honey

You were his half-sister, a celestial body of a different sort: a varsity cheerleader with a smile that could halt traffic and a reputation so spotless it practically gleamed under the judgmental fluorescent lights. Your world was built on the sharp, clean scent of gymnasium polish and the saccharine cloud of cheap hairspray. You knew the comforting weight of a borrowed letterman's jacket on your shoulders and found solace in the crisp, certain pages of textbooks you aced without breaking a sweat. Your kingdom was the sun-drenched bleachers and the roaring Friday night crowd, a world of clear rules and tangible victories.

Yet, your gravitational pulls were inextricably linked. The same silence that fell in the Henderson household after a bad day held space for both of you. A shared glance across the cafeteria could communicate a universe of support—a raised eyebrow from him when a jock said something particularly dumb, a subtle, encouraging nod from you when he walked into a room full of snickers. 

You existed within the same four walls, bound by the same history of shared Christmases and silent, understanding looks across the dinner table when your mom got that tone in her voice. 

It was a conscious, carefully maintained orbit. Easier this way. Safer. A silent pact, signed not with a handshake but with a thousand averted gazes in the school hallway, to let the other survive in their own habitat, untouched by the particular predators that stalked the other's world.

The different last names were the first line of defence, a bureaucratic blessing that drew a clear, public line in the sand. The only partial, faintly visible shared genetics—a similar, mischievous curve at the corner of a smile, perhaps, or the same habit of raising an eyebrow in sceptical unison—were subtle enough to be dismissed as coincidence. They were ghosts of a relation, nothing the casual observer would ever think to trace back to its source.

It was a convenient truth, one that required no effort to conceal because no one in your respective orbits ever thought to look for it. Their attention spans were too short, their worlds too self-contained. The jocks, scanning the bleachers for a flicker of your approval, their vision clouded by the sheen of your varsity jacket, never once glanced toward the dim, chaotic sanctuary of the drama room where he held court with a twenty-sided die and a grand plan. Conversely, his fellow dungeon crawlers, locked in fervent debate over a demogorgon’s tactical weaknesses or the arcane politics of the Upside Down, would never think to seek a cheerleader’s opinion. Why would they? You were a resident of a different planet entirely, one where the only monsters were social ones, and the only battles fought for a spot on the homecoming court.

Mike and Lucas knew the full story, of course. Having been officially adopted into the Henderson fold years ago—their DNA practically rewritten by shared trauma and a thousand sleepovers—they were the keepers of the file. They treated the knowledge not with gossipy excitement, but with the grim, procedural gravity of a top-secret government dossier. It was a need-to-know truth, and they, as senior operatives in the chaotic landscape that was their adolescence, needed to know.

To them, your familial connection was not a piece of salacious trivia; it was a strategic datum. They understood its importance to the delicate ecosystem of their own lives, a key piece of intelligence that explained certain logistical realities. They saw no tactical advantage in disseminating it to the wider population. In the high school warzone, some intel was best kept compartmentalised.

To Mike and Lucas, it was just another feature on the strange, complicated map of Hawkins—a faded, familial ley line that connected the gleaming, alien territory of the gym to the familiar, sacred ground of the basement game room. They were content, diligent cartographers that they were, to let that particular line remain faint, unmarked, and undrawn for everyone else. It wasn't a secret to be kept, but a boundary to be respected—one of the many silent, unspoken rules that kept their small, fiercely protected world turning.

And at the heart of it all, your bond with Dustin was the one thing that felt unshakably, undeniably real. In a world of performative friendships and shifting alliances, it was your bedrock. While your cheer squad smiled with gritted teeth through whispered rivalries, and your study partners were temporary allies of convenience, Dustin was your anchor. He was your constant in a universe of variables.

You were the first, slightly hysterical call after a disastrous, stammering attempt to talk to Suzie, listening without judgment to the replay of every fumbled word. You were his designated driver to the arcade, your payment rendered in a palmful of stale Skittles and a running commentary of scientific trivia that you only half-understood but wholly adored because it was his. When the storms of teenage angst or high school hierarchy grew too wild, you were the safe harbour he could always sail into, no questions asked.

The two of you were a sealed system, a closed circuit of unconditional support. In the carefully partitioned worlds you both navigated—you in your kingdom of pom-poms and pep rallies, him in his empire of dice and demodogs—your relationship was the one place where you could both stand down. You didn't have to be the perfect cheerleader or the formidable nerd. You could just be. He was more than a brother; he was home base. And in a game where the rules were always changing, that was everything.

But now, a different kind of storm was brewing on the horizon—one that smelled of worn leather, damp weed, and the electric ozone of cheap thrash metal. It had a physical form: a whirlwind of restless energy contained within a wiry frame, a symphony of silver rings on every finger, and warm, knowing brown eyes that seemed to see past every carefully constructed façade to the raw wiring beneath. It had a voice, too—a low, compelling rasp that could command a room of misfits with a single dramatic flourish or shred a guitar solo that felt like bottled lightning, dangerous and brilliant.

As Eddie "The Freak" Munson sank his claws into your brother's life with the fervor of a prophet finding a new disciple, he didn't just bring a new friend. He brought a whole new religion of chaos, a doctrine of unapologetic rebellion preached from the pulpit of a beaten-up lunchroom table. He was the untamable variable in your brother's once-predictable scientific equations, the glitch in the system. He was a living, breathing monster manual entry that broke all the established rules, and Dustin was studying him with rapt, unwavering fascination.

