a/n: i am a bottom leaning switch walter truther but i tried to include top walter for all you basic bitches (/j)... written as a x gn!reader
also i'm not very good at words so i apologize if this comes off as strange </3 this is my first time writing nsfw . gets really embarrassed and dies
- walter has some faint body hair in places that aren't immediately visible, like his legs, arms, chest, etc. i don't think he's that hairy of a guy naturally. keeps himself neatly trimmed.
- hes not muscular, but he is very fit aside from the whole being as thin as a board thing. has the nicest legs you've ever seen on an man his age... if you're a weirdo and look at the legs of old men often. (meee!)
- his dick is long and thin, a reflection of himself. i also imagine that it has a slight upwards curve to it when fully erect.
- his balls absolutely droop a bit. sorry. he's 69, they're bound to. (if they don't hang then he can't bang idiot)
- although he might not show it initially, he's deeply insecure about his aging body and his ability to please his partner the way they deserve.
- because of this, one of his biggest turn-ons is receiving praise and/or hearing his partner be verbal with how much they're enjoying themselves.
- when he's in a more dominant mood, he'll stick his fingers in your mouth to keep you from clamming up on him. or, alternatively, if you're one to shy away from him during sex, he'll tie your arms above your head and force your face up to look at him.
- he also loves to give praise just as much, if not even more than receiving it. he's very sweet and gentle with it, whispering into your ear about how good you're being for him, how proud he is that you're taking him so well.
- or, he'll worship your body like you were the second coming of Christ. His lets his hands roam up your legs while he preaches the gospel about how breath-taking your body is.
- service switch through and through. his highest priority is pleasing his partner and will gladly take on any role that they ask of him. it helps that he's very open-minded in regards to kinks – there's very little thats off the table for him.
- that being said, i do think he has a slight lean towards subbing since being submissive and pliant to others is just what he's used to, and he doesn't have much, if any, experience with anything sexual. however, that's not to say that there isn't a part of him that desperately wants to reclaim the sense of control he rarely gets to experience.
- vouyerism is one of the few things i think would be out of the question for him. there's no way he'd risk the job he's had for his entire life just for a fleeting moment of pleasure.
i do think he'd be more open to subtler displays of vouyerism, though, like putting him in a chastity cage or plugging him up for the day.
- sadomasochist. enjoys (light) impact play and humiliation the most, both on the giving end and the receiving end. he'll take slaps across the face with a smile and expects the same from you when he has you bent over his knee.
- his head game is fucking insane once he gets the hang of it. he's at his most passionate when he's on his knees, his head buried between your legs and his mouth full of you. might even get so into it that he'll ask for your permission to touch himself while he works, leading to him moaning at your warmth, your taste, you.
‐ and his moans are truly beautiful. they're soft, effeminate, almost like a whisper. they're even better once you get him hollering. "oh good heavens", "oh dear me", "oh gods", stuff like that.
- i don't think the man has any particular favorites when it comes to body parts, but his hands tend to linger around your legs, ass, hands, and (very controversial take according to people i've spoken to) your feet.
- hear me out on the feet thing, okay? okay. i think its partially because it ties into him being a masochist; being beneath others, submitting to them entirely is one of the things that gets him off the most, and the embodiment of that is being at their feet. i also just think he'd like how they look in, say, a nice pair of heels or dress shoes.
- might drop to his knees and meticulously shine your shoes himself, all while telling you how gorgeous you look in them, how well they fit you. yes, this is a sex thing for me. because i am a pervert. i hope you understand <3
- he's not a beggar, but he'll absolutely beg for you to press your pretty heel against his cock.
BONUS!!!
i dont listen to many x listener audios bc i think most of them sound kinda silly, buttttt..... this one reminds me of him uehehehe. Giggles
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I’m sorry but this has to be said: Eddie is not a sex-god Casanova charmer. He is three raccoons in a trench coat at best. He is gross, and icky, and awkward but God he loves hard.
Eddie would go at a rotisserie chicken standing at the counter with his bare hands. His enclosure lacks enrichment and that rotisserie chicken is it.
He’s messy. Every surface in his room is sticky, covered in dust, or both. That’s if you can even get to it. There are socks in there that would probably become sentient and walk away if you let them sit long enough. There’s also probably food rotting somewhere. You have to follow the boy around with a wet rag and Wayne warns you as such.
He stinks. He doesn’t wash his clothes. He barely washes himself. He smokes weed and cigarettes and both of those things reek. That jacket and vest are his safety clothes and I can 100% guarantee you that he doesn’t wash them. He is also okay wearing clothes that are stained as long as they’re not completely soiled. Definitely has holes in his socks and underwear that are way beyond being okay.
He thinks is really funny to open his mouth and show you what he’s chewing on the second you tell him to stop talking when his mouth is full. He’s also the type to lick you.
As loud and obnoxious and outspoken as he is, he’s super non-confrontational. As his resident gf, it’s your responsibility to tell the waiter that he didn’t want pickle on that. Or schedule his doctors appointment. You also have to lie to him to get him to go. This also applies to the dentist.
He likes candy and especially the blue kind. His tongue and lips are always stained blue from whatever the hell he was eating like a child.
He also has ADHD and cannot regulate his food intake. He will eat so fast and so much until he makes himself sick. You are constantly reminding him to slow down.
Also with ADHD he can’t regulate his sleep. He just sleeps in spurts of random cat naps at this point. He can also sleep anywhere, but his favorite place is his van.
Loves a good gas-station pickled hot sausage thing. I cringe at the very thought. His burps smell like that and monster energy and it radiates off of him and travels everywhere.
He shits with the door open and pees while you brush your teeth. His excuse is that “everyone does it” but in all honesty he thinks is really funny when you’re grossed out.
He’s always dirty and always has shit in his hair. You’re constantly pulling shreds of paper and leaves and probably also dandruff out of his hair.
There’s probably old condoms in the trash can in his room that haven’t been thrown out in a while.
He also will kiss you after a blowjob or eating you out. He literally doesn’t care. Tongue and all.
The stains on his sheets? Honestly he was right. He doesn’t know what they are.
And he might be gross and sticky and genuinely kind of icky, but when he loves, he does it with his entire being:
If he hasn’t seen you in a while, he’ll run and plow you into a hug with his full force. He doesn’t know his own strength and will probably take you out.
This extends to play-wrestling, tickling you until you can’t breath and then eventually a gangly arm will probably elbow you in the chin or something and he’ll spend the rest of the afternoon nearly in tears apologizing now matter how much it didn’t hurt.
He doesn’t pick up well on social cues and sometimes can’t decipher what appropriate affection is. On more than one occasion he has slinked into the living room in front of Wayne, lifted your shirt up over your chest, shoved his head into the skin of your tummy, and pulled the shirt back down without saying anything.
He also likes to grab you by the hips and press you into his chest or wrap his arms around your shoulders and start kissing your neck while you’re mid-conversation. People get distracted because he’s so into it.
He’s vocal about what you do in bed and also vocal while he’s in bed. There’s nothing discreet and nothing left up to the imagination with him.
But he also doesn’t go to sleep without telling you how much he loves you every night. Even if he’s half asleep or you’re completely out.
When you started coming to the trailer he tried cleaning up. He really did. He just got overwhelmed and distracted and offered to take you out instead.
He spends hours putting little traces of you in his room. Polaroids, Knick-knacks, even music posters of your favorite bands.
He’s very tentative and doting in bed. He’s huge on consent and is always trying to gauge how you feel. He’s always asking questions about what feels good and what he needs to do better. Your pleasure is his pleasure.
He has to feel you. He wants his skin to touch you at all times. He wants to crawl into your skin and live there. It doesn’t even have to be sexual. He just needs you close.
i'm genuienyl so fucking embarrassed omg ....... umm short drabble thing of walter and claudine under the cut . please dont look at me im a dropout and i havent properly written anything since i was like 10
"You know well you shouldn't be following me back to the manor."
Claudine wasn't one to be subtle. If anything embodied that fact most, it had to have been the glowing eyes stalking him from the black beneath his bed.
