jerk to me first!”

Munson smirked, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher. “So you did come to fight!”

“I didn’t, but now that you bring it up, what’s your problem with me?!” you shouted from your spot on the couch “Every time I think you’re decent you end up being the total opposite!”

Munson snorted as he walked towards the living room, setting two glasses of water on the coffee table. The hospitality only vexed you further.

“See!” you exclaimed, pointing at the beverage you didn’t ask for. “Why do you do that! If you’re gonna be a dick to me, then just be that way all the time. Don’t be a shit for a whole week only to be nice like you didn’t do anything wrong! Or vise freakin’ versa! You make it seem like we’re friends and then turn around and ruin it!” 

Munson snorted, collapsing into the recliner next to you. “Is that what this is? You wanna be friends?”

The way he said it so condescending—like it was the dumbest idea in the world—made your stomach drop and a frown form upon your face. How was it that you weren’t even good enough to be friends with the freak Eddie Munson?

“I just don’t understand you,” you answered. “You get mad at me for riding here by myself like you would care if I disappeared, but then mock the idea of us even being friends.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just don’t see what you’d get out of being friends with—what did you call me—a trailer dwelling burnout  low-life.” 

“What the hell are you talking about? I never called you that!”

Munson blew a raspberry hard enough to fling spittle at you. “Sure. I just made that up, right?”

Your face grew hotter by the second. “Yeah, you did! Unless you’re talking about when I said I would never live in a trailer when I first came here—those weren’t my words!”

Munson rolled his eyes. “Sinclair told me he heard what you really thought about me from your boyfriend in the locker room.”

“Boyfriend? I don’t have a boy—“

Sinclair. Lock room. 

Patrick. 

Blood started to boil below the surface of your skin as rage swept in. Would he do that? Would he really stoop so low as to plant a nasty rumor through the grapevine like a gossipy mean girl? You were a little disappointed in Lucas, too. You baby sat him and his sister Erica for the first few years they moved here.

Jason Carver was the devil on Patrick’s shoulder, and could easily be inflicting the oldest Sinclair as well. It wasn’t too far-fetched of an idea, no matter how much it pained you to say so. 

You sighed heavily, wiping your hands on your jean clad thighs nervously in an attempt to calm your fury.

“If you’re talking about Patrick McKinney, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t think he ever was. We had a fling or whatever last year,” you explained bitterly. “Ever since we started this project, he’s been trying to convince me that you're going to hurt me. I’ve told him each time that he should just piss off and leave me alone, but he seems insistent on interfering. He even left me a note inviting me to the game last night.”

“Did you go?” Munson questioned, staring at the popcorn ceiling above him. 

You scoffed. “As if. I’d rather face my calculus homework than go to a basketball game.” 

Munson chewed the inside of his cheek, keeping his eyes fixed at the ceiling as he reclined with his arms clasped behind his head. He stayed quiet, not offering any indication he believed you or didn’t. 

You contemplated asking if he would hurt you, but you decided against it. The way he yelled at you earlier for riding in the woods alone…Whether it be because he couldn’t take the idea of living through another missing person’s case in Hawkins or if it was because he actually did care if you lived or died, it didn’t really matter. If he wanted to physically hurt you, he would’ve by now. 

“I don’t think you would,” you informed him. “Hurt me, I mean.”

“Obviously,” he huffed. “You wouldn’t have raced here, banging on my door like the damn fuzz to berate me if you thought you were in danger. Not unless you were fucking stupid.”

You chuckled softly. He had you there. If you were truly scared of him, you wouldn’t even be sitting here alone in the lion’s den. At least he knew that.

“I don’t talk to Patrick, and I didn’t say anything of the sort to him,” you told him. “He’s just being an ass. As usual.” 

Munson continued to bask in the awkward silence, seemingly contemplating if he should really take your word for it. In an attempt to fill the space with some sot of noise, you made a small joke.

”I thought you were mad Albrecht said you liked me.” 

“Partly,” Munson admitted with a nod. “Sinclair told me at lunch what he heard and then when Abrecht said that shit—it may have set me off.”

You weren’t sure if you were hoping he would say something along the lines of ‘of course that wasn't it!, but his answer did not make you feel better. He must’ve noticed the way your posture slumped at his admission. 

”But uh, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad. Us being friends or whatever,” he said awkwardly. 

“Yeah?” you questioned doubtfully. 

“Yeah,” he answered with more certainty. “Matter of fact, wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He went to the back of the trailer where you assumed his bedroom was while you berated yourself for sounding so pathetic. Having to ask if you could be friends with him? Since when did you become such a loser to where you had to ask the village idiot to be nice to you? You hoped he wouldn’t tell his friends about this. That you wouldn’t hear him cracking jokes at your expense in the lunch room about how you showed up to his door like a crazy person and whined about how confusing it was to decipher if he was genuine in his belligerent insistence on keeping you safe. Where the hell did your dignity go?  

Munson returned to the living room and started to mess with the record player. You hoped to god that he wouldn’t put on his usual high speed cacophony, but you were pleasantly surprised to hear the melodic intro of a familiar tune start to play.

”Dark Side of the Moon?” you questioned. 

Munson cackled, turning over his shoulder to flash you a wicked smile. “Hoho! Look at you! Familiar with the jams!” 

The way it showed his dimples made your cheeks warm. “I don’t live under a rock, you know.”

“Still, color me surprised,” he grinned. He sat back in the recliner, scooting it over closer to where he was in arm’s reach of you at the end of the couch. He pulled a rolled cigarette from behind his ear and held it out to you to inspect.  

“Oh. No thanks,” you frowned, noting the hand twisted ends of what was clearly a joint. “I don’t do that.”

”Clearly,” Munson mused. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears with wide frazzled eyes, clearly mocking you. “You look tense enough to start shitting diamonds on my floor.” 

He sure had a way with colorful imagery that made your nose wrinkle. It was then that you noticed your shoulders were actually touching the tops of your ears. In an attempt to discredit him, you rolled your neck and shoulders to loosen up. 