And with every late-night D&D session that ran past curfew, with every cursed cassette tape of screeching guitars that filtered under Dustin's bedroom door and into the fabric of your quiet home, you felt it. The careful, quiet peace you’d built together—the delicate equilibrium of your separate orbits—began to tremble on its very foundations. 

Eddie had always nursed a grudging, privately entertained soft spot for you from afar, a fact he’d readily—and theatrically—lament after a few beers in the sanctuary of his trailer. "It's a classic tragedy, man!" he'd proclaim, gesturing wildly with a bottle. "The king of the freaks, laid low by the most predictable cliché in the book!" And who could blame him? Who didn't harbor some distant, starlit admiration for you? You were the holy trifecta of high school divinity: smoking hot, disgustingly popular, and—most bafflingly of all—seemingly, genuinely nice.

You didn't sneer at the freaks and losers from your gleaming throne atop the social food chain. You didn't deploy your squad like mean-girl infantry to carve up the school's underbelly for sport. No, you were far more subversive. You just offered a benign, traffic-stopping smile that never quite reached the eyes of the people who didn't matter, and moved on with your charmed life, utterly unbothered. It was a quiet, effortless power that was the complete antithesis of his own loud, performative existence. You weren't playing the game; you were so far above it, you didn't even know there was a game. And that, to Eddie Munson, was the most infuriatingly, intriguingly charming thing he’d ever witnessed.

Lately, however, that dormant soft spot had begun to itch, a persistent, distracting sensation under his skin, like a corrupted track on a well-worn cassette that kept skipping back to the same maddening riff. It was a glitch in his own carefully curated persona. And suddenly, his perception had shifted, his vision attuned to your frequency. He was seeing you everywhere, your golden, sun-bleached presence a stark and polluting contrast to the grim, familiar corners of his world.

There you were, a vision of pristine varsity wool and effortless cool leaning against the scuffed, graffiti-marred lockers outside the science lab. But the real anomaly wasn't your location—it was the fact you were actually listening, head tilted, a real, unguarded laugh bursting from your lips at something Henderson said. The sound was a clean, sharp note that cut through the hallway's dull roar, and it hooked itself directly into his brain.

There you were again, parked in your obnoxiously shiny, parent-approved car right outside Family Video. You were drumming your perfectly manicured fingers on the steering wheel to a beat he couldn't hear—his beat, he irrationally hoped, something fast and violent—while you waited for Dustin to run his nerd errands. You were a splash of vibrant color on his monochrome map of Hawkins, a siren's call from the deck of a ship he was supposed to be torpedoing. And he was utterly, infuriatingly captivated.

Each sighting was a new, confounding data point that refused to fit into any of his pre-existing theories. You weren't just a flat, one-dimensional poster girl on the wall of high school hierarchy; you were a living, breathing person, with a laugh that disarmed him and a taste in music he was suddenly, irrationally dying to identify. The mystery, much to his own horror, was deepening from a casual curiosity into a full-blown fixation. And Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed connoisseur of chaos and the arcane, had never been able to resist a good puzzle, especially one that looked so damn good.

And so, cornering Dustin Henderson became Eddie’s new, and most frustrating, extracurricular activity. He was a man possessed, a hunter on a singular, maddening quest for intel. He transformed into a shadow in the crowded halls, a lurking predator lying in wait by his locker with a too-casual lean. He became an "unexpected" companion who fell into step on the walk to the parking lot after Hellfire, his questions veiled in a cloak of feigned nonchalance that was as subtle as a hammer to glass. "So, the cheerleader," he'd start, clapping a hand on Dustin's shoulder, his voice a studied casual drawl that fooled no one. "She, uh... she always your chauffeur, Henderson, or are you just that lucky?"

Each encounter was a carefully orchestrated ambush disguised as casual conversation, a verbal chess game where all roads, no matter how winding, were ruthlessly designed to lead to a single, burning topic: You. 

He was a grandmaster of subterfuge, laying traps for a prodigy, and the school hallways were their board.

"Hey, Henderson," he'd start, slinging a comradely arm around his shoulders that was just a little too tight to be friendly. The scent of leather, clove cigarettes, and weed descending like a palpable warning cloud. "Saw you getting a personal audience with Her Royal Shininess again. What's the deal? You, uh… hire her for a morale campaign? Gotta say, man, the psychological warfare is top-tier."

Dustin, to his immense credit, was a veritable fortress of evasion, a master of misdirection who had, after all, helped save the world by lying to panicked government agents and his own mother. "Something like that," he'd say with an infuriatingly nonchalant shrug, never breaking stride. He wouldn't just deny—he'd counter-attack, expertly parrying every thrust with a strategically deployed question about the next campaign's monster roster or a technical debate on a new module's rule set. It was like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands.

Each failed interrogation, each expertly deflected question, only cemented a maddening truth in Eddie's mind: Henderson wasn't just being private; he was actively protecting something. He had classified information, and he was following a protocol Eddie wasn't cleared for. And Eddie Munson, connoisseur of secrets and the forbidden, had never encountered a lock he didn't immediately, obsessively need to pick until it gave up all its treasures.

Eddie's attempts grew increasingly desperate, his subtlety evaporating like cheap beer in the July sun. His interrogations became so transparent that even the wide-eyed freshmen, who usually scurried out of his path like frightened beetles, would pause to watch the spectacle. 

