still under skull rock

Eddie is the type of husband to ask you for a “little sneak peak” so you flash him one titty, and he pouts because the other one is going to get jealous. So you flash him the other one and he goes “No, no do the titty drop thing,” just testing his luck trying to see how much of a show he can get. You relent, making it all slow motion while his mouth is agape and he reaches out his hands like he’s going to touch them and you smack him away and laugh and say “No, you said a sneak peak, not a touch! Now leave me alone so I can cook supper!” And he walks away with a smile and his bottom lip in his mouth and his hands behind his back like a little kid who just got in trouble.

Eddie is the type of husband to walk up to you and say “Hey, you wanna see my cock?” And you’re like “Eddie, I’m trying to work on our taxes.” and he puts his hands up in resignation and responds “Okay, I was just checking! …you sure?” And you groan while looking at the ceiling and say “Oh, my god!” and he’s like “Okay, okay, okay! I was just making sure, I know how you get.” And all you can do is roll your eyes at him and giggle while he mumbles, “Just let me know if you change your mind.” You ask to see his cock later that night.

Eddie is the type of husband to always need to use the restroom when you’re in the shower. Even if you asked him beforehand. Even if he went beforehand. And he always pulls the shower curtain back and either asks “Whatcha doin’ in there?” Or he just goes “Mmm!” And then leaves. Sometimes he’ll poke your ass. Sometimes he’ll ask, “Wanna see my cock? It’s already out.” Sometimes you even say yes! He will always follow up with “Wanna touch it?” He just wants to make sure he’s not leaving you hangin’ 🤷🏻‍♀️🤭 You touch it later that night.

Eddie is the type of husband to “accidentally” drop something in front of you so he can bend over and tease you with his ass in the air like he sees the women on the TV shows do while saying “Oops, silly me always dropping stuff!” While he makes a show of bending over and shaking his ass and looking back at you coyly until you smack it. He stands back up straight with nothing in his hands to show for it.

Eddie is the type of husband to walk past and smack your ass and say “No, that one didn’t feel right,” and smack it again until it makes a satisfactory *crack* sound. Sometimes he’ll even instruct you like, “Stick it out a little more, I can’t get it good like that.”

"I-"

"Shut the fuck up," you snap immediately, trying desperately to keep pressure on way too many wounds at once while Dustin is scavenging for anything to bind them with. Your brows are drawn together in concentration, and despite the blood and demo-bat viscera splattering your face, you look damningly cute.

Spots dance across his vision, blurring you. Fucking rude. If he's going to die after all of this, you should be the last thing he sees. He should get to keep looking at you, the way he's always been.

Over his shoulder in the cafeteria, where you'd sit right at his back on the next table over, flipping your hair obnoxiously often, half in his face, just to piss him off.

Through the shelves at the record store, where you'd purposefully scrunch your nose or raise your brows whenever you shelved the new arrivals. Few things got your stamp of approval, but one of his recs once made it to the in-store record player while you were on shift. You'd denied it to hell and back, but he was thrilled you'd actually listened to him. And his music.

At the hideout, when you came to pick up your dad from the crowd of five drunks watching Corroded Coffin play, and actually stayed till they finished their set. You looked like you were both intrigued and angry about it, and Eddie couldn't help but lean right into your face off the stage, delivering lyrics straight to you. He'd never seen your cheeks this red before. He felt a little drunk off it, with the music and the lights and you sticking out your tongue at him before retreating to the bar. He'd wanted to kiss you so badly it hurt, but you'd dragged your dad out of there the second they were done playing.

Wasted time. Wasted opportunities. This is it.

He tries again: "I think I-"

"Will you STOP!" There's desperation in your tone. He only notices your hands are shaking when he covers them with his own, unsteadily, weakly.

Adorable as your efforts are, they're not gonna change a thing, and he really really needs to get this out now while he still has some focus left. "I'm-"

"You are NOT dying, Eddie Munson. Not today. Not on my watch. Absolutely fucking not. So just shut up and-"

"I love you."

That stuns you to silence. Finally. Good. Your mouth works like you're chewing on a reply, but nothing comes out. Can't exactly give a dying man the brush-off, he knows, but he's not expecting anything. He just needed to tell you. To see your face while he does. His chuckle is laced with blood.

He squeezes your hands, once, and the spots in his vision take over. Vaguely, he hears Dustin in the distance, and feels a bit sorry he won't get to say goodbye. But as last words go, a love confession is pretty epic, if he says so himself.

He wants to hear your reply. He wants to ruffle Dustin's hair and push his Hellfire kids around. He wants to play on a big stage with his band and he wants to hug his uncle again.

The future slips away in the dark. It may be a shit ending, but at least it's a heroic one.

Between the sun and the reflecting white of everything in the room, Eddie's eyes burn. There's something stuck in his arm. And in his nose. Everything itches and scratches and hurts. If this is Vecna's idea of hell, the bastard needs some pointers. The torture aspect is on point, but the aesthetic could use some work.

His throat is too dry to even cough, but as he slowly blinks, two dark shapes in the too-bright room take form. One of them, still in a chair by his side, is his uncle, and Eddie can feel his eyes tear up at the sight. The other one moves, a flash coming from the window sill, and he only recognizes your face when it's right in front of him.