“Better, but not by much,” he mused. He lit the end of the joint and put it to his mouth. You tried not to notice the way his lips pursed when he slowly blew smoke through them. Instinctively, you fanned the smoke away from your face. Johnathan recently got into the habit of smoking weed, much to you and Nancy’s disapproval. 

Munson held out the lit doobie to you again. “Try it. It’ll make that pressure in your chest go away. Unknot your gut.” 

”How did you—“

Munson raised his brows at you with a knowing look. “Why do you think I do it?”

You eyed the fragile paper between his fingers cautiously. You hated how Johnathan acted when he smoked. Like he lost all comprehension and sense. But Munson was right— you always felt the pressure of anxiety present in your chest—knots in your abdomen that made it impossible to breathe or relax past a certain point, feeling as if you did let go completely, something bad would happen or that constant nagging feeling that you were worthless and unproductive for being at ease rang loud over the buzzing thoughts in your head.  

“Trust me. I won’t tell Regan you didn’t ‘just say no’,” he joked. 

You could use a little relaxation. Being waitlisted, skipping school, dealing with the recurrent guilt of moving on while Barb stayed forever 16, navigating the confusing feelings around Patrick’s sudden reemergence…These were more than enough reasons to try something to take the edge of life off. 

“Fine,” you relented. You took the joint from his fingers and held it between your own in the same fashion you’d seen Johnathan do so many times. How different could it be than the time Carol Perkins dared you to smoke her cigarette in fifth grade? You hoped this didn’t make your throat itch like that did. With a quick sight you brought it up to your lips quickly but was suddenly stopped by Munson.

”Whoa—hey, it’s not like a cigarette,” he warned. “Slowly inhale but not a lot. You’ll choke to death. Slow.”

The tatse of bitter earth hit you first. You eyed him with uncertainty as you inhaled on his count of “one Mississippi, two Mississippi—okay stop! Hold it.” Smoke filled your lungs and stung your eyes, as you followed his instruction. When he told you to slowly release, you did the best you could before letting it all out in a harsh garage of coughs.

Munson plucked the joint from your fingers. “Hey, that’s not bad,” he cheered. 

Fighting for gasps of air between barking coughs, you gave him a look that clearly communicated how the hell was that not bad?!

”Gareth coughed so much he puked his first time,” he answered. “Have some water. It’ll help.”

You drank to quell the sharp burning in your chest. So much for getting rid of the tension there! Now it was on fire and felt as if it were full of ash and char. Your eyes watered continuously from the burn of the smoke. It took a few minutes to get your breathing back to normal, and when you did, you couldn’t stand the horrible taste lingering on your tongue. 

“Take breath, it gets easier,” he shrugged. He reached towards his shoulder and started whispering into the crook of his neck. Before you could ask what the hell he was doing, much to your shock and horror, he pulled a giant, black rat from the curtain of his hair.

Screaming, you jumped towards the middle of the couch. Munson looked at you with annoyance and held the fat rodent out towards you. You covered your eyes, refusing to look at it. 

“That’s so gross, what the hell!” You shouted in terror from beneath your hands. ”You never told me this place is infested with rats! Throw it outside!”

Munson was deeply offended judging by his tone “It's not infested. He’s a pet and he is not gross.”

You shook your head in disagreement, paralyzed with fear and disgust. You wanted to keep your mouth shut, you truly did, but Munson wouldn't stop demanding you look at the rodent he called Pippin. 

When you felt something touch your arm—which turned out to be Munson just making you think he threw the rat on you—you let all the qualms come flooding out in a screech.“Who the hell has a pet rat?! They’re RATS! They live in sewers! They have fleas! They smell! They have that ugly slimy tail that is unnaturally long! Those grabby little hands were weird! Get it away from me!”

Munson looked at you with disappointment and annoyance etched in his frown. He held out Pippin again, this time only inches from your nose. You cowered back as far as the couch would let you, and turned your head with a grimace and a prayer for escape. 

“Look at him.” Munson commanded for the umpteenth time. “Look at those little whiskers. And that cute little nose. He doesn’t bite. Just look.” 

Swallowing thickly, you were met face to face with Pippin the fat rat and his blank, black beady eyes. His fine white whiskers twitched when his pink nose did. His little feet were dangling over Munson’s knuckles as he dangled helplessly in his owner’s grasp. He looked quite content as he hung there—no barring of his teeth or squealing at being handled. You wouldn't call it cute, but it wasn’t as ugly as you thought.

”Okay, I looked. Can you take it out of my face now?!”

”Pippin. Not ‘it’,” Munson corrected.

”Whatever! Pippin! Can you get Pippin away from me, please!?” You whined. 

Munson, still looking betrayed, set the rat down in the wooden maze contraption on the coffee table and sealed the top with a giant clear plastic lid. “Rats are highly misunderstood. They’re not dirty, either. Pippin gets a bath every two weeks and I clean his cage every couple of days. No fleas. No stink.”

You weren’t going to contradict him in fear that he might throw the damn thing on you. Instead, you took the joint that was simmering in the ashtray and inhaled in an attempt to calm the nerves he just incited. He rambled on about how smart rats are and explained that he just put Pippin in a maze he built in shop class last year while you coughed a little less this time.

Munson took the joint from you and hit it himself. He pointed to Pippin rummaging through the maze. “I put little pieces of apple in there and he has to find it. Does a pretty damn good job at it too.”

”You couldn’t have gotten a cat or a dog?” you whined. “Something normal?”

Munson let out a pffft.  “It wasn’t my idea to get him. Well, actually it was my idea but I got him for Barry as a gift. See, Barry had Boromir and Ferimir, but they died right before Fourth of July. Had some sort of virus or something only rats can get, I don’t know. He was pretty torn up about it. So I went to the pet shop and Pippin was the only one left. I got him and showed Barry when he came over for fireworks, but, you know. He never came back to take Pippin home.”