"So, Henderson," he'd begin, materialising at his side with a jolt of manic energy that made Dustin visibly brace himself, his shoulders creeping toward his ears. "A theoretical question for the group's head of logistics. Does our resident solar deity ever, I don't know, express any opinions on local counter-culture? Inquire about the band's seminal demo? Maybe... feel a sudden, profound need to probe the tortured, creative vision of the lead guitarist?" He wiggled his ring-clad fingers for emphasis, the picture of artistic anguish.

Dustin, the unflappable stone wall in Eddie's hurricane of neediness, didn't even look up from the complex chemical equation in his textbook. "She asked if you actually passed any of your classes," he replied, his tone flat as a week-old pancake. "I told her it was a coin toss on a good day and that she should probably pray for your immortal soul." The verbal pin landed with sniper-like precision, popping the inflated balloon of Eddie's ego with a sad, quiet fizzle.

The problem, the true, moustache-twirling villain of this entire farce, was the clock. The three-minute passing period was a cruel and unforgiving master, its final bell a death knell to his progress, severing his interrogations with the brutal finality of a guillotine. He was trying to walk a razor-thin line between casually curious and full-blown stalker, and he was failing so miserably he might as well have been face-down on the linoleum, tasting the wax and his own humiliation. Every time he felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough—a single, unguarded word, a hint of a crack in the fortress walls—Dustin would deflect with the preternatural skill of a CIA operative, offering a crumb of meaningless gossip about Steve Harrington's latest hair crisis before slipping into a classroom and vanishing. The slamming door was a brutal, full-stop punctuation mark on his failure, leaving Eddie standing alone in the suddenly silent hallway, more bewildered and hopelessly intrigued than before, the ghost of your name dying on his lips.

The mystery of you and Dustin Henderson was no longer a casual side-quest. It was escalating, mutating in the petri dish of his mind into the greatest, most compelling unsolved campaign of his life. The whiteboard in his trailer was now a chaotic web of questions and theories, connected by red string and pure, unadulterated fixation. He was done playing by the rules of polite inquiry. Eddie Munson was fully prepared to burn the whole damn rulebook, shred the map, and roll a natural twenty on a shot in the dark if it meant finally uncovering the truth.

The roar of the Friday night crowd is a distant, ghostly echo, a world away from his sanctuary—a rickety picnic table shrouded in the woods behind the football field. This is his kingdom of shadows and silence, the one place where Eddie "The Freak" Munson could let his guard down.

Right now, his guard is in tatters.

He is supposed to be plotting his next campaign, a strategic masterstroke to finally, finally talk to you. But his mental playbook, once filled with clever subterfuge and silver-tongued gambits, is now just a collection of pathetic, crumpled failures. Just ask her about Dustin, the logical part of his brain pleads. It’s the perfect in! But the rest of him, the part that turns to a puddle of incoherent mush whenever he sees you, rebels. What if he sounds like a stalker? What if his voice cracks? What if he, in a moment of peak Munson misfortune, spontaneously combusts at your feet?

He’s so deep in this cycle of self-flagellation that he doesn't hear a thing—not a footfall, not a snapped twig, not a single rustle of leaves. Which is why the voice, smooth and clear as polished glass, slices through the quiet from directly behind him and nearly sends his soul launching into orbit.

"I heard you've been asking about me."

Eddie jolts so hard the table shudders in sympathy. His heart isn't just pounding; it’s performing a frantic, double-kick-drum solo against his ribs, a frantic rhythm for the panic coursing through him. He spins around, his rings scraping against the weathered wood.

And there you are.

It was as if you’ve materialised from the shadows themselves, a phantom made flesh, bathed in the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy. His mind, usually a whirlwind of witty retorts and theatrical flair, goes utterly, completely blank. All that remained is a single, screaming thought: Abort mission. System failure. Total, catastrophic, and humiliating system failure.

A soft, melodic laugh escapes you as he fumbles, his limbs turning to tangled marionette strings. He practically falls off the bench in a clatter of silver rings and frayed denim, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Before he can even attempt to reclaim a shred of dignity, you’re moving.

Completely uninvited, you smoothly take a seat on the bench opposite him, folding your hands primly on the weather-beaten wood as if you were holding court in a king’s hall, not some shady clearing. The move is so audaciously calm, so utterly self-possessed, that it leaves him mentally reeling, grasping for a handhold in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.

His brain, desperate for any port in this storm of your presence, latches onto the first ridiculous lie it can find. “Who, me? Asking about—? Pfft. No, I was just… conducting a sociological survey on the migratory patterns of the common jock,” he deflects, the words tumbling out in a rushed, defensive jumble. A sociological survey? He sounds like a complete dork. A poser. A fool.

The panic is a neon sign plastered all over his face, he’s sure of it. And the way your smile widens, just a fraction at the corners of your mouth, tells him it only amuses you more. It’s not a mocking smile, but something far more dangerous: a genuinely entertained one.

His gaze follows yours as you nod your head towards his contraband scattered across the graffiti-scarred table—the worn leather pouch, the rolling papers, the bag of mid-grade schlock. And a sudden, piercing regret lances through him, so sharp and specific it’s almost comical. He wishes, more than anything, that he’d brought the good weed. The sacred, top-shelf stash he reserved for solo nights contemplating the cosmos and his own magnificent failures. Not this dry, pedestrian schlock he palmed off to desperate freshmen for gas money. The thought is utterly, pathetically vain, but it’s there: he wants to impress you, even with his weed, and he has already, catastrophically, failed.

“How much?” you ask, your voice slicing clean through his internal lament.

