This Is Exactly What It Looks Like

By the time the sun started peering through the curtains, you had worn yourself out enough to at least fall unconscious. Sleep was a generous term that didn’t quite describe the state of restless stupor you’d slipped into. You could still see the way he looked at you—filled with so much hate and fury—and hear how you were screaming at him with equal ferocity as you tried to snooze on, but there was no escape and certainly no relief. 

How could he do that? Flip like a switch from laughing hysterically over nothing to screaming so hard that the vein in his forehead visibly throbbed. Maybe everyone was right—Munson was crazy. Demented. An outright nutcase. And he turned you into one too just by being around him. He somehow amplified your emotions—both good and bad—to something you couldn’t manage yourself. Getting away from him could only be a good thing, even if the idea of being kicked to the curb by even the town freak stung quite a bit. 

Whatever. He was fucking deluded anyway. 

Whether it be from exhaustion, dehydration, the whirlwind of emotions over the last twenty-four hours, or all of the above, you couldn’t wake up once you fell out. You tried to force your eyes open at the piercing shrill of the phone ringing, but your body wouldn’t comply. You were sunk too deep reliving a nightmare that nothing could wake you from. 

At least, until one in the afternoon when a pounding so loud and persistent made your senses float back to you. Slowly. At first you thought the noise was just the pounding of your headache, but the shouting of your name that accompanied it made you realize someone was at the front door.

Moving was awful. You weren’t hungover but it sure did feel like it—limbs heavy as lead when you staggered into the hallway. Everything was spinning. Your skin sticky with sweat and hands shaking as you crashed against the walls like a pinball until you finally reached the door and opened it to a very concerned looking Nancy Wheeler. 

Great. The last person you wanted to see. 

During your hours of infuriated self reflection, you’d come to terms with the idea that perhaps Munson wasn’t completely wrong in statement. He wasn’t right! But…he wasn’t incorrect either. 

It wasn’t Nancy’s fault. 

It took a long time and a lot of ruminating to come to that conclusion. In the previous years, every time you tried to play the “if the tables were turned and I did what Nancy did…” you always came up with the answer “but I wouldn’t have done that!” Until you realized that’s exactly what you had done last night. You argued with yourself that it wasn’t the same—just like you had done with Munson—that the motive for separating from your friend wasn’t selfish until it dawned on you that it was. If something had happened to Nancy last night, would you be to blame since you were the last to see her alive? Of course not. That was stupid. The fact that you went to hang out with Patrick or if you’d have even gone to the toilet and found her missing, it wouldn’t have been your fault. The fault was with whoever or whatever had taken her while you were gone no matter what the reason for your sudden departure.   

Then there was the ‘what would Barb do?’ scenario. Normally you tried to justify why Barb would blame Nancy too. Left to die alone in the woods after being told to go away by her lifelong friend. But after much uncomfortable contemplation, you knew deep down that Barb wouldn’t have blamed Nancy for what happened. She probably would be disappointed and a little hurt at being dismissed, but she would be more than peeved to know that you held any resentment towards Nancy at all for this. She’d hate to see her two friends at odds, especially when she wasn’t there to remedy it. 

What you said to Munson was true: the lab had killed Barb, and it was the lab that went to disgusting lengths to cover it up. Barb would’ve despised the way you felt about her death and she would tell you Nancy Wheeler wasn’t to blame at all. 

It was a truth that tasted as sweet as vinegar. It was easy to be angry at her. It was easy to blame her. It was not easy to admit you were wrong in doing so. And here she was, mere hours after your revelation, as if to taunt you into admitting the truth aloud. 

She didn’t wait for an invitation inside. Instead she stepped past you and scolded you. “You were supposed to call when you got home.”

“Sorry,” you muttered, shutting the door. “I didn’t get home until almost two and it was—“

Nancy gawked. “Two? A-M? In the morning?!”

You nodded, instantly regretting the movement. You beckoned her to follow you, stumbling all the way back to your room. She was muttering something, but you couldn’t comprehend it. You had mere seconds to get back to your bed or else you were going to pass out. Or puke. Or both. 

You collapsed face first onto your bed, legs dangling off the side, and waited with your eyes pinched shut for the room to stop spinning. 

“So,” Nancy said stiffly behind you. “How bad was it?”

You groaned, grumbled, and huffed into the mattress as you rolled over just enough to peer at her sitting at your thighs, brow arched high as she chewed the inside of her cheek in anticipation. 

The permed hair really fit her. Much better than the straight, sleek look she had for so long. It made her look older. More mature. But then again she was both of those things compared to when you met her so long ago. 

“You’re really pretty,” you admitted softly. 

Nancy did not seem impressed. “You’re still drunk.”

“I didn’t drink,” you responded. “Well, I had two beers at the party but I wasn’t drunk.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You really expect me to believe that? You’re the picture next to ‘hungover’ in the dictionary!”

You were getting annoyed. “Nancy, I did not get drunk last night. Other stuff happened. It—it was a disaster.”

She quirked her brow, her expression clearly saying ‘I told you so’ though her mouth never did. 

“Not for the reason you think,” you said defensively. “Or maybe it is. I don’t know.”

So you told her what happened at the party. The only thing that seemed to suprised her was Munson’s sudden appearance. Your nausea increased at the memory of how excited you were to see Eddie when he showed up. Nancy noticed you grab your stomach and cover a disgusting wet belch behind your hand. She went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and a few slices of bread that she instructed you eat before you continue your tale. 

“You were with Munson all that time?” she questioned with clear concern. “Eddie Munson? Your partner for Albrecht’s class? What on earth were you doing with him until two o'clock in the morning?”

You took your time chewing to avoid the question—or more like the answer. What were you doing with him? Having fun before screaming at each other like absolute lunatics and swearing to never darken each other’s doorsteps again. 

“We went to the Waffle Hut in Ladoga,” you answered quietly. 

Nancy’s eyes widened. “That is…so gross. No wonder you’re miserable. You’ve got food poisoning!”

The thought did occur to you when you were spewing up your midnight feast, but you were certain it was related to the sudden and intense spike in stress rather than an actual illness. Though the remembrance of how greasy the place was made your stomach stir again. 

“I don’t have food poisoning,” you sighed. “The food was actually good for what it was.”

Nancy wrinkled her nose. “What’s wrong with you then? What did he do to you?”

Again, you took your time busying your mouth to avoid answering her, but the cool water was too good and nourishing to mess around with for too long. When you did finish it and ran out of an excuse to keep quiet, you collapsed on your back and watched her bewildered and impatient expression. 

“We were kind of getting along during the project. But last night we had a giant fight. He said I was a shit friend to you.”

Confused, she asked “How would he know?”

You side stepped her question. “Do you feel that way?”

She shook her head just a tick before stopping abruptly, taking more time to consider. “I think we’re all just doing our best after years of tragedy.”

You frowned. “So yeah, you think I’m a bad friend.”

She scooted closer towards you. “That’s not what I said.”

With your resolve for keeping things bottled up shattered during the previous hours, you had no will to hold back. Your chest started heaving. “What if I am? What if all this time I’ve been so angry with you and I blame you for what happened to Barb?”

Nancy’s thin lips tightened. “I know you do.”

Your heart jumped and your breathing ceased for a second while you gaped at her. If you weren’t so dehydrated, maybe the waterworks would’ve started, but instead your face morphed into an ugly grimace while your nerves frayed, unable to formulate a response.  

She nodded slowly, her shoulders slumping under the weight of the tension. “I’d say you should work on your poker face but you’d have to have one to begin with.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Nancy sighed heavily. “Because I agree. It is my fault.”

“It’s not. The lab—“

“I know,” she interrupted sharply. “It was the lab. Everyone keeps telling me so. They keep saying it’s not my fault and I’m not to blame, but they’re wrong and it feels wrong when they try to pardon me. I killed her. I let her go out in the dark alone and then she died.”

You didn’t know what to say. How to console her since you had—as she had known all along—agreed with her sentiment. But seeing her admit it, hearing the self loathing Munson said would plague forever, let a shamefully sick, almost perverse, pleasure trickled through your veins. 

“You’re the only one who wasn’t bending over backwards to stop me from blaming myself,” she continued, sniffling quietly. “Sometimes you’d give me this look and I just knew—I knew what you were thinking and I was waiting for you to explode. I needed you to throw it in my face and punish me because I wanted someone to just once say that yes! I deserve to feel guilty!”

The rush of smug superiority washed away as quickly as it surfaced, replaced by shame and self loathing. All this time you thought she’d been unaffected—focusing all her attention on boys instead of mourning her supposed best friend—but it wasn’t true at all. Nancy had been carrying her own pain as well. 

Perhaps Munson wasn’t just not wrong—but right. Maybe you had been a shit friend.

“But you don’t,” you countered. “Just because you saw her lost doesn’t mean you’re responsible for her death.”

Nancy gave a waterlogged, humorless chuckle. “Doesn’t it?”

You sat up and sat beside her with your thighs touching and wrapped your arms around her. Nancy stiffened, since it had been many years since you hugged each other, and hung her head to hide beneath her curly curtain of hair. 

“I don’t deserve everyone telling me it’s okay cause it’s not and she’s gone and she’s never coming back!” Nancy huffed. 

Twenty-four hours ago, you would’ve agreed. Wholeheartedly. Perhaps even blown up at her like you did Munson and given her the punishment she craved. But now, things were different. Not only had she been punishing herself, but she’d been waiting for someone to demand retribution—give her a chance at penance so she could rid herself of some remorse. You weren’t going to convince her that she was absolved of all guilt, that much was clear. The last thing she needed was another voice echoing in her ear the same sentiment she didn’t believe. You could, however, give her a little bit of both—scolding and reprieve. 

“It was selfish to cast her aside to hang out with Steve,” you told her firmly. “but being a selfish fifteen year old girl does not make you a murderer.” 

Nancy shook her head. “If I had just stayed with her—“

You rested your head on her shoulder as you gently interrupted. “Barb wouldn’t blame you, you know,” you said, resting your chin on her shoulder. “She might have been a little irritated with you when she left Harrington’s house, but she wouldn’t be now. She’d probably think us both jackasses for how we’ve handled things.”

Nancy covered her eyes as she began to sob. “I know!” she snapped. “That’s what makes it worse! I ju—I jus—“

And there it was. The uncontrollable, harrowing, soul-unburdening wail of someone who had been suffering from something so painful yet unable to let go of. The same one you’d echoed many times in the hours previous as you wrestled your demons and came face to face with reality. You had done it alone, but Nancy didn’t have to. 

So you held her and wept with her. Both hugging each other eventually and making a cacophony of heartbroken sobs, shrieks, and wails. Blubbering apologies and exonerations into each other’s shoulders. Assurances that you didn’t hate her, and that she didn’t hate you, and promises to one another to be better friends. You weren’t sure how long it went on for. An hour, perhaps. Maybe more. Until it became impossible to produce any more tears or when your nose got so stuffy you couldn’t breathe through it anymore. Perhaps it was Nancy who hiccuped last and it all quieted down from there. 

Your headache was worse, but the weight of the world seemed to have lifted from your chest. Your bones. Everywhere. Nancy quite looked the same—tired, a little forlorn, but free of the darkness that underlined her posture. 

“I miss her,” Nancy said sadly, wrapping her pinky around yours. “And I missed being close with you.”

“Yeah,” you agreed with a watery smile. “Me too.”

And that was how spring break started. You lost a friend, but found your way back to an old one. 

It had been great for the first couple of days into break. You and Nancy had been almost inseparable. You spent three nights in a row at her house like the old days watching movies, talking about college, your plans since you were waitlisted (which she insisted was not the end of the world), and simply hanging out. It was as if you were both making up for lost time. Barb was included, of course. There was her yearbook picture that Nancy glued to the end of a popsicle stick and sat it between you during movies, tucked ‘Barb’ into a book on her nightstand when it was time for bed, and as horrifyingly insane as it sounds, you both talked to the photo on the stick as if it really could answer as to whether or both Barb liked that nail polish color on you.

“I think she likes it,” Nancy said proudly. “Look at that smile!”

It was inane, and stupid, and wonderful all at once. There were tears again, of course, during moments where the silliness dissipated into sadness. Mostly in the dark of night when the rest of the house slept. But you had each other to cling to and somehow always found a way to pause the guilt until the dark came again tomorrow. 

The most important thing was that there were no boys! Johnathan had rung Nancy exactly one time during the three days, and she told him she’d been with him some other time—she had some things to tend to and would call him later. It was honestly so nice to not have to compete with him for conversation or listen to him sulk. And with the new reconnection, you found yourself able to ask Nancy exactly how on earth that happened. 

“His brother Will had gone missing at the same time,” she answered. “So we both knew what it was like and found comfort in each other over it.”

You swallowed thickly, trying not to find the resemblance in how you felt the same about that butthead, Munson. 

“Then why do you guys never look happy?” you prompted. 

Nancy shrugged. “I don’t know. It used to be enough and we make a great journalism team but…after the internship at The Post…things really haven’t been the same.”

“But you’re going to Emerson together?”

Nancy chuckled bitterly. “I doubt that. Every time I bring it up he gets fidgety and weird. He’s hiding something. I just don’t know what yet.”

You always found Johnathan to be fidgety and weird, so you could not attest to any change Nancy may have noticed. 

“What are you going to do?”

“Go to Emerson,” she answered simply. “Try my hand at New York. See what’s out there for me. If Johnathan doesn’t want to come with me, then…” she shrugged again. “He’ll be doing his own thing, I guess.”

You gave her a curious look. She seemed nonchalant about the idea of breaking up with him and moving across the country. You wanted to ask more about that since they’d been together almost all of high school, but she interrupted your train of thought by bringing up him. 

“What was going on with you and Munson anyway?” she asked. “You never fully explained that.” 

Thinking of Eddie Munson made you react quite viscerally inside, and unfortunately you thought of him often. Against your will. Much to your displeasure. Almost everything reminded you of him. The morning meals Mrs. Wheeler made was a slap in the face because now Eddie Munson’s memory had tainted all breakfast foods. Mike zipping around the house made you think of him since he was in the same stupid club, not to mention the long hair he was attempting to grow out made you do a double take every time. 

Yes, Eddie Munson was haunting you like a ghost with a vengeance. It made you furious. Annoyingly angry. And terribly, terribly solemn. You found that most nights, even with Nancy’s company only a few feet away, you felt incredibly lonely. You wondered what he was doing. If he thought of you as much as you did him. How were you going to continue with the project? Would you just have him write his name on the remaining sheets and turn in it? It seemed the most logical thing to do since he probably wasn’t going to play nice anymore. Not that his version of nice was very pleasant to begin with. 

“Nothing,” you spat. “We had a truce to work on the project but he said I was a shitty friend to you and we got into a fight. That’s it.”

Nancy gave you a look, unconvinced. “I thought you said he made you laugh.”

“Yeah—like—once,” you lied quickly. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s annoying. He doesn’t bring anything to school to do work. He doesn’t help with the project when it comes to writing stuff down, and he talks about the weirdest shit! Not to mention—“

You listed one hundred and one reasons why Eddie Munson was the biggest, most annoying, irritating, waste case to ever cross your path, but Nancy seemed unconvinced judging by the way her sharp brow stayed quipped and her lips pursed with suspicion. 

“Not friends but comfortable enough to let him take you to Ladoga, treat you to dinner, and talk about a highly sensitive topic? Something he wouldn’t have known about had you not discussed it before,” Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “Not to mention the whole flower thing.”

You gave her a nasty look and resumed cutting out coupons from the paper for Mrs. Wheeler, offering no words to continue the conversation. But Nancy would not let it go. 

“Would you ever forgive him?” she probed. 

You scoffed. “Yeah, right. Munson would rather die than apologize. Or speak to me again.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Nancy replied. “Guys don’t usually go out of their way for girls they don’t like and Ladoga is a little bit of a ways.” 

You were starting to get irritated. Mostly because she was playing the seed of a hope and it made your heart stutter at the thought. 

“Respectfully, Nance, you don’t know anything about it. Just what I’ve told you. He judges me, he sneers at me, and he just makes me so angry I could spit.”

A little smirk graced the side of her lips. “That may be true, but I think you miss him anyway.”

“Think again,” you snapped. 

She giggled, which only infuriated you more, but did not press the issue further. 

Her brother, however, was not as kind. 

Some hours later after lunch, a crazed and wide-eyed Mike Wheeler came charging at you as you sat on the porch swing with Nancy.

“YOU!” he hollered with an accusatory index finger pointed straight at your forehead. “This is your fault, isn’t it?!

You looked at Nancy with confusion before looking towards Dustin who stood beside Mike. 

“He means Eddie,” Dustin said. 

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t talked to him in days.”

Steam was practically whistling out of Mike’s ears. “So it is you! I knew it! I told you it was her!”

Dustin held up his arms in surrender. “I never said it wasn’t!”

“I’m sorry, what’s going on here?” Nancy interjected. 

Mike stood to his full height—which was now incredibly tall—and sighed heavily, glaring at you with pure malice as he spat, “Purple Rain.”

Clearly he thought this was some sort of revolutionary statement, but neither you or Nancy knew what the hell he was talking about. 

“The song?” you offered. 

“Yes,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Continously. As soon as the song finishes—no, sometimes even before it ends—he rewinds it and starts it all over again. He won’t stop playing it!”

This still did not give you any clarity on the situation at all. “I think you need your head checked or something.”

Dustin stepped forward. “What Mike is trying to say is, we’ve been through this before, okay? He went through it the first time Lucas and Max broke up, and I had to deal with it when Steve and—you know—sorry Nance, no offense. When Steve and Nancy broke up,” he smiled weakly. “The point is, Eddie is playing break up music and we can’t get him to stop. So can you just talk to him?”

“Not to mention he’s been extra pissy lately,” Mike added bitterly. 

You didn’t know what else to do besides laugh. Munson playing Prince on loop? In front of people? Like some lovesick idiot? How pathetic! And hilarious. And also a little sad. Though the self satisfaction of knowing he was suffering—whether or not that had anything to do with you—was a little uplifting. 

“I can guarantee you that I am not the reason he’s doing that!” you laughed. 

Mike’s top lip curled in a confused sneer. “Yeah it is.”

“He said that?” Nancy piped in with an annoying smile. 

“No, but I just know it is,” Mike argued. “You’re the only girl who’s ever talked to him in his life and now you just said you’re not. Who else would it be?”

You hoped not-so-deep down that there wouldn’t be anyone else that could do this to him.

“I don’t know, but it’s not me. Sorry,” you shrugged. 

Dustin pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation here. Purple Rain in its entirety is eight minutes and a half minutes long, okay? Almost nine minutes! You gotta help us!”

“I like Prince. I mean, who doesn’t? But I swear if I have to listen to that goddamn song again….” Mike threatened. “I don’t know what I’ll do but I won’t listen to that album for a very long time.”

“I don’t know what power you think I have, but I can’t stop him,” you told them. 

“Will you try?” Mike questioned. 

You were starting to get annoyed. “Try what, Mike? It’s not like we're friends! I’m actually the last person that can get that freak to do anything!”

Mike swelled. “Just talk to him when he gets here! He’s picking us up to go to the arcade. Should show up any minute.”