Walter sighed. It's not as though she needed to be told not to trespass into the Hellsing estate, the place that worked to exterminate her kind from the face of the earth. That was like telling a child not to reach out and touch a raging fire, no matter how pretty it was or how brightly it burned. He supposed the child comparison was all too accurate– you tell them not to do something, and they go ahead and do it anyway.
All 5 of those eyes narrowed. "Bah! And here I thought you'd be happy to have some company. You are very hard to please, you know?"
The vampire skittered out from the shadows bed, unfolding herself like an accordion as she came to her feet. Watching her stretch out her spindly limbs brought to mind the question of just how long she had been there. "You speak such nonsense sometimes. Do you not trust me, hm? Or, perhaps it is because you are worried about me?"
"I believe I've had my fill of your company for a good while." Claudine leaned in, a pout on her painted lips. Walter turned his head. "And no, given that Hellsing has an army of soldiers at it's disposal, I can't say that I do trust you not to get yourself killed here."
The vampire blanked. Maybe it would have been a far more intelligent thing to do, to think about the potential consequences of her actions. Impulsive, yes, but she wasn't a complete idiot; she would've admitted her faults if it weren't for one, tiny little thing he forgot to mention.
"Ah, but you did not deny you were worried about me, no?"
Walter's lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "To some degree, I suppose."
And to that, Claudine managed to land one peck on his cheek, smearing it in black. "That is what I thought."
There’s been a thought that’s been making me go full smooth-brain lately:
Imagine being Eddie’s ✨passenger princess✨
In the name of comfort you take your shoes off every time you get into the van no matter how close by you are. He always insists on getting out, opening the door for you, unbuckling your seatbelt, and putting your shoes back on for you.
If the van has AC (which I’m assuming it probably doesn’t) but if it DOES, he never complains when you are constantly messing with it, letting you adjust it to the right temperature and blow setting one matter how hot or cold it is.
No one is allowed to control the music in the van. No one except for you 🤍
He always keeps a pillow and a blanket shoved in the back for you when you go on longer car rides. Navigator who? You only know comfort.
Also, there are usually snacks stashed somewhere for you.
Even if you can drive, he insists on taking you to all of the errands you have to run, even if it means he has to sit in the car for hours and wait for you throughout the day.
He always lets you put your feet on the dash when he would yell at anyone else who tries.
I can’t remember if his van has the bitch seat or a console in the middle but if it’s a singular seat instead of the bench he wouldn’t dare adjust your seating adjustments and about cries when Dustin hops in and leans it all the way back.
If there’s a bitch seat, your spot is under his arm, leaning into his side when he drives and he will immediately assume something is wrong if you’re not there.
He always holds your hand when he drives. No exceptions.
Or your thigh if your hands are occupied.
“Of course we can stop for coffee/snacks/food.”
You have your designated cup holder. Even when you’re not there he’s not using it.
He will 100% pull on to the side of the road to pick you wildflowers.
He won’t even care if your shit is strung all over his cab. Purse on the center console? Cool with him. Lipgloss in the cup holder? Just fine. Glove box full of all of your cassettes? Absolute. Clips on the “oh shit” bar (I honestly don’t know another name for these)? Perfect.
Loves when you keep your scrunchies on his shifter.
He also grabs your purse for you when you get out of the car.
Will never EVER let you pay for gas no matter how much you insist.
If you absolutely have to drive (which is nearly never) he will get out to pump your gas for you. He’ll even go out of his way to meet you at the gas station so you don’t have to do it.
I’m sure there’s a ton more but this was incredibly self indulgent and in a more realistic setting I headcanon that this man CANNOT drive and I would end up driving for my own safety but let me have this. Thanks.
Summary: Since graduating college, you have yet to find your niche. Now that you're home for the holidays, you realize that, not only are you alone, but so is Steve Harrington.
Warnings: Steve Harrington X Fem!Reader fluff, hallmark movie inspired because I know someone out there would rather eat a jean jacket than read this, Nancy is not a villain but there is a misunderstanding used to further the hallmark plot, not beta read.
Word Count: 5.1K
A/N: I wrote the end of this in after having the flu for a week so please excuse me if it reads like a fever dream instead of a hallmark movie. I've also never written for Steve before but he's so soft I needed to use him for this plot.
Enjoy <3
Indiana was smightingly cold at this time of year.
But not cold like New York- never cold like New York.
The weather bit at your cheeks and sunk into your bones, but at least Hawkins still had the small-town charm. It held on to its identity with an iron grip. The people here were set in their ways. They still held doors and asked about your mother in the grocery store. People still pretended to care. New York had teeth. Parsons had claws.
It hardened you like leather. It pulled the supple nature out of your personage and stretched it to dry in the sun. It scraped your softness from your hide with a knife.
New York felt like a dream. It was a dream.
According to your parents, like loan sharks circling around your schooling like an investment that was rapidly bleeding to death in the water around them, it was time to be an adult now. Whatever the hell that meant. You felt like an adult? You did adult things like getting degrees and putting down payments on cars. But a part of you still felt that post-high-school-graduation high. The world was still your oyster, right? Or had you shucked that shell altogether?
You figured you’d probably partook in too many oyster shots during your weekends perusing Fifth Ave. You wondered when vodka stopped stinging when it went down your throat.
Maybe you were old. Really really old. And sad. Only the kind of sad that adults could be. The kind where, when people asked how you were doing, you still had to say that you were just fine because they didn’t actually care enough about how you were feeling, instead opting to care for the formality of asking.
You fought the urge to check your rearview mirror for wrinkles. It was a losing battle.
The tires of your car created a deafening noise. It sounded like failure. Sure, you had the degree, but what the hell were you doing now? The sheer indignation of it was exhausting. You stopped fighting it when you’d come back to Hawkins. It drew a tired sigh from your lips, hands readjusting on the wheel just to feel grounded again.
In high school, when they asked you what you saw yourself doing in five years, you’d insisted that you’d be reintroducing your own brand of modern victorians on the Upper East Side, and while you had wreaked your own havoc on Manhattan’s Greenwich Village, you couldn’t quite find your niche.
Little people in their cape-cods and craftsmen all became blurs as you passed through your hometown. You wonder if they even knew the difference- ever cared past what the wide-mouthed, plaid-suited realtor tried to sell them on. You wondered if he even knew the difference.
You thought it was funny. People looked like their houses- in the same way that they looked like their dogs. All asynchronous beings in asynchronous dwellings. Even the cookie-cutter people looked cookie-cutter. You could almost giggle at the thought, especially as the wide woman in a lime green coat exited her lime green door and past the remnants of her lime-green summer hydrangea.
You wondered if you still looked like your parents’ house. Alone. Obtuse. Obnoxious. You couldn’t decide which one was worse. You missed your apartment. While small, it had the original crown molding, and the original brick walls that stayed warm when you lit the fireplace. You hoped you looked like her. She was something to be proud of.
You understood that your parents harbored an unspoken doubt towards your abilities. You knew about it when you left for Parsons, and it had only had time to mature while you were away. You didn’t know whether to feel like a failure to live up to that expectation or to resent them for manifesting it into existence.
You did resent them for leaving you alone for the holidays- their empty-nester personas had grown unto them like a fungus. They chose the cruise over your company.
You felt lost. Not in the physical sense, no. You doubted there were even enough streets in Hawkins for you to get lost on. You felt like a lobotomized housewife, the mashed-potato remnants of your frontal lobe unable to make sense of anything you had learned in undergrad now that it belonged to the real world. The world turned from your oyster to your operating room, your hands discarding the shell for a bone drill and a leucotome.
The house was the same as you left it. Large. Your mother spared no expense in anything- especially not the house they rarely resided in. The chill inside was colder than the one outside. White marble spanned from baseboard to baseboard, up the stairs and through the expanse of the second floor. The conversation pit was dastardly. You didn’t think an actual conversation had taken place there in your entire life. Your footsteps echoed against the walls. No food in the fridge. Open Architectural Digest on the coffee table- strategically placed- making its home next to the Tabarka Studio catalog.
You resented this place.