His mouth moves on pure, unadulterated instinct, completely bypassing the shred of his brain that runs a business. “For you? First one’s on the house,” he says, his voice cracking on the word ‘house,’ pitching a humiliating notch too high. He fumbles through his leather pouch, fingers finally closing around what he deems a relatively respectable joint. The moment his fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, a jolt shoots up his arm—static-sharp and disconcertingly warm. The thought flashes, unbidden and terrifyingly sincere: He’d hand you his whole damn stash for free. His van keys. The master copy of Corroded Coffin’s demo tape. Possibly his still-beating heart, if you kept looking at him with that unreadable, captivating glint in your eyes.

Then, you shift the entire universe.

Without a word, you produce a sleek, silver lighter from your skirt pocket. It’s a mundane object, but seeing it on your person, knowing you carry this small tool of controlled arson, feels impossibly intimate. He watches, utterly mesmerised, as you bring the neatly rolled joint to your lips. The act is practised, effortless, and it steals the air from his lungs.

You take a slow, deep inhale. The tip glows a fierce, brilliant orange in the dimming light, and for a surreal second, he feels like he’s witnessing a sacred ritual. You hold it for a beat, your eyes fluttering slightly, before you tilt your head back and blow a smooth, grey plume into the dappled forest air. It’s not a cough or a sputter, but a perfect, controlled stream that dances with the motes of dust in the sunbeams.

A soft, content sigh leaves you, and it’s the most relaxed, unguarded sound he’s ever heard you make. It’s a sound that wraps around him, and he knows, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he is in deep, deep trouble.

“You’re staring again, Munson.”

Your voice is a low hum, laced with amusement. Your eyes flutter open to catch him in the act, and they’re clearer now, more focused, piercing through the hazy air and seeing right through the fragile fortress of his cool. He quickly looks away, feigning a sudden, intense interest in the gnarled bark of a nearby oak tree as if it holds the secrets of the universe. His cheeks burn with a tell-tale heat he’s desperately grateful you can’t feel.

“Just didn’t know you smoked,” he counters, the words a weak, transparent defence against the gentle accusation in your tone. He knows it’s a pathetic excuse, knows it’s about so much more than tobacco or weed. It’s about the fact that he’s been quietly building a shrine to you in the dusty, hidden corners of his mind, and you just walked in and casually rearranged all the furniture, leaving him disoriented and in awe.

A slow, knowing smile plays on your lips, a silent testament to the fact that you see right through him, and you don't seem to mind. “There’s plenty you don’t know about me yet.”

Yet.

The word doesn't just hang in the air; it detonates. A single, three-letter promise that throws a gallon of gasoline directly onto the already raging fire of his curiosity. It’s an invitation that makes his pulse stutter. A challenge that his entire being itches to accept. A future tense that sends his mind spiralling into a dozen different, thrilling possibilities—shared mixtapes, late-night drives in his van, the secret sound of your laugh when it's meant just for him. It’s the most terrifying and beautiful word he’s ever heard.

Panicking under the weight of that single, terrifyingly beautiful promise, he’s rambling again before his brain can even think to engage the clutch. “I’ve, uh—I’ve got some better stuff. Back at the trailer. The good shit, you know? The kind that… unlocks the secrets of the universe. Or, you know, just makes Deep Purple sound even more fucking epic.” He’s babbling, digging the hole deeper with every word. “If you’d ever be… interested.”

The invitation hangs in the air between you, as clumsy and transparent as a sheet of Saran Wrap. He might as well have just handed you a poorly photocopied flyer that read, in Comic Sans, ‘Please Come To My Sad Trailer So I Can Stare At You More Efficiently.’

You cock a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, a silent masterpiece of judgment and amusement. The gesture is a physical thing, driving the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of his words like a hot spike directly into his already fragile ego. He can feel it—a full-body cringe that starts at the soles of his boots and vibrates up to the tips of his hair. He can practically feel his soul trying to vacate his body, peeling itself away from this mortifying reality out of pure, unbridled shame, desperately seeking refuge in the Upside Down where the social stakes are, frankly, less terrifying.

You actually seem to contemplate the offer, your gaze drifting past him into the shadow-dappled woods as if mentally consulting some invisible, infinitely more interesting social calendar. The pause stretches, a taut, excruciating silence filled only by the frantic thrum of his own pulse in his ears. It lasts just long enough for him to fully register the monumental, soul-crushing magnitude of his own idiocy. He’s already scripting his retreat, the mumbled apology, the vow to never speak again.

Then, your answer nearly knocks him clean off his seat and into next week.

“Sure. Why not.”

It’s so casual, so utterly, devastatingly nonchalant, that his brain simply short-circuits. The words don’t compute. They’re a syntax error in the carefully constructed code of his social anxiety. He swears you’re giving him psychological whiplash; he can’t keep up with the violent, nauseating shifts between his own spiraling panic and your preternatural calm. It’s like being caught in a hurricane that has the manners to sip a cup of tea at its very centre.

“Wait… really?” The words escape him in a stunned, breathy rush, all his usual theatrical bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw, disbelieving shock of a man who just hit the jackpot he never dared to buy a ticket for.

A ghost of a smirk, there and gone in a heartbeat, touches your lips. “Don’t have any plans tonight,” you shrug, the picture of nonchalance, as if agreeing to hang out in his shabby trailer was the most mundane decision in the world, like choosing what to watch on TV. But your eyes tell a different story—they glint with a sharp, knowing challenge. “Unless you don’t actually want me to come over?”

