Eddie Munson had woken up that morning already in a bad mood, which was saying something, because his baseline was usually a carefully curated chaos of sarcasm, noise, and deliberate noncompliance.
Eddie hated Jason with a commitment that bordered on spiritual. It wasn’t just the varsity-jock entitlement or the way Jason walked through Hawkins High like the halls had been poured in his image. It was the smug righteousness of him; the way he smiled like he was God’s favorite son, like the universe itself had personally handed him a letterman jacket and a free pass to be a jackass. Eddie had tolerated bullies his whole life... he’d grown up learning how to roll with punches, verbal and otherwise. But Jason didn’t just punch. He erased. He decided who mattered and who didn’t and he did it loudly.
Detention wasn’t new to Eddie. Detention was practically a second home. He’d earned it for blasting Dio in the parking lot, for staging a lunchtime air-guitar concert on a cafeteria table, for setting off a smoke bomb during pep rally because, in his professional opinion, pep rallies were an offense to humanity.
But this time? This time was Jason.
Two days ago, Eddie had been minding his own business; leaning against his locker, arguing passionately with Gareth about whether Iron Maiden peaked with Powerslave - when Jason had decided to run his mouth. About “freaks” and “cult shit” and “people like Munson.” Eddie hadn’t even planned to respond. Truly. He’d made it almost ten whole seconds before Jason laughed and called Hellfire a joke.
That was when Eddie had stepped forward, unable to help himself, and asked Jason politely, almost kindly if running his mouth was the only talent he had left now that basketball season was over.
Jason shoved him first. Hard enough to draw attention. Hard enough to justify what came next.
Eddie had swung. Not his best punch - he’d been aiming more for principle than precision - but it landed. Jason’s cheek had gone a satisfying shade of red, and Eddie would’ve gladly turned it purple if Coach hadn’t intervened. The end result was Jason walking away with his ego bruised and Eddie sitting in detention, jaw tight, hands itching, thinking that if he ever found a legally acceptable reason to rearrange Jason Carver’s face, he’d take it without hesitation.
So yeah. Eddie was in a mood.
By late afternoon, detention had bled into the familiar ache of boredom, and boredom into restlessness. He couldn’t practice in the music room anymore, not after Jason had complained about “satanic noise” echoing through the halls. So Eddie had been relegated to the storage area behind the auditorium, a half-forgotten space cluttered with broken props and folding chairs that smelled like dust and old paint. It wasn’t ideal, but it was quiet enough.
Home wasn’t an option. His uncle had worked a double shift and needed sleep and Eddie knew better than to bring distorted guitar riffs into a house where rest was sacred. His music didn’t soothe. It invaded.
So Eddie sat on the floor, legs sprawled, guitar balanced against his thigh, tongue poking out slightly as he focused on replacing a string. He frowned in concentration, curls falling into his face, fingers nimble and practiced as they worked the wire into place. When Eddie focused, really focused, the world narrowed. His brows knit together, jaw set, every ounce of him locked into the task. There was something almost reverent about it: the way he handled his instrument, like it was alive, like it deserved respect.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath, tightening the peg. “Don’t be a diva.”
“You son of a bitc— ” Eddie hissed as it whipped back, slicing his finger. A bead of blood welled instantly. Without thinking, he brought his hand to his mouth, sucking the cut clean with a sharp inhale, eyes squeezed shut as the sting flared. He tasted copper and irritation, both familiar companions.
That was when he heard her voice.
He recognized the cadence before he recognized the person: the soft, breathless fury, words tumbling over each other like they’d been trapped too long. He caught fragments, complaints, a name: Jason.
Eddie’s mouth curled into a slow, knowing smirk.
He slipped past the curtain and didn’t bother hiding his presence for long. “Well,” Eddie drawled, “if it helps at all, Jason Carver has the personality of a varsity jacket with legs. You’re way too good for that idiot.”
“And just so you know,” he added casually, “I’m deeply honored to be included in what sounded like the most honest therapy session this school’s ever hosted. And uh, it was a stellar monologue. Truly. Five stars. Would absolutely listen again.”
vaporwave
pixelskylines
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