Your stomach fell to the seat of your ass. Any minute? He couldn’t see you like this! You hadn’t been home in a few days, so you weren’t at your best. Yeah, you combed your hair but it wasn’t with your comb. The spare soft bristled toothbrush Nancy gave you probably didn’t whiten your teeth the way your firmer one from your own home did. You weren’t decent. You weren’t ready. And frankly, you didn’t want to see him! What if he said something stupid and you flipped out at him again in front of everyone? What if he said nothing at all and pretended you weren’t there? That would hurt worse than getting called a shit friend. 

Frantically, you scrambled to your feet and tried to shove your way through the boys in order to hide in the house. Dustin, who wasn’t nearly as tall as Mike but was far sturdier, jumped in front of you to block your path. “Do I have to get on my knees and beg? Cause I’m at that point.”

“Get out of the way!” you demanded, trying to push past him. 

Mike joined in creating a barricade with his long arms. “Face your fears!” he yelled, bumping his chest into your face to herd you back onto the porch swing. “It’ll only take a minute!”

“That’s seven less than one play of Purple Rain!” Dustin yelled, boxing you into the corner of the porch. “Please! Just this once, just try—!”

Then, you heard it. The loud, roaring engine of the van as it got closer and closer towards the house. There was only one person it could be, and if what Dustin and Mike said was true, the unmistakable guitar solo becoming more and more coherent was a dead give away. 

“I will hurt you if you don’t get out of the way!” you shouted, sawing your forearm in between their shoulders. 

“Please! Just this once, just try—!” they begged. 

But it was no use. You knew it as soon as you heard the tires screech to a halt. Eddie Munson was here. 

The clack of the driver door opening made you all freeze—ceasing the struggle between you and the boys. He started shouting before he stood up to crane his neck over the top of the van. “Let’s go, people! I got—“

As cliche as it sounds, time stood still when your eyes met. 

He looked the same. I mean, why wouldn’t he? It hadn’t even been a week. His hair was as unkempt as usual and he had on that same dumb leather jacket. But the circles under his eyes stood out a little more. Or was it just your imagination?

For a split second neither of you said anything nor did anything but stand there and stare at each other—completely at a loss as to how to react to the sudden presence of the other. 

You weren’t overcome with anger and annoyance like you were every time he crossed your mind. No, this horrible, sinking feeling was something quite different. It was then you realized—by the way your heart plunged to the floor—how much you did miss his company. 

You wanted him to say something. Perhaps ask if he could speak to you privately. Maybe even acknowledge you with a small wave or anything. Some sort of olive branch to show that perhaps he was over it? Since he was the one that flipped like a damn switch and went berserk like a crazy person. He had to be the one to make the first move, right? 

But then he looked away and nodded his head towards the boys. “Hurry up. It’s Two-Scoop Tuesday,” he said, and got back into the van without another word. 

“Wait—so that’s it?” Dustin deflated. 

“Go say something to him!” Mike urged. 

“Move,” you commanded. And when the boys split like the Red Sea with hopes you’d talk to their leader, you instead took the opportunity to bolt into the house, trying to outrun the searing pain of heartbreak in your chest. 

Nancy found you sometime later face down on the twin mattress you’d been sleeping on in the middle of her small bedroom, simmering in despair.

“Drama, much?” Nancy observed. 

You groaned into the pillow your face was smushed in.  It shouldn’t bother you. You were mad at him. He screamed at you, drove like a madman that could’ve killed both of you. You shouldn’t want to see him. And yet…

Defeated, you rolled over onto your back and frowned at her. “Clearly he didn’t want to talk to me. You saw how he ran like a coward!”

“So did you,” she pointed out. “At least, you would have if Mike and Dustin didn’t stop you.”

You glared at her. “Who’s side are you on?”

She shrugged, the shadow of a smirk lingering on the corner of her lips. “You’re miserable being on the wrong side of him. He’s obviously miserable too. Someone’s gotta fess up and fix things.”

“No, we don’t,” you muttered bitterly. 

She grinned. “We’. So cute.”

“Stop,” you demanded. 

Nancy laid in her bed, snuggling towards the edge so she could look down at your sulking form. “Just admit you miss him.”

“But he’s so stupid!” you blurted, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “And annoying, and so damn irritating!”

“You’ve said all that before,” Nancy nodded. “But if he was only that, you wouldn’t look so pathetic right now. Spill. What’s likeable about Eddie Munson?”

“Nothing,” you sneered. 

Nancy, getting irritated with your resistance, barked your name in a tone that resembled her mother. She was not amused when you shared that with her. 

Nancy held up Barb’s popsicle stick next to her cheek and pouted. “Talk to us,” she pleaded softly. 

Your frown deepened as those sparkly, round eyes shone with sadness, pleading to connect over something that mattered. Unable to refuse her, you huffed and gave in—to both Nancy and the part of you that vehemently refused to acknowledge what you missed about that shitass. 

“At first he was not easy to be around. At all. All we did was bicker and get on each other's nerves. But after that day I ran out of class, we kind of became friends. He made a comment about Barb being the redhead that…yeah,” you trailed off. “He told me about his friend that died in the mall fire—“

Nancy stiffened. So much so that you were taken aback by it. “Barry Berman,” you added. “Did you know him?”

Nancy shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Well. Eddie was really close friends with him and he’s been a wreck ever since the fire. He said Barry was with him shooting fireworks when he suddenly started walking towards town. Eddie thought maybe he was going home or something but it turns out he went to the mall and ended up—you know. Munson claims it’s some huge government cover up but so is the moon landing. Anyway, we got closer after that? At least less volatile towards each other. We’d go to the gas station and get—“ you paused, not wanting to betray the illegal gambling operation Janine ran from behind the counter. “—roller dogs when doing homework.”

Nancy grimaced. “Why do they eat that stuff? Johnathan loves the cheddar ones.”

“I only eat the pretzels. I haven’t braved a hotdog yet outside of a single bite,” you admitted. “I don’t know. I went over to his house once because he hung up on me, and then he got mad at me for biking there alone. He thinks remnants of the lab are still active or whatever the government is covering up is still out there. I don’t know. He doesn’t like me traveling alone.“

“That’s why you bike with Mike and Lucas,” Nancy breathed. 

“Yeah. He told them to do that.”

A disgusting, sticky sweet smile spread across her face. “That is the cutest thing I ever heard!”

“Whatever,” you bristled. “We smoked a couple of times together—“

Her jaw dropped. “You?! You smoked? You smoked weed?! All the times you bitch about Johnathan—!”

“I know, I know!” you interrupted. “But it turned a bad time into a good time so it’s fine. Anyway, I just. I don't know, Nance. He's easier to be around because I don’t have to impress him. I mean—it’s Munson.”

“I thought you said he judges you?”

“He does but on stupid stuff. Well. Maybe more like he challenges me? This is annoying. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

“You’re thinking too much,” she advised. “Stop explaining and just answer. Why do you miss him?”

You sighed heavily and stared at the ceiling instead of at Nancy. It took some time to sort things out in your head, but Nancy waited patiently while you figured it out and at last answered. 

“We have fun,” you said sadly. “I haven’t laughed like I did the other night in a long, long time. He talks a lot about nothing but I learn some things from him. Things I never thought about or honestly even cared about, really. He’s seen me cry. He’s seen me drool. Probably heard me snoring that time I fell asleep at his house. God, that’s awful to think about. But he’s never judged me for that or made fun of me. Not until we had that fight.” You frowned further at the memory of him. At how easy he actually was to be around. “I just—I don’t feel pressure when I’m around him. I feel…free.”

You opted to keep any notice of his looks to yourself. She didn’t need to know he actually had really cute dimples or expressive brown eyes that sparkled. Was it really important to share that he had different smiles and the one where his teeth and dimples showed was your favorite?

The pity that washed over Nancy’s features was unbearable. “Sounds like love.”

You closed your eyes in order to stop tears from forming. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“Sure it does,” she replied. “You've both just got to stop being stupid and talk it out.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nancy argued. “I saw that sad puppy dog look on his face. I think he—just like you—doesn’t know how to fix it.”

You didn’t want to talk about this anymore. In fact, you wanted to just go home and come to terms with what you had just admitted aloud. Nancy didn’t object, but she did let you know that she had to spend at least some time with Johnathan over break, and that tomorrow she would likely be out. 

“You should get out, too,” she suggested. “Go digging in the lake or something.”

That sounded a lot better than being at home and staring at the walls. “Yeah,” you agreed. “I’ll probably go to Lake Jordan. Lover’s Lake is the last place I want to be.”

So the next morning you took her advice. Dressed in your best fishing bib and waterproof boots, you headed down towards the shallow end of Lake Jordan with a bucket and the least stained Tupperware tub ready to find some goodies to trade Mr. Horowitz at the antique shop. 

Though the sun was shining brighter than it had in months, the water was still far too cold for swimming, and if it weren’t for your waterproof fishing boots and coveralls you wouldn’t have dared enter the lake. It was quite nice being outside—really outside—for the first time in months. A few others had the same idea to come out and enjoy the sun. There were a few fishermen casting their line on the other side of the bank and one or two on skiffs in the middle of the water. Each person kept to themselves and enjoyed the solitude and the outdoors. The crisp, fresh air filled your lungs with each breath and for a few moments you completely forgot to be miserable. 

The chilly breeze made ripples in the water, obscuring the clarity a little. Even so, tiny minnows could be seen swimming around the ankles of your rubber boots. Within no time you were tossing pottery fragments, crazy colored rocks, old glass bottles, and coins into a bucket. A badly rusted buckle of some sort was your current prize, and you wasted not time in trying to chip off the heap of crusty corrosion to try and make out the material. You were so engrossed in removing as much junk by hand that you didn’t know anyone was near until they spoke. 

“When are you gonna learn you’re not supposed to be out here by yourself?” he questioned with exasperation. 

Your froze, heart jumping into your mouth at the sudden appearance of one annoying ass Eddie Munson. You didn’t look over at him at the edge of the bank. Instead you resumed scraping the buckle against the plastic rim of the bucket. You could’ve asked how he knew where you were, what he wanted, or maybe why he was there in the first place, but the angry part of you settled on, “Why do you care what happens to me since I’m such a shit friend?”

He sighed loudly and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Really? We’re just going straight there? Can’t even be a little decent first?”

You said nothing, abandoning the seemingly silver buckle and returned to rummage for goods in the silt and sand. You didn’t really know what to say to him. Nancy was right, you did miss him, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t partly relieved to have him speak to you, but the bitter and more insecure part of you was not going to let go easily. 

You saw him plop onto the ground from your peripheral, resting his elbows atop his knees as he squinted your way. “Wheeler said you’d be out here. Guess yall are cool now?” 

“Which Wheeler?” you snapped, already knowing the answer. 

The only one who knew you were planning on coming out today was Nancy. When the hell did he talk to her? What did she say? She wouldn’t have dared say anything to him about what you told her. No, she wouldn’t do that. Right? What did he say? A bitter bite of jealousy and fear took hold. 

“Your Wheeler. The sister,” he answered with confusion. 

“Why don’t you ask her? Since apparently you’re friends with her now,” you snapped. 

“You know what? Whatever, man,” he scoffed, rising from his place in the dirt and dusting off the seat of his pants. “I only came out here cause she said you wanted to apologize.” 

Your jaw dropped, eyes bulging out of your head in shock. “Me apologize? ME?” you yelled. “You screamed at me like an asshole. You drove like an asshole and nearly chucked me out the window. You were just a complete ASSHOLE!”

“Yeah, cause you were saying complete bullshit!” he shouted back. “Excuse the fuck out of me!”

You were so angry you could scream. Actually, you did exactly that. With gritted teeth you screeched in fury. He was so maddening! He couldn’t even admit that he had done something wrong or hurtful! You had already apologized to Nancy, and that should’ve been enough! How you felt about Barb’s death had nothing to do with him! And that’s exactly what you told him. 

“I was talking about me and my friend and what I thought and you turned it into a soapbox session for your pain!” you added hotly. 

Munson, with a nasty grimace on his face, shrugged. Repeatedly. Like he didn’t know what to say or where to start. You were just about to give up and tell him to piss off when he finally seemed to string together a thought. 

“Look, man. I know I freaked out,” he said stiffly, taking steps towards the edge of the water. “It pissed me off because you know what happened to your friend—the whole damn country does. They did a  20/20 special on it. But no one knows what happened to Barry. Not really. Just the bullshit we’re being told. Another cover up. So how you could sit there and say it was someone else’s fault just because they were the last one—“ he paused, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “It set me off, alright? ‘How dare you? How could you?’ you know?”

You stared at him hard for a long while, trying to find your own words while simmering with both relief to be talking to him and aggravation. He made it sound like having the answer somehow made it less painful to lose a friend, but he didn’t seem to realize he was implying. 

With an attempt at a calming breath, you emerged from the lake—ignoring the embarrassing squeak of the rubber bibs and boots—and stood before him on the rocky shore’s edge. 

“That 20/20 special came out a year and a half after Barb’s death,” you said as calmly as you could. “There was an entire year that we didn’t know what happened to her. The lab people stole her car and made a fake purchase for plane tickets and claimed she was a run away. For a year, I didn’t know if she was living or dead. Abducted? Grabbed by some Ted Bundy wanna be and left in pieces somewhere! I—“

You took another calming breath as old feelings of anxiety and fear welled in your throat before continuing. “But yes, you’re right. We now know what really happened to her. That doesn’t make it easier. That doesn’t mean I don’t still get angry or resentful about it.”

“Yeah, towards the wrong people—“

“Like you lashing out at me was towards the wrong person?” you interrupted. 

At least he had the decency to look a little ashamed. 

“I know how you feel, Eddie, so please understand I’d never say or throw anything like that in your face. Just like I never said anything to Nancy about how I felt,” you continued sullenly. “It’s a bitter, ugly feeling that I hated having and I thought that by sharing it with you that I’d be freeing myself of it but…”

You didn’t really know what else to say, so you left it at that. Awkwardly moving around the rocks and sandy debris in your gloved hand while you waited for him to say something. He appeared to be mulling it over as he toed his shoe in the dirt. But seconds that felt like torturous minutes ticked by and he still said nothing, keeping his gaze on the ground and gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“Now I feel like I can’t talk to you,” you blurted. “Not like before.”

He finally looked up and frowned deeply. “Well that’s just not true.”

“You don’t make it easy. You’re so defensive and ready to explode.”

He wiped his forehead again, wincing at the discomfort of being confronted. “I usually have to defend myself. You’re not stupid. You know what people around here say about me. It makes me a little touchy.”

“Yeah, but I thought we were friends,” you admitted sadly. “I don’t think those things about you.”

He rolled his eyes, not even pretending to believe you. 

“Okay, I don’t anymore,” you clarified. “I think you’re an abrasive jerk sometimes, but—“ you shrugged. Your turn to be uncomfortable with muttering the truth. “I have fun hanging out…with you.”

God. You wished a rogue wave would ripple over the lake and whisk you away from this conversation. Is there anything as embarrassing as barring your soul to a dumb boy?

“I think you’re judgmental and sheltered.” Though it wasn’t a compliment, he seemed to skeptically brighten just a little. “But you’re willing to try new things and change your mind, which I like.” He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I guess I have fun too. It’s been a weird few days.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding back. Suddenly things didn’t seem so tense and scary. He missed you too, in his own Munson-esque way. At least something was mutual. 

“Well, stop being such a combative butthead!” you teased. 

“Sweetheart, you’re asking a fish to breathe out of water,” he scoffed playfully. 

Sweetheart. How quickly you were willing to forgive him just to get that title back and never lose it again. 

“Then could you at least not be such a combative butthead to me?” you proposed. 

He made a show of considering the suggestion—humming loudly and rubbing his chin as he tapped his foot. “Oh, I suppose,” he sighed. “Wouldn’t want my balls kneed into my chest.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

He smiled lazily, ticking up only one side of his lips. “I’m sorry,” he said firmly. “For the whole thing. It was just…you know?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, too.”

You both stood there, not really sure what to do now. Relief was still ebbing its way through your mind and body. Things were okay. At least, they were going to be. And Eddie would try to not be a dickhead and you would try to be patient with him. It wasn’t until Munson started to take off his shoes that you were prompted to speak. 

“What are you doing?”

“Kenku training.”

“What?”

“In DnD there’s this creature that scavenges for shiny things. Trades it for money or goods or whatever. It’s called a Kenku. You’re scavenging for shiny things, right?”

“Not just shiny things,” you replied stiffly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Eddie. The water is freezing.”

He didn’t seem to hear or care. Rolling his pants up to his knees to reveal very pale legs that might have never seen the sun, you instinctively stepped back as he made his way towards the water. 

“Yeesh,” he groaned as he stepped into the chilly lake. 

“Your toes are gonna fall off,” you warned him. 

He shrugged, but didn’t step any further once the water got to his ankles. Surprisingly, he listened intently and watched how you scoped the bottom with the Tupperware and didn’t interrupt or tell you any better ways to do your thing. He seemed genuinely interested and eager to try. Much to your annoyance, he was already much luckier than you were. Within just a few minutes he was pulling coins, rings, and even a rare homemade item. 

“No way! Is this really—?” he questioned, holding out a small cube in his palm. It was chipped, but sure enough there was a small dice in his hand. 

“I’ve found only one of these before. Mr. Horowitz said it’s made of bone.”

“That is so fucking sick!” he cheered, holding it up to the sun to inspect it further. “Move, you might be standing on the other one.”

All the stress and misery of not having him around had melted away into nothing as you watched him wince and chitter while he tiptoed in the shallows in search of forgotten treasure. It looked so silly that you laughed, and once you started doing that around Eddie Munson, it was hard to stop. 

————

Part Ten

“Mike? Lucas?” you questioned, slowly making your way down the steps. “What are you guys doing here?”

Mike, with hair much longer than you’d ever seen it, shrugged. He looked so grown now—much different than the wide mouth, chubby cheeked toddler you met all those years ago. He was nearing manhood now, with a strong, thin face and tall lanky legs.

“Eddie said we’re supposed to ride with you to school,” he answered, his voice cracking a little when he spoke. “Can you hurry up? We’re gonna be late.”

Your chest warmed, and so did your cheeks. Eddie Munson, disturbed by the fact that you rode to school alone every day, instructed your closest neighbors—who were also in the same weird club as the elder boy—to escort you along the haunted Hawkins roads. It was…sweet. If anyone knew the dangers of riding a bike alone, it was these two. They lost their friend Will Byers in the woods on his way home from a game night, but Will was found a few days later unharmed. 

Unlike Barb. Unlike Barry. 

“I wasn’t going to ride today,” you informed them. “But I wasn’t expecting you. I’ll be right back.” 

The boys rolled their eyes and sighed heavily. You tried not to take too much time to get your bike, hurrying to follow them along the edge of Nelson’s farm towards the high school. 

Lucas and Mike didn’t pay much attention to you at all. You rode behind them, catching bits and pieces of their never ending bickering. You were  really surprised by this—them being the younger sibling and friend of your best friend—but it still felt odd to be ushered to school by people who didn’t actively speak to you. It kind of made their mission all the sweeter despite it obviously not being their idea or their pleasure.  