+
The coffee shop was quaint. Nestled between the local secondhand bookstore and some vintage consignment shop, buried in the deepest nest of Hawkins’ own charming aura. It also seemed like the only place that was warm in the historic downtown shopping district. The flocking on the windows seemed out of place- considering the foot of snow you were predicted to receive overnight seemed to be falling in sheets outside of the store.
You ordered your coffee poignantly, your own voice scaring you. You realized then that you hadn’t spoken in days- you had no reason to, given that you were alone anyways. You felt the way the hot liquid burned your hand through the cup, trying to draw that heat towards the rest of your body- until it was, in fact, covering your sweater and the floor beneath you.
“Oh!” You exclaimed, louder than you could have accurately gauged for such a short time.
“O-oh my God- shit- oh my God. I’m so sorry.” The boy in front of you fumbled, setting his own coffee down and reaching deft hands towards you.
“Oh my God- no. You’re totally okay!” You reassured, pulling your top layer off, quickly. The coffee hadn’t even sunk down to your base layer.
“Oh- God, no you’re covered. Did I burn you?” He asked, almost too quickly, reaching out to grab your shoulders to look you over before pulling his own sweater off to hand to you.
“Here, take this. Please.” He pleaded.
“No, Steve, it’s fine.” You said back, now giggling at his frantic nature- as if he had stabbed you rather than spilled your coffee.
He looked up, confused as to how you knew his name. His brow was furrowed. He looked older, and you were comforted in the fact that it wasn’t just you.
“Oh my God, hi!” He said, the corners of his lips turning up into a smile.
If you were a New York loft, Steve was a cathedral. The light shone through stained glass windows and graced his skin in a sparkling smattering of freckles and moles. He housed flying buttresses in the way he enunciated and commanded a room like a mass. The gargoyles were new, though. He seemed more guarded than the Steve Harrington that you knew from Key Club. He seemed sadder, too. Adult sad.
“How have you been?” You asked, cringing at your own use of the formality.
“Good,” He said through a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now will you please take my sweater?” He asked again, through a nervous chuckle.
“I’m really fine, Steve.” You said, reaching out to take it anyways.
“Do it to make me feel better, at least.” He said, watching you slide it over your shirt.
“Do you feel better now?” You asked him, pointedly raising a brow in his direction.
“Not until I get you another coffee.” He said through a smile.
Steve wouldn’t take no for an answer, buying the second warm cup as an apology that you didn’t pry for. The first one was enough. You sat across from him at the old oak table. It left a waxy residue against your hands- probably from the industrial cleaner they used on them at the end of the day.
“So… it’s been what, like five years now?” He asked, leaning on his elbows in front of you.
“Six,” You corrected, “I uh.. I just graduated.”
The guilty feeling crept on you again. Like you should be contributing. Like you were behind and frantically needed to catch up. Adult sad.
“Oh! That’s right! Parsons, right?” He asked. You didn’t know how he remembered that.
“Yeah. In New York.” You said, soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips.
“So… Are you back in Hawkins for the holidays?” He inquired, index finger nail scratching idly against an impurity amongst the many in the table.
“No. I’m here to stay.” You replied through an involuntary sight- that horrible guilty feeling creeping back up in your throat like hot vomit.
“It’s admirable.” He said. Six years ago, that statement would have dripped in sarcasm and unimpressed venom. Today it sounded genuine.
“What is?”
“Coming home.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” You scoffed back at him, your own disgust with yourself mirroring the exact nature of your parents- the same ones that left you in this predicament.
“What is?” He asked, mirroring your own confusion at the question.
“What is King Steve up to? I’m sure something just as big and extravagant? Even bigger than New York?”
“I never left, actually.”
“Then what are you doing, Steve?”
“I’m, uh, down at the Family Video. Renting movies.” He reached a hand back to scratch the back of his neck, tufts of soft curls at the nape twirling through his fingers.
That was the last thing you expected from Steve Harrington six years ago. You would have thought Notre Dame. His parents had the money for it. Even Ball State on a baseball scholarship. What had happened in between? You felt guilty for projecting these thoughts on him. You hated when people did that to you. It was unfair.
“Are you happy?” You asked, breaking the several seconds of silence between you.
“What?” He questioned again.
“Do you like doing it? Family Video?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” You couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not. The adult lie. You accepted it as a truth for now.
“Then I guess it’s admirable, too.”
+
Steve’s sweater was still warm from the dryer. You used it as a rationalization. You needed to return the sweater. It was disgustingly cold outside. What if it was his only sweater?
Of course it’s not, you idiot. You live in Indiana.
But what if it’s a family heirloom? What if it belonged to his dead grandpa or something?
You shook the thoughts from your head- conversation with yourself feeling too much like cabin fever for you to carry on with. Steve didn’t live very far from your house. His parents’ plantation plain was the epitome of the upper-middle class suburban sprawl that had taken place just ten years prior. Red door, circular drive, pool that could only be used realistically two months out of the year. It was the terror of suburbia. It struck your parents like a plague. It was something you tolerated.
As you walked up the two steps to the porch, you debated leaving. You debated turning around and running- but the risk of him seeing you as you took off down the drive was far more terrifying. You realized then that you were in too deep. The doorbell seemed obnoxious. You opted to knock instead.
“Oh, hey!” Steve greeted, almost too quickly. The door swinging open enthusiastically just seconds after you knocked.
“Hey! I, uh, brought your sweater.” It was uneventful. Unremarkable. It made you want to curl into yourself so hard that you turned into a black hole and imploded.
“Oh! Thanks! I almost forgot about it.” He hadn’t. He’d hoped for this moment. Right here.
A few painful seconds registered between you, your brain couldn’t make sense of the alphabet soup floating around between bits of pink matter and vast emptiness. Your brain screamed to flee.
“Uh, okay, so.. I’m gonna go home now? I’ll see you around?” You asked him, curling your arms in on yourself.
“Wait! I-I have to run some errands? Maybe you’re not too busy to come with?” He asked, stepping out of the threshold of his front door with the same urgency as he had opened it.
“Maybe I’m not.”
+
In the coming weeks, Steve filled in all of your empty space. Most waking seconds, stolen VHS tapes, strolls through the snow and prompt warm coffees, window shopping through the historic district. Even the mundane things like paying your bills or getting bare necessity groceries to get you through the week. Everything was fun with Steve.
The ebb of the adult sadness no longer had a sting, and slowly, you didn’t feel it at all. Steve didn’t pry about where or what you had planned next. Steve didn’t hound you about your degree or cashing in on your investments. Steve liked you as you existed in that moment. You weren’t a fixer-upper, and you didn’t just have potential. He wasn’t stressful, and liking his company was effortless.
He pushed the cart through the grocery store for you, as you eyed your grocery list- then the contents of the cart- then the grocery list again, making sure you hadn’t missed anything so far.
“So what are you making for dinner?” Steve asked, pulling your attention away from your grocery list.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend to do that for you, Steve?” You asked back, knowing damn well he didn't.
“Nope. Not since Nancy Wheeler.” He said, a joking tone still in his voice as he pushed himself around on the cart with one foot.
“Seriously?” You asked him, lowering your list in surprise. If Steve six years ago heard that, he would have exploded into a fine pink mist.
“Seriously what?” He stopped himself on the cart, turning backwards to look at you.
“You haven’t dated anyone since Nancy?”
“Not seriously.” He shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing.
“What constitutes seriously?” You asked, folding your arms. You weren’t budging, and he knew that.
“More than two dates.” He said, mirroring your own folded arms in an unspoken joke.
“Jeez Steve, ever the player.” You waved your hand, grabbing the cart from next to him and continuing to walk through the aisles.
“I can’t help it that I’m this handsome.” He chuckles, smoothing back his hair and pulling the cart back from you.
“It also might have helped if you stuck around longer than the second date.” You rolled your eyes, sinking back down into your grocery list.
“For your information, it was Nancy who kicked my heart in the ass.” He explained, handing you the jar of honey from the shelf that you were inevitably going to ask for.
“Huh.” You said, not elaborating. Instead keeping your eyes fixated on the shopping list.