You stared at the black rat nibbing on a small piece of fruit, watching the way it held the apple in its tiny hands so carefully. If it was a hamster it would’ve been a sweet sight to see, but for some reason the sight of a rat doing it wasn’t as cute. Still, the grimace melted away as you watched Pippin finish his treat. Munson, while a pain in your ass, cared a lot about his friends, it seemed. Would Nancy have done such a thing for you if you had a pet die? Probably not. Not the thought occurred to you to replace her long lost cat either. And now here was Munson taking care of it in lieu of his late friend. 

You sighed heavily. Munson was becoming more and more annoying. Or at least, finding out the good things about him was increasingly frustrating. Every time you were met with evidence that he really was a freak, he found a way to make it endearing—somehow always turning out to treat his friends better than anyone you’d ever known. Even you. 

“That was kind of you,” you admitted. “I’m sure he was very touched by that.”

”Oh yeah,” Munson grinned. “He cried like a baby. It was awesome.”

You and Munson watched his pet run through the maze, taking turns hitting the shrinking cigarette of marijuana and talking about how rats were wrongly framed for the bubonic plague. By the third hit, you were starting to feel your muscles loosen significantly, and by the time the record started playing Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage, you were melting into the couch. Eyes drooping as they stared at the taxidermied bass on the wall, muscles feeling somehow heavy as lead and light as a feather at the same time, and your mouth hanging agape—your calves tingled pleasantly instead of the usual soreness from biking everywhere. 

“Eddie?” you questioned hoarsely, your throat stinging from the unfamiliar smoke. You turned your head to see him with raised rows, his arms tucked comfortably behind his head as he reclined in the chair. “I think I’m high,” you whispered.

Eddie laughed loudly and boisterously, showing the sharp points of his canines and the dimples in his cheeks. He had laugh lines too. Deep ones, you noticed. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I think you are. How’s the pressure in your chest? Still feels like a fat kid sitting on you?”

Sweetheart. You quite liked the sound of that when he didn’t say it in the usual condescending way. You looked down at your boobs to see if the ever present squeeze around your heart was suddenly visible. Nothing was there--visibly or otherwise.

A sloppy grin slid across your lips. “Gone.”

“Mine too,” he smiled. 

The grin on your face grew more and more lopsided the longer you stared at him. He was really cute in an odd sort of way. Big, round eyes that shone a rich umber in the sunlight. You liked how kind he looked when he smiled instead of sneered. His hair could do with some deep conditioning—always looking dry and frizzy—but you imagined he could have pretty, coily curls if he took care of it properly. He was lithe and muscular too. Youu noticed when he had his shirt off, but for some reason the way the muscles of his forearms flexed made your chest warm and bubbly. 

Oh god. 

The longer your eyes roamed over his body as he hummed alone to Pink Floyd, the farther south that heat traveled until it nestled between your legs—a sensation you hadn’t felt in quite some time. 

No. Absolutely not. Not over Eddie Munson!! 

It was the weed. It had to be. There was no other reason you were turned on right now. At least not by him! He was loud, irritating, good to his friends, and cared if you rode your bike alone—

“No!” you blurted accidentally. 

Eddie looked at you with wide eyes. “Don’t like this song or something?”

Drooling slightly from having your mouth open, you shook your head and waved him off dismissively. You didn’t want to tell him what was on your mind. Instead you demanded in sleepy slurred speech he put on an ABBA album. 

“‘Fraid you won’t find anything akin to that in this house,” he scoffed. “Zeppelin will do just right though.” 

You ignored him and tried not to watch the way his jeans hugged his butt when he stood before you to change the albums. With eyes clenched shut to keep your brain from admiring the length of his legs, you fell asleep before the first song began. 

Dreams didn’t come—only whispers and noises from the room around you. You hadn’t realized you fell asleep until Eddie was shaking you awake by the shoulders. 

You opened your eyes, trying to blink yourself into consciousness. Your vision was cloudy and your head was throbbing. Not to mention your mouth was fuzzy and dry—as if you swallowed a mouthful of sand. 

“Time to get you home before the sun goes down,” he said, tossing a wash rag over your face. “Got a little something…everywhere.”

You mimicked him, touching your chin, and choked as horror and embarrassment flooded your veins. You quickly wiped away the river of drool sticking to the bottom half of your face. 

Eddie slid his leather jacket on and waited for you to stumble from your spot on the couch. Your legs—once tingling and floating—now felt foreign and unstable. Munson snickered as you tripped over your own feet toward him, but he graciously caught you by the elbow and held your coat out to you.

“Easy, Tiger. That’ll wear off in a bit,” he said. 

The cold air of the evening felt great on your warm cheeks, though you were still disoriented. Everything felt like it was lopsided and no matter how much you tried to straighten up and clear your head of the fog, nothing seemed to bring your senses back. 

That is, until Munson heard your stomach rumble on the way to your house. He laughed loudly and pulled into the town’s only McDonald’s. Food sounded disgusting, but when the smell of deep fried food hit your nostrils and Eddie ordered two apple pies, two large fries, and two Big Macs, you were having to actively stop yourself from drooling again. 

“And vanilla ice cream,” you hissed at him as he ordered through the speakerbox. “To put on top of the apple pies.”

Eddie looked at you in shock. “Shit yeah, that sounds good! And two vanilla cones, please.”

When the heat of the Apple pie met the cold of the vanilla ice cream within the confines of your mouth a few minutes later, you were moaning at the delectable treat. 

“Has McDonald’s always been this good?” you asked through a mouthful of food. 

“No,” Eddie chuckled. “You just the munchies. But I’ll admit—this apple pie ice cream is fucking amazing! Can’t believe I never thought of this.”

Both of you sat in silence for a while, too busy shoveling food into your mouths like starved goblins to talk. It was a first that you had no care that you were both making a giant mess of crumbs, dripping ice cream, and soiled napkins all over his van.

When Eddie had only a few fries left, he spoke. “Feeling better?”