The banter feels familiar, a verbal volley he recognizes from a hundred lunchroom skirmishes and hallway arguments. It’s a rhythm he knows how to dance to. And yet, he’s completely disarmed. He’s a swordsman who has not only forgotten his blade but has forgotten which end is the hilt. All his usual sarcastic comebacks, the clever retorts that usually stream so effortlessly to form a protective, witty moat around the fortress of his insecurities, have deserted him, leaving the gates wide open and him utterly exposed on your shores.

You stand up, brushing a stray leaf from your skirt with a grace that feels utterly alien in this muddy, Munson-domain clearing. It’s a gesture that belongs in a catalog or a ballet, not here amongst the discarded beer cans and gnarled roots. You look at him expectantly, a single, perfect eyebrow arched in a silent question that feels louder than any Corroded Coffin solo.

“Well? You gonna give me a ride, or what?”

The question, so direct and laced with a challenge he desperately wants to prove himself worthy of, finally jump-starts his frozen motor functions. “Right. Yeah. The van. It’s, uh… this way,” he manages, his voice still rough with shock.

He gestured wildly, knocking over a stack of return cards, and Robin groaned without looking up. You laughed. Loud and pretty. Eddie almost flinched at how the sound hit him.

It wasn’t like you were totally enamored with Steve. You weren’t leaning over the counter, you weren’t twirling your hair, and the second the bell rang when Eddie walked in you had immediately waved at him and the gremlins beside him.

You’d even raised your brows asking, "Want me to help you find something?"

The offer was right there on your lips before Dustin elbowed Eddie hard in the ribs and dragged him toward the horror aisle with Lucas tagging along.

Eddie hadn’t protested. He was trying to be hard to get. That meant not going to you, not claiming his usual spot against the counter beside you, not stealing a pen out of your pocket just to annoy you, not calling you sweetheart in front of everyone because he could. His body refused to move toward you, even though every instinct screamed that you were where he belonged.

From where he stood, half-hidden by the shelves, he watched Steve keep talking, watched you laugh again, head tipping back, your smile so easy it made his chest ache. Steve laughed too, bumping your shoulder with his.

He forced himself to look away, jaw clenched. Playing hard to get wasn’t supposed to feel like swallowing glass.

Dustin and Lucas were choosing between two nearly identical horror movies, whispering loudly to each other. They absolutely were not actually picking tapes. They were watching Eddie watching you. Waiting for this whole stupid plan to magically work.

He had survived bats from literal hell. He had survived the entire town hating him. But watching you laugh at someone else’s jokes while he pretended he didn’t care?

That might actually kill him. No, he couldn't wait anymore.

He hooked two fingers into Dustin’s jacket sleeve and yanked him out of the aisle hard enough that the kid stumbled into his side. Lucas looked up from the tapes, startled, but Eddie didn’t care. His eyes were still locked on the counter where you were, now leaning closer to Steve to see something he was pointing at in the register.

Jealousy crawled up Eddie’s spine.

“Hey, Henderson,” he muttered under his breath. “You sure Harrington isn’t in love with her or something? Would make sense why he gave me that torturous advice.”

Dustin scoffed immediately. “Are you kidding me? Steve? In love with her? Nope. Steve loves Nance. It’s sad actually. I’ve given up on him.”

Eddie blinked down at Dustin. “The. . . the reporter girl? The one with the eyes that could murder a man?”

“Yes,” Dustin answered flatly. “He’s been in a weird life-or-death pining spiral for like a year.”

Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned even deeper. “So he told me to act like I don’t care about the girl I like because he’s. . . emotionally stupid?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“You don’t see how that might be a problem?”

“Nope.”

Eddie stared at him, baffled.

“Listen, Steve doesn’t give sucky advice. Ever.”

Eddie snorted so sharply it sounded painful. “Henderson, the man gets rejected more often than the school janitor takes out the trash.”

“That’s because he keeps choosing girls he can’t have,” Dustin shot back. “Not because his strategies don’t work.”

Lucas chimed in reluctantly, eyes still on the tapes. “He’s not totally wrong. Steve actually knows what he’s doing with the whole. . . dating. . . thing.”

Eddie pointed toward you and Steve at the counter. “He knows what he’s doing? Look at him! He’s already in love with the way she organizes tapes!”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, man. That’s called friendship.”

“It’s called emotional intimacy and I don’t like it,” Eddie hissed.

“Dude,” Dustin said, grabbing him by both shoulders, eyes wide with older than his age confidence, “you play this right and she is going to be obsessed with you.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “She already was obsessed with me. Now she’s laughing at King Hair over there.”

“She laughed at you yesterday,” Dustin snapped. “In fact, she does that every day. Because she likes you.”

Eddie wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. But the longer he watched you smile at Steve, the more something sharp twisted inside him.

Dustin tugged on his sleeve again, lowering his voice. “Look, man. If you want her to chase you, you have to stop orbiting her. Trust the process.”

Eddie breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Trust the process. Trust the plan. Trust the child who didn’t understand taxes but apparently understood romance.

He watched as you tossed your head back laughing once more at something Steve said.

And then you looked over.

Your eyes found Eddie immediately. Your smile softened into something warmer. You lifted a hand and waved.

Eddie froze.

His heart was doing things medically inadvisable. He lifted his hand automatically to wave back before Dustin slapped it down.

“No!” Dustin whisper-yelled. “Hard. To. Get.”

Eddie grimaced, trying to school his expression into the neutral, vaguely mysterious cool-guy face Steve had demonstrated. It probably looked more like he was constipated.

You raised both eyebrows at his weird non-reaction, confusion slipping across your features for just a second before Robin pulled you away to help reshelve a pile of returns.