“What?” He asked quizzically, still holding out the honey.
“I always assumed you dumped her.” You took the honey from his hand, finally meeting his eye.
“No. I didn’t. Trust me, I tried. She was already in love with someone else” He sighed, leaning his elbows back down against the cart handle. He remembered when he tried to get Nancy back, when he thought that Johnathan had been pulling her into something shady. Before all hell broke loose in Hawkins. He missed the simplicity of simply being an asshole. Now everything was all confusing and he needed to justify every action.
“I’m sure you’ll find your person, Steve.” You reassured, placing a warm hand against his shoulder blade. You felt it shift beneath your hands as he turned towards you.
“I already have my person.” He said to you. He felt hot. He wondered if you noticed the slight tremor in his hands. You didn’t.
“I’m not talking about Robin, dude. Platonic soulmate or not.” You laughed, rolling your eyes and continuing to walk. You knew him and Robin were a special pair, even if they both happened to play for the same team. Eat from the same side of the buffet, if you will. They were twin flames and there was nothing you could do other than accept it- even if you had wanted to change it.
“I’m not talking about her.” He said, stopping in the middle of the aisle. You were already a few steps ahead of him. You looked back at him over your shoulder,
“Dustin doesn’t count either.”
+
Steve looked up at the main corridor of your house, at the twelve-foot, flocked, artificial tree. It was covered in gold tinsel, only white ornaments, picks, and ribbon adorning its sad, stark branches. Made even more bleak by the excess of white lights strung around it. Your mother hadn’t done this herself- of course she hadn’t, instead hiring a decorator out of Indianapolis to deck your equally depressing halls with the hottest color of the season. White. It made your eyes burn thinking about it.
“It’s uh…” Steve started, trying to find something to describe it without sounding horrible.
“Devout of all life?” You finished for him.
“I was gonna say like mine, but I guess that’s synonymous.” He chuckled.
“What’s with our mothers and hating color?” You asked him, dragging the groceries in behind you.
“Color must equate to poverty.” He attempted to reason, dragging in the other half of your groceries.
“And apparently so does being home for Christmas.” You sighed, heaving them up onto the white marble countertops.
“Hey… Mine haven’t been home for a seven-year streak now.” He shrugged, in an attempt to make you feel better. You wondered how lonely it must have felt, going through that as a kid.
“I’m sorry, Steve.” You said, turning around to snake your arms around his waist quickly. He was warm. Ridiculously warm. You could have stayed there forever, and he wouldn’t have minded.
“It’s okay. We can be alone together, right?” He said, his hands trailing up and down, flat-palmed against the valley of your back.
You sat in silence for a while, taking him in. He smelled good. He had a wonderful boy smell, like a big comfy chair and bourbon in your coffee. Like a hearth with a new fire. You hummed contently as you felt him twirl the ends of a strand of your hair between his fingers, rocking you slowly back and forth.
“When I was a kid they had these globe lights that were all different colors. Not just the red and green ones. Like every color. I thought they were the coolest.” You piped up, shattering the silence between you like a bat against a window. He pulled away from you, hands still gripping your shoulders.
“They sound really nice.” He smiled, before letting his hands fall to the paper grocery bags behind you.
“What happened to them? Our parents, I mean.” You asked, back turned to him as you began filling the fridge.
“They got old. They got weird and sad. You stop caring when you do that.” He opened the pantry, slotting cereal and oatmeal boxes neatly inside.
“I think we got old, too. And weird and sad.”
“We did, didn’t we?”
There was a lull in conversation, a beat filled only by the crinkle of cellophane wrapping and fridge doors opening as you each had separate qualms with your own mortality. It was weird, and it was sad. Eighteen felt so far beyond the realms of your comprehension now. People told you that you looked like a different person. You didn’t feel the same. Maybe all of that weirdness and all of that sadness was beginning to register on your face. Had your mother felt like this at your age?
“Do you remember that prom party senior year?” Steve asked.
“The one where Ricky threw up in your pool?” You turned to him, letting the fridge close behind you.
“Yeah. The one where I spent a good two hour skimming puke off the top of said pool.” He met you in the kitchen, leaning back against the island, hands gripping the counter behind him
“When did that stop being fun?” You leaned back against your side of the counter, arms folding in front of your chest.
“The second hangovers took me three days to fully recover from.” He chuckled, though the truth rang apparent in the space between you.
“I think we’re the ones that stopped being fun.” You sat up from the counter, gesturing to the space between you. Steve sat up as well, taking the step towards you.
He was close. Close enough that you felt the heat radiate from him like a hearth. Close enough to kiss.
“I’m still fun.” He said, barely above a whisper.
There was nothing. And then there was Steve. He stood before you in all of his plantain plain, gothic cathedral glory. He was a holy stained glass relic in the way he kissed, soft like candlelight behind selenium. His lips told stories like parables, harboring enough heartbreak and sacrifice for a lifetime.
He was the suburban sprawl in the way he held you close, gripping your hips fervently- like you were going to slip away. You realized then that you saw the next ten years of your life in front of you, even if it was cookie-cutter. You wanted it as long as it was with him. It was all the same with him, just as grand as whatever bullshit Architectural Digest your mom left on the coffee table.
“That you are, Steve Harrington.”
+
Your state of lovesick bliss concaved on your personage like a house fire. Your anger wasn’t enough to warm you in the snow in front of the Harrington house, arms like steel beams enclosing Nancy Wheeler in a frame. Ash fell in your line of sight in slow motion, his hands planing her back like molding. You felt your foundation crack. You felt your framework crumble. What was previously steady was uprooted with a vigor that could bring you to your knees.
It made sense to you. Steve was still in love with Nancy.
You felt stupid. Nancy and her skin like venetian plaster, alabaster and glowing against the light refracted from the snow. Rosy cheeks like unsealed saltillo and soft edges like archways. She matched his tracery. She smoothed out his edges in the ways that you never could.
His eye met yours as he looked up from Nancy’s shoulder, letting his hands fall from her body to wave at you. You wanted to run, but couldn’t justify a reason for it. You would have to grit your teeth and bear it until you could weasel up an excuse.
“Hey!” Steve ran through his yard, leaving heavy footprints in the snow behind him. All you could see was Nancy Wheeler, standing soft on the porch in front of him. The light from his door cast a glow like a halo around her head.
“Hi.” You said, barely above a whisper.
“It’s freezing out here, let’s go inside.” He said, reaching out to run his hands up and down your shoulders. You couldn’t bear the idea of him touching you with the same hands that held Nancy just moments before.
“Hey, I’m actually pretty busy. I’ll see you later.” You saw your first chance to leave and took it, already taking a few steps back to walk away. His hands receded, and his brow knit together in confusion.
“O-oh. Okay? I’ll swing by after work then?” He looked taken aback. You didn’t know if you had the heart in you to care, though, his hurt expression was enough to make your voice crack.
“No, I actually have some errands to run.”
You didn’t wait to hear his response, snow crunching rapidly underfoot- turning into the icy slosh you felt pouring from your chest and out of your eyes. You wouldn’t let yourself cry over Steve Harrington. You never even had him in the first place. You would, however, allow yourself to cry over your own stupidity. Something as trivial as falling in love was beneath you- especially falling in love with him.
+
The ash settled on the eve of your own discontent like snow, falling around you in sheets that buried you faster than you could claw your way out. So you let it swallow you, like the bedding you buried yourself in. You tried to live, sure, tried to feel normal. But it was so mechanical now. Coffee out of the pot, boiled egg with salt, shower in silence, sit in the conversation pit and stare at the bleak white tree.
Nothing was fun anymore. No colored bulbs, bleak white days.
You no longer frequented the coffee shop- well, you don’t know if it had become quite a habit yet considering it had only been a few days, but there are a significant amount of unpleasant things you’d rather have done instead of risking running into Steve. This included consuming an entire denim jacket. You drowned out the phone. You tuned out the brisk knocks on the door. Instead, opting for leisurewear for a third day in a row and shitty daytime television.