You thought about that for a minute. Your head still hurt a little and you hated the way your throat tickled, but other than that you were fine. When you shared this with him, he only chuckled. 

“No I meant from whatever else was bothering you,” he said quietly. 

You eyed him curiously before answering. “A little,” you sighed. “I didn’t get into the University of Chicago. I mean, I did, but not really. I’m on the waitlist.”

“That shits,” he frowned. “Guess you’ll have to go to Hawkins Community or something in the meantime.”

“No,” you said sternly. “I’ll go to Terra Haute before I stay here a minute longer than I have to.” 

He grinned. “Love Hawkins that much, huh?”

You wiped your hands of filth and took a long drink before answering. “I’ve been thinking…do you know how many people in school have died in the past couple of years? Barbara Holland, Barry Berman, Billy Hargrove, Heather Halloway, and all the other people who died in the mall fire. Kyle Pendergast in that car crash. Will Byers going missing. That’s weird right? No other town has this much tragedy.”

Eddie nodded. “Yep, I uh-gree. But they do that on purpose, you know?”

Your brow furrowed. “Who?”

“The government,” he answered. “They put labs and dangerous weird shit out in places no one cares about so they can do what they want without repercussions. Who cares about lowly Midwesterns?”

Normally you’d chalk up this kind of talk to usual Munson conspiracy theories, but with Barb’s death, you knew he was at least closer than usual to the truth. 

“You’re killing my buzz,” you announced, and began turning dials to the radio. “Bring back the fun. I don’t wanna think about that.”

“You’re the one the brought it up!” he exclaimed. “Hey, don’t touch that! You’ll jack up my tape!”

It took a lot of convincing, but Eddie let you listen to one song on the Squawk. You were sad that it was Bowie instead of ABBA but it was better than whatever hell music Eddie put on for the rest of the ride.

“This is music. None of that disco crybaby stuff.”  

“ABBA is not disco crybaby,” you argued. “And neither is Bowie!”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” he smirked. 

Fun. You were having fun with Eddie Munson. If Barb could see you now she wouldn’t believe it. Hell, you could barely believe it! Smoking weed, eating trashy fast food, and laughing with The Freak—it was the least ‘you’ thing you’d ever done. 

And yet, for the first time in a very long time, you felt like yourself again. 

——

Part 7

Let me know if I missed your name in the tags.

Munson grabbed some crumbled wrappers from atop the kitchen counter and squashed it into the soon to be overflowing trashcan. You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden appearance of a much older man a few feet away. You couldn’t see his face as he hunched over his knees to tie the laces of his work boots, leaving only the top of his balding head visible.

“That damn thing back there won’t stop chittering,” he said from the couch. “Probably need to feed it or something.”

Munson gestured towards the tiny two person table. “Sit. I’ll be back.”

It was then that the older man took notice of you. His head snapped up at the sound of you pulling the chair across the linoleum floor—his blue eyes wide with confusion.

“Uh—hello?”

You gave a small wave and your name, which only made the man’s confusion more apparent as he stared past you to where Eddie disappeared.

“Friend of his?” he asked. His southern drawl became more apparent.

It took a lot of self control to not allow your lip to curl at the insinuation. You had already fucked up too many times today and you wouldn’t insult the man in his own home. You sidestepped the question and said you were partnered for a class project.

The man hummed thoughtfully, standing to his full height and zipping up his brown canvas jumpsuit. He offered you something to drink, but you politely declined. Instead, you made yourself busy pulling the binder out of your backpack and ignoring the man’s curious gaze.

Munson returned to the tiny kitchenette, dug around a stack of papers on the counter and sat across from you at the table.

“Ed?” The older man prompted. “Gonna introduce me to your friend here?”

Though you hadn’t held his unfortunate acquaintance long, it didn’t take a genius to see that was the last thing he wanted to do. But to your suprise he did it anyway. He offered up your name and in exchange you discovered that the older man before you was Wayne Munson, Eddie’s uncle.

”What are you doing?” Mr. Munson asked as he watched his nephew unfold the mail.

“Showing her what bills look like. Hope you don’t mind. These are ones that are already paid,” he answered.

Mr. Munson couldn’t look more confused even if he tried. “And lookin at my light bill is needed for a school project?”

The younger man nodded. “Contemporary Living.”

You could see the dots connect behind Mr. Munson’s blue eyes, though he still held a little reservation. He leaned closer to his nephew and made an attempt to whisper, but his voice still carried enough for you to hear, “This partnership ain’t court ordered, is it? She’s really in your class?”

The youngest Munson didn’t look amused as he frowned at his uncle. “Yes, she’s in my class and no it’s not. I already finished paying restitution for that—other thing.”

A million questions sprung to mind, but you repressed the urge to ask. What other thing? Restitution? What did he destroy? Why would he be court ordered to complete a class? Perhaps you could simply ask Johnathan Byers what he’d heard around about your classmate, but the more you considered it, the less you wanted him to catch wind of you snooping. You could try and ask Nancy to look into it instead. She had a knack for investigative journalism and finding out all kinds of things she wasn’t supposed to.

“Did you get my pull tabs?” Mr. Munson asked.

Eddie pulled out a stack of small cards and handed them to his uncle. You watched as he pulled a lip hanging from the end of the card and scanned its contents before clicking his teeth and ripping the next one. You watched him do the same to the next two cards, grumbling expletives under his breath with clear dissatisfaction.

Your curiosity got the best of you. “What is that?”

“Hm? These?” Mr. Munson said, taking a step towards you with the small slips in his hand. “Pull-tabs. These pictures right here is what’s needed to be under the tab when I pull it for me to win this dollar amount here. Haven’t won nothin’ yet. Here,” he said, handing you an opened card. “Try it.”

Carefully, you took the card from Mr. Munson. It had five perforated tabs to be pulled in order to reveal the images underneath. “So I just pick any row?”

“You open all of them and match the pictures on the top,” he answered.