You look worried and desperate and strung out and tired. "Hi," seems like the best way to approach this. His dopey smile doesn't seem to chase your tension away, though. It seems to make you furious.

"You fucking dumbass idiot asshole!" you whisper-scream, evidently trying not to wake up Wayne before you could get your tirade off your chest. "What the fuck were you thinking? Oh, what nice day to die? What a cool way to leave all of my friends fucking mourning? What a great fucking storybook-ending to say that and then-"

Well. Good to know it did have the desired effect, then.

"Sorry if I killed the vibe, b- OUCH." his voice rasps out an almost-scream when your fingers claw into his arm. Through the blur of pained tears in his eyes, he only barely realizes the tears in your own.

"Oh? Does that hurt? Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Asshole."

And then you kiss him. And he thinks, alright, if this is hell, maybe he can live with it. It's over far too soon, not much more than a peck, and you ease up your grip and pull his covers back straight and check on his IV and seem altogether very much too busy to acknowledge his even dopier smile now.

The summer air is balmy this late in the evening; you take a deep, steadying breath, and remind yourself what you are getting to keep by accepting a new roommate.

A two-bedroom apartment. Downtown, ten minutes from work, prime location. Window above the sink. Perfect lighting. Counters you can scrub until they gleam-

There’s a thudding of speakers and a screech of tires as a large van pulls to a halt near your parking spot. The driver cuts the engine and hops out, a dozen paper napkins and two crushed soda cans scattering to the ground in his wake. 

“Shit.” 

He makes quick work of snatching at the dispersed trash, the frizzy halo of his dark hair bobbing animatedly as he scrambles and bends towards the pavement.

Eddie is wearing ripped jeans, a faded Iron Maiden t-shirt, and a wide grin as he approaches with one arm full of trash and the other extended towards you. 

“Hiya. You my new roomie?”

You do not take his proffered hand (with the sneaking suspicion that it would be rather sticky) and instead point with ill-concealed irritation at the napkin captured under the toe of your shoe. 

“Maybe, maybe not. Do you often make it a habit to show up thirty minutes late to appointments?”

The quick cut to the chase doesn’t dim Eddie’s sparkle in the slightest- in fact, it seems to egg him on.

Twin dimples smile up at you from where Eddie has dropped to one knee on the asphalt. His eyes are the color of burnt caramel, or maybe cocoa- dark and richly saturated. Impossible to look away from. 

“Ah, see-” Eddie tugs at the corner of the napkin and whips it out from under your sneaker with the flair of a magician’s tablecloth. “Stevie Boy told me to meet you at seven. So I think maybe we should blame him and start off on the right foot.”

He rises and gives you a wink. You really wish you found it half as charming.

“Fine.” Your arms cross, aiming to keep an unamused expression. “Where do you work?”

“All around town,” Eddie answers, then pivots to shove the trash into his backseat with much clanging about. His palms wipe down the front of his jeans as he comes to stand in front of you again. 

This time you catch a whiff of the cologne he’s wearing. It’s spiced and warm and reminiscent of autumn leaves. 

The evening sun is glinting off all his jewelry, spinning the light about his face as he raises his hands in a white-flag gesture. “Look, I’m an opportunist when it comes to jobs. I’ve got band gigs on weekends, I sell pot on the side- and if deviancy is a concern of yours, maybe this will help my case.”

Eddie presents to you a perfectly rolled joint in the palm of his left hand. 

He’s taking a big swing here, and lucky for him- good weed is hard to come by. 

The joint gets swiftly tucked into your front pocket as you nod- “Directness is the way to go, I think. The apartment’s great, I work at the bookstore on 3rd, and I’m kind of- I’m a bit-”

You’re floundering for the word. Eddie shakes his head-

“Nah, s’okay- Steve kind of gave me the low-down on you already. He mentioned you were a bit-”

“Uptight?”

“-intense.” Eddie raises a dark brow. “But stellar. Like me.”

You shift under the compliment, and Eddie continues.

“I’ll be good for the money every month, and I promise not to be an asshole about my volume when you’re trying to sleep.” He shrugs, dimples springing to life again. “I think I might be your finest prospect, sweetheart.”

“All right.” Your tone is a warning. It’s to mask the butterflies that are swarming low at the nickname- dangerous territory. “You seem mostly normal, or at least like you’re not gonna get me axe murdered. Or something. You wanna see the place tonight?”

Eddie nods enthusiastically, and you turn on a heel to start for the sidewalk. He trots to keep up, falling into step with you as he comments, “Killer shirt. Kate Bush rocks.”

“Oh- thanks.” You glance down at the printed Hounds of Love cover and smile at the memory that surfaces. “My little cousin is obsessed with her. I took us both to the record store at four in the fucking morning to get them on release day- we were first in line.”

Eddie hears the pride in your voice and laughs, delighted. “Shit, you got it all figured out, huh? I bet you have a wicked record collection, too- we’ll have to join forces once I move in.”

You give him a quick sideways look even as hope blooms- “Hey, you haven’t even seen the place yet.”