This was the nightmare you swore you would never live. You were turning into your mother. Maybe it was fate; a parable etched into a stained glass cathedral.
You shook the thoughts from your head, you would not think of him. You would not stoop to this level of pathetic- even if he had ruined literal holy ground for you. And you would not turn into your mother.
As quickly as you had moved in days, you threw the blanket from your body and was greeted with immediate cold, though the house was always cold. You never paid it any mind until the only warmth you had ever known was suddenly absent. You padded quickly up the stairs, feet sticking to the underfoot and unsticking with a soft noise. You wouldn’t have noticed it before, but the house was so quiet now. Quieter than usual.
You stare at yourself in the mirror, mimicking your mothers hands as you pull back on the nonexistent wrinkles on your face. The bags under your eyes were designer. You tried to convince yourself of this as you changed out of your day’s old pajama set and into real adult clothes. You knew you wouldn’t brave the world today, especially not in this cold, but you could at least pretend like you were. With some persuasion and a little elbow grease, you looked like your heart hadn’t gotten kicked in this ass a few days prior.
Your seven-day silence was shattered, then the pebble bouncing off your window shattered your cold streak like glass.
Steve stood in the snow on your frozen lawn, light from your bedroom window casting a barely-there glow against the snow.
“Steve? What are you doing here?” You asked, squinting to attempt to see his figure in the dark.
“I’ve been coming. You never answer.” He yelled upwards towards your terrace, arms thrown out wide in defense.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He asked sarcastically, rummaging around in the snow for something you couldn’t see “All of this white is gonna make you depressed. You need some color!”
You already were depressed, you had been depressed. Steve must have missed the memo.
“Why?” You asked, flinching at the sound of your own snarkiness.
“Because you’re already depressed- look, just come down here!” He pleaded, sounding desperate. It broke you despite your anger towards him.
You rolled your eyes, shutting the french doors behind you on the terrace. You shucked on the closest sweater and hurried down the stairs, meeting Steve on the patio. Steve rushed to meet you at the top of the stairs, hands encasing your shoulders in a warm grasp.
“Look, I don’t know why you dropped off the face of the earth, but at least let me make it better?” He asked, voice tender as he reached around you to smooth the hair on the back of your head.
“I’m fine, Steve.” You insisted, yet he recognized that same sadness that registered in your eyes.
“No you’re not. You came by the other day and then flipped and left. What happened?” He asked, eyes softening as he looked you over.
“Nothing, Steve.” You persisted
“Nancy said tha-” He started, going white once he realized, “It was Nancy, wasn’t it?”
“You’re still in love with her.” You said, ashamed of your own assumption. Your voice registered as barely above a whisper.
“Sweetheart, no. Nancy and I are not. She is utterly and irrevocably in love with Johnathan.” He cupped your face in his hand, encapsulating your jaw and running his thumb against your wind-burnt cheek.
“But, in the store-” You started, but Steve stopped you.
“I was talking about you, stupid. You’re my person.” He laughed, moving his hands to grip your waist. He locked you into a tight kiss, all teeth as he smiled against your lips.
“You didn’t have to call me stupid, y’know.” You mumbled against him, drawing a chuckle from his lips.
“Listen, I am so stupidly in love with you. Like I'm so in love with you.” He said, cupping your face in his hands.
“Steve.” You groaned, burying your face in your own hands now.
“Listen- just, like, I’m not great with words but, ugh. Just watch this.” He let go of you, suddenly, stumbling his way down the stairs. You couldn’t help but to laugh at his own boyish excitement.
Suddenly, with a soft hum, your patio was encased in a shroud of prismatic color. You laughed, the colorful bulbs wrapped around your porch refracting light across Steve’s face, a nervous smile gracing his lips.
“I figured we don’t have to do this alone together thing forever,” He started, “I’d much rather do this together together thing with you.” He took you in his arms again, placing a soft peck to your mouth.
“I’d like that.” You laughed, your head burying deep into his shoulder.
“And we can have fun colored lights every year.” He said to you, pulling back to look you in the eyes.
“Is that a guarantee?” You asked him
“It’s a promise.”
“When we have our own home, Steve.” You reminded him, knowing that your mother would scoff if she saw the lights.
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Summary: Eddie Munson was famous. And an asshole. You were also famous. And a Bitch. You had both been reading each other's lives through headlines for the last five years, so then what happens when you both start to miss out on life milestones?
Hurt/Comfort, Exes-to-Enemies-to-Lovers, Angst
Warnings: Lots of reading time- this guy is long. Fem!Reader, Eddie Munson x Reader, mention of Eddie's horrible parents, rehab, alcohol abuse and addiction, brief mention of a car accident, fighting, language, angst, Eddie publicly humiliates reader, hurt/comfort, joking about serial killers. Not proof read. Don't come for me.
My content is 18+ Minors DNI
Word Count: 13.8k
Author's Note: Please read this. I've been working on it for weeks. I also hate it. Thanks.
Your face had hardened since then, your jaw had become angular, lost that beautiful late teenage fluff that pushed your sad, innocent eyes into a perfect almond. Your eyes, that you batted like weapons that won wars against men, carried a type of sadness that only came with age and experience. You were meaner now than you were then. You liked it that way.
Your face had hardened since then, your jaw had become angular, lost that beautiful late teenage fluff that pushed your sad, innocent eyes into a perfect almond. Your eyes, that you batted like weapons that won wars against men, carried a type of sadness that only came with age and experience. You were meaner now than you were then. You liked it that way.
The summer of 1988 was the eve of your own disdain. The summer that household names like Tom Zutaut and Elektra Records became bitter when they rolled off of your tongue. Gradually, and all at once. When Eddie, your lifeline for the last five years, had been approached by Tom at their first night playing The Troubadour, and asked to sign on to Elektra Records, you were ecstatic. Tom felt like your hero. You held Eddie, you cried happy tears, you waved him off to shows, and you held down the fort. And then it felt like you only kept waving goodbye.
The design school was rigorous, but you held on to that piece of yourself like tinder just barely aflame. As the lonely nights grew darker, you blew and tended to it, igniting that part of yourself further. With Eddie on his first full-length tour, you found the late night, drunk phone calls more of a chore than an occasion, and you found yourself leaning further and further back on your art. As Corroded Coffin caught traction, so did your career. Before you knew it, David, your own Zutaut, was pleading for you to work under him, at his office in Carlsbad, for Transworld Skateboarding.
And so, alone, you packed your apartment and moved halfway across the country. You made your fizzling relationship work from California for a few months, now being closer to the recording studio. But it felt like he couldn’t be located further from you. He took your convenience and availability for granted, skipping date nights and weekend plans for ritzy rockstar parties and opening concerts. And even though your shared apartment was only an hour commute, you now saw him less than you did when you lived back in Indiana. The argument came well past midnight. You came quietly through the front door, already angry that you had attended your press party alone- a commitment that he had also bailed on last-minute. Removing your heels well up the hallways to not disturb him from his drunken slumber, you found him sitting there, slovenly as ever, without a doubt drunk.
“Where were you?” He asked, accusingly, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
“I was at the press party that you were supposed to come to.” You said to him, rolling your eyes. You knew your words would pass through his ears like a breeze anyways.
“We were supposed to go out tonight.” He said, getting angrier with you.
“No, Edward, that was last night.” You explained, back to him as you set your heels back on the rack and pulled up your hair. You were sure he wasn’t going to remember this in the morning, anyways.
He cringed a little bit, even in this state, he knew you were mad when you used his government name. But tonight instead of resulting in his apologetic nature, he turned defensive.
“Okay, fine then, what about me?” he asked, crossing his arms. You froze and turned around.
“What do you mean, ‘what about me?’” You asked, face twisting up into a grimace. You were seething now.
“I mean, you basically begged to spend time with me this weekend, and then blow me off for some stupid work party.” He raised his voice, throwing his hands up in the air- room-temperature foam from the bottle splashing up and back against the wall behind him.
“Edward-”
“Edward what? You’ve just been blowing me off for work all of the time now. Y’know what? Fine! Just think all about your little tabloids and forget all about our relationship!” He finally blew, standing up and pacing around.