Finally understanding the object of the game, you peeled back the perforated paper to reveal the images beneath the cardstock. Only one matched the icons above the peeled paper. You showed it to Mr. Munson. “Like this?”

Mr. Munson cackled. “Well I’ll be! You won five dollars on a twenty-five cent tab!” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. You tried to stop him, insisting that you couldn’t possibly take his money, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“No, no. You won it fair and square,” he said. He traded you a wrinkled five dollar bill for the pull-tab. “I’d keep this between us if I was you. We wouldn’t want anyone finding out about it since--.”

“It’s illegal,” your classmate blurted.

You looked at Mr. Munson expectantly. “It is?”

Mr. Munson scratched his greying eyebrow. “Let’s just say we wouldn’t want anyone finding out, alright, darlin’?”

Good god. You’d been in Munson’s company for an hour and he had already made you inadvertently commit a crime! What was with these people! Were they just born to break the law?

You scanned Mr. Munson over. He looked at you with a hesitant yet polite grin, waiting for you to agree to the terms of silence. He didn’t seem as frightening as his nephew. His face was worn with age, but his blue eyes were tired and without malice. He was much nicer to you in the last few minutes of knowing him than the two days you’ve had to interact with his kin. He did give you five dollars after all…

“I understand,” you assured him. “Thank you.”

“Great,” Eddie muttered sarcastically. “Do we need to budget for your gambling addiction, too?”

You gave Eddie a scornful look as you pocketed the money.

Mr. Munson plucked one of the hats that lined the wall and placed it snuggly on his head. “Well, I’ll leave y’all to it then.” He bid you and his nephew goodbye and exited the small abode.

The silence he left behind was deafening. Awkward. Unpleasant. Clearing your throat, you pulled a blank sheet of paper from your binder. “Guess we should get started.”

At first you thought getting paired with Munson was a funeral for your GPA. However, at the moment you were almost glad to have him. You hated to admit it, but Munson was right. His bills were much less than what you had projected on your original draft. He walked you through what the hell a kilowatt-hour was and how one kilowatt was equivalent to 1,000 watts of energy. He even took you to the meter on the side of his trailer to show how the energy company gathered the data for each billing cycle. When examining the water bill, he educated you on how the bill broke down the usage of gallons within the month, what amount was dedicated to sewage, and what the base charge for service. Gas for the trailer was much the same with usage charge, supply charge, and maintenance charge. You and Munson both frowned at the small print labeled “Taxes” at the end of every statement summary.

It was almost too much to take. Munson had explained that it was winter, so the gas bill was much higher than it normally would be in the summer, and once the seasons changed, vice versa would occur. Even though he didn’t sound condescending or brash like he normally did, you were trying to figure out a way to set aside a certain amount of money to ensure there was enough for a fluctuating bill.

“That’s the struggle,” he sighed.

Your head was starting to sting from the information overload. You thought budgeting was more like setting aside fifty bucks here and there, but you were clearly oversimplifying it. Desperate to finish this torture session, you both agreed to move on to groceries. Something that should have been simple--comprising a grocery list, comparing the prices to the ads in the newspaper and conjuring up a total sum to set aside. But like everything else with this boy, Eddie Munson was not going to make it easy.

“Are you insane?!” you shouted across the table. “I am not going to eat cat food!”

Munson was unbothered by your sudden volume. “No one said you had to eat it. Just budget for the cost of wet cat food instead of tuna. Save thirteen cents.”

“I’d rather spend the thirteen cents than eat canned animal food!”

“Again, no one said you had to eat it!”

You pointed towards the pantry door. “If I look in there, am I gonna find cans of Friskies?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed, though you weren’t entirely sure he was telling the truth. “I’m just saying do it to save money. Besides, if you actually looked at the ingredients, you’d see that the cat food has almost the exact same ingredients in it as tuna.”

You gaped at him with your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I can’t believe you. You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re being stuck up!”

“Because I don’t want to eat catfood!?”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO EAT IT!”

“WHY WOULD I BUDGET FOR IT IF I AM NOT GOING TO EAT IT?”

Munson wiped his hands over his face, just as frustrated as you with this whole thing. And no wonder, you realized, when you noticed the time on your watch had shown it was nearing five o’clock.

“I think we had enough for today,” you said with defeat. “We’ll just skip canned meats from the budget all together.”

“Thank fuck,” Munson grumbled.

He would’ve seen the very cross look on your face if he bothered to look up. Instead, he stretched his long legs out to the side of the table and tilted his head back against the wall to stare at the ceiling instead, letting out a heavy sigh.

It was quite unfair for him to have such long eyelashes. From this angle, it looked as if they were long enough to brush against his eyebrows. He had such blemish free skin too, you noticed, raking your eyes over his cheeks. While they were often rosy with annoyance in your presence, they were quite pale now. There was no trace of scruff or any hint that he needed to shave his angular jaw, though he did have some shadowing on his neck. Especially near his Adam’s apple that protruded quite nicely—

Oh GOD! Were you checking out EDDIE MUNSON?!

A croak of mortification expelled from your throat at the realization, instantly causing you to choke on your own spit and send you into a coughing fit.

Ew! He’s rude! Abrasive! He wouldn’t be in his third senior year if he was smart. Not to mention he looked like a seance leader and by the sound of it, probably has eaten wet cat food once or twice in his life. A smooth face doesn’t make up for all of the shortfalls he’s surely guilty of.

“You good?” the offending subject asked with a raised brow.

Struggling to catch your breath and save yourself the last bit of dignity, you waved him off and quickly shoved your schoolwork into your backpack. You needed to get out of there fast.

But Munson had other ideas. For someone with the reputation of being Satan’s favorite henchman, he was insistent on being chivalrous. When you asked him to remove your bike from the van, he declined, stating it was too dark and cold for you to ride your bike anywhere. You were well aware that he was right, but it didn’t make the fact any less annoying. Agreeing with Munson was not a pleasant feeling, and you loathed the idea of having to get used to it.