After a few minutes, Eddie saw you coming. You rounded the end of the aisle with that determined little stride you got when you were trying to figure someone out, and Eddie’s lungs stopped working. His eyes snapped to Dustin and Lucas in full panic.

They both gave him the most useless encouragement in the world—two enthusiastic thumbs up—and then immediately backed away.

You stopped right in front of him. “Hey. Is everything alright?”

Eddie straightened, trying to pull on the casual attitude he had practiced in the mirror. “Yes,” he said.

“You sure?” you asked, tilting your head. “Because you didn’t wave back just now.”

“Oh, yeah. . . I had a, uh. . . a fly on my hand.” He pointed vaguely at his wrist. “Henderson was just swatting it away.”

You blinked at him, totally not buying it. “Right. . . the fly.”

He nodded aggressively.

You let it go. “Well, did you get the movie you came in for?”

“The what?”

“The movie you came in for,” you repeated gently. “You know, the reason you’re here.”

“Oh,” he coughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That was just for Henderson and Sinclair. They were planning a horror movie night.”

You nodded slowly. Then silence settled between you.

The kind that made your stomach twist. Things had been weird between you lately. He’d been a little distant and it was not like he was fully pulling away, but just not orbiting you the way he used to. Conversations were shorter. His jokes didn’t land the same, mostly because he wasn’t really telling them.

You kicked the toe of your shoe softly against the carpet, trying to think of what to say next, but Eddie beat you to it.

“So you and Harrington have been spending a lot of time together.”

“Oh, Steve?” you asked, taken aback. “Yeah, you know we work together, silly.”

Eddie muttered something under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

You took him in and suddenly it clicked.

“Are you jealous?”

His head snapped toward you defensively, cheeks already blooming red. “Ugh, why would I be jealous? You can flirt with whoever you want. I don’t care.”

You stared at him. “Who said anything about flirting? You didn’t think that was flirting, did you?”

Eddie scoffed, scoffed again, then nodded with false confidence. “Of course I know what flirting is.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

He blinked, narrowing his eyes in offense. “Yes, I’m sure.”

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Then why don’t you show me?”

Eddie froze.

“Huh?” he managed, voice cracking.

You met his eyes confidently because you were done with him pretending he didn’t want you. “If you know what flirting is,” you said softly, “show me.”

Eddie stood there, mouth opening and closing with absolutely no data processing happening behind his eyes. If an error message could appear on a human face, it would’ve been on his.

You waited, arms loosely crossed.

He cleared his throat, trying to remember every suave line he’d ever used in his life. Normally he could flirt with you without thinking. But now that you were asking for it? His brain emptied like someone had flipped a switch.

“So,” he started, leaning one elbow on a display shelf in what he hoped looked smooth. The shelf wobbled dangerously. “Uh. . . you come here often?”

You stared. “I work here.”

Eddie swallowed. “Right. So. That’s. . . that’s a yes.”

He tried again, standing up straighter, trying to channel his usual cocky grin. “You’re, uh. . . pretty. I mean, not pretty. I mean. . . you are pretty. Obviously. You’re so pretty it’s like. . .”

His hands waved helplessly in the air as if the right word might land on them.

“You know, sweetheart,” His voice cracked halfway through the word. “I’m. . . available. Like very available. Like, aggressively available.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Not because you wanted to make fun of him but because this was the worst flirting Eddie Munson had ever done. It was almost endearing how hard he was trying to act like he didn’t care while caring more than anyone ever had.

“Okay, I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. “I. . . look, Dustin said I should play hard to get. And Steve backed him up. And they both looked very sure of themselves, which is stupid now that I say it out loud.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Play hard to get? With me?”

“Yes! Which is insane, because I am very easy to get with you. If you asked me to jump, I’d already be in the air.”

He took a shaky breath, words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“Anyways, they said it because apparently girls don’t like guys who are obsessed with them too fast. And I was trying but it’s like trying to pretend I don’t need oxygen around you. I thought if I didn’t talk to you as much, if I acted like I didn’t care, you’d chase me. Instead I just got to watch you laugh with somebody else and it felt like my ribs were being pried open.”

Your heart cracked right open.

He kept going. “I wasn’t flirting just now because I didn’t want to flirt. I couldn’t because I’m so crazy about you it breaks my brain. I don’t know how to flirt with you when you’re staring at me like that. I don’t know how to pretend with you. Not about anything.”

You stepped closer giving him every chance to retreat. He didn’t. If anything, he leaned in.

“So you weren’t jealous because you thought Steve and I were flirting?” you asked softly.

“Yes, obviously I was jealous!” he hissed like he couldn’t believe you even needed the clarification. “I’m jealous of the air you breathe. It’s disgusting.”

You smiled, warmth blooming deep in your chest. “You didn’t need to play hard to get.”

He nodded miserably. “I know.”

“You didn’t need to pretend you didn’t want me.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just told me.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was scared.”

You reached forward slowly and took his hand, threading your fingers together like you’d done it your whole life. Eddie sucked in a breath like you were electricity.

“Why would you listen to them?” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. His voice was small when he answered.

“Because I like you too much. And I didn’t want to mess it up by. . . liking you too much.”

You squeezed his hand. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

Eddie’s face split into the kind of smile that could’ve powered the town if someone hooked him up to a generator.

“So. . . ” he said, “does that mean I can stop playing hard to get?”

“You never played it well to begin with.”

“Thank god,” he exhaled. “It was killing me.”

You tugged him closer by his hand.

“Now,” you teased, “you wanna try that flirting thing again?”