You went quiet, voice sharp like a razor.
“Well, it feels like you already have.”
+
It didn’t take long for you to find yourself again, since you had been searching for her in Eddie’s absence for almost a year before your relationship ended. You had a commonly expelled name in the design industry, and you had connections. You giggled at the term, frequently. And, even though you found security in yourself, you felt a pang in your stomach every time you saw his name on the cover of some magazine or another. The tabloids sold him out the quickest, new girlfriend here, a Mötley Crüe-level shenanigan there, and their second full-length U.S. tour.
The summer of 1991, David split from Transworld Skating, pulling you, his prized possession with him. Together, you now served as the creative backing and dream-team for an up-and-coming publication called RayGun. This publication was supposed to be the new competitor for Rolling Stone, it was abstract, it was modern, and it was what the people of the new decade wanted to read.
You were new to being in the field, not typically having to conduct the interviews for your own spreads, but there was an alarming lack of young-and-hungry journalism interns three weeks before the school year started, and David had asked so nicely. He told you to take it as an opportunity to get out, get a feel for what the audience is like. Consider it a learning opportunity. It was so last-minute, that you didn’t even see who you were supposed to be taking a field trip to go see.
You dragged your photographer with you, gripping on to his arm. You barely knew his name. He was a newer kid from the university that showed enough potential to be considered for a permanent position. He was nice enough, though, nice didn’t get you anywhere in this industry. He would harden with time, but for now, you gripped his bicep and dragged him past the line and bouncer, flashing your ID at them without a second glance, through the waiting crowd, and back into the green room.
The second you locked eyes, you froze, followed by the entire rest of the band- containing every original member. You had all known each other in high school- been close friends, actually. You snapped out of it as Gareth attempted to break the tension, clapping you on the back and pulling you into a warm embrace with an ‘Oh my God, you look great!’. While it was kind of refreshing to be cordial to the rest of the band, Eddie sat, staring up at you from the couch and chewing on his thumb nail, skin replacing words that he couldn’t think of.
“So, you’re still chasing a dream, huh?” Eddie asked you, only half condescending. The other half was genuinely curious about where your life had been for the last three years. Your intern choked, not daring to limit you to that.
“Dude, she’s my boss.” Eddie shot him a look, and he cowered slightly.
“He’s right, I’m living it.” you defended, “Creative director of RayGun.”
You showed him your ID, for good measure.
“Then what are you doing in a greenroom, like an intern?” He spit back, other band members going rigid.
“Consider it a field trip. Learning my audience.” You spun around, hating that you pulled those words straight out of David’s mouth. You grabbed your intern’s arm, dragging him back out into the crowd to calm down.
“Who was that?” he asked, leaning down so you could hear him against the roar of an excited crowd.
The stage lights flicked on, blinding, and the crowd roared- devoted fans back for an entirely exclusive kick-off show.
“Are you fuckers ready?” Eddie screeched from his microphone, running his fingers down a different guitar, creating the most awful pinch-harmonics that made the crowd go wild.
“That’s Eddie. Eddie Munson. Lead guitarist for Corroded Coffin.” You explained to him, purposefully attempting to be vague.
Eddie locked eyes with you from the stage, shit-eating grin stretching across his face. Except, there was nothing but malice behind it.
“No, I know that” Connor stated, clicking a few pictures in between, “I mean- who is he to you? He obviously had some stuff to say to you.”
Before you could open your mouth to even half-assedly explain, Eddie pulled the mic back up to his lips.
“I want to dedicate this show to Corroded Coffin’s number one girl, my bitch ex-girlfriend.” He pointed at you, waving. You could see Gareth go absolutely rigid and people in the crowd started to turn to look at you. Connor at least had it in the right mind to snap a couple of pictures.
“Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to write all of this awesome music for you guys.”
Connor put his camera down slowly, looking at you with wide eyes. You wanted to cry, but instead, you allowed yourself to be filled with a steaming rage. You grabbed your intern by the bicep and dragged him out of the show, flipping Eddie and the rest of the now nearly-silent crowd the finger.
Once you were outside of the venue, you looked at Connor. Your brain went into full overdrive thinking about how the press would probably have this spit out for public speculation by tomorrow and you knew you’d be screwed if you didn’t leave with some sort of publishable material.
“Connor, I need you to snap some pictures of me. Now.” You told him, leaning back against the brick wall.
“Wh-why?” He asked, in between the shudder sounds on his camera.
“We’ve got a fucking story to write.”
+
You ignored the throbbing behind your eyes that radiated from your sinuses, mostly because you were trying to ignore the fact that you did, in fact, cry last night. Actually, you cried on the shoulder of your poor, gangly photographer in the back of a cab as he gently and uncomfortably patted your shoulder. You would be surprised if he came back to work in the morning, but he actually never left.
You spent the night in your work studio, Connor bringing back chinese takeout while you finished your spread- which was also set to headline this month’s publication. The media had already been in a frenzy, tabloids left and right mass-rolling your name and your RayGun title as Hollywood’s hottest new rockstar’s Bitch Ex-Girlfriend.
You hated how well it rolled off the tongue. Why was it that bitch had such a ring to it? Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. You kept repeating, sometimes out loud. It lost its pang every time you repeated it- turning it into a crown that you wore with pride. And you wore that crown high on your head as you sauntered into David’s office that morning, slamming your test-print down on his desk.
“Publish it.” You told him, and he looked at you like you were crazy. He didn’t question your artistic integrity in the slightest, and you knew that, but he worried that you hadn’t fully thought out the repercussions of your name being out there in that light.
“Are you sure, sweetheart? Is this really what you wanna be known for?” He asked you, eyebrows raised.
“Listen, David, they’re gonna give me that title whether I like it or not. So the way I see it, we have two options.” You told him, leaning over his desk to pluck one of his cigarettes off of his desk and lighting it right there in his fancy client chairs.
“Have you even slep- Jesus!” David exclaimed, watching you. You could tell he thought you had reached your breaking point. You had gone full Basquiat, but he knew better than to ask. You disregarded his concern, continuing through the smoke rolling from your nostrils.
“Listen to me, I can take cover and lay low, wait for all of this media shit to roll over….or…. We can publish this shit, and milk this thing for all it’s worth.” You said to him, taking another long drag off of the cigarette.
“Sweetheart, this is going to be a lot of bad publicity for you-” He tried to reason.
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, David, it’s all just attention. And attention is what we need. Make it a women’s issue. We have that editorial with Bikini Kill coming up next month, I can get in with Bratmobile, and you get in touch with L7’s publicist. That gives us a headliner, some up-and-comings, and something to run with.” You said, and he sighed, knowing he couldn’t argue this with you.
“Bu-”
“Publish. It.”
+
And so David gave it the green light. Within days, the August 1991 edition of RayGun magazine was mass-published and released with the cover reading, “Bitch Ex-Girlfriend: An Inside Scoop to Hollywood’s Hottest New Frontman.”
It was the highest grossing magazine in the company’s history, to date.
Your name was gaining traction, tabloid after tabloid begging on their knees for any sort of words from you, but you kept your lips sealed tight. All of the information that was worth sharing was out there for the world to see, but only through the eyes of RayGun. You relished in this new found fame- even printing the original pictures and cover large for your studio.
A little more money came rolling in, and now, you felt untouchable.
As a punishment- sort of- David sent you back out into the field to talk with some of the bands for the next RiotGrrrl editorial. He said he was making it a women’s problem, like you had said earlier. He expected you to clean up your act a little bit- not become some sort of third-wave feminist icon.
But you wore the name bitch like a crown, and these girls loved it.
So much so, that when Kathleen Hanna opened their show that night, she took Eddie’s moment of power from him, and she gifted it back to you. And when she grabbed your hand and pulled you back up onto the little soapbox stage, you could have sworn you were back at The Troubadour.
But when she screeched,
“That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood,
I’ve got news for you, she is
They say, she’s a bitch, but I know
She is, my best friend”
It solidified you, etched you into stone.