You followed him solemnly to the van and pouted at the darkness that had already blanketed the sky. The winter had an unfortunate habit of bringing out the most persistent melancholy in you that simply refused to relent. How you wished for spring to be on its way so you could have more than a glimpse of sunlight at a time.

Munson rewound the cassette tape himself and put it into the stereo, but at least he turned it down to a volume that didn’t make your brain rattle. You wouldn’t call the noise he was wailing along to music, but with his rendition alongside the recorded vocals, you were able to understand the lyrics better.

They made you grimace.

“Come into my coven and become Lucifer’s child?” you quoted with a wrinkled nose. “And you wonder why people give you a wide berth at school when you’re listening to this kind of devil crap?”

Munson’s face seemed to have flashed between at least half of the stages of grief right before your very eyes. “You know,” he started with a sharp huff. “You just don’t get it, man. None of you people do.”

”I don’t get worshipping a goat and listening to music about it? Yeah, you’re right. I don’t.”

Munson gritted his teeth, muttering something incomprehensible behind them as he slammed his hands repeatedly on the steering wheel in frustration. He looked menacing—chewing on the inside of his cheek and lips—torn between saying something snarky and keeping it locked in the vault. It didn’t take long for this bottom lip to free itself from the hold his teeth had on it.

”First of all, they’re European and it’s called shock value, Princess. Ever heard ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity’? Nothing sells like taboo subject matter, okay? And, you know what? Who gets to dictate what's taboo and what’s not? Everybody likes to sing about the light stuff—love, family, rainbows in the sky and shit, but what makes those things possible? You can’t have light without darkness. You can’t have love without hate. You can’t have cohesion without isolation. Rainbows come after—guess what—rain,” he rambled. “Not everyone can be happy all the time. Not everyone relates to ‘All you need is love’.”

”But you can relate to joining the coven?” you countered.

Munson chuckled and let out an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, letting the short chortles turn to forced maniacal laughter. He looked and sounded crazed.

“It’s a concept album. The whole album is about this guy who’s missing his witch wife, Melissa. Melissa was murdered by a priest. A man of the cloth. Of all people! And this guy, right, even though yeah, he is a satanist and yeah, the love of his life was a witch, the point is that even with their dabbling in the occult and black magic, neither of them are as evil as the man who took Melissa’s life—the man who posed as a servant of God and took the life of another. Violated one of the commandments that’s written on every wall in every single fucking church. That is the true evil.”

Munson’s umber eyes burned with a silent dare for you to challenge him—to say he was wrong—but you didn’t. You didn’t know anything about what he was listening to, but with the conviction of which he spoke, you found it hard to argue with him. Not even with the logic, really, but the harrowing and ironic message behind the theme.

He finally looked away, turning his eyes back to the road and spat one final thought on the matter. “I can’t relate to having my lover killed, but I've been mistaken for the scum of the earth by those who preach love and acceptance, yet show in their actions that they believe I deserve the exact opposite.”

He looked almost dejected at his admission—his plump lips twisted downward in a frown as he kept his eyes trained away from you. Did they seem a little glossier than usual?

How the hell would you know what Eddie Munson’s eyes usually looked like anyway?

“And it’s got a kickass guitar solo,” he added bitterly.

You were unsure what to say to him. You could tell him that he didn’t make it easy for himself—playing right into the role of what he was so adamant that he wasn’t. You could tell him to cut his hair and wear something other than black if it bothered him so much, but you thought better of it. He didn’t strike you as someone who took feedback well, and the last thing you wanted was to kick a man when he was so visibly down.

Instead, you gave him driving directions and told him that the vocals were annoying and too high pitched for your taste. He simply shrugged and suggested you don’t spend your money on any Mercyful Fate albums to avoid it. A clear indication that he neither cared nor intended to change the tape.

Prick.

After a few minutes of more loaded silence, you instructed him to stop in front of the house at the end of the street.

“Nice castle,” he commented, stepping out of the van to take your bike from the back. “Didn’t realize you lived so close to Sinclair.”

“Yeah, they live down the street. Have for years,” you said awkwardly, taking possession of the bike. The reminder of your earlier comment paired with the fact that he gave you a ride made you feel even more guilty. “Your uncle…he’s nice.”

Munson snorted, pulling a cigarette from the pack resting in the breastpocket of his leather jacket. “I’ll be sure to let him know at least someone thinks so.”

Clearing your throat, you tried again. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier…about your home.”

Judging by the mild eyeroll, he wasn’t convinced of your sincerity. “Yeah, okay. Call next time you need a ride. Don’t go out alone.”

You agreed with a curt nod and walked your bike up the driveway, listening to the rumble of the van coming to life. When you made it to the porch and dug for your house keys, Munson yelled your name, once again demanding your attention.

“By the way,” he shouted over the roof of his vehicle. “You’re more at risk of getting mercury poisoning from canned tuna than you are from cat food!”

Twice in less than an hour, Eddie Munson left you at a loss for words. With your own indignant eyeroll, you turned your back to him and went inside the dark and empty home.

——

Mom used to cook every evening, but since she took on the role of full time employee, good home cooked meals were few and far between. You were mostly in charge of coming up with something, or at least thawing, dicing, preparing food for her to make if she didn’t throw it all in a crockpot to being with.

Tonight’s mystery crockpot meal was a concoction of ground beef, cream of mushroom soup, a medley of canned vegetables, and melted cheese served on a bed of roasted potatoes. It wasn’t the best, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. Perhaps you would ask her for some cash to get fresh produce and make something more edible tomorrow night for dinner.

Mom and Dad sat at the table with you, clearly exhausted from their day. Whatever house they were showing didn’t sound as if the ‘buyers’ were really an interested family in search for their forever home, but reporters from Indy that came snooping for answers about the abandoned lab.

”It’s just a phase,” Dad grumbled. “Soon the sensationalism will die down and no one will remember that.”