Eddie didn’t mention this idea when you saw him yesterday. He picked you up and took you to meet his uncle at Harrington’s Half Price Auto Lot in order to simulate buying a car. It didn’t go as well as you had hoped. Wayne had never bought a car from a dealership before either—usually purchasing used vehicles from someone and doing a simple title transfer—so it was a learning experience for you all, and not exactly a pleasant one. Going over financing, loan percentages, and haggling etiquette left you all in a foul mood. While the Munson men weren’t shocked by the criminal art of tacking on hidden fees, taxes, and other asinine charges, you were particularly perturbed to find out that ‘sticker price’ for a car really meant the minimum payment of what was due by hundreds of dollars. You now understood why they were cursing ‘the man’, and joined in when you all went to The Standard for cheap beers and pull-tabs to recover from such an infuriating afternoon. Wayne won a couple dollars, while Eddie didn’t win a cent and even though you broke even, Wayne still gave you the nickname “Hot Hands”, which made your cheeks heat up quite a bit.

Being akin to friends with Eddie Munson was turning out to be not such a bad thing. When you got to school and made it to your locker, you were pleasantly surprised to find a handful of freshly sprung wildflowers taped to the front of your locker. 

Your stomach was doing that stupid thing again—flipping, fluttering, turning light as air as an ear to ear grin grew across your face. There was no note or name, but you were certain it was Eddie who left them there. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing for being a shitass for the last month. You were inclined to forgive him, even after the abhorrent display of attitude he had yesterday on the count of the shady used car salesman.

You were so ready to believe Eddie left them there that you hadn’t taken into account a less than savory culprit. One that folded his arms and leaned his back against the neighboring locker. 

“Do you like them?” Patrick questioned flatly. 

Your smile slid into a frown faster than water down a windowpane. “These are from you?”

Patrick’s brow furrowed. “Duh. Who else would get you flowers? I’ve been leaving stuff in your locker all last week!”

Suddenly that lighter than air feeling in your stomach turned into the weight of an anvil, sending your guts plummeting to the floor. The flowers in your hand felt like a Trojan horse. 

Patrick’s frown increased as he leaned in a little closer to you. “You didn’t come to the game Friday.”

You pointedly ignored looking at him, and started to twist the combination on the locker dial. “I never said I was going to.”

”Well we won. This Friday is the championship game. You should definitely come to this one,” he pressed. “Win or lose, we’re gonna have a party after.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve never been one for parties.”

He let out an indignant huff. “Can’t you see I’m trying here? Why can’t you cut me some slack and just go to my game?”

You did look at him then, with eyes full of fury and hurt. “Tryining what? To get on my nerves? Because you’re already succeeding!”

”No! I’m—“ he sighed deeply and peered around his shoulder before sighing heavily. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

The hostility pent up in your shoulders slipped just an inch. The phrase you’d been hoping for a year now to hear from him. But it felt wrong. It wasn’t freeing or consoling, and you certainly didn’t feel he was genuine. Not even with the way his lips twisted to the side, or how his usual sparking brown eyes lost their shine as he gazed down at you. 

“No, you’re not,” you bit back, more as a reminder to yourself than to him. “This is the first time you’ve even said anything close to that to me.”

“Because I knew if I said it, you’d say I have to prove it!” he argued. “I’ve invited you to my games, I’ve asked you to come sit with me at lunch. I—“

”You’ve been starting rumors in the boy’s locker rooms about me and putting words in my mouth,” you interrupted. 

Patrcik’s mouth remained agape, the question about how you knew that written clear as day across his face, but he didn’t dare ask. You took great, almost insisted satisfaction in his stupor. 

“Yeah, I heard about that,” you said smugly. “I don’t think you’re sorry. I think you’re trying to control what I do and who I hang out with.”

”I’m not—!”

”You are!” you shouted back. 

“I’m not,” he reiterated. I’m just trying to prove to you that I want things to be different. Like before.”

You said nothing, unable to trust your voice to do you justice. You grabbed your text and notebooks for the first three periods while Patrick stood there, looking at you hopefully. His lingering presence pissed you off the longer he stood there. Why did he get to act like the one who was rejected? You hated to admit how much you wanted to forgive him before this. How you longed for the day he woke up and saw that what he did was wrong and beg for your forgiveness. But now, with so much time passed…how could you ever forgive him? For a year—an entire year—he ignored you like a fly on the wall. Every day for the last three hundred and sixty something days he actively, purposely ignore you. Looked in the opposite direction as you. Walked on the other side of the hall rather than accidentally bump into you. These were conscious choices, and he stood by them until now. And he thought a handful of flowers and some notes begging to go watch a boring basketball game was going to make up for that?! Didn’t he know how he made you feel? After sharing your body—part of your soul—with him? And he walked away like it was nothing? Repeatedly!

Furious, you slammed the locker shut and huffed at that stupid, dejected look on his face. “Just leave me alone. It shouldn’t be that hard. You’ve had plenty of practice.”

You couldn't help but ruminate on the bizarre behavior of your ex boyfriend as the day wore on, and unfortunately for you, Eddie Munson wasn’t going to let it go either.

When you entered Albrecht’s class, Eddie was already there with—for the first time in your living memory—his own school supplies atop his desk.

”Holy hell, Munson. Is that a notebook?” you teased, sliding into the adjacent desk. 

Eddie turned the spiral notebook towards you to show you that he was not taking notes, but drawing some sort of decaying warrior for his dumb board game. He then looked to you with his brow raised high beneath his bangs and pointed an accusatory finger towards you. “Fibber,” he said flatly.

That could’ve been in reference to a many number of things since you saw him yesterday, so you weren’t sure which belief he was challenging you on. Perhaps he saw you spit out the bite of gas station burrito he insisted you take. “Is that so?”

“This morning I went to see if Sinclair and Wheeler did what they were told, and lo and behold, I see a certain someone taping flowers to your locker,” he recounted with a questioning gaze. 

You rolled your eyes, annoyance already mounting at having gone through the situation once, but to now have a witness to recall it to you. “You’re starting to sound like the neighborhood nosy, Munson. Are you trying to gossip with me?”

He scowled. “No. I’m merely saying that you don’t have to lie on my behalf if there’s something there—“

”There’s not,” you interjected harshly. 

Munson raised a brow. “Does he know that?”

”Considering he’s the one that dumped me last year, yeah, I’d say he’s aware,” you snapped, folding your arms over your chest and sinking into your seat. “What do you care anyway? It’s none of your business.”

“I was trying to say that if he’s bothering you, let me know.”

You scoffed. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

The mirth behind Eddie’s eyes evaporated quickly, the dimples of his cheeks filling in as his teasing line of questioning ceased. “I will make him stop,” Eddie said fiercely.

The gesture did mean a lot to you, seeing the severity of his statement written across his face. You weren’t sure what a Munson intervention entailed. A verbal warning? A fight? Either way, those two idiots going after each other on your behalf sounded like a recipe for disaster. You didn’t want either of them to get into trouble or do something stupid. All the same, it felt almost exhilarating to have someone like Munson offer to protect you—someone with a bad reputation that could use it to ward off people you didn’t like. You didn’t believe he understood the power he was offering you. Or maybe he did.  

”I don’t think it will be a problem anymore,” you answered. 

Eddie didn’t seem convinced as he hummed with suspicion. He turned his attention back to the grotesque creature he was sketching and left you to take notes for the rest of class. When Albrecht finished going over optimal times to refinance a vehicle and home, you made sure to thank Eddie for sending his minions to escort you to school. 

He glared at Nancy and Johnathan as they walked out of the classroom. “No problem. I thought if anyone knew how dangerous it was to roam Hawkins alone, it would be them.”

You shrugged your shoulders into your heavy backpack, unsure what to say. You didn’t think the lab leak was a danger any more, but Eddie clearly did not agree. You didn’t blame him. He lost someone on what he believed to be on his watch. You weren’t going to turn down the company on the ride either. It was nice to have others there. They cared enough to do it, and you liked feeling a part of a group again, even if they did ignore you the entire time. 

After school, an unusual sight greeted you in the driveway of your home: your parents car. They weren’t often home before the sun set, so it made you instantly panic, thinking something was terribly wrong. However, when you burst through the door after carelessly throwing your bike down in the yard, they were sitting on the couch as if nothing were amiss. 

“Whoa there! Where’s the fire?” Dad asked casually. 

You stared at them blankly. “You’re home.” 

Dad chuckled. “Believe it or not, we do live here on occasion.” he nodded towards Mom. “Tell her, darling.”

“Well, I was looking for my turquoise sweater this morning and I couldn’t find it so I went into your room and look what I found!” She held up the Welcome packet from University of Chicago. “Honey! Why didn’t you tell us you got in?!”

You stared at the offending material in her hand, a large lump forming in your throat. Panic shot through veins with every thump of your heart, your guts wiggling like worms in wet dirt as you looked at their beaming faces. Mom with a smile so bright and wide it showed all her teeth, and Dad looking as smug and important as Mayor Klein on the Fourth of July parade float. They weren’t nearly as excited as this when you told them you were accepted into Indiana State. Well Dad kind of was, but only because Larry Bird is an alumni of the school. Other than that he didn’t have much else to say about it. 

The longer their attention remained on you—and only you—the harder it was to crush their spirit. So you did what anyone would do when faced with either eternally disappointing their parents or tell the truth: you lied. 

“I-I,” you stuttered, rubbing your hands on your jeans. “I was waiting for Friday night s-so we could…celebrate?”

Mom rushed over and pulled you into a hug. It had been a long time since she gave you a hug—the last time being when she broke the news to you that Barb’s disappearance was deemed an accidental death. Instinct took over and you wrapped your arms around her, burying your face into her shoulder and inhaling the scent that was so distinctly her that it quelled the jitters in your abdomen. 

“Well, that’s what we’re home for!” Dad announced from behind Mom. “Your mother and I want to take you out to dinner. How does that sound?”

Mom pulled away much too soon, the familiar warmth of her body retreating with it. “Uh, yeah,” you agreed. “That sounds good.”

“Only good?” Dad questioned. “I thought you’d be more excited to try Enzo’s.”

“Enzo’s?” you repeated in surprise. Dinner out usually meant Ol’e Cafe since Benny’s was gone. Never once did Dad offer something as delicious and expensive as Enzo’s even though you mustered up the courage to ask every once in a while. 

Mom nodded excitedly, ushering you out of the door. “They have a tiramisu that is to die for! We’ll split it for dessert.” 

“How do—hey, have you been there without me?” you frowned. 

“We’ve gone for work meetings,” Dad answered. “Nothing is more personable to a client than sharing a meal. It makes signing our contract a lot more comfortable.”

You tried not to feel betrayed, but the anger simmering beneath the surface of your skin was hard to ignore the more they talked about the dishes they offered there. They must have been more than a handful of times in order to sample the lobster bisque, tiramisu, chicken carbonara, seafood alfredo, kalamari, and whatever else they listed because you stopped listening, too pissed off to take anymore. It may have been a stupid thing to get upset over, but how many times had you been left to a mystery crock pot meal or to just fend for yourself while they were dining in the same fancy restaurant you’d been dying to try? They never even brought leftovers home for you! 

Reminding yourself that you ought to feel guilty for lying to them about your acceptance status, you tried your damndest to stomp out the resentment. It wasn’t often you got to go with them anywhere once you were old enough to be left home alone, and you didn’t want your long awaited dinner to be spoiled by your own sour mood. You used the time it took to drive there to wrestle your bitterness down and bring forth an appetite for unlimited bread dipped in olive oil. 

For a time, bingeing on the appetizer seemed to do the trick. relishing in the ambiance of the restaurant, enjoying the live music playing softly in the middle of the dimly lit restaurant. Mom and Dad were asking you questions about you for the first time in a long time, and it took a little while to realize they were giving you a lot more space to elaborate instead of barely allowing you enough space for one word answers. It was…nice to have their full attention for once.

“Chicago, huh?” Dad said with a small grin. “Don’t wanna go Indiana State? That’s where Larry Bird went, you know. Do you think you’re better than Larry bird?” 

”I’m not saying that,” you said bashfully, unaccustomed to this playful side of him. “I just don’t want to go to Terre Haute. I will see almost all the same people from Hawkins there. I want to see somewhere new. I’ve never been away from home before.”

Mom’s fork clinked loudly against her salad bowl. ”Well that’s just not true,” she frowned. “We drove from here to South Dakota when you were twelve to see Mount Rushmore.”

“Yeah, that was about three whole state’s worth of new scenery for you,” Dad chimed in. 

“Actually, I was nine,” you corrected her. Your smile faltered a little. You remembered that road trip and it was abysmal. Dad refused to drive through Chicago, saying it was too far out of the way and would add too much time to the trip. Driving through rural Illinois, Iowa, and South Dakota was just as depressing as what you already knew of Indiana—nothing but cornfields and flat land as far as the eye can see. The only thing news worthy about the car ride was stopping at the Corn Palace—which was as boring as it sounded—and vomiting out of the window upon arriving at the monument because Dad didn’t believe you were going to be sick. That was the last family trip you’d been on almost a decade ago. 

“Was it really that long ago?” Mom questioned. Dad shrugged his shoulders and returned to his pasta dish.

“Nancy is going to New York,” you informed them in an attempt to keep their attention. “Or at least trying to. She hasn’t heard from Emerson yet.”

”Poor Ted’s gonna have a hard time footing that bill,” Dad muttered to Mom. “Are you girls still struggling through Kowalski’s case?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion—the smile you once wore gone completely now. “Kowalksi? Dad, that was—that was freshman year.”

”No,” Dad chuckled. “I remember just the other day you mentioned struggling with the calculus homework.”

Your shoulders slumped. “Kowalski teaches chemistry. Natelson teaches Calculus.”

Dad just hummed, loading a mouthful of pasta into his mouth and shrugging again. You looked towards Mom, hoping she would offer some sort of rebuttals to ease the growing tension around the table, but she only chastised dad for taking such a huge bite in public. 

“I figured the homework out, though,” you offered quickly. “But I don’t think I’ll need much math for Pre-Law.”

Dad started to choke. He covered his face with the napkin as he coughed and sputtered, trying hard to be quiet while Mom beat on his back until he was sorted out again. 

“Law?” He wheezed. “What on earth do you want to do that for?”

“Barb,” you answered simply. “I want to do wrongful death and personal injury.”

Mom sighed heavily, looking at you with sad eyes. “That sounds sweet, honey, and is very admirable, but I don’t think that’s what you’re cut out for.”

That lump in your throat resurfaced. “What do you mean?

“Law school is very competitive,” Dad replied, his eyes still watering from his near death experience. “Don’t you think you should go for something a little more…well…easier?”

“Not that you couldn’t if you really set your mind to it!” Mom interjected quickly. “It’s just—I don’t imagine you in that kind of role.”

Dad eagerly nodded his head in agreement. “Lots of studying. Late nights doing research. Arguing with men a lot smarter than you? No, I don’t think that sounds like you.”

You gaped at them, your cheeks scathing at the shame and embarrassment of their words. They didn’t think you could do it, and what was worse was they were right. Because you knew that you didn’t get into the school. At least, not really. Waitlisted at best. It was one thing to be called subpar and mediocre by a college, but your own parents—the ones who were supposed to cheer you on and believe in you no matter what—even they had doubts about your capability and intelligence.

“Yeah,” you agreed, pushing around a noodle on your plate. “I’ll think of something easier.”

“What about teaching?” Mom offered with a smile. “You can get a degree, work somewhere locally. It’s steady income until you have a family of your own! There’s no such thing as too many teachers.”

You gave a solid nod and a shitty attempt at a smile, unable to trust your voice to not crack if you spoke. 

While Mom and Dad praised the Alfredo sauce and talked about how excited they were to have a ‘UChicago Parents’ bumper sticker on the Buick and wear matching UChicago sweaters to the office, you sat there with your heart fracturing into pieces inside your chest as their earlier words ran through your mind. “…Men smarter than you…teaching..a family of your own…”

By the time the waiter brought tiramisu for the table, you had realized that college for you was a status update for them. They could brag about their little girl—now a college student thanks to the teachings of Hawkins Independent School district—as a way to relate to  families looking to move into the area. 

They didn’t really know you at all, nor did they seem to care about remedying that fact. And while it shouldn’t have come as any surprise, it didn’t stop you from feeling like the loneliest person in the world when you crawled into bed that evening and sobbed into your pillow. 

—-

Mike and Lucas continued to ride with you to school for the remainder of the week. It was mostly the same, you just being a shadow upon their duo until Friday when Lucas became more talkative towards you. He made it his mission to try and convince you and Mike to go to the championship game. You were running out of excuses and eventually came up with “I just don’t want to,” but Mike was having more of a difficult time saying no. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just talk to Eddie,” Mike replied sarcastically. “It’s only the climax of his nearly year-long campaign.”

You weren’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but you knew for certain whatever it was did not justify the use of the word ‘climax’. 

“Will isn’t gonna be there either!” Lucas argued. “He’s coming to my game.”

“WHAT?!” Mike screeched. “Since when?!”

“Since last week when we won the tournament!” Lucas argued. “Thats how it works, idiot! We play a bunch of teams until we’re the last ones in the face-off.”

Mike shook his head furiously. “Will can’t miss it. He just can’t! You can miss basketball, though. You’ve been on the bench the entire time.”

Lucas swelled. “So!?”

“So! The basketball team doesn’t need you. The party does!” Mike argued. 

“This is our chance to be cool, Mike. And you’re wasting it on a stupid game!”

“Oh bite my ass to hell, Lucas! You never thought it was stupid until now!”

“Cause I’m tired of girls laughing at us! I’m tired of being a loser and a freak!” Lucas snapped. “Is it wrong to want to actually be liked?”

The betrayal on Mike’s face was clear as day even from the minimal view of his side profile. “It is when you’re trying to impress people who don’t even like you.”

They continued this vicious argument well after you locked your bike at the front of the school. It made your heart sink at the thought of those two life long friends actually being at odds. You could sympathize with both. You could understand Lucas’ desire to hangout with cooler people, but you hoped that he would soon realize that the ones he was grouping with on the basketball team weren’t what he was looking for. You wanted to butt in and give them some elderly sister-esque wisdom, but this seemed to be something they would have to work out on their own.

Escaping talk about the upcoming game was a futile attempt. Everyone was buzzing about it. The chatter through the halls and classes were about carpooling, the after party, and where on the bleachers to sit. A part of you was a little envious about how excited everyone seemed to be and you felt more like an outsider in your own home town, but that quickly changed after Jason Carver’s speech during the pep rally before lunch. 

“As we were down ten points to Christian academy…I looked at my team and said: Think of Jack. Think of Melissa. Think of Heather. Think of Billy. Think of our courageous chief of police Jim Hopper,” Carver listed with the charisma of a southern Baptist preacher. “Think of everyone we lost in that horrible fire and ask yourself, what did they die for?! For us to lose to some crap school?!”

Your stomach lurched, face tingling with rising fury. You couldn’t believe it! Did he really just say that? As if they sacrificed themselves for the Tiger basketball team! And the people around you were cheering and chanting “No!” with pride like—like—fucking idiots!

Silently raging, you took that fury with you to the cafeteria to let it out with someone who you thought would be just as pissed off as you were. 