You had a new sense of power, now- a new sense of security within yourself. For the second month, you landed yourself on the cover of RayGun- a magazine that you worked for. You stood hand-and-hand with Bikini Kill’s front and your newfound hero, screeching your heart out about your shitty ex boyfriend and taking your goddamned self back. The September 1991 edition read, “Bitch: How RiotGrrrl is Reclaiming the Name.”
You knew no subtlety, but considering how many men didn’t either you didn’t know if you would ever collect enough sense to learn some.
And even though it was the exact opposite of what you should have been thinking, you hoped to God Eddie saw it.
+
A while later, after you had stabilized and come down from the initial, embossed shock of fame, you saw a magazine article that made you stop completely in your tracks. You had to go into the store to buy it. You never wasted your money on these. You stared at it the whole walk to the office, up the stairs, and even at your desk. Your brain couldn’t even begin to process the words in the article itself- so you called in Connor, shoving it at him and making him read it aloud to you, your head buried in your hands as you groaned loudly.
“Corroded Coffin’s lead guitarist, Eddie Musnon, was seen earlier this week checking himself into an undisclosed inpatient rehabilitation center in southern California earlier this week. The decision came after a non-fatal head-on collision in Los Angeles earlier this month, in which we know that alcohol was a factor. Other members of the band have chosen not to comment on the band’s, or Munson’s, condition at this time.” Connor read aloud, lowering the magazine from his face to look at you with wide eyes.
He couldn’t tell what you were feeling, or what you wanted from him. Honestly, you didn’t know, either.
Most of you would never wish this on anyone, not even him. Part of you just wanted to run back and hug him and tell him that everything was going to be okay- just like you did almost every night for five whole years of your life. Part of you wanted to be soft again, to lace your fingers in between his curls and hold his face to your neck. You wanted to be back in high school, where you could run rampant through the city and wreak havoc with your clean face and pretty eyes and youthful disposition. You were supposed to destroy the world together, hand-in-hand. But instead, it felt like the world just kept kicking you while you were down. What happened to that youthful optimism? You wondered. When did living stop being so fun?
But there was also a little part of you that screamed in horrible, awful, relinquishing rage. It was so much smaller than the soft part of you, but so, so much louder. It screamed at the top of its lungs that he deserved this for what he did to you, and what he had probably done to other girls, and- oh God, Wayne- you hadn’t thought about him in so long. A part of you loved the fact that you were doing better than him, and a part of you, the part that also hoped to God that he saw your publications, liked to think that he went over the edge thinking about you. It was a terrible awful. You choked that mean part of you down for no one else to see, never ever letting these thoughts come to fruition.
You sat with your head in your hands for a long time, for most of your work day, actually. Connor was the best intern you had ever had, bringing up your coffee and your lunch delivery and checking on you periodically. You made a mental note to hassle David about giving him a permanent position. You had already put the poor kid through so much.
After Connor had clocked out for the end of his work day, he stopped by your office again, shutting the large french doors and making sure the interior blinds had stayed drawn in the event that you were mid-meltdown. You were laid dramatically sprawled out on your office couch, cigarette in hand and forearm thrown over your eyes. You were sulking, processing your emotions, you had called it, but Connor understood.
“I brought you your mail.” He said, like he was walking across a freshly-frozen lake, “Your box was getting a little full.”
“Read them to me.” You groaned, comfortable in him knowing that you weren’t above this.
He read off several outreaches from publicists, startup bands, the odd bout of junk mail or magazine subscription offer, before he settled on the final letter. It was hand-written, and he didn’t recognize the name.
“Hawkins, Indiana.” He said to you, and you sat up, snuffing out your cigarette on the ashtray at the end table.
“Who the hell is still trying to get a hold of me from there?” You scoffed at him, and he squinted a little bit to read the name on the side.
“Dustin Henderson.” He said to you, giving you a questioning look.
“Open it.” You said, and he tore it open.
“You are cordially invited to celebrate the union of Dustin Henderson and Suzanne Bingham in marriage on the fifth of May, 1992. Ceremony to be held at Miller’s Wedding Venue, reception to follow. Please RSVP by February first, 1992.” He read aloud, and you couldn’t help the warmth that filled your heart, partially because he still thought of you, despite how long it had been, but also because the sweet little boy you remember from Hawkins had grown up and was getting married.
You didn’t hesitate to RSVP.
+
The months leading up to the wedding had you biting at your nails- which you also desperately needed to get done before you left. You slapped some sense into yourself, finally, knowing it was stupid to worry so much about the current events in Eddie’s life when you were sure he hasn’t given a rat’s ass about you after your nice little public scandal.
What you had remained senseless about, however, was the absolute terror you felt of going back to Hawkins. You had met up with big-whig producers, rock stars, artists, and the like. You attended yacht parties with large-scale celebrities on the regular- most of them greeting you on a first-name basis every time. You attended high-profile events, you took exotic vacations, and you had a net-worth (though, you didn’t really know how much it was or what it really even met), but, for whatever reason, you so desperately wanted to impress the patrons of your home town.
You decided to stay for a week to visit with your parents, who were more than thrilled to see you since your personal hiatus of three years. Though, the bags that you dragged through the little airport in Indianapolis said you were coming home to live. You cursed Indiana when you left, and you cursed it now. Even with Indianapolis being the biggest city you had ever seen up until you turned twenty, the airport’s concierge service was lacking. Your heels clicked loudly against the commercial-grade tile- something that you would have been much more impressed by a few years ago. Now, it just drew more attention towards you. Other airport patrons turned their heads to look at the spectacle before them- like they knew you weren’t from around here.
You hailed yourself a cab, grumbling something about loading your own bags yourself- that you didn’t even receive this kind of treatment in Vegas.
Before you knew it, you were stepping on that cracked sidewalk panel in front of your parents’ walkway. You could still feel the way the worn grain of the concrete felt against your bare feet as it transitioned to grass. You could still feel the way your sneakers ground against a rock when you leaned up to kiss Eddie goodnight. It was a thought that you quickly shook from your head as your mother- the brightest and bubbliest woman you had ever had the pleasure of knowing- was running down the drive, barefoot herself, and tackling you with the force of a D1 offensive lineman. Your father chuckled, following her from the door.
+
You skipped the ceremony, in part because you couldn’t decide on a single thing to wear, the other part felt like you had no place there. You hadn’t spoken to Dustin in over a year, you didn’t call or ask or wonder- and for that you felt guilty. You felt like the ceremony should have been for the people that had been there consistently and just… not you.
Your mom drove you to the reception- held in the outside hydrangea gardens of the historic building. The wedding was beautiful- you knew that much. It was quaint, thought-out, and was simplistic. It felt home-y, and your young mind had strayed so far from home-y that you had forgotten what this kind of warmth felt like.
Your heels clicked against the flagstone pathing, this time, you didn’t curse it. You welcomed it- it made you feel less alone in the silence of the entrance. You could hear the music and laughter in the large courtyard just beyond the breezeway that cut through the building. You wondered how pathetic you would look walking inside alone. You had only RSVPed for one. You wondered how many of your acquaintances were married by now, or, even worse, had children of their own. You hadn’t had time to date again, and you just now realized that you really had no friends- not that you weren’t well-liked. You could probably count David and Connor, but you couldn’t ever recall a time where you had spoken to either of them outside of work. You were alone. Just you and your clicking heels. Footsteps for one.
You put your bitch crown on, hardening your face. It was a defense mechanism, now. Look mean so no one asks you any questions. Not about Eddie, not about your brush with fame, and now, not about your lack of human interaction.
You walked in, being met with a semi-formal seating arrangement, thank God. You kept your purse around you, not bothering to mingle or sit down before you headed to the bar, ordering yourself whatever sauvignon blanc people usually get at weddings. There were tables scattered about, and a plethora of party guests- most you recognized. You shrunk yourself into one of the few high-top tables by the bar, trying not to be seen. By now you had realized that you had overdressed for the occasion, sporting an oversized palazzo pant and a matching blazer, slung over your shoulders. You cursed yourself slightly, forgetting about the down-home attire for weddings. Guests stared as inconspicuously as possible, yet you felt it. You felt like you were being forced down a catwalk at gunpoint. At least you knew you looked good albeit out of place.