You knew what he meant, but the association of the lab with Barb’s death made you frown. Would everyone forget her, too? Sometimes you felt like they did. Barb wasn’t popular to begin with, but sometimes you felt as if the school had forgotten she ever existed in the first place. Sometimes that even included you.

“I could use your help for a class project,” you told them with hopes of changing their mood. “We’re budgeting for a home in Contemporary Living.”

Mom was instantly ecstatic. “Karen Wheler was telling me all about it!” she exclaimed. “I think it’s wonderful they let the girls take that class now!”

”What’s this?” Dad questioned without looking up from his food.

Mom excitedly told him about the class, all of her information clearly simplified secondhand from Mrs. Wheeler. Her brief overview of the course included creating a budget, buying a house, buying a car, and learning how to manage student loans and general debt.

“Apparently they group a boy and girl up to simulate a marriage,” she added. “But it’s certainly not what we think, it’s just a sharing of the finances and debt, really.” Mom shimmied her shoulders and grinned expectantly at you. “So? Who’s the lucky boy you were paired with?”

There was no easy way to say it. No way to soften the blow. So you just spit it out. “Eddie Munson,” you answered quietly.

For the first time since he walked through the door, Dad looked at you. “Who?”

”Eddie Munson,” you repeated a little louder.

“Isn’t that the idiot that burned up half of Merrill Wright’s crops last year?” Dad asked.

“It was,” Mom answered coolly. “Same boy who was caught vandalizing Regan signs in Henrietta McCorkle's lawn.”

Mom and dad shared a look that could only mean a severe lecture was about to come on, so you speedily added, “Albrecht offered me extra credit to keep the arrangement so I did.”

Neither parent looked pacified, their faces hard as stone. It reminded you of Munson’s earlier words in regards to being wrongly judged, though he hadn’t really shown you that the general public was wrong about him. And judging by the incidents mom and dad clearly knew about, they had every reason to be wary of him.

Well, you supposed that wasn’t entirely true. He did insist on giving you a ride because it was cold and rainy, and he didn’t even ask for gas money now that you really thought about it. You wouldn’t ever expect that kind of decency based on his reputation.

Even so, the whole town wouldn’t hate someone for no reason. The Munson name was synonymous with crime. The illegal gambling tickets were a prime example of that. Perhaps he did earn the distinction imposed on him.

It was Dad who finally spoke up. “How much time do you need to spend with him on this project?”

”Just a couple hours on Saturday to talk to people like you about houses and the process of buying a car,” you answered. “Not a lot.”

“You’re not allowed to be alone with him. You study in open, public places only. With witnesses.” Dad returned to eating, his gaze away from you likely for the rest of the night. “You’re a smart girl, so I trust you’ll use that ability and stay away from him as much as you possibly can. No funny business.”

”Yes, Dad,” you grumbled. It was infuriating when they attempted to set rules for you like this. They were never around. They didn’t really do anything with you. Besides, you were 18 now. You were a legal adult. You could study with Munson in his trailer if you wanted to.

Not that you ever wanted to.

“And don’t be afraid to call the police if you need to,” Mom added hastily. “They know all about that family. They’ll help you in a jiffy.”

You agreed and changed the subject to when you could meet them with Munson to discuss houses. They demanded he go to the office instead of being let into the house, so you agreed to Saturday at nine in the morning before they started showing and staging homes for the rest of the day.

“It’ll be fun!” Mom cooed. “Think of what you want in a house. Carpet? Hardwood is all the rage right—“

The telephone ringing cut her off. You jumped at the opportunity to leave the table, not really finding tonight’s dinner all that enjoyable. “I’ll get it.”

”Let me know if it’s for us, okay?” Mom piped.

It wasn’t for either of them. It was the last voice you’d ever guess to hear on the other side of the line. One that made your stomach jump to the back of your throat.

“It’s for me. I’m going to take it in my room,” you informed them.

“If it’s that Munson boy, you’ll take it right there,” Dad barked.

”It’s not. It’s Nancy. Boy troubles,” you lied, and raced off towards the phone in your room.

You paced a couple of times in front of the phone, wringing your sweaty hands and you tried to collect yourself. You couldn’t decide if you were angry or excited. After a few attempts at a calming breath, you sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.

“Patrick?” you questioned carefully.

“Yeah. H-hey, it’s me,” he stuttered awkwardly through the phone. “Patrick. Patrick McKinney.”

You already knew it was him by the sound of his voice the first time he answered the phone, but it still didn’t stop the pang rocketing through your chest when he stated it so plainly. So after all this time he hadn’t lost your number. You had assumed after the second time you attempted to speak to him at school that he had disposed of it—erased it from his memory and the slip of notebook paper had found its way into the trash. Somehow knowing he still had it, either memorized or hidden away somewhere, did not bring you comfort. If anything, it hurt more. All this time—all this time he could’ve called. He could’ve said something.

“Why?” is all you could utter into the receiver. Why was he calling? Why did he abandon you? Why did he pick you if he was going to toss you aside like a used tissue? Why did it end the way it did? Why was he mute and blind to your existence until this very moment?

He cleared his throat on the side of the line. “I—uh—I saw you today. At the corner store? And I just—I wanted to say—I’m sorry. For what happened with Jason. He shouldn’t have said that.”

A tight knot formed in the center of your sternum—heavy as rock and as solid as steel. Of all the things he should be apologizing for, you didn’t think today’s interaction was at the top of the list.

A bitter, mirthless chuckle left your lips. “Didn’t think you noticed I was even there.”

A surge of panic pulsed through your face. As angry as you were with him, you dreaded the thought of blowing this chance to talk to him. Somehow resuming silence with so much left to say was far more frightening than him getting angry with you over the phone.

He side stepped the comment. “Is Munson really your partner for Albrecht’s project?”

You resisted the urge to repeat Munson’s question about being jealous, though you had to physically swallow the retort down. “It’s not like I would hang out with him for any other reason, Patrick.”

“Right. Good. I just uh—I wanted to tell you to be careful around that guy, okay?”