“Did you hear him?!” you fumed, slamming your lunch try down so hard on the table top that boiled spinach splattered all over. You didn’t care. “How dare he bring them up like that!”

Nancy twisted her thin lips to the side in thought. “I don’t think he really meant it the way it sounded.”

You gaped at her. “What? You seriously can’t be sticking up for that sick display out there!”

“I’m not sticking up for it,” Nancy said calmly. “It was very poorly worded, I agree with you on that. I just think he meant to say he wanted to make the town proud after all the loss we suffered this year. Win for your friends who aren’t here to celebrate with us.”

Johnathan, thankfully and surprisingly, took your side on this matter. 

“No, Nance, I think he said exactly what he meant,” he replied sharply. “He used the names of people’s dead friends to invoke emotion over a stupid sports game.”

Nancy rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “I’m not fighting with you two. If you want to take it that way, that’s up to you.”

You could’ve reached over the table and strangled her. Would it kill her just once to side with you? On anything! What's worse is that you agreed with Johnathan of all people—a double assault. Something had changed with Nancy in the last couple of years. You wanted to ask her flat out what happened to her, but something told you if she answered, the remaining tendrils of your friendship would be severed for good. 

So you stayed silent. Like always. Bit your tongue and reminded yourself that it was just a couple more months before you were out of this place.  

“—OR A GAME WHERE YOU TOSS BALLS AT LAUNDRY BASKETS—“

Everyone’s head turned toward the source of the booming voice. You were not surprised to see Eddie Munson standing on top of the lunch table with his tongue out antagonizing Jason. His cronies erupted in laughter while Jason muttered something and walked away from the scene. 

Everyone else returned back to their meals once Munson jumped back down to the floor. You’d have to ask him about that later. 

“Speaking of, do you still have that ticket Patrick gave you?” Nancy asked airily. 

If she was trying to steer you into a better mood, mentioning Patrick was the absolute wrong way to go. He’d switched his tactics up from taking flowers to your locker to simply speaking to you. Casually. Flirtatiously sometimes. He waved at you when he was down the hall, or if he was close enough he’d smile big enough to show off his dimple and tell you to have a good day. Once he even curled a piece of your hair around his finger and walked off like he hadn’t done something weird. It was infuriating. But it was also….damn it it was nice. It was a great feeling to have him smile at you again—finding your face through the crowded hall and acknowledging you no matter who was looking. You tried to tell yourself that this feeling of being desired was a ploy, but he must’ve sensed it was working because one day between classes, he bravely tapped you on the shoulder and held out the game entry ticket to you. 

“In case you change your mind,” he said hopefully. It was then he started to play with your hair. “I’ll be looking for you.”

You fought desperately to smother the butterflies causing havoc in your stomach. It wasn’t real. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it. Still, the fluttering remained every time he flashed that rare smile that only you seemed to bring out. 

“Yes, I have it,” you replied viciously. “I was hoping to sell it to someone after school.”

“Why don’t you just go?” Nancy offered. “We’re going to be there.”

“Because we’re press,” Johnathan added miserably. “Not because we want to.”

Again, you stared at her like she grew a second nose at the base of her throat. “Why the hell would I do that? I never go to games.”

Nancy pursed her lips and gave you a look that was so akin to Karen Wheeler it was frightful. “It would be good for you to get out of the house sometimes, you know? Do something with the rest of us every once in a while.”

“You’ll be on the floor with Johnathan and Fred Benson,” you argue. “It’s not like we’ll be hanging out the whole time.”

“So we do something after,” she shrugged. “Get something to eat. Maybe some shakes like the good ol days? We haven’t done that in a while.”

There was a reason for that. You were scared to get shakes with Nancy alone. You feared Barb’s absence would be felt all too heavily, even if you went to a different restaurant now that Benny’s was gone. That is what you wanted, though—a girls night with Nancy somewhere neutral. Maybe invite that girl Robin too to make up for the empty and awkward space inevitably left by your late friend. Not to replace her, of course, but to make the silence less pronounced. Less obvious. Less painful. 

The truth was you weren’t sure how to be Nancy’s friend anymore, and a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to. You’d both had changed since three became two. Since she got a boyfriend to occupy most of her time. Now you found it increasingly difficult to navigate the friendship, only holding on because it had been a decade together already.

But you knew all too well that if Nancy was out and about, Johnathan would be her shadow. And if it was after the game, little Will Byers would be in company too. Inevitably, you would be pushed towards the side and ignored as usual. 

Nancy could probably tell you were beginning to resist the idea. “It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

“I can think of better things to do,” Johnathan muttered. 

“Well I wasn’t talking to you,” Nancy bit back. 

While she may have not meant it in a cruel way, the phrase struck you like a slap anyway. She may as well have said that you didn’t have any other friends to hang out with. Which sadly was true. Eddie had his stupid club game thing tonight and judging by the loud argument between Mike and Lucas this morning, there was no getting him to reconsider cancelling it. 

Your two—perhaps one and a half, actually—friends were both occupied. So you really didn’t have anything else to do but sit at home and pout about being excluded even though you did it yourself this time. The option would be to go to a dumb basketball game and secretly endorse Jason’s abhorrent words and give Patrick false hope about your forgiveness. 

“I’ll get you a press pass so you can sit on the floor with us. How’s that?” Nancy offered. “You just hold the extra tapes for Fred and look necessary.”

You were warming up to the idea. At least you’d be sitting near people you liked instead of some randoms you hadn’t talked to since elementary school. 

“Fine,” you relented. “I’ll go.”

Nancy perked up like a flower in the sun. “Great! We’ll make a real Friday night out of it.” 

Seeing her smile—the real one that showed her teeth—brought a small one to your lips as well. She genuinely seemed happy for you to go instead of stemming from pity like you’d seen so much of recently. It made your mind feel all the lighter. 

————

Part 8

The book you’ve used for ages now, since late in your junior year of high school, has only one page in it that you haven’t utilized. You don’t know how much faith to put in it– you’re a little short on faith, these days– but, the spellbook lays it out simply, so you follow its directions to the letter. 

To summon a demon at a crossroads, go to a place where two paths meet on the dark moon. You find peace and quiet in the woods, deep where you know no one walks at night but two paths cross in a small clearing banked with trees. It’s your favorite place to go when you want to do a spell– ritual– and you don’t want to be bothered. The whole thing can’t be more than twenty feet across. Above the overhang of trees, there’s no moon in the sky, only stars.

Cast a circle of protection. That took more research than just the book in your hands, but years of collecting information have given you learned knowledge– there are a million ways to cast a circle, and different circles for different purposes. You do your best to create one for protection. You draw a literal circle in the dirt with a stick, fill it with salt, and walk around the circle three times clockwise to cast it. You light candles to give yourself some light, and to free up your hands of the flashlight you carried to see your way through the woods. 

Make an offering of copper. Your hand pauses on the copper dog tag in your hand. You’d thought of just offering a penny, but you remembered reading somewhere that pennies barely contain copper anymore, and you didn’t have anything else that was entirely made of the one metal. 

You run your finger over the embossed name on it. Lacey. Your pet’s old collar feels heavy in your hand as you remove the tag from the leather strap and bury it in the earth, you guess, to reach the… Underworld? Hell? You can’t honestly say, considering the text you’re referencing only calls it the Otherworld.

It’s a big sacrifice. It’s personal. But, you guess, that gives it more meaning. Making a deal is personal business, and you have your reasons.

Recite the summoning incantation. A stanza of words you don’t understand. You don’t think it’s in Latin, but you try your best, all the same. You read them from the book before you, and feel your blood rushing in your veins as you do.

State your desire out loud in a clear voice. Well, that’s a little more difficult. What is it that you want?

You take a breath, go to speak, and then stop. You don’t know how to start. You don’t know exactly how to describe your pain. You don’t know how to voice your anger well enough, you just know you need to… you need to get it out, somehow. This is a very crucial step in the ritual, you have to do it.

“I came here to make a deal,” you speak frankly, clearly. “I’m prepared to do anything. I’ve run out of options. I’ve been hurt too many times, by too many people who didn’t care what they did to me. I’ve lost everything I genuinely loved. I’m… I’m angry, and desperate, and I’m frightened. And I feel so alone. It’s eating me alive, and I just… I just want the ability to make things go my way, for once.” Good enough, you hope.

Wait for an answer.

You do. You listen intently, to the song of the leaves in the trees rustling in the slight breeze, to the crickets chirping in the grass. You wait long enough that you start to rethink your approach. 

It could be that things will turn around if you just wait another month, or another month after that. Maybe you’ll get the car back. Maybe you’ll get the promotion that was given to the newbie that you trained. Maybe your ex will stop coming around your work to intimidate you. Maybe you’ll get a new dog to take the place of the one that he killed. Maybe the evangelical town you live in will stop shunning you and calling you a witch, like something out of the middle ages.

Unlikely, that last one.

Just when you swear it’s a failure, that you should just pack up and leave, that’s when a strong gust of wind rips through the clearing out of nowhere. The candles blow out– and then, oddly enough, relight themselves. There’s a slight scent of smoke on the breeze, and you look around to make sure none of the candles fell over in the wind.

They’re all perfectly fine. There’s nothing amiss, it seems, until you hear a cough and movement across the clearing. You look forward, and see a pair of black combat boots in the stream of light from your flashlight. You follow the boots up to a pair of legs, clad in dark jeans, and then further up, to a torso, and a head, and a pair of sparkling eyes.

“Hi.”

You stare at him, probably looking like a fish out of water with the way your mouth opens and closes. You’d fully expected the traditional scary depiction of a demon– maybe horns, goat hooves, et cetera. But the man that answered your call is… just a man. A pretty one. He has long, curly hair, which falls over his broad shoulders and stirs in the wind. His plush lips curve up in a relaxed, cocky smile, as he takes in the sight of you in return. 

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Are you just gonna stare at me all night?” 

“Sorry, hi. Hello.” You shake your head. “Can you believe I honestly thought I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time?” 

“I can believe a lot of things. You know, there’s a reason why the demon summoning ritual is first in that book.” His voice is soft and resonant. You get a mental image of heat waves radiating from tar-black and glowing magma, rolling slowly over lava beds. The image disappears just as soon as it flashes into your mind.

“Well, to be completely honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about making a deal with a demon first thing,” you explain, looking away shyly. “But I’ve tried all the spells in this book and not a single one of them worked. Just seems like everything is getting worse all the time.”

He doesn’t look away– rather, he keeps staring at you, unblinkingly. Like you’re the most fascinating creature he’s ever seen. He leans up against the tree that he appeared beside, his leather jacket falling open to reveal a shirt with a demon’s head on it. Fitting. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. 

“So, now you wanna make a deal with little ol’ me, huh?” He grins, a gorgeous smile that flashes bright, sharp teeth at you. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth and bites it gently between his teeth. He doesn’t pull out a lighter. Instead, you watch him light up with a small flame that erupts from the tip of his thumb. 

“Depends on who you are,” you retort, eyes following the movement of his hands. They’re weighed down by large, silver rings that reflect the light of the flame before it snuffs out. “What’s your name?”

He makes a short noise in his throat, shaking his head abruptly. He doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as you feel he should– more like he’s trying to warn you against something you don’t want. He peers at you from beneath his wavy bangs as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth and uses it to point at you. “Names are really powerful things where I come from, babydoll. Best not to bite off more than you can chew yet. Once we cut a deal– that’s when you get my name.”

You make a face as you mull that over. “So what do I call you, in the meantime? Demon daddy?” 

“You could,” he chuckles. The demon rocks to the side, crossing his legs at the ankles. “If you really wanted to. I wouldn’t mind, it’s flattering.” 

You grunt. “I think I’ll pass on that, actually.” He tilts his head with a sicker, watching you with an amused smile while you shift in place. “So, do I– I mean, you need to know what I want, right? Is that how this starts?”

“No, I know what you want.” He exhales a stream of smoke from his nostrils. “You want power. To get a fair shake, find your place, change your life. Defend yourself against the assholes making that life, well. A living hell.” As he spits out the words, his voice rings sharp through the trees, like the strike of a hammer on glowing metal, shooting sparks off into the air. 

“I want to take all this pain and just… return to sender. Give it back to them, y’know? I never wanted any of it,” you justify. Your voice is too small in comparison with his. “Maybe then I’ll be able to fucking breathe.”

For how little space you allow yourself to take up, he seems to consume the rest of it. He nods slowly. “That’s a fair request, sweetheart.”

“It’s selfish, I know.”

“Making a deal for power is inherently a selfish thing,” he shrugs. “Own it. I’m certainly not judging.”

You let out a shaky breath. You’re still so nervous, being so near him– ten feet away and growing closer every second, it seems, even though neither of you have moved. You feel like, no matter how far you pull back, the flow of fiery lava he seems to embody will keep creeping towards you until you’re burned alive.

His dark eyes glow like coals in the night as he looks you up and down, and then he quickly pushes himself away from the tree. You startle at the abrupt movement, and watch as he swings around it like Gene Kelly on a lamp post. 

When he rounds the tree, he uses the momentum to throw himself toward your circle. You flinch, and he frowns, but continues moving toward you at a slower pace, holding his hands out innocently. “Wanna know a secret? About how all this,” he twirls a finger in the air, indicating the ritual you’re in the middle of, “works?”

You nod, gazing up at him shyly. If you felt at all powerful while casting the circle and starting the ritual, he’s managed to take the wind out of your sails. You can feel the power radiating off of him in waves.

He smirks at you. “You make your petition– when you say the words in that little book,” he points at the volume at your feet, “and that petition is answered by whichever demon caters most to that desire.” He points at himself emphatically, his eyebrows raised. “Me? Infernal majesty of freaks and misfits. I’m your demon daddy.”

You finally giggle, and it makes him smile fondly, like that’s what he’d been gunning for all along. He backs up a step and puffs his cigarette. 

“I’m here to help you, sweetheart.” He regards you for a second, like he’s thinking things over. “That is, as long as you agree to my terms.”

“Terms?” You echo, but you were sort of expecting that. Nothing for nothing, right? “What are the terms?”

“Ah, they’re simple. Very traditional,” he waves his hand like it’s frivolous. He holds his hand out in midair, and just like how he’d conjured the flames, he produces a weathered book. It looks like a composition book that has scribbles and doodles all over the front of it– the same demon head that adorns his shirt. “You sign your name with your blood in my little black book, you hop on one foot with your hand on your head and pledge your undying fealty to the dark lord Kthulu, and then you meet me on the sabbath to kill a child and make them into soup.” 

He smiles, fluttering his eyelashes at you innocently. 

“Are you fucking serious?” You blurt. 

“Of course I’m not fucking serious– what is this, the dark ages?” He snorts as he lowers the composition book. “Nah, we don’t do human sacrifice on the sabbath anymore, it was getting too difficult to evade the witch hunters.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He flashes you a disarming grin. You can feel yourself halfway smirking as well, incredulous but somehow enjoying his humor. Then he shakes his head and says, seriously, “No, you do have to sign my book, though. And then meet me back here on the full moon to fuck.”

You blink at him, reeling from the whiplash of that. “You… I’m sorry?”

“I find it best not to sugarcoat it, y’know.” He shrugs, “Think of this as a marriage, of sorts. I give you the power to smite thine enemies, live deliciously, blah blah blah, and then you meet me at the crossroads every full moon to be my whore and we fuck like bunnies all night. Simple as that.”

“That’s far from simple.”

“It doesn’t have to be monogamous, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he continues frankly, “except on the full moon. I won’t compromise about that– you’ll be all mine, and I’m all yours. No takesies backsies.”

“No– that’s not–” You exhale, holding your hands over your eyes. “I’m just… not promiscuous like that…”

“Sweetheart.” He waits until you’ve lowered your hands to look at him, and he hums, with a saccharine smile that reminds you of the power you’d felt sweep through the clearing when he arrived. “You won’t be the first good girl I’ve broken, and you won’t be the last. If you’re worried about promiscuity, well… I answered your petition. I know what goes on in that pretty head, and it barely scratches the surface of what I’ve seen and done.” 

The toe of his boot barely nudges the edge of your circle, and a spark crackles in the dark from the impact. The light dances in his eyes longer than it remains in the air, like they caught the spark and ignited. 

“Trust me,” he says, drawing you in with the low register of his voice. “I can give you more than power. I can give you protection. I can give you real happiness. Karma’s a fucking bitch, so I can be, too. This is just such a little thing in return. And who knows… you may even like it.”

You shiver at that, even though his presence feels hot, like his stream of lava is surrounding you, crowding you in, boiling you where you stand. He’s right– you absolutely might like it. 

Because there’s just something magnetic between you, isn’t there? You can sense it, more than any heat and any sort of primal fear you might have instinctively at his presence. There’s a certain pull you feel toward him, emanating even through the salt barrier on the ground. 

You want to wrap yourself in him. Boil you alive, burn you to a crisp, destroy you– you don’t care.

“Or… is it that you don’t like this body?” He wonders aloud, striding backward two steps. He turns, his hand lifting his seemingly ever-burning cigarette to his lips. “Figures– y’know, I can be anything you want me to be, babydoll.”

Confused, you watch as he transforms in front of you. In the length of two steps while he paces across the clearing, his face and body stretches and contorts, until you’re not staring at the same visage anymore. He stops, and he turns to you with his palms up, like he’s waiting for your approval. 

You’re looking at Tom fucking Cruise. 

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” you shake your head vehemently, scowling. You wave your hands demandingly, “Put it back. You were so hot before– please, please go back to the way you were.”

The demon grins and turns his head, throwing the cigarette away. His hair grows back to its previous length, his face morphing as if made of clay until you meet the same pretty smile you’ve come to enjoy looking at. 

He chuckles, grabbing a lock of his hair and drawing it across his lips. “You think I’m hot?”

“Of course,” you murmur, but you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can hear it. His eyes are embers, blazing at you from beneath his bangs. “Is that what you normally look like? Is that your true form?”

He makes an iffy sound. “It’s what I looked like when I was human. My true form has more horns and unhinged jaws and claws and all that. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I thought you said you could read my mind. Do you know how much monster porn I’ve consumed? That’s hot as shit to me,” you argue, and he snaps his head towards you in surprise. You point at yourself. “Freak and misfit.”

He laughs, and it sounds like the roaring of an out of control fire, burning up everything in its path. He kicks his heel on the ground and steps up to your circle again. “I like you, baby. I really do. What do you say?”

“How do I know that I can trust you?” you ask, an annoying lump forming in your throat with the question. You’ve been burned before by people far less powerful than this demon, yet who still hold so much power over you. However much they have.

“You can’t,” he answers, more honestly than most would. He tilts his head with a crooked smile. “Not to get all preachy on you, but even if I wasn’t a demon… trust is built, not a given. ‘The devil you know,’ right? Better than the one that you don’t.”

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice coming out breathy and winded the longer you gaze up into his eyes.

“Trust me to be… intense, I guess,” he shrugs. “And probably impulsive. But I’ll always deliver on our deal. Be my witch, my wife, my whore– whatever you want to call it, but be mine. I think we’ll have so much fun together.”

“Yeah, I think– I think I will.” You’re nodding, and his smile grows with yours. “I want to.”

“Let me in, sweetheart.”