Eddie leaned in confident, the way he always was with you.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, “now that I don’t have to hide anything? I’ll show you flirting.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hard to get. It was everything he’d been dying to give you all along.

You sat in the nook of the trailer sofa, your arms folded as you watched Dustin and Eddie join together to create their very own battle weapons for a real life fight. Your bottom lip was being bitten down on whilst watching your little brother joke around with his weapon, swinging it around as if it weren't a life or death situation; worst case scenario, he is forever fossilised as a fifteen year old kid.

He had tried to ease your tensions by proclaiming his survival rate the past couple of years against 'The Upside Down', something that was going on right beneath your nose even whilst babysitting him to gain affection from your mother. Albeit, impressive, you still weren’t sold on the idea of your baby brother sacrificing his life — even if it meant saving the world.

As for Eddie, well, you couldn't control or even convince him otherwise. He was an adult in his own right, and he needed to do what was right by Chrissy after that night she died in his trailer. You truly wished you could change his mind — both of their minds — but it fell upon deaf ears and stubborn hearts.

Whilst you were deep in turmoil over your brother and your — well — Eddie, it was like a wave of energy wafted across the room like those cartoons when they smelt something good. The receiver was in fact Eddie, who laughed alongside Dustin as he turned his head to look at you. His smile softening along with his eyes before he swallowed, giving Dustin a subtle pat on the leg to give you some privacy.

Dustin looked between you two, his two fingers gestured to his mouth in a PUKE motion, and said nothing more. Aside from calling for Steve to check out his gear as he jumped out of the trailer.

Eddie stood from his spot where he was with Dustin and moved toward where you sat, placing his weapons behind him as you straightened up and let your arms unfold.

He did a twirl on the spot. “Whaddya think?”

Eddie was referring to the modifications of his outfit. The black bandana wrapped around his head, the combat green vest that he wore over his classic denim and leather combo; because Eddie Munson simply couldn’t leave the Metalhead aesthetic behind.

“I think you’re batshit crazy.” You responded.

“Batshit?” Eddie palmed his heart with both his hands and swooned, “I love when you talk dirty to me.”

You shook your head with a laugh. Eddie scooted on in next to you.

Knees touched, Eddie smoothed down your hair, his hand remaining at the nape of your neck, “You OK?”

“No.” You said flatly, a deep sigh leaving your lips, “You guys are doing something beyond crazy, in fact, it's so unbelievably outrageous yet you're all so causal about it.”

“This is going to save lives.”

“And what about yours?” You retaliated nonchalantly making Eddie shrug, “Eddie—I—You are sacrificing yourself for the outcome to possibly be the same.”

“You're talking as if I am going to die.” Eddie levelled with you, “We won't die. Dustin won't die, Robin won't die, Steve won't die. I won't die. We've got a plan, we'll make it back out and then I'll take you out on a real date.”

You scoffed, “You mean the trip into the Upside Down was not a date?”

Eddie sarcastically mulled it over. His ring-clad fingers tapped against his mouth as he feigned deep thought of the slightly harrowing memory.

It’d be something to tell the grandkids. That’s for sure.

“I’m thinking less weird alien shit. More, me picking you up…” He toyed with your fingers, eyes downcast, “In a pretty dress. Possibly looking like the girl of my dreams—”

“Steady on.”

“I get soppy in deadly situations.”

You huffed out a laugh, “Just make it out alive.”

“Scouts Honor.” Eddie held up his three fingers with pride, “You have to kiss me to make it come true.”

Eddie puckered up and you nudged him away. Not enough for the distance to gape, but enough that he laughed genuinely and pulled you in by the wrist for a tight embrace.

His heart was pounding.

“Your brother will keep me right.” He tried to snuff out his rising anxiety. Brown eyes wide, staring at the wall behind your head.

You pulled away from the hug, “Depends. He really doesn’t want us to date.”

“Then, he’ll have to kill me.”

Things had been on a stable incline in regard to how well your life had been since you made the mighty decision to be your little brother’s — Dustin Henderson — chauffeur to his table top fantasy game that came with its very own Hellfire merch.

It was that serious.

Eddie Munson had become a staple in your day to day. A man who yearns, is a man that earns; in your humble opinion. And, boy, had Dustin’s beloved Dungeon Master put in some elbow grease to keep the continuity of your budding relationship alive with a steady heartbeat.

No, things weren’t official.

In fact, there hadn’t been a time in which Eddie and you had a genuine moment alone.

The little brother curse fogged the time spent ogling the Metalhead. You had always assured the extent of Hawkins, Indiana, that your little brother was smart beyond his years. The hidden Einstein amongst a rotten bunch.

Unfortunately, Dustin’s intelligence came to an abrupt stop when required to read a room. Or expressions. Or anything remotely involving scarce moments between you and Eddie.

Eddie had the patience of a saint. White-knuckled patience and a stoic expression whenever Dustin — unbeknownst to him, apparently — interrupted his intentional advances with you.

It was evident in those Bambi eyes.

He was desperate. The eyes never lie.

And how Eddie ailed the desperation? By smoking a fat joint in his trailer.

Discarded clothes stuffed against the gap between the door and the flooring, so his uncle — Wayne Munson — wouldn’t catch the scent of a bad habit, Eddie would bask in the thick film of marijuana, eyes bloodshot and staring at the ceiling for answers.

Tonight was no different.

Eddie found himself in the same position. One arm propped behind his head whilst he pinched the joint in his other hand.

He took a long drag, eyes narrowed in false concentration; and exhaled.