Jesus Christ. Was that the only reason he called?! Huffing in irritation, you said, “You and everyone else. Any reason in particular as to why?”

“The things I’ve heard about him from the guys on the team—just trust me, okay? He’s bad news, babe. He’s craz—“

Whatever he had to say next, you couldn’t hear over the roar of blood rushing through your ears with fury. “Don’t call me that!”

“Fine, okay, but listen to me—“

“Why!?” you repeated angrily, shooting up to your feet. “Why should I? I can’t trust you either!”

“Calm down!” Patrick interjected. “I don’t want to see you get hurt and Munson can seriously hurt you!”

Breathing raggedly and pacing furiously across the room, you couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth! Why did he call you ‘babe’ after all this time! Like he still had the right!

“Well I guess it’s a good thing for you that you never seem to see me! Because if you did, you would know that Eddie Munson couldn’t possibly hurt more than you already have!”

Patrick sighed heavily into the phone. “Just be careful. Please.”

Against your desire, hot tears raced down your cheeks. “You don’t get to do that! You don’t get to—hello? HELLO?”

The line had gone dead, leaving nothing but the annoying dial tone ringing loudly in your ear.

Just like before, he had cut you off. Slammed the proverbial door so hard in your face that the recoil made you falter and stumble onto the bed with the phone still pressed against your ear. He never let you say your peace—always hiding behind his friends, a phone, or distance. He avoided accountability and repercussions at every turn, yet had the nerve—the gall—to call you as if he suddenly cared! After a whole year of silence!

Pulse throbbing against your temples, you let the phone drop to the ground with a thunderous thud before throwing your face into the pillow and letting out a scream that could wake the dead were it not muffled.

———

Part 4

Eddie had been complaining, no, whining to you for the past few weeks, that his hair was falling out. His hair was thinning. He sheds like a cat.

This was the result; you sitting criss-crossed behind him as you worked at his thick head of hair. Combing through it with your fingers — because Eddie didn't have any combs, they all 'mysteriously disappear, according to him, though you knew his forgetful ass just misplaced them — and trying to divide it into equal sections, and failing for what felt like an hour to you.

This was your third try now, he wouldn't stop squeaming while being seated on the mattress, and if it weren't for the comforting glow of the warm lights in his room, or the familiar feeling you get whenever you're in his room that sets you at ease, or the fact you liked him so much, you would have attempted to attack him with his pillows until he fell off his bed.

By the time you actually manage to start working, his stubborn hair finally cooperating with you, Eddie, impatient with sitting still too long — although not as much as you, part of your arms were starting to go slightly numb — had decided (hopefully subconsciously, otherwise you were ready to just throw it all out and tell him shaving his head again would be less troublesome) that provoking the person dealing with his hair would be his only source of entertainment.

"Do you really need to-"

"Yes. This is the one solution I can offer," you reply flatly.

"But-" he tries to protest again. Indignant. Skeptical. You sigh.

"The braid won't tug at your hair much and would... reduce hair loss," you say slowly as you try to keep your mind on the braiding. Left, add more hair, tuck in the middle, right...

"Where did you hear that?" he questions and you could hear the smile forming when he asks.

You didn't really know. You just heard it one time and thought at least you could try. You were totally not doing this just because you wanted to see if he would be pretty in a braid and completely not in a hell of your own making. You clear your throat and answer a little too quickly, "... people."

"Great. Legitimate source, that," was his immediate reply, and you just knew he was rolling his eyes as he let out a huff.

"Are you going to let me help or do you really want citations?"

Silence. Good. You needed to focus. His hair was long but you didn't want it to fall apart when he rolled around in his sleep-

"When I said I was worried I'm losing a lot of hair, I didn't mean..."

You glare at the back of his head, impatience growing like an itching mosquito bite.

"Oh ho ho ho. Shut up. You were complaining. Every. Day. Like a cry for help. I answered."

"Ow- can you tug a bit more gently- ow!"

"Every few days, asking me, 'Am I going bald? Am I going bald? Do I have a bald spot,' no, you don't!"

You tug at his hair with a huff, pulling a little too hard, almost yanking the section of hair to place.

"Ow! Easy with the merchandise!"

"But why does it have to be a braid?" He slouches with a sigh that was borne from equal parts theatrics and restlessness.

"It's either a french braid or pigtails," you say, your voice level, dreadfully calm, as if you hadn't already imagining that and full on cackled in your mind five minutes ago. Even with his back turned to you, you knew his eyes were growing wide.

"And if it's pigtails, you just know, one day, you'll oversleep, and Wayne's going to snap a photo and put it into his photo book of his-"

"Not the photo book," Eddie groans, hand rubbing against half his face in sheer agony.

You grin triumphantly, your victory unseen to him. "Right. You know it." 

You pause. All the talking had pulled you out of focus. Was it left over right or right over-

Now fully aggravated, you smack his shoulder with a groan. "Stay still, munchkin! I'm getting it all messed up."

Eddie babbles at the new name, producing  a consecutive series of offended noises. "I am not a munchkin! I'm tall enough to be a-" He turns around to argue with you.

You cut him off by tilting his head back around. "Munchkin, gremlin, goblin, it's all the same to me. You're a triple hybrid, probably. A menace is what you are."

"Your menace," he snickers, which gains him another playful whack on his head. You give him one more soft smack, like you were drumming a hand drum.

"Argh!" A dramatic groan. Predictable, this idiot. Yet never fails to make you smile.  "Injuries, left and right. On the scalp, on the shoulders, on the head-"

"Shut up or I'll actually make you bald."

"Yes, ma'am."

Silence, at long last. Maybe you can finally focus now, and hopefully he remembers the steps enough to replicate them later — you would find out a week later that he did not, but he did stop whining about it later onward, either too guilty or perhaps even terrified of your reaction, and well, a win is a win (though you wouldn't have minded having to help him with his hair every night if you had to).

credits - dividers by @uzmacchiato, that one eddie photo is from this post by @dathomireternal cause I loved it so much