Your toe scuffs the boundary on the ground, breaking the circle. Immediately, your senses are assaulted by smoke, not just the tobacco he’s been smoking but the scent of a wildfire, of cities burned to ashes, of desolation and destruction and pyroclastic flow and roaring, exploding volcanoes. 

Your demon crosses the line you’d drawn on the ground with ease, producing the worn composition book in his hand again. The cover reads Hellfire Club in chicken scratch handwriting. 

“Are there others?” You ask, prompted by the word Club on the front as he flips open the book to a middle page. An agreement is already written out in red ink. “Do you have more than one, um…”

“Consort?” He whispers in your ear. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and your stomach flutters. “Not for a long time. I’m very picky about my partners. They have to be just as much of a freak as I am.”

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, although the admission makes you feel… better, in a way. You squint in the dark, but with the exception of the candles around your circle, there’s nothing to allow you to properly read what’s written on the page. 

He sighs, shifting on his feet beside you. “Are you one of those people who’ll read the whole contract?”

“Absolutely I am,” you hum. The book feels heavier in your hands than it should. “Can you give me a light?”

“Jesus Christ.” He produces a flame from his forefinger just as you turn to give him a confused look. 

“Shouldn’t you, like… evaporate after saying that?”

In the yellow glow of the flame, he just blinks at you, looking amused. “Things aren’t as black and white as you think they are, believe me.”

You snatch his wrist and yank his arm closer to the page. His body collides with yours, and he grunts in your ear as he wraps his other arm around you, embracing you from behind. You’re engulfed in the scent of smoke and the heat of his flames, impossibly hot and comforting all the same. 

His hair brushes your shoulder as you read his contract. It’s just a few lines, but the weight they hold will seal your fate. 

The agreement made this night of the dark moon shall henceforth be enacted from the signing of this document, that hereby renders the human party’s soul bound to the infernal party. Witness that the first party must appear before the second party each full moon to lay in matrimonial fashion, and that in return the first party shall be protected and given the powers of the second from here until the human’s mortal passing. 

“Aww, that’s sweet,” you coo, tracing the red ink with your fingers. 

The demon over your shoulder rolls his eyes. “It’s a fucking pre-nup.”

“Doesn’t seem like a fair trade, though, does it?” You murmur. “I mean, I get the power to change my circumstances and you get– what– sex once a month?”

His hand tightens on your waist, and you pause. You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes flicker dangerously, so close to yours. They aren’t just glowing coals- this close, you can see the small details. You can see the swirling, the churning of lava within them.

“It’s not just sex, is it?”

“What do you think making a deal with a demon entails, sweetheart? Read the fine print.”

You look back at the page. There are no other words on it, save for the ones you’ve already read. “I don’t…?”

“It’s your soul, honey,” he mutters, pointing at the word. His mouth is muffled against your shoulder as he peers over it. “I won’t ask anything of you other than the sex, as long as you live. But right now, you’re offering up your soul. And once your life is up, you get to be just like me. Understand?”

“I… yeah. I understand.” You let go of his wrist, but pause over the pages of the book. “I don’t have anything to sign with.”

Wordlessly, the demon takes your hand. You let him caress your wrist, feeling your pulse with his thumb. Then, before you realize what’s happening, a sharp sting makes you yelp as he cuts your skin with his pointed thumbnail. 

He shushes you, letting the blood well up on your skin. “I did say you needed to sign with blood.”

Your voice shakes when you hold your dripping wrist over the page. “I thought you said you were joking.”

“Not about the book. Rules of the trade, I can’t change it.” Your blood splatters the notebook, dripping into the crease of the page. Once he’s satisfied, he lifts your wrist to his mouth and closes his lips around the small wound. It heals in a heartbeat. 

“Is that it, then?” You ask, mesmerized by the sight and feeling of his mouth on your skin. “Don’t you have to sign?”

Your demon kisses your wrist gently, his lips soft, inviting. “This is going to hurt,” he warns, and you nod. The heat of his breath makes your skin tingle, all your nerves on high alert. 

But then that tingling turns into a burn, that turns into a searing pain. You feel like your skin is on fire, an invisible hot brand held against your wrist. You cry out as he holds you close, letting you bury your face into his neck, holding you up as your knees threaten to buckle. 

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs to you as you whimper. He holds your arm as the pain fades into a throbbing ache, cradles your hand against his cheek as he coos into your hair. “You’re so strong. Not many people can handle my mark, you know. Fate works in funny ways.”

Your demon holds you until you can stand on your own, until your breathing evens out and you can compose yourself. He shushes you quietly, rocking you from side-to-side with a soothing hand stroking your head. Then he holds your face, and kisses your tear stained cheeks. The touch of his lips stokes at flames beneath your skin.

“I’ll look forward to our time together, little witch,” he whispers. And with a quick, chaste kiss to your lips, he disappears entirely. 

You stay in the circle for a while, clutching your throbbing wrist and crying frustrated tears. You wonder if you made the right decision, and yet, you don’t understand why you just want him to come back. You miss the comfort of his presence, even if you don’t know enough about him to justify it. All he did was hurt your arm and take your blood and kiss away your tears and make you a witch. 

It’s too late to go back on your decision now. There’s an all-encompassing fire you can feel burning in your veins, emitting from the pulsating wound on your wrist. His power. His fire. 

You pull your hand away from your wrist to finally inspect the mark that he branded you with, declaring you his in the same chicken scratch that had been on the cover of his book. It’s small enough that a well placed bracelet would cover it, but you don’t know that you’ll want to.

Eddie.

Your demon’s name is Eddie.

The bouquet of flowers on your doorstep is beautiful, and not lacking in symbolism. Purple lilacs, for the first emotions of love. Bluebells, for consistency and everlasting love. Red roses, for true love.

In the center is one singular, bright yellow marigold. You figure you know who left them.

You’re stunned by them when you first open the door. Your hairline, already covered by your flowers from last night, prickles with sweat. You had hoped for something, some kind of affection or gesture this year, as you do every year, but you hadn’t imagined it would actually… happen. You’d hoped a bit like a child hopes for rain on a clear day. It’s possible, but it would take a lot, in the grand scheme of things. 

You turn it over in your hands, your heartbeat thudding in your chest. You’re not sure what to think. You don’t know how Eddie would have known that this particular shack, in all of your Master’s sprawling estate, was yours. You don’t know what he means by this gesture. Is it an apology for turning you away last night? For embarrassing you? Is it a promise of some kind, that he intends to do something tonight? Is it a real declaration of love, or is it something else entirely? 

You sniff, getting a waft of fragrant lilac when you do, and turn to place it inside. There’s nothing to be done with it now, aside from finding a vase for it. You don’t know where Eddie lays his head at night. You don’t know where he is now, or where he’ll be later. You have to trust that he’ll find you. 

I’ll always come back to you. That’s what he said, before you walked away last night. You have to believe him, because otherwise you have nothing else.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” snaps a stern voice when you jauntily march out the door of your shack. Your Mistress stands with a sour look on her face, eyeing your day dress, free of an apron.

“To the town square, ma’am,” you tell her honestly, your head bowed. “For the… festival.” 

“Just because it’s May Day does not mean you are exempt from your daily chores,” your Mistress reminds you, shoving a pitchfork in your hand and ordering you to go bale the hay. 

You do as you’re told; you always do. You also know that you’ll probably be baling the hay until nightfall, when the festivities are sure to be picking up. 

It gives you time to think. You don’t know what you’d do if you ran into Eddie at the bonfire tonight. Or, maybe you do… you have some ideas about what you’d like to do, anyways. But you can’t speak for what he wants. 

He told you not to go near the woods, which he also said is where he lives. If he wanted to take you somewhere… wouldn’t it be to his own home? If so, has he already given you his answer, that he doesn’t want you in the way that you want him? It’s hard to believe, based on everything he’s done up to this point. 

Well after noon, and several hay bales later, you’re sure the maypole in the center of town has been decorated by now. You’re sure that the town square has been covered with flowers, and you’re sure that Victoria and Hyacinth and the rest of the maidens in the town have determined which eligible bachelor they want to celebrate with tonight. 

A flame of jealousy sparks in your gut. You hope that none of them have set their sights on Eddie. The mere thought of it is enough to make you see red. 

As the sun sets on the horizon, shining golden light in through the open doors of the barn, you’re sure that people have noticed your absence from the festivities. It’s common knowledge around town that your Master is crueler than most. Less lenient, more forceful. You’ve heard whispers behind your back, and you pay them no heed, usually. That the Master intends to take you for a wife after your Mistress dies, whenever that may be. That he keeps you close for his own twisted purposes. And, you suppose, there’s merit to those rumors.

You’re not unaware of the way the Master sets his eyes on you sometimes. He isn’t good at hiding it, you should say. Not that he really tries; on more than one occasion, you’ve incurred the Mistress’s wrath simply because the Master stared at your chest for a little too long. Yes, you could say that the Master is attracted to you, in some way. And, once, you might have counted yourself lucky.

If he wasn’t attracted to you, he could be crueler. And you could do worse than to catch the eye of a powerful, wealthy landowner. If he married you, you would be financially secure, and you would never have to seek a place to live. You would never worry about being labeled a whore or being thrown out on the street. At one point, you’d accepted that this was the best case scenario for you.

But something has changed your perspective, recently. Something that has dark eyes and a mischievous smile and rings on his fingers. Fingers that, you know, are very skilled.

And what if… What if you were to marry Eddie? As you had imagined in the field last night, your mind wanders to the idea of being Eddie’s wife. Tending to his house, you imagine, a stone cottage in the woods. To lie in bed with him on a rainy night, warm against his burning chest. Being able to gaze into those sparkling eyes as often as you like, being able to wake up to him. 

For the first time since you were a young girl, you really consider the possibility of being… happy. Your happiness. The idea of a happy future is something that has been such a foreign concept for so long, it almost makes you uncomfortable to dream about it. 

When you were little, you’d dream about being a beautiful princess in a tower, saved by a knight in shining armor, who also happened to be a prince. These dreams went away once your family sold you into indentured servitude; princesses don’t work. Princesses aren’t covered in shit and filth on festival days, baling hay in a cow pasture. Princesses would be dancing the maypole and crowned the may queen–

“And I crowned her my sweet queen of May.”

–Princesses would be showered with flowers and gifts–

Bluebells for consistency and everlasting love.

–Princesses are whisked away in the night from their troubles and marry princes. 

I am not a princess.

You throw your pitchfork down beside the last bale of hay. The sun has set, finally, and the moon is already high in the sky. The bonfires in the town square will be burning down. If Eddie was there, he’s sure to have found someone else by now. 

Your cheeks, dusted with dirt, feel crusty and filthy when you cry. You are no princess, despite the crown of flowers on your head. Eddie isn’t going to save you. And really, what would it say for your honor if he did? Can you not defend yourself? Are you so helpless that you need a strange man from the woods to save you from your life?

Marching out of the barn, you feel hungry, and tired, and you figure that you would probably be best suited to go to bed. But there will be food and drink at the festival, even if it’s late. There could still be time to meet someone, anyway.

“And where do you think you’re going?” It’s a deep and gruff voice that asks this time, and you’re about sick and tired of hearing that same question. But your irritation is easily replaced by dread, when you turn to find your Master standing by the entrance to the barn you just stormed out of.

“The bonfire,” you reply, with less heat than intended. “It’s May Day, and I’ve done my chores.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” your Master says. 

He’s not a tall man, but what he lacks in stature he makes up for in intimidation. He has cold blue eyes and a sneer that could freeze a King in his place. You know what it’s like when he’s on the other side of a cane, and you don’t relish the idea of a beating just because you wanted to go to a festival. When the Master steps up to you, he smells like liquor, so strong it stings your sinuses.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?” He growls at you, a nasty sounding thing in the back of his throat. You flinch. “That girl from the Werther’s house– Victoria, is it? She told me all about you and some… some boy in the woods. The one they call the Beast in town. Is that what you’re doing now? Dallying with any boy who comes around? Even ones from the woods?” 

Your cheeks burn hot, and you step back just as he steps forward, looming over you in his drunken state. “No, I… I don’t dally–” 

“Not from what she says,” he snaps back, and you briefly consider wringing Victoria by her stupid neck. And then you think, Hyacinth would have never betrayed me. “Running around in your night clothes, fooling around with some woodland freak. I ought to whip you where you stand.” 

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as he backs you into a corner. The fence for the pig pen meets the edge of the barn where you end up, your back hitting the barn door and earning a loud creak from the hinges. 

Your Master reaches for you with a snarl. Instinctively you curl into a ball, your arms coming up to protect your face and neck. Your instincts don’t take into consideration that he doesn’t have a cane in his hand, and he’s too drunk to throw a good punch. You cry out when his hand clamps tightly around your wrist, and he yanks you toward the barn. 

“What are you doing?” is your undignified shriek when he throws you into the barn, and you fall into the pile of hay bales you just stacked.

“You’ll sleep with the cows tonight,” the Master growls, and spits a glob of phlegm at your feet. “It’s what you are.” 

“No, please–” you rush forward just as the barn doors slam shut in front of your face, locking you in darkness with the stench of manure and dirt. The cows are down at the other end of the barn; you hear them jostling unhappily in their restraints as you bang on the door with the flat of your hand. 

You finally let yourself cry. You’re filthy. Covered in sweat and grime, mud all over your skirt from working all day, the crown of flowers on your head wilting. You don’t know what you expected. You’re not Cinderella; you don’t have a fairy godmother, and you don’t have anyone coming to save you and let you go to the ball. This isn’t a fairytale. The stories you were told when you were a child were just that.

Even as you continue to bang on the door, you’re already starting to accept it. You won’t be getting out of here anytime soon. They’ll let you out of the barn in the morning, sure, but you’re not going to leave this farm, or your Master, or this life of servitude until you’re dead, or otherwise ripped from your mortal life. 

Then there’s a scuffling. On the other side of the door, you hear your Master shout once, shortly, before it’s muffled and frantic. Footfalls in the dirt. A growling, snarling. Yelping. And then something bangs on the barn door, making it jostle so hard you scream and jump back. 

Your Master, just on the other side of the door, like he’s been thrown against it, screams loudly. Something snarls, and then there’s a wet squelch, like the sound of something alive being torn open. A chicken being gutted. You stand away from the door, your eyes bulging in the darkness, your hands clamped over your mouth to quiet your frantic breathing. 

Something just killed your Master. The fact sinks like a stone in your stomach. He’s no longer shouting. There’s no movement, nothing to indicate that there’s anything alive on the other side of the door anymore. Only dead silence. 

And then another scuffle. A heavy thud, like something being thrown aside. And then something, or someone, is unlocking the door.

In the darkness, you panic. You back away quickly, your hands searching, feeling for anything that you can grab to defend yourself with. You find nothing, but collapse into the stack of hay bales just as the doors swing open, and you come face to face with your Master’s killer. 

“Eddie?” 

It’s him, all right. He stands with his arms outstretched to either side, holding the barn doors open with the light of the full moon shining in behind him. You don’t know how it’s happening, but his eyes reflect the moonlight with a bright red hue to compliment the red blood that’s all over him. 

It drips down his face, his neck, his chest. It’s on his hands. When he smiles at you, it’s in his teeth.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, and you feel like your heart could leap out of your chest with how hard it pounds in its cage. He tilts his head, seeing your tear streaked face, the way you cower against the bales of hay in your muddy dress. “Rough day?”

“You– you–” and your brain has stopped working. You know what you’re looking at; Eddie killed your Master. Eddie is covered in his blood. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, is a killer, a murderer, looming over you with a smile that could scare ghosts back into their graves. 

“Yeah, me.” He takes a step forward. You scream and jump back, putting a bale of hay between you and the man covered in blood at the door. Eddie puts his hands up in defense. “I’m not going to hurt you, princess–”

“Stop calling me that.” You grab your pitchfork off the ground, and hold it up at him. “You killed my Master. I don’t even know how you did it– but do you know what that means?” You thrust the pitchfork at him. He jumps back. “Do you?”

Eddie blinks. “It means… you’re free?” 

“It means I get passed off to his next of kin,” you snarl at him. “Like a fucking cow. That’s all I am to them. I’m cattle. And the next person who gets me may decide to slaughter me. Do you understand?” You jab the pitchfork at him again, and he backs away into the moonlight. “Why would you do that to me?” 

“Because he hurt you!” Eddie retorts, flailing his outstretched hands, exasperated. “Because he locked you in a barn! I could– I could smell the rage on him. He wasn’t going to leave you here, he was going to do something worse. Just give it another drink, he would have been back out here. And I wasn’t going to let it happen. I couldn’t… I couldn’t watch it anymore.” He drops his arms with a sigh, and his hands smack loudly against his thighs. “You’ve helped me twice. Let me at least return the favor.” 

“I helped you once,” you snap.

Eddie shakes his head. “No, sweet pea. Twice. You just didn’t know it.” 

He raises his right hand, his bloody fist tight. He shakes his arm until his sleeve falls, and exposes the light pink scrap of fabric tied around it– the one you swore was yours. The one you swore you tied around the leg of the wolf you nursed last month. 

“You–” the pitchfork in your hand lowers. You think you’re halfway to crazy. Or, maybe you’re already there. “You’re the wolf.” 

Eddie nods. “I am.”

“You’re a… a wolf-man?” You’re shaking your head, but even so, the entire thing makes sense. It’s why you’ve been so suspicious, why something seemed so off about him. Why his smile is always so sharp. Why you always feel a little bit like a frightened animal around him, in spite of it all.

“I am,” Eddie repeats, and he turns to look over his shoulder.

You shake your head. “I don’t believe in that. I don’t believe in fairytales.”

“Doesn’t matter what you believe in, sweetheart.” He spits something out of his mouth, grimacing as he licks his teeth. “The moon will peak at midnight, and then I change. I need to be far away when that happens.” He looks at you, his eyes pleading. “Come with me.” 

As incredulous as you are, as slowly as you’re coming to terms with what’s been in front of you the whole time, you still drop your pitchfork to the ground. “Where?” 

“To the woods,” Eddie shrugs, his smile disarmingly sweet beneath all the blood. “Maybe I can be your new Master, hm?” 

“Fuck you, Munson.”

“That’s the name of the game.”

“You’re a goddamn demon. I shouldn’t have trusted you– I shouldn’t have talked to you.” 

Eddie crosses his arms. “Listen. I think God’s got a sick sense of humor; otherwise, I wouldn’t be what I am, and you’d be a lady in a castle far away from any of this. So why don’t we make the best of a bad situation, hm?”

You narrow your eyes at him. You can feel yourself doing something stupid even before you say it. “I’m… listening.”

“Great!” He claps his hands and launches into a spiel that leaves you wondering if he’d spent the entire time since last night concocting it. “I’m gonna turn into a rabid beast in, oh, I dunno, maybe two hours. Give or take. But if you want to stay in my home, safe, where wolf-me can’t work a latch, I’ll be back in the morning. And then we can get married and fuck and have lots of babies and be that old couple who lives in the woods. Or something. Really, I haven’t thought that far. Maybe just stay the night? Or forever. I’m not picky.”

You’re frowning when he turns to you with a half-crazed grin. “That’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

Eddie gestures to himself. “Not exactly a poet.”

“So, what are you, then?” You raise an eyebrow at him. “No riddles this time. Tell me, honestly. What are you?”