“Oh man.” Eddie mumbled. Eyes pinned to the ceiling. “I’m going to call her.”

Her, as in you. The older Henderson sibling. The one that knocked the wind straight out of Eddie Munson’s lungs the first night that he discovered your existence. It was rare, that feeling that spread across his chest like a blistering fire. He finally understood the idea of butterflies in his stomach; although, he’d referred to them as bats eating at his stomach to keep it metal.

Eddie Munson was in love. And after 30mg of weed smoked through his system…you weren’t safe from not hearing about it.

So, the call came to the house around midnight.

The Claudia Henderson Curfew since the disappearance — and reappearance — of Will Byers was put into full effect. Chain slotted across the door, the fine China cabinet pushed just enough to block the front door from intruders attempting to get in.

“It’s as if we have an unjust bounty on our heads.” Dustin had said when you both watched your mother make it near impossible to escape during a hypothetical fire.

You’d both be sent to your rooms by nine o’clock with a cup of water and a prayer to make it through the night.

There was no question why anxiety struck the Henderson family tree.

You were perched atop of your bed, a book half read in your hand. You had just cracked the spine in order to stop the fight of the book closing mid-read, when the muffled ringing from the hallway phone started to feed into your bedroom.

There were two phones in the house. One situated in the kitchen — the cable stretched far enough to the table — and one in the hallway. Usually for emergencies. Claudia Henderson would allow the lift of the ‘Bedroom Curfew’ if you picked up the phone for an emergency.

You slipped out of bed, sock clad feet padded against the carpet in your bedroom. Brows furrowed, you unlocked your door and peered into the hallway.

Looked like you were getting a pardon on the curfew.

You reached for the phone as you leant back on the heels of your feet to stare at your mom’s door.

Huh.

You propped the phone against your ear. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Oh. There he was. He dragged out the Y’s and the smile was immediate on your face. “It is I. The Dungeon Master of Hellfire.”

You turned your body to the wall to muffle your laugh, “Eddie, I told you there’s a curfew on phone calls.”

“Yet, you still answered.”

“You’re abusing your privilege.”

Eddie hummed, “Privileges are meant to be abused. Or broken.”

Having the Henderson Household phone number was not something you had given to Eddie Munson lightly. He jumped through multiple hoops to get it, met with dead ends and a devious — but fucking gorgeous — smile from you with a tap against your nose.

Eventually, Eddie had to result in scare tactics. Dustin Henderson was hung up by the straps of his backpack, feet dangled with loud protests at his deliriously horny friend.

“It’s a house number, Eddie! Not crack!” Dustin had squealed.

He was severely wrong and ended coughing up the digits — which Eddie wrote on the palm of his hand before kissing it with glee — on one condition: Don’t take advantage.

That was then, and this is now.

Eddie Munson refused to conform to boundaries put in place by a minor.

“Where are you?” You asked when you heard Eddie take a deep inhale.

Eddie narrowed his eyes and smiled, “Just staring at the ceiling in my trailer. It started looking like you after the second smoke.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm. Beautiful.” Eddie blinked, “Rules my life.”

You twirled the cable around your index finger, “Huh. Sounds like an intense ceiling, Eddie. Can you handle that?”

That was one thing you undeniably excelled at…the Cat and Mouse game. Eddie being the Cat.

You heard the hitch in Eddie’s breath at your retaliation, the type of breath that wavered and had you grinning like an idiot at the floral patterns of the wallpaper your mom had thought twice about.

You’d give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

What he said next was not on your bingo card.

“What are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

Eddie sniffed, “Not like that.” He took another hit of his joint, “Hypothetically, if I turned up at your doorstep at—” He craned his neck to check his alarm clock, “Twelve o’clock at night. Would it be first date appropriate?”

You peered down at your mismatched pyjamas “Anything is technically first date appropriate.” You retorted.

“You’re in pyjamas.” Eddie stated for you.

“Yeah.” You drawled, “Your first date will just have to wait, Munson.”

As Eddie was going to explain, in great depth, about his plan for the reality of taking you out on a date, the phone crackled and a third person jumped into the call.

“Did no one listen to the Henderson Privilege Negotiation?”

“Hey, Dusty-bug.” Eddie sung.

“You literally cannot call me that, Eddie.” Dustin argued.

You sighed as they bickered, “Dustin. What are you doing? It’s past bedroom curfew.”

“Bedroom curfew—?”

Dustin interrupted Eddie, “Same question goes to you. I was just in the kitchen getting some snacks for midnight. Then, I heard your dulcet tone in the hallway and knew you were fraternising with my Dungeon Master.”

“Shit, Henderson.” Eddie laughed loudly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “OK. Don’t use my words against me. Can you please hop off this call?”

“I happen to like third-wheeling. Ask Mike.”

It was Eddie’s turn to jump in. He spoke your name lowly, “So, what are you really wearing?”

“Mother of god.” Dustin gagged, “I’m hanging up. I’m hanging up!”

“See you at Hellfire, Dusty-bug.”

There was a click and Dustin’s line went quiet. You heard his footsteps behind you, phone still propped against your ear, you turned to the side to see your little brother shaking his head with an armful of snacks for the night.

With a roll of your eyes, you turned your back to him. “I gotta go, Eddie. Bedroom curfew is a big deal in the Henderson house. I’m overdue a lecture. Even at my age.”

“Alright. Go be abide by the rules, goody-two-shoes.” Eddie yawned into the back of his hand, “But, please, tell me what you’re really wearing before you go—”

“Goodbye, Eddie!”