Eddie sighs. He tilts his head to the ceiling, kicks the ground with the heel of his boot, and then he says, “I’m a monster. I’m a man. I’m a woodworker and I’m a charlatan. I cheat, I lie. I turn into a wolf and I kill men because they’d do the same to me. I can’t help it, comes with the territory. I have a family of other wolves who look after me and I look after them, and you’ll meet them if you want. But…” He peers at you for a moment, and then averts his gaze, “But really, I’m yours. I’m in love with you. I have been since you helped me that time Thatch shot me, and I’ll be yours even if you run to town and turn me in, and I’ll be yours if they hunt me down and throw me on a pyre. That’s all I am, really.”

You can barely find it in you to breathe. You’re still shaky on your feet and you don’t think you’re quite in your right mind, but you find yourself thinking about the last night, about his hands and his lips on you, about how it was so easy for you to get lost in him. How you spent all night and all day thinking about him, wanting him, wishing for precisely this. 

Just not with the caveat of fur and four legs. 

“You’re looking at me funny,” he muses, his eyes flaring. His smile is wider than it should be. His teeth are more pointed than they should be. 

“I’m not looking at you any sort of way.”

He laughs. It runs clear down your spine and shudders through your limbs. You have to swallow past the dryness in your throat. 

“Always so proud– you know you don’t have to stand on ceremony anymore, right?” He tilts his head at you. “There’s no one around to judge you here, princess. Least of all me.”

 “I’m not standing on ceremony,” you press, but you feel like an indignant child the more you argue with him. “If I was, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I’d be trying to get out of here.”

“You want to leave?” Eddie asks, his voice clear and frank. He points over his shoulder. “Don’t let me stand in your way.”

He holds his hands out at his sides, palms up. His fingernails are long and sharp– like he’s slowly transforming into a monster, right in front of you. He stands aside, and there’s a clear path between you and the door. 

You could leave. You could run. You could find a place to run and hide, disappear by morning. 

But you don’t. You don’t want to leave. Not him. Not yet. 

His eyes are different now as they peer at you. They seem iridescent, glinting in the darkness. He sizes you up and down, and you feel more and more like prey. You… should be scared.

“Am I to take that as a no?” Eddie asks after a lengthy pause. 

You don’t exactly have anything to say in your defense. If he was wrong, you would already have tried to bolt. 

“Will you chase me?” You watch his eyebrows shoot up when you ask the question. You wet your lower lip with your tongue, an inch away from gnawing on it. “If I run, will you come after me?”

“Do you want me to chase you?” 

Your breath sticks in your throat. It would be so easy to just say yes. Yes, I want to be chased by you. I want to be pursued and I want you to make me yours in every way possible. But the words won’t come. They can’t come, as if it would soil you just to say them. It would be admitting defeat.

“I don’t want to be given a choice.” 

Eddie shakes his head, his frown of confusion deepening. “You always have a choice with me.”

“Eddie,” you say slowly, inclining your head. “I don’t. Want. A choice.” You stare at him heavily, willing him to gather your meaning without having to say it. I want you to force me.

You watch as the fire of recognition ignites in his eyes, and he opens his mouth with a noise of understanding. Ah. Yes. This is your choice. He smirks at you, then looks down at his foot as he digs his heel idly into the dirt. 

“I’ll count to three,” Eddie mutters without looking up at you. Still, you can see the ghost of a playful smile on his face. “One-”

You take off like a shot. You don’t have time to hear him continue counting. You’ll probably make it to the pasture before he catches up with you, unless he’s stronger than a normal man. If the bloodied carcass of your Master is anything to go by, though, you imagine that he is. 

You don’t make it to the pasture. You don’t even get close. You come to the doorstep of your pathetic little shed, your feet slamming the dirt, kicking up dust all the way, the air in your lungs burning with the labor of your breath, when your back is hit by something solid and unforgiving. Your legs are ripped out from beneath you, and you topple to the ground in front of your door with a thud.

“How fitting,” Eddie’s voice says in your ear, deep and husky, while his hand cups your chin, yanking your head up from the dirt. “Right where we met, isn’t it?”

He crowds you, half-laying on top of you, his weight pressing into your back and his hips meeting yours from behind. You gasp at the feeling of sharp claws pricking your cheeks where he holds your jaw in his hand, while the other creeps beneath your skirt and along your thigh.

“I never got to finish what I started last night,” Eddie purrs, his voice resonating in his chest. It’s enough to make you shiver, while goosebumps erupt on your skin. “I never like to leave a lady wanting.”

He scrapes his nails along your inner thigh, coaxing your legs apart. You jerk a little in his grip and whine when his claws dig in. Your face burns, your skin feeling like it’s on fire. It would be so easy for someone to find you here, flat on your stomach with a monster at your back. 

A whimper escapes your lips when his finger circles your clit, just like he did the night before. You shouldn’t want him, especially not like this, but it’s almost as if everything about Eddie begs you to go against your own nature. It began when you invited a wild animal into your home. It doesn’t seem like it will ever end. Nor will your want for him. 

“Eddie,” you sigh out shakily, and he shushes you while his finger plays through your wetness. He touches you like he knows exactly how to set you on edge. He’s cruel with his gentility, even while you want him to tear you apart. 

You arch against him, driving your ass back against his hips. You feel his cock press against you through the layers of fabric still separating you, and it makes you want to whine in frustration like a spoiled brat. It’s not enough to have him here, pinning you, touching you. You need him everywhere. You need him to consume you entirely. 

Gasping, you open your mouth to say something else– urge him or taunt him, you’re not sure which– but his hand clamps down over your mouth before you can manage it. 

“I told you to be quiet,” he growls, grinding his hips down into yours harder. “I’ve already been shot once, I don’t need it to happen again because you can’t keep it down.”

Eddie flips your skirts up over your hips, and your bare skin meets the cool air. There’s a moment of heavy anticipation, of Eddie’s harsh breathing against your ear, of the scrape of his trousers against your thighs. And then there’s the press of his cock against your entrance, and you tense. 

“Do you believe in me now?” Eddie whispers in your ear. His voice has taken on a ragged tone, like he can hardly contain the animal lingering beneath his surface. His fingers have just started to tremble against your cheeks– just enough to let you know that he, damn him, is holding himself back. 

Your eyelashes flutter. You have a mind to grind against him, to spur him on. “I have to, don’t I?”

He chuckles, and the sound raises goosebumps on your skin. Your heart pounds in your chest, and Eddie takes a long, slow inhale. “Your heart’s beating so fast, princess. Something on your mind?”

“Fuck you,” you seethe. 

“As you wish.”

He grabs your hips and pushes in deep. You cry out, digging your fingers into the dirt to steady yourself, scrabbling for a sense of stability. Eddie holds you close by the throat, pulling out and pushing back in with the same brutal force. 

The sounds coming from your mouth can’t be real, can’t be you. You aren’t proud of yourself, but you can’t stop while he’s being relentless, fucking into you hard and fast. 

Eddie groans low in your ear, his hand around your throat slipping down. His claws wrap around your neckline and he tears through the fabric, ripping the layers of clothing to expose your shoulder to him. You feel the whisper of his sharp teeth along your skin, tickling at your pulse point, and it’s all you can do not to cum right then. 

Your eyes roll, your back arching against him. “Eddie, I–”

“Don’t be afraid,” Eddie tells you. His words vibrate on your skin. “I won’t bite.”

You reach back, and your hand finds his hair, thick and curly between your fingers. “I want you to,” you pant, while your orgasm mounts, pleasure gathering between your legs with every move that he makes. You moan, your breath catching in your throat. “Please, Eddie–”

His nose pressed to your shoulder, Eddie shakes his head. You can’t see the way that his pupils dilate, his limbs shaking with the effort of holding back. 

Instead, his hand slips between your legs again, and when he circles your clit with his gentle touch and his sharp claw, you cum with a silent scream of relief. 

He keeps going, hard and fast as you ride out your orgasm. And finally, Eddie lets out an animalistic growl loud enough to shake the earth, and he spills inside you. 

Your legs threaten to buckle out from under you, but Eddie catches you at the last second just before you both slump to the damp ground. Gasping for breath and still coming down from your high, you barely have the energy to object when your clouded mind registers the swell of a knot keeping him inside you. 

Eddie wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer, until you fit against him like the missing piece of a puzzle. The full moon overhead douses the pastures with silver light. Far off in the tall grass, crickets sing. 

“You didn’t bite,” you croak, your voice sounding distant and hazy. He shifts, and it makes you squeak when it moves the knot inside you. 

“Didn’t want to do it to you if you didn’t mean it,” he murmurs. His breath is hot on the back of your neck, and you find yourself wishing that you could turn and look at him in the moonlight. 

“I meant it,” you tell him earnestly, running your hand along his arm. “I want… I want it. Make me yours, Eddie.”

He makes a weak noise in his throat, his arms tightening around you even further. “Don’t say that unless you want me forever.”

You laugh. It surprises you, but you can’t help it. “I don’t think I could let you go even if I wanted to, baby.”

He stills for a moment, like he’s trying to process what you’re telling him. “So… so you’ll come with me?”

You sigh, with a gentle smile curling at your lips. You consider the dreams you’ve had, of running away with him, of living with him, of having him whisk you away like a knight in shining armor. Even if he isn’t a knight, it is what you’ve been wishing for, isn’t it?

“Yes,” you tell him softly. “I’ll come with you. Just make me yours.”

When he pulls your hair away from your neck, Eddie’s touch is so tender that it could make you cry. His lips touch your skin, and your eyes flutter shut in anticipation of the sting of his teeth. 

“I’ll always be yours,” he tells you again, this time so quiet that it sounds like a prayer for you alone to hear. “Always.”

And when Eddie sinks his teeth in, the world goes black.

You wake with your head on a pillow of soft cotton and your back on a mattress filled with hay.

Wherever you are, there isn’t much light in the room. There’s an open window somewhere over your head; you hear birds outside. The forest sings in the morning. 

The cabin you’re in is much like your own, except it affords more room to move around. The floor has a decadent rug thrown across it, something that you wouldn’t expect a cabin like this to have in its inventory. It isn’t much bigger than your own shack. You old shack, now, you suppose. 

The more you look around, the more things seem… eclectic, to say the least. The bed is simple wood, but the blankets and linens are fine, like something an aristocrat would use. The ring dish on the window sill is an abalone seashell, shining iridescent purple and blue in the morning light to reflect the rubies and sapphires on the rings inside of it. The humble dining table is worn and covered in knicks and scratches, but the silverware is finer than any you’ve ever seen. 

When you finally pull yourself out of the bed and take a look around, you see Eddie’s burgundy blouse tossed across a rocking chair in the corner by the hearth. So, you conclude, this is Eddie’s domain. His home. The cabin in the woods you’d been dreaming of. 

And with a bit more snooping, you conclude something else. Eddie Munson is a goddamned thief. 

He has pocket watches engraved with names of nobility from all around the country. The platter on the table is monogrammed H.R. Cheshire. Eddie’s wardrobe has a large amount of men’s and women’s clothing piled in it, and all of it is fine silk, taffeta and lace– not something a simple woodworker living in the woods would be able to afford. 

You stumble to the door almost like you’re drunk, and when the door bangs open on its hinges, it’s Eddie who startles backwards in the bushes this time. He yelps, and you see just enough of him to catch him losing his balance and toppling ass-over-head over a log past the treeline. 

“For god’s sake, Eddie,” you chastise him. 

“Wasn’t expecting that,” he retorts, his head popping up over the top of the bush. He’s cleaned himself up, at least, so his face isn’t covered in blood anymore. He still looks so beautiful, though, and you still feel your heart skip a beat to look at him.

“You– you’ve stolen half of everything in here.” You gesture vaguely over your shoulder at the cabin. Your shoulder aches and stings when you move it, leading you to believe that everything that happened in the night was not a dream. It was real. 

Everything you’ve thought didn’t exist is real. 

Eddie is just a flicker of a shadow through the trees as he rounds one and steps into full view. “Had to make a living, somehow.” 

“And yet you walk around in the woods naked?”

He holds his hands out at his sides. “Um. Didn’t have time to get changed after I brought you here. It's kinda… it’s hard to hold it off when it happens.”

“When you turn into a wolf, you mean?”

“Yes.” 

You nod slowly, trying to only look at his face. It’s inordinately difficult. “Am I going to turn into a wolf?”

“Eventually.” Eddie tilts his head and looks at you warily. “Did you… not want it after all?”

“No, I–” you pause. It’s hard to put into words what you’re feeling, but you know it’s not regret. Your voice wobbles when you finally say, “I think it’ll just take some time to get used to it. Things have been the same for so long, and now…”

“Hey,” Eddie says, sounding almost the same as you had when he showed up the first time, crying at your door. He holds out his hand, his palm facing upward. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Okay? Let me help.”

You look at him through misty eyes, and you almost laugh at how blatantly your roles have reversed, now. You, standing at his door, crying. Him, trying to be of service to you. 

You give him a meager smile, placing your hand in his. “Can I stay?”

“Stay forever,” Eddie tells you, looking up at you with kind eyes. “But I can’t promise I’ll be polite for all of it.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m in love with you,” you admit, and watch as he absorbs your words slowly, almost as if he never imagined he’d hear you say it. 

And when he kisses you this time, you don’t even mind the sharpness of his teeth.

  But then they didn’t follow you, when the boy running the ride sighed and said, “Only two on.”

  The girl named Carol pouted and she looked at you, then the other girl, “I’d go with you, but I have to go with Tina. It’s a tradition.”

  “Oh, okay, well, I’ll just…I actually really don’t want-“

  “Single rider! We’ve got a single rider! I need a person to accompany this single rider!”

  “That’s okay!” You rushed, waving the boy off from yelling again as the girls and everyone in line started to snort and whisper. “Please, I am okay not-“

  “I can go with you?”

  A boy with an ice cream cone in his hand standing next to the line glared at Tina and Carol who’s mouths parted. He shoved past them and smiled at you, wavy brown hair flopping in the wind as he looked at the attendant, then held up his chocolate cone, “Oh, um, can I bring this on?”

  “I so don’t care,” the teen waved you on and to your horror, closed the bar over your laps with no belt. 

  Your eyes squeezed shut as it lurched forward , fingers slipping on the metal bar as your breath came too quick.

  “I’m Steve, by the way, sorry about them. They’re pretty nice when they want to be, I think.”

  His words registered, somewhere in your fear, and you managed to spit out your own name. 

  He repeated your name, he murmured something that sounded like the word ‘pretty’ which had you humming a ‘hmm?’ while your eyelids fluttered open in a grave mistake.

  “Oh, uh, I said do you want to share some of my ice cream?” He blinked at you, light brown eyes coming in to focus in front of twinkling lights. 

His cheeks turned pink as he mumbled, “That’s weird, isn’t it? I just…hey, you okay?”

  His gaze roamed over your face that did not look okay at all.

  “I’m…I’m heights aren’t my favorite thing.”

  Steve nodded and looked around, breathing out as the ride stopped and kept you dangling in the air. You gripped his forearm without thinking, closing your eyes.

  “It’s okay, um…okay, wanna hold my hand until it’s over? I know that doesn’t help that much, but you can feel something that…you know like not the ride reminding you of how high up you are? Shit, I mean, if you keep your eyes closed and hold my hand, it’s like we’re on the ground right?”

  “Ri-right?” You hiccupped out through a gulp of air, hand following the yellow sweatshirt sleeve down to bare skin until you could lace your fingers with his. 

  A breeze blew, the bucket you were in swayed with it and you squeezed harder and Steve cleared his throat, “Woah, you’ve got a grip. You ever thought of baseball for a career?” 

  You laughed, but started to try to slip out of his hold from embarrassment, but froze when the ride squeaked, so he held it tighter and whispered, “Wow, these swings, that are on the ground, safely attached to the earth, are so fun.”

  Your nose wrinkled as you laughed through it and shook your head when the ride started again. 

  He kept coming up with scenarios for the creaks, and breezes, the swaying, until your hand was loosening in his to a normal and comfortable hold and your eyes were fluttering open again in a genuine laugh. 

  “Hey, there she is.” He smiled at you. He squeezed your hand, “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  The ride came to a halt and Steve kept his hand in yours as you walked off of it. 

Hawkins, Indiana - Saturday A.B.

  Your fingers roam over your face, your outfit, gaze meeting your own in the mirror as you whisper, “You’re going on a date. Just a normal date.

  Nothing crazy about it.” You shrug, nonchalant, “It’s just with Steve Harrington. You’re probably gonna go to a movie and makeout,” the thought has the butterflies flapping in your stomach, but you hold them off, adding with a finger at yourself, “And then it’ll be over, and you’ll go back to how life was before this bet.”

  Even as the sentence leaves your mouth, your chest tightens. 

  Back to life before he kissed you. 

  Before panic about your safety, before the color red became your favorite too, before you knew what he told Robin. 

  Before he spoke like that to you in his bedroom.

  Before you realized you’ve been in love with him for forever and have just been too scared to get hurt.

  Yeah, easy to go back to before all of that. No problem. 

  A noise outside has you peeking out of your window’s blinds then, and you grab a small bag, and head out your front door. 

  Steve sits in his driver’s seat, going over his plan with his eyes closed. He blows out his breath, nodding to himself. 

“You’re gonna go on this date, and it’s gonna be great, and you are only going to kiss her a little bit at the end of the night, if she wants, and that’s it, Harrington.”

  He opens his eyes and panics, seeing you locking your front door. He quickly jumps out of the car and shouts your name. 

  As you turn, his heart stops beating, he’s sure of it.

  Steve stands at the bottom of the stairs, shaking his head and carrying a bouquet of your favorite flowers and something else. His hair is perfectly messy, cheeks pink as he waves at you to back up, wearing the same color he was when you met him. A yellow tshirt pulls at his shoulders as he climbs the stairs, voice sweet but scolding.

  “Go back inside!”

  “What?” Word lost around your laughter, hand on the keys still in the door’s lock.

  He huffs, pouting his lips around the words, “I’m supposed to knock on your door, and give you these so you can put them in water, and tell you you’re beautiful.”

  “Oh,” heat floods your body at the word beautiful, but you make no movement as he climbs the last few steps.

  Steve raises his eyebrows at you over gold eyes that sparkle and you let out more of a surprised laugh.

  “Wait you seriously want me to go back in?”

  “Baby, yes,” he motions for you to spin, “I only get one chance, I gotta do this right.”

  “Well excuse me, any other rules I should know about?” You grumble under your breath as your key sticks, you yank but it won’t budge. More laughter leaves through your nose, “My keys are stuck.”

  “Okay, okay, go back inside, leave the keys in the door, and I’ll get them when we finish with the flowers,” Steve says from behind your shoulder. The hot breath on your ear makes a shiver travel down your spine and back up.

  “But I’m already out here and-“

  “Please?” The word is brushed against your ear, gently, sincerely.

  “Mhm,” hums out of sealed tight lips so something embarrassing like a moan doesn’t slip out instead as you push your thighs together under your dress. 

  Entering the apartment, you look at him grinning smugly for getting his way as you close the door and roll your eyes.

  A knock taps in a pattern on the door and you sigh around a laugh and call, “Who is it?”

  “Kevin Bacon!”

  As you whip your door open, ready with a witty reply about cutting loose, you stop. Steve  swallows, eyes roaming over your body despite having seen the red sun dress before tonight and only a few seconds earlier. But when they land on your face, they melt into a look you’ve never seen before. 

  Even though you know he’s going to say it, it feels like air is sucked out of your lungs, deflating you on the spot into a gooey puddle when he clears his throat and keeps eye contact as he murmurs.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” you respond, cheeks warm, “The dress is…”

  “No,” Steve shakes his head, taking a step forward, “You’re beautiful.”

  The puddle you’ve turned into disintegrates into the carpet.

  Steve’s cheeks turn deeper pink, almost the same color as your dress as he shakes his head. “Wait, no, I mean the dress is great, you look, it’s great, it’s, red is definitely your color. I mean other colors look good on you too and-“

  “Steve,” you interrupt and he closes his mouth and then you grin and point to the bouquet, “Are those for me?”

  “Oh, yes!” He extends them to you, your fingers brush as your fingers wrap around the stems. You’re hiding a smile into a sniff of them when a loud click and flash happens. 

  Steve’s pulling a Polaroid square out of a camera as you blink up at him, “Wh-“

  “Rule number one tonight - any time you’re looking too cute, I have to take a picture.” He shrugs, like it’s not the most heart melting, brain fizzing, breath stuttering thing a guy’s ever said or done to you. 

  “I-“

  He lifts the camera again and you grin, swatting at his arm through a laugh, “No, film is expensive you can’t waste it on pictures of me.”

  Your fingers wrapped around his forearm feel right, and the bouquet of flowers is squished between your chests as Steve holds the camera out of your reach, words soft against your cheek as he breathes them out.

  “How would that be a waste, honey?”

  Your heart is so loud in your chest, you wonder if the clear evening forecast was wrong, if a storm actually is coming. 

  Steve purses his lips in thought and then offers, “An amendment to rule number one - only pictures for the moments we really wanna remember?”

  “Big brain word,” you mumble, gaze locked on his lips that twitch in a fight of a smile.

  “We have a deal? No protesting, no saying anything about wasting film, you’re gonna get your picture taken and like it, yeah?”

  The tap of his finger to the tip of your nose shatters your legs, you’re not sure how you’re standing.

  “De-deal,” you clear your throat. With what you think is a smile, your body can’t remember how to do anything but melt anymore, you hold up the flowers. “Well, I guess I should get these in a vase, huh?”

  “Good idea.” He smiles.

  As you wander to your kitchen on wobbly legs, Steve takes a step inside the apartment fully, looking around with a thoughtful gaze. 

  As the glass jar fills in shaking hands, you call out, “Hey, wouldn’t rule number one be no help? How’d you know these were my favorite?”

  “I didn’t get help. I knew they were your favorite already. From middle school.”

  Your fingers turn the tap with a squeak, eyes blinking at the flowers now resting in the jar as you ask, “What?”

  As you return to the main room, he stares at you, like he’s waiting for something, but then he finally says, “Those poems, in lit. You had a line about your favorite flower. I assumed they were still your favorite now.”

  “Oh.”

  Steve and you stand on opposite sides of the room, you holding the jar of flowers and him the Polaroid. The photo is developing slowly, the purples and blues matching the bruise on his temple from Thursday night. The red of your dress matching the small scar on his cheek.

  The moment lingers, like the last few storm clouds are hovering, slowly lifting as the skies clear and bring promise of better weather. 

  He smiles softly and tilts his head towards the door, “Ready? We’ve got a whole itinerary.”

  You grab the camera from him and snap the photo, sure he looks confused and dazed in it, but you don’t care. 

  The photo slowly spits out as you stare at each other, letting the moment you want to remember develop next to his. 

  He holds out his hand, waiting for you to grab it. 

    “Anyways, I’m rambling,” you finish, grabbing a water glass and sipping it as Steve’s thumb brushes over your knuckles of the hand he’s holding. 

  On top of the table. 

  On the edge of the table.

  For everyone to see. 

  He hasn’t let go of it unless he absolutely needed to while eating, and was quick to grab it again when he got the chance.

  His knee knocks against yours under the diner’s table, feet tangled together as he shakes his head. 

  “No, you’re not, and even if you were, I like listening to you talk.”

  It feels like that’s all you’ve been doing since you got to the diner. After Steve took your menu and said that he’d already made arrangements, he’d asked you questions about yourself. Some typical first date favorites that he seemingly already knew, like your favorite food, which was delivered to the table. But most of your conversation went deeper, both of you talking about big dream things like not wanting to work at Family Video forever and what you hoped to do next. How excited he was to live with Robin, and how pissed he was at his parents for moving. Surface level things lead into deeper questions like why a season was your favorite because you spent it at your family’s old cabin and all of the memories wrapped up into it.

  “To be honest,” Steve grabs your second hand as it sets the water down, holding both in the middle of the table as he stares at them, “I think I could sit here all night and listen to you talk to me.” He starts to trace your hands with his fingers, watching the pad drag up your index finger and back down. “You used to barely speak to me, and when you did, it’s not like we had a real conversation.” 

  “I’m sorry,” you whisper to him.

  He lifts a hand and kisses your fingers, “For?”

  Your lips purse, eyes squint, ignoring the swooping in your stomach as you ask, “How much time do we have?”

  Steve laughs, his fingers slide in and out of yours as he looks at them. “I don’t think you have anything to apologize for, honey.”

  “I do,” you say, watching how his fingers glide up and down against yours, wondering if you’ll start a fire right there on the top of the diner table from it. “I never gave you a fair chance. We were just kids and…I’m sorry.”

  Steve looks up at you and shakes his head, “I didn’t give you much opportunity to think I deserved a chance. And I’m the one who should be saying sorry.” He looks like a kid who’s been caught stealing a cookie before dinner as he admits, “I used to egg you on, on purpose a lot. Just so you’d yell at me and get that little spot…” he touches your forehead, and the brain behind it turns to a static TV screen.

  “Which,” he’s grabbing your hand again, unaware he’s erased all functioning properties from you mind as he continues, “I guess I’m not that sorry for. But, I am sorry for being a jerk in school, and after school, and all the times in between.”

  Your head shakes, mouth parting in protest and he leans forward, nose close to yours as he whispers, “How about we’re both sorry, we both think the other doesn’t need to be sorry, and both are true. That just exists, and there’s nothing to argue about, hmm?” His nose taps the tip of yours, brushing up the bridge of it as your eyelashes flutter. “Rule number two?” His breath fans across your lips as he asks, “No more arguing?”

  “But, what will we do if we can’t argue the rest of the night?” You murmur, tilting your head so your bottom lip skims his top and makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a whine slip out from his throat. 

  His head tilts, and you think he’ll close the small distance between your mouths, but then a flash and pop happens next to your heads and you grin, somehow the photo being taken making the butterflies happier in your stomach than a kiss. 

  But then he’s mumbling, “I don’t know if I even aimed that right…” nose knocking your cheek as he presses closer across the table digging into his stomach.

  “We’ll know what it’s supposed to be of,” words exhaled as you both inhale, tilt, and-

   “Room for dessert?” The waitress interrupts with perfect timing. 

  Steve clears his throat as he leans away from you. He smiles politely at the waitress and says no thanks.  

  Your hands seem to loosen in his, and he only grabs them tighter. 

  “Okay, so. There’s much more to this date, but I wanted to check in, make sure you’re still okay with this?”

  Thumbs rub circles over the back of your hands in a dizzying, electric way.

  And that’s before he lifts one hand and kisses your palm while maintaining eye contact.

  Your thighs adjust on the diner seat as you nod and murmur, “I’m having a great time.”

  He smiles wider, squeezes your fingers. “Great, next stop - dessert.”

    Steve’s fingers tug on yours, pulling you through the crowd as you laugh around a lick of your ice cream. 

  He’d pulled the maroon car into the grassy field ten minutes ago and you’d turned to face him as he put the car in park. 

  He smiled at you, fingers fiddling with his keys and shoulders tight as he asked, “This okay?”

  The Hawkins 4th of July carnival sat before you, twinkling lights, rides, games, and most of the town wandering around it all. 

  You’d nodded and Steve slipped out of the door and pointed at you to stop just like he’d done at the diner. He opened your door and held his hand to help you out, never letting go until he had to pay for your ice cream. 

  As he’d grabbed his cone, he’d glanced at his watch and swore, grabbed your hand again and started pulling.

  You couldn’t help but notice every girl staring as he tugs you through people saying excuse me, couldn’t help but feel that spark of pride in your chest when whenever your grip loosened around people, his only held on tighter.

  “What is the rush!” You laugh, catching melting strawberry ice cream with your lips as he darts to the left.

  “We’re late! I didn’t realize how long we talked at the diner, we’re missing it!”

  “Missing what…”

  Your voice trails off as you approach the big grassy hill packed with people on blankets in front of a large, handmade screen.

  Showing The Princess Bride.

  Robin sits in a booth, chin in her hand, bored, until she sees you two and grins, waving from her station.

  “Wh-what’s going on?” You ask, looking at the screen, then him.

  Steve frowns, groaning, “It’s like half over. Shit, I’m sorry. I had it all planned.”

  He looks at you and all you can see is the chocolate ice cream on his bottom lip as he keeps talking. 

  “Family Video was asked to do a movie in the park, and I asked Keith if I could do it, and I picked The Princess Bride, for you, so we could watch it together, here-“

  Your fingers catch his chin and he can’t breathe as your thumb swipes over his bottom lip. It slips in between your lips, tongue licking the chocolate from it as he breathes heavily.

  His hands lift the camera just as yours go to grab for it and you make eye contact then look at Robin and grin. 

  She snaps a photo of you both when you ask, and you’re fairly certain Steve’s eyes are closed and your mouth is open in a question and it may end up being your favorite one, regardless. 

  You look at Steve and nod towards the hill. 

  This time, you hold out your hand and wait for him to grab it.

  The movie is full of moments.

  One of him asking for a taste of your ice cream and scoffing when you whisper a no, only to grab your wrist and pull it to his mouth and bite it, which you tell him he’s a serial killer for. 

  Once your ice cream is finished, there’s several, where you keep catching him watching your profile when you laugh at the same parts you always do, only for him to turn quickly back to the screen and ignore you when you try to ask him what he’s staring at. Which he says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about to, so then you get loud about it and then his palm covers your mouth as he whispers that you’re talking during the movie and it’s rude, baby, some people haven’t seen this a bazillion times. 

  So many with hands resting next to each other’s, fingers playing with yours, swirling over the skin of your arm up and down and tickling and soothing at the same time, making the butterflies in your stomach bang on the walls and scream about letting them out. 

  Another, where, when he kisses your bare shoulder and pulls your fallen dress strap up, you wonder if butterflies can scream and if Steve can hear them. 

  Then, when the movie’s almost over, Steve tugs on your hand and whispers against your ear (because you were scolded by Robin for talking too loud earlier), that he knows it’s not over, but you have somewhere to be. 

  The pair of you duck as you run past people down the hill, trying not to stumble and fall or laugh or block their view and being unsuccessful in almost all of it. 

  He helps you not fall, hands on your waist and he keeps them there as you turn, breathless, hands against his chest where you can feel his heart beating as hard as yours.

  It feels a lot like you’re facing a fear, about to do or say something you might regret, but you know you never truly will, because at least you said it.

At least you gave the what if a chance to prove you wrong. 

  “Hey,” you whisper, “In case I forget to say it, this date has been pretty perfect.”

  “Yeah?” He swallows, gaze falling to your lips then back up. “Even with the moratorium on arguing?”

  “Did you just say moratorium?” You grin, while your palms climb higher on his chest and around his neck.

  He nods, nose knocking yours, “Mhm, and for my big brain word, I have a request.”

  “Name your price, Harrington.”

  Steve takes a step back and pulls your hands deeper into the fair, until you’re in front of the ferris wheel.

  Your feet scuff on the gravel as he tries to keep pulling you into the line and you shake your head.

  “Please?” He looks nervous, looking at the sky and line and then back at you, “I promise it won’t be bad. Just like the first time, I’ll distract you and I’ll hold your hand until it’s over-“

  “No,” your hand does slip out of his this time, “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  You gesture to the giant ride in front of you, “This is like ten times bigger than that one a school. And I’m bigger! So that’s saying something if it still looks so big!”

  Each of your volume increases, hands gesturing and drawing a crowd as you interrupt each other, rule number two completely broken. 

  “Please, just get in line? It’ll be worth it, and-“

  “I’m not going, no way-“

  “Stop being so stubborn, for once in your life and just-“

  “I’m not being stubborn, you’re being stubborn and I don’t know why it’s such a big deal anyways-“

  “Would you just hold my hand on the damn ferris wheel so I can tell you that I love you!?”

  It feels like every single person at that fair stops talking right then. His words hang in the air, dings and chimes from rides and games get louder as he blinks at you, mouth parting and closing as nothing more comes out. 

  Your chest heaves as you gasp, “Wh-what?”

  Steve swallows and takes a step closer to you, then another, until his hand is cupping your jaw and he’s shaking his head, like he doesn’t want to say the words but he can’t help it anymore.

  “I love you so much. And maybe that’s a crazy thing to say, when this is technically our first date, but…but I do. I love when you snatch red vines out of my fingers and you get that wrinkle between your brows when you think I’m acting like an idiot.” 

Your shaking hand grabs his on your cheek, vision turning blurry as he keeps going, voice cracking as he does, “I love the color of your eyes. I love how you can joke and not take things so seriously until it’s something that really matters. I love your work ethic and your heart and…and I think I’ve loved you since we were twelve and I heard your laugh for the first time while you broke my hand. I love you.”

  It doesn’t feel real, the words coming out of him, the way your chest cracks open and releases the butterflies. All of your fears of not being enough, of only being a game, vanish with three little words said by Steve. The way he says I love you while he looks at you like that.

  Like he means it. 

  Like you’re his. 

  His thumb catches tears on your cheeks while you sniffle as you somehow joke, “Acting like an idiot?”

  Steve laughs, a rumble in his chest as his forehead knocks against yours, waiting, until you take the air out of him and put it back with five words.

  “I love you too, Steve.”

  This kiss, is like the moment the storm is over. When rain drips from the leaves softly and the earth smells fresh - like it’s been given a clean slate. When birds start chirping again and the breeze returns instead of the wind. Like sun peaking out of clouds and gray sky turning to blue.  

  His lips mold around yours, like they’re meant to, like he’s not ever letting them go. Your body heats, like he’s transferring all of his warmth into you from just his lips. Catching yours softly as they part, as they beg for more. He does let them go, only when there’s whoops and whistles around you and a booming crack and spark above you both. 

  Red and blue paint his features tilted up towards the sky, the fireworks in your stomach reflected in his eyes when they look back at you. 

  He kisses you again, in front of everyone, holding your waist and pulling you tightly against him, Polaroid sandwiched between you. Steve keeps kissing you until you’re both panting into each other’s lips, unable to part fully, but desperately needing air.

  Your bottom lip catches his top one again in an over too quick peck as you smile and grab both of his hands, and tug him towards the parking lot. 

    He had to pull over fifteen minutes ago. 

  You’d kissed him dizzy in the grassy field, letting him press your body up against the door he was planning to open for you.

  Mouth that had always been so mean to him making up for so much lost time. Lips that parted under his and followed his lead, that sucked and bruised right back, always matching his shift, countering back, challenging him and making something inside of his chest feel like it was prying open to get into yours. 

  The feeling was addicting. 

  He remembers his hands on your hips, pressing you into the car with his body, your name barely escaping between tongue and lips that just wouldn’t, couldn’t, stop. 

  You’d hummed, while fingers squeezed the back of his neck and then scratched along the back of his head, grinning around his mouth that parted in a gasp when you did. 

  “We,” he’d swallowed as your mouth slipped along his jaw, his head tilting back so you could kiss his throat, “We should…jesus christ.”

  Your teeth scraped the side of his neck and his hands pressed to the hood of the car, thigh nudging between your legs and only stopping when you moaned against his ear. 

  You’d rolled your hips experimentally, mouth moving lower again so it could get a proper kiss once more, now that you’d gotten a chance for deeper breaths. 

  Steve’s hands had gone back to your waist and squeezed, his mouth evaded yours and pressed to your ear.

  “You really are trouble, you know that?”

  It just made you wonder what else it would take for him to call you that again.

  But then it started to rain. 

  Everyone started running into the field, shrieking and laughing as rain thrummed and pinged on metal rides and wood booths. 

  He quickly opened your door, shoving the camera and Polaroids at you and ran around his hood. 

  Both of you swiped at your eyes, shivering from the cold rain that only turned down some of the heat between you. He’d swallowed as he looked at you, licked his bottom lip and asked if he could drive you home. 

  You’d nodded, and after he’d pulled onto the road, your hands met in the middle of the console. 

  But then you’d laid his hand on your thigh, pressing yours on top of it. You’d fiddled with his fingers, humming along to the radio and pretending like you weren’t up to no good.

  Adrenaline coursed through your veins, every doubt washed away from the rain when Steve looked over at you with pouted, kiss-bitten lips, voice scratchy as he warned, “Honey…”

  Which was his own fault. He shouldn’t have said it like that, shouldn’t have looked at you like that when he did. Cause it only made you lace your fingers with his from above. Made you move your hand and his to the hem of your dress where his fingers twitched when they hit bare skin. 

  “You-“

  He stopped, biting his lip when you pulled at the hem, lifting it higher and letting the pads of his fingers drag along the inside of your thigh till he hit wet lace and cotton. 

  “Please?”

  Which was your own fault. You shouldn’t have said it like that. Shouldn’t have looked at him like that when you did. Cause it only made it easier for you to guide his fingers to push under the black fabric. Made it too easy for the pads of two fingers to brush through your slick far too slow and tease at your clit before doing it again, and again, and-

  He pulled his hand away when you gasped as the car swayed on the wet pavement and he shook his head, hands back to ten and two, mumbling the word trouble again. 

  But then he was pulling over, lights cutting the slant of rain on the deserted gravel road as he looked over at you with pink cheeks and wild, wet hair and nodded his head to his side of the car.

  “Get over here, now.”

  You’d grinned and said:

  “Ask me nicely, Steve.”

  And now your thighs were parted over his, the skirt of your evil dress fanned out all pretty and covering up how indecent you were underneath. 

His hands held your waist as your hips rolled, the mess of black fabric underneath hitting against his Levi’s that were far too tight just right. 

  Heart’s song mixing with his own, thudding in his chest as you whisper his name against his lips like a prayer. He wonders if he can get you to come like this, just riding him fully clothed in his car, with just his mouth on yours, but that’s not what he wants. Not right now, not tonight.

  “Baby,” he sighs, “We gotta slow down. You’re killing me here.”

  It only makes your hips roll with a little more pressure, a laugh bubbling out of you as his eyelids flutter and the back of his head hits the seat rest with a groan. 

  He squeezes at your waist and holds you still, mouth catching yours when you whine. 

  It’s a much softer, shorter kiss than you’ve had all night, but not as sweet as what he says after. 

  “I wanna take my time with you.”

  He stares at you, and your hand leaves his shoulder, pad of your finger tracing over freckles on his cheek, his cupid’s bow, up the bridge of his nose. It’s tender on his eyebrow, careful to avoid the bruise, until it’s gently brushing the three freckles next to his eye. 

  “Did you know you have a little bit of green in your eyes?” The murmured words take his heart and squeeze, make it harder to swallow as your nose nuzzles into his and you add, “I don’t want to miss anything else, Steve. Don’t wanna waste time we can’t get back.”

  He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw. He presses soft and silky lips to just below your ear, lower, lingering on your racing pulse point before he’s back to staring at you. 

  “I’ve waited over ten years for this, I’m not doing it in my car. It needs to be…I wanna remember this.”

  A smile lifts your cheeks, and you reach for something, then whisper into his lips:

  “So let’s remember it.”

  A flash, a click, and a whir, before several moments lead up to a big one. 

  One’s where you climb off his lap regretfully, and he drives towards your apartment. 

  Several of climbing stairs and nervous fingers fumbling with keys and light switches. A radio plays Pat Benatar, music swelling around you both as you start kissing against your door.  

  Too many to count of kisses stolen between all of the other moments, till you’re in your bedroom with Steve Harrington and you’re pulling at his shirt that sticks to his skin. Bare arms quick to wrap back around you once it’s over his hair. 

  Your fingers scrape down his chest, over his stomach and shake while they work at metal and leather until he’s helping. Till he’s standing in front of you in just black boxers and swallowing as you look at him. 

  He steps forward, breath shaky as he asks, “Can I?”

  Once your head nods and you say please, his fingers drag red fabric higher and higher, gently pulling it over your head until you’re standing in front of him in just black lace which is so much harder to concentrate around than red. 

  Steve kisses you again, softer and sweeter. Slowly dragging your mouth open with his as his hand cups your jaw. Your hands roam from his chest to hips, pulling him towards you and both to the bed. 

  He climbs over you as your head meets the mattress. He breaks away from your mouth with panted breaths, kissing down your throat, over collar bones and your chest as you blink at your ceiling and try to remember how normal breathing works. His hands caress down your side and back up, fingers playing with the band of black on your back until you’re nodding, asking him to take it off. 

  Steve swallows at the sight of pebbling nipples underneath him, gasps a breath against the curve of your chest when his fingers brush one and you jolt and make a noise he hasn’t heard yet. He needs to hear it again, and let’s his tongue glide out to wet the same spot before brushing it again.

  It’s even better the second time. 

  He moves lower still, when you say his name and your hips adjust beneath his. Not sure if he’s dreaming when his fingers hook into lace and drag the underwear over your hips, past your thighs and off of your ankles. He’s pretty sure his heart is bruising the inside of his chest after he watches how it clung to you, space between your thighs already sticky and dripping for him. 

  You don’t have time to wonder what he’s thinking or worry about being anxious or doubt anything because he’s kissing your ankle, the inside of your knee, mouthing at all of the bare skin as he climbs higher again.

  “This is…” he swallows, breath fanning over your clit as he looks up your body and asks, “You’re okay? You want to keep going?”

  His eyes shine in the low lamplight of your room, hair drying and messier than ever from all your fingers have done to it tonight. His lips pout as he waits with held breath for your answer when you look down at him. 

  “Yes,” you nod, frantic about it and hand meeting his on your hip and holding tightly, “Please, I-Steve.”

  He moans into your folds at the sound of his name, at the taste of you finally on his tongue. It licks over you in flat, broad stripes. He traces each lip, nose leading the path up to your clit each time. Which throbs when the tip presses into it just right as his tongue pushes at your entrance. 

  Your fingers squeeze his as your back arches and the other grips your bedding. Chest heaving from the feeling of his tongue flicking faster. The stubble on his cheeks scratch at your thighs that squeeze around him tighter, which only makes him double down on the movement, lapping at you like he’ll never get to do it again and needs to make sure he doesn’t miss anything you give him. 

  His name leaves you louder, like you’ve never said it before.

  Like it’s yours. 

  He’s seeing red, when you clench around him tighter as his free hand presses circles into your clit until you’re shaking around him, fingers limp in his. 

  Your eyes are closed as your chest rises and falls quickly when he removes himself and looks at you from where he kneels between your legs. His hands gently roam up and back down your thighs, lips smiling when you sigh at the feeling, content.

  He doesn’t want to break it, whatever’s happening inside your head, but his fingers swirl circles higher, just below your ribs, voice scratchy when he asks, “Was that…”

  “If you’re about ask if that was okay…” you smile, eyes finally fluttering open. 

  Somehow, despite having the best orgasm just moments ago, you ache for more at the sight of him. 

  He kneels between your legs, his own chest panting a little too fast. Pride shoots through yours from how glossy his lips are, how pink his cheeks turn, how much his pupils take over normally golden iris’. 

  You’re a little crazed about it, pulling at his wrists so he falls on top of you, pushing at his boxers that he’s eager to help rid himself of too. Steve stands, pulling them off and your mouth goes dry, and he has the nerve to have some clarity, to look smug and ask, “See something you like, honey?”

  A laugh bubbles out past your lips as you shake your head, hands covering your eyes as you try to get your breathing under control. 

  The bed dips and his fingers skate over your skin, up higher until his palms are pressed into the pillow and your hands fall at the feeling of all of him on top of you, pushed up against you.

  Your hips roll, making him bite his lip above you when his length slips between your folds. Both of you breathe harshly into each other’s mouths, sliding together, teasing your kisses and the thing you’ve both been waiting for. 

  Until your hand pulls at his hair and you beg, “Need you, right now.”

  Steve grips at your hip, dizzy from how you coat him and he’s not even inside of you yet. He gasps, “Ask,” he nips at your bottom lip, “Nicely.”

  Your head shakes no, so your lips brush against his and then he’s swearing, closing his eyes and mumbling, “Oh my god, I’m an idiot.”

  “What?” You blink at him. 

  Steve moans, lips pressed to your jaw, nose into your cheek as he admits, “I don’t have a condom. I…I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

  The thought makes you grin, makes your eyelashes flutter because he twitches next to your entrance when you say, “Big brain word.”

He laughs, breath hot along your jaw and gasping as you roll your hips and offer, “Want your prize?”

  “Honey,” it sounds pained, like he’s one roll of your hips away from coming.

  “I-I’m on birth control. And I love you. I wanna do this,” your hands rub at his shoulder blades, down his biceps and back up. “Wanna feel all of you, Steve. Please?”

  He squeezes his eyes shut, his throat bobbing in front of you as he forces out a rushed, “You can’t just say stuff like that baby, don’t be mean.”

  Your hand reaches between you, fingers wrap around him and you’re addicted to the way his eyelashes flutter, the way he says your name when you tug once, lining him up with your entrance. 

  His eyes open in a daze, gaze bouncing between your eyes as he asks, “You’re sure?”

  You’re nodding and then suddenly, wonderfully, beautifully, you’re kissing Steve Harrington as he pushes inside of you. 

  He stops when you gasp around his lips, eyes frantically searching over your face but only finding a blissed out expression with each inch he slips in more. He wishes the camera wasn’t down in the car.

  Next time.

  You envelope him completely, legs rising on either side of his hips and arms around his neck, lips against his as you nod and encourage him to keep going. Each ridge and curve of each other fitting together and nothing between either of you anymore, holding you back. 

  Steve’s hand curls against your waist, forehead pressed to yours when he rolls his hips experimentally and you moan into his mouth again, his name sounding desperate this time. Your hands claw at his back when he starts thrusting and all he can think about is asking you to do it harder and then taking you to the pool tomorrow. Show off how you marked him up while he holds your hand and people stare. 

  His eyes flutter open to find you already staring at him. Your lips mold together in a long kiss, parting in the same breath. Eyes open again as your mouths brush and beg each other’s names, hands caress and memorize over each other’s bodies while they glide together. Steve grabs your hand that tangles the sheets, lacing his fingers with yours and holding on until it’s over, and even when it will be, he has no plans to let go. 

  Your heartbeats thud against chests pressed together, no longer separate rhythms, and each push into you and slow drag out brings you higher and higher and you’re suddenly not so scared of how far the fall is anymore, not with Steve Harrington holding your hand. 

  He presses it tightly into the pillow, breath coming sharp and hating that this is over so quickly. But then you’re looking at him like that, like he’s yours. And he’s looking at you like that. Like you’re his. A scrunched forehead knocks yours and he’s spilling inside of you, warmth flooding over you both as his lips capture yours in another kiss. 

  This kiss, is different. This kiss is like when a storm is over, and not everyone notices, but there’s always a rainbow, somewhere, if you’re patient enough to find it, to search for it. 

  Your hand softens in his hair, the other a comfortable grip in his. His chest sighs against yours, breath fanned across lips that savor and treasure your kiss. 

  Steve lifts up, only slightly, so he can look at you when he says.

  “I love you.”

  Mouths find each other again, swallowing unspoken promises of this only being the beginning.

  Until you’re speaking into the kiss, needing to get the last word.

  “I love you, more.”

  Steve pulls away, looking at your eyes. He shakes his head.

  “Quit lying, honey.”

  Honey.

Thank you SO much for reading this story. I wasn't going to come back and finish it, and I'm so glad I did. And then only reason I was able to was because of sweet comments and reblogs left and those of you who came and sent dms and asks. I hope the wait was worth it and I appreciate you so much! There is a small epilogue, but please read the warnings on it, may not be your thing ✌🏻💛

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  Something stung, something snapped, something really, really hurt, and you were blinking up at the bright blue, cloudless Summer sky, breathing hard as hot tears started to pour out over your cheeks. 

  “St-Steve,” you hiccupped, trying to hold in the real tears that threatened to make you start sobbing and the gravel next to you crunched as he scrambled over and you gasped for a deeper breath, “I…I think I…my ankle hurts.”

  His voice was strained, heated, and tight, “I told you, look, now you’re hurt and…” he stopped though, seeing the tears on your cheeks and how your eyes went wide when they looked up at him. Bright red, and matting his hair down against his skin, a big gash on Steve’s forehead was bleeding. 

  “What?” He blinked at you.

  Your mouth fell open, gesturing to it, “Steve, you don’t feel that? Are you okay?”

  He pressed his fingers to his forehead and winced and your body filled with rage, more tears spilling out of you as you yelled. 

  “Why’d you come after me!”

  Steve blinked at your volume, his lips pulling down in a hard frown as his own voice raised. 

  “You were gonna get hurt so I-”

  “What, you had to get hurt too then?”

  Steve shook his head, looking away from you and gingerly reaching out to prop your leg up on his thigh, bloody knuckles and shredded skin on his palms as he curled his fingers around your calf. He looked up the hill to make sure someone was getting help. He laughed, looking back at you with a cold gaze. 

  “Are you seriously making this a competition, right now? While your ankle is sprained or worse and my head is bleeding? Seriously?”

  “Well, why the hell else would you come after me? You just couldn’t let me be the winner, right Harrington? Couldn’t let the stupid girl show you up in front of all your friends, huh?”

  Steve blinked at you, gaze roaming over your face before he shook his head. 

  “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

  Hawkins, Indiana - Friday

  Eddie sits across from you in silence, brown eyes blinking rapidly.

  “How are we doing over here?” The waitress asks, refilling your coffee mugs, eying the silent boy.

  “Oh we’re fine. He’s just processing something, can I get a slice of the lemon pie?”

  “Su-“

  “You - can you have what?” Eddie asks, shocked. He waves his hands in the air, his head shakes from side to side, dark brown waves whipping over his face as he loudly declares with a broad gesture of his hands, “Nope. No. You did not share a milkshake with Steve Harrington!”

  “Wanna say it a little louder, I think there’s a few people over in Chicago who only got ever other word!” You hiss at him, leaning forward.

  Eddie laughs, scoffs, into his coffee mug but sets it down before he can even take a sip. He narrows his eyes at you and leans on his folded arms on the table. “Sweetheart, I was sort of joking last night. I thought this would be funny, maybe you’d come around to seeing he’s not as much of an asshole as you’ve convinced yourself he is, but overall, I was gonna sit back and enjoy the show of you two going at it like you always do. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with the guy and make googly eyes and play footsie at the diner!”

  “First of all,” you growl, but then smile as the waitress drops off the pie. You wait till she’s out of ear shot to continue, “The only reason I was at this diner, with Steve, was because of you-“

  “Details,” he waves you off, sipping his coffee with an eye roll.

  “-And I’m not in love with him. I…” you trail off, fork stabbing the pie as you force out, “I hate him.”

  “Okay,” Eddie nods, pursing his lips and squinting his eyes, sarcasm dripping from the word. 

  “I do!” You shout, then glance around and lower your voice. “I do. I hate him. I hate how he flirts with anything that giggles and smells like peaches. I hate how he drums on the counter when he has a song stuck in his head and whistles while he restocks the shelves. I hate how he always manages to have some sort of food on his chin or cheek or lips. I hate that he’s a cocky,” you cut a huge chunk of the pie with the side of your fork as you emphasize, “Stubborn,” you stab the bite, “Winning obsessed, thinks he’s never wrong, jerk.”

  Your eyes close around the bite of the pie, tart lemon and sweet crust on your tongue hard to swallow because he’s right.

  It’s good.

  And as the sour and sweet dessert rolls over your tastebuds, you know you don’t hate him. You don’t hate how he flirts, you hate that it’s with anyone but you. You don’t hate that he drums or whistles, you hate that you don’t always know the song, and it has you wondering what he listens to - or worse, you do know the song, and of course you like it. You hate that when he gets food on his face, you just want to lick it off. You hate that because he’s just as stubborn and winning obsessed as you, you always have someone to challenge you - to make you try harder, do better. 

  Your eyes open to find Eddie staring at you with raised eyebrows and folded hands.

  “How’s that taste of reality pie going over?”

  You groan, hands over your eyes as you speak softly, “I don’t want to like him, Eddie. I don’t. I can’t.”

  “You do,” Eddie corrects just as softly. He pulls at one of your hands, tugging it off of your face so he can look you in the eyes as he asks, “Why can’t you like him? A real reason this time.”

  Your fork picks at the pie crust, lip worried between your teeth as you think of all the reasons you don’t like Steve.

  There aren’t many - not real reasons at least. 

  Eddie sighs, “Look,” he waves his hands in front of him, “I’m not saying you’ve created this personal vendetta against a guy who was twelve and didn’t want to lose face in front of his friends, but,” he leans forward and shrugs, “Steve Harrington is not a twelve year old idiot anymore. And what’s he actually done that’s been so bad?”

  He lets his words sink in and he taps the table after a minute, joking, “Just don’t sleep with the guy till Sunday, for me, please?”

  But that’s it, isn’t it? 

  As Eddie heads over to the counter to pay, the reminder of the bet makes the lemon in your stomach sour, any sweetness overpowered.  

  Maybe it was all just a game to Steve still. Maybe your walls had been genuinely crumbling, but maybe that was just because Steve Harrington had expert precision on delivering his blows to it. 

  You haven’t looked him in the eye the entire shift. 

  It was bad enough, that when you got dropped off by Eddie, you hopped out of his van wearing a cherry red sundress and only gave a short smile to him when he said hi. A ‘fine’ when he asked how your head was. 

  You’d nodded as you slipped the green vest over your dress, intently listening while Robin filled you in on everything the pair accomplished all morning. 

  He worked harder than he has ever for Keith, so you and him wouldn’t have much to do other than deal with the late night shipment arriving. 

  But you found things to do. 

  The front window displays were cleaned, windows thoroughly scrubbed, then reset. The dollar rental bin reorganized, new movies added to fill the gaps. You dusted shelves, you filed paperwork that had already been filed. And every time he tried to ask you a question, to talk, you gave bare minimum answers, keeping your eyes off of him.

  Maybe, last night, you were only wearing his sweatshirt because it was the first thing you saw, a coincidence. Maybe, you were awake when he kissed your cheek, and you really didn’t like it. Maybe…

  Maybe he’s read this entire week completely wrong. 

  Maybe you’re really never going to give him a chance. 

  He swallows, restocking candy, fingers lingering on the M&M’s, desperate for comfort food, to over analyze and annoy Robin about this all night and make her tell him it’s fine. Plenty of fish in the sea. Just keep being yourself. 

  Steve grabs the phone and looks over at you walking down the horror aisle, checking things on a clipboard he’s already checked. 

  “Hey,” he calls out.

  You ignore him.

  He huffs as he leans onto the counter, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, watching you as he loudly says, “Yeah, hi, this is Steve Harrington. I’m calling in regards to my manager, maybe you know her?”

  You look up at him for the first time the entire shift, frowning. He keeps going.

  “Yeah, she seems to not have come into work today? This girl who won’t look me in the eyes and barely speaks to me has replaced her and I’d do anything to get the real her back, even if she’s yelling at me about her precious Red Vines.”

  You roll your eyes and walk past the counter, into the back room. 

  Steve frowns at the open door, slamming the phone down as he does. He stomps into the semi-office-semi-break room to find you starting to run the coffee pot through a cleaning cycle.

  “That’s it!” He stands with his hands on his hips as your shoulders jump. “What did I do this time?”

  “What?” You spin to face him, crossing your arms over your dress, which only serves to torture him with the way it emphasizes the low cut of it.  

  “What do you mean what? You know what I’m talking about! You won’t look me in the eye, you won’t talk to me! Baby, what could I have possibly done in the time you were sleeping or before you got here to upset you?”

  “I-“

  Steve steps closer to you, running a hand through his hair, before talking loudly with his hand hitting his palm to emphasize each point, “I worked my ass off all morning to impress you, like an idiot! I-I thought, last night…” He waves his hands around, shaking the thought away as he continues to get closer, to only speak louder, “I deserve the cold shoulder most days, I get it, you hate me, for whatever reason, but after last night, I’d like to think that-“

  “What you deserve, is nothing,” you scoff, taking your own step closer, skin too warm in the badly ventilated back room, skin already sticky with sweat. 

  “Excuse me?” He asks, incredulous. 

  It’s too hot back here. Your chest heaves, he watches a bead of sweat travel down your throat. 

  “You don’t deserve anything just because you did your job, congratulations by the way, on being a normal, functioning human being,” you add sarcastically before continuing, “And you especially don’t deserve anything because you were a little worried about me last night, Harrington!”

  “A little? A little?! Honey, I’ve never been more scared in my life!” He shouts, hands gesturing to your forehead while you have the nerve to scowl harder at his words.

  “Oh, I’m sure, Steve, that a cut to my forehead is the most scared you’ve ever been. It has nothing to do with the big three hundred dollar question hanging in the air does it?!”

  Your bodies are close together, both of you glaring at each other as your voices only get louder. There’s a buzz in the room, a hum, like your bodies are charged, ready to strike. 

  “The bet?! That’s what you’re upset about? When are you going to get it in your stubborn-“

  “I’m not stubborn! You’re stubborn!” 

  Steve scoffs, eyes looking at your lips as the tips of his shoes touch yours, “Seriously? You’re unbelievable, I…I…” 

  “I hate you!” You shove at his chest, blinking rapidly at how close his nose is to yours. 

  He yells, not that angry, “I despise you!”

  “I detes-“

  His lips collide with yours, swallowing the words you don’t really mean. 

  Steve Harrington is kissing you.

  And you’re kissing him back. 

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