You clicked your rings against your glass, distracting yourself with the noise it made. Your large sunglasses stayed on, so you could people-watch while you settled into the new environment. Immediately, you looked for Dustin, spotting him almost immediately. He still looked like Dustin- you couldn’t help but smile at that- but, he had this more grown-up charm to him. He was taller, and filled out more. He lost the baby weight and gained it in muscle. His hair was still a tight, coily mess, but had been wrangled in and tamed with an adult haircut. You still saw fourteen-year-old Dustin in his face when he smiled at you, crows feet wrinkling around his eyes as the corners of his mouth almost touched his ears. He was talking to an older couple, alongside his bride. Suzie was different than you imagined her- maybe even more so now that she was an adult. She was a beautiful girl, with thick, dark hair that flowed down her back and moved as a unit. She had kind, dark eyes. You knew in your heart that she would do well in the industry, but her place was here, with Dustin. He waved, quickly, rushing towards your compound.
“Oh my God, I’m so glad you could make it.” Dustin said, encasing you in a hug. It felt different, having him be so much larger than you now.
“I’m so glad I could come.” You replied back, heart overtaken by the boy that had always had your soft spot.
“Y’know, there’s a spot for you reserved at the Hellfire table.” He said, pressing a firm hand to your back and pulling you towards the exact table you had been avoiding. You couldn’t bear for anyone to ask you about all of your, very public, dirty laundry.
“Oh my God, Dustin, seriously? That’s too sweet.”
“Yeah, we got all of the original members to show up!” He chanted, and you could feat your brain turning to mush.
You watched Eddie round the corner, buttoning that god-awful blazer up again. Never in your life would you have ever guessed he would be buying, much less wearing, something so gaudy and expensive. But never in your life would you have guessed any event in the last five years would have happened.
But Dustin was so excited, and you couldn’t bear to break his heart at his own wedding. You realized then that this was Hawkins, and that no one read tabloids here- except for the off teenage girl or overly-involved mother. You realized that no one here thought much about you and Eddie, and that, even if they had seen it, it was over a year ago. You took a deep breath, repeating this mantra over and over again in your head.
Dustin walked with you over to the table, where you were promptly greeted by the other members of Corroded Coffin- yes- but also the other, younger boys that were involved in Eddie’s pride-and-joy club in your younger years. Mike and Lucas were both still tall and gangly- though much more bordering the heir of lean instead of scrawny. That boyish scrawniness was replaced with something much, much different.
There were a few words exchanged, a hesitant you look great, and a few vague how are you’s. Eddie sat two seats to your left. You could feel his eyes scan you from your peripheral. He chewed on the skin of his thumb, quite clearly wanting to say something. It almost felt neurotic, the way he would quickly spit a few words out to contribute, flick his eyes back and forth a few times, and then snap back out of it. You tried to act like he wasn't even there.
You sat at the table in silence, sunglasses still on like a shield against Eddie’s wandering eyes. You couldn’t let him see this vulnerability from you. You had to seem unbothered. Other than the odd smile or two-word greeting reserved for one of the boys, you were stone cold- only being brought out of your trance when Gareth rested a warm hand firmly on your shoulder, leaning down to quietly whisper,
“May I have this dance?” He asked, you, already starting to pull you up
“Of Course.” You replied, probably a little too quickly.
Gareth dragged you to the dance floor, where a plethora of couples were dancing to a slow song. He pulled you into the crowd on the opposite side of the dance floor, away from the prying eyes of everyone else. You could feel Eddie’s eyes boring a hole through your back like a laser beam.
“You looked like you needed rescuing.” He said to you, fastening his hands high on your waist. High enough to still be considered platonic, but still comforting.
“I was holding my own just fine, Gareth the Great.” You giggled a little at the old nickname, remembering the freckle-faced kid that you had attended school with for all twelve years you were there.
Up close, his face seemed hardened, too. He still had a smattering of freckles across his nose, but they were shrouded by the bags under his eyes that matched yours. You could see the beginnings of crows' feet forming. You took comfort in knowing you weren’t the only one who had lost some of their glow.
“No. You weren’t.” He said, knowingly.
“No. I wasn’t.” You agreed.
You let yourselves fall into a comfortable silence, swaying back and forth. You toyed absent-mindedly at the tuft of hair on the nape of his neck. Gareth had always been a close friend- since elementary school. He was always so nice to you, and it was just as gratifying seeing his claim to fame happen alongside Eddie’s. He was always genuine, and you never, ever wished harm on him, despite being the one to introduce you and Eddie. No, he didn’t deserve that. In fact, you thought he deserved the world.
“He was talking about you, earlier.” Gareth said to you, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Oh really. And what did he say?” You kind of didn’t want to know, yet that part of you that seethed and hoped that he saw your articles absolutely begged to know.
“He was saying he hoped you would show. It kind of crushed him when he didn’t see you at the ceremony.” Gareth replied with a sigh, knowing how out-of-bounds his friend could be. Even now. You scoffed, feeling too many emotions at once.
“I don’t know why. The last time I spoke to him he called me a-”
“A bitch. I know. I was there. And I saw the articles.” Gareth said, looking at you intensely now. You were a bit taken aback.
“Oh. You read my stuff?” You asked, with wide eyes. You knew people read your articles, hell, you got the reports for how many people were reading RayGun every month. You still didn’t think anyone you knew or anyone worthwhile paid attention to these things.
“Yeah. He does too.” Gareth admitted.
“Oh.” You replied, not knowing what exactly to say next.
Before the two of you fell back into an awkward silence, Gareth spoke up again, this time, to heed a warning.
“Just a heads up. He wants to talk to you.” He said to you, and you could feel his grip on your waist tighten, just a bit.
“Oh good God, what could there possibly be to talk about?” You rolled your eyes, your mixed emotions sorting out into annoyance.
“He wants to apologize.” Gareth told you, with sad eyes. Probably halfway because he wants to cheer Eddie on, but also in part because he doesn’t want to see you hurt. He was caught in the crossfire between his two friends.
“There’s nothing left to apologize for.” You said, stark and cold. You meant it.
“I think he means everything. For the last five years.” Gareth continued to explain to you.
“I’m a different person than I was then. She’s not even there for him to apologize too.” You finally blurted, pulling every stop out in an attempt to deflect.
“I think she is. Under all of… this.” He gestured over your body, taking his hands off your back for a second. He pushed your sunglasses off of your eyes and let them rest on the top of your head. He continued,
“She’s still in there, and she’s still hurt.” He stared into your eyes intensely, in a knowing way. It felt familiar. It was the same way he stared at you when you cried to him about how Eddie would never love you. You were wrong then, and he knew you were wrong now. Yet you were stubborn and persistent. Some things never change.
“She’s really not, Gareth.” You explained, to him, averting your eyes in discomfort.
“Then why did you come?” He accused
“To watch Dustin get married.” You said, truthfully. As soon as you had gotten the invitation, you RSVPed. Though, a part of you thought otherwise.
“You weren’t even at the ceremony. At this point you should have just sent a card.” He scoffed at you, calling you out.
“My plane was late.” You lied straight through your teeth, still trying to play it cool. He knew it.
“No it wasn’t. Your mom’s been talking to my mom all month about you coming home. You came for him.” Gareth finally said, piecing it all together.
You could have argued further. You wanted to argue further, but Jeff came up behind you, pushing through the crowd of other couples dancing much happier dances. He held up his wrist, tapping on where a watch would be and pointing at Gareth, who sighed.
“Thank you for the dance, we’re going on in a few.” He said to you, pulling apart.
“You guys are playing?” You asked, not knowing that they were going to be performing tonight.
“As per Dustin’s request.” He chuckled, knowing very well that Eddie could never have said no to him.
Within minutes, you had shuffled back to a hidden place in the very back of the outdoor venue. You settled back in, nursing your glass of wine. Your body was leaned casually against the historic column holding up the awning to the breezeway. You didn’t want to watch them play, but you had no choice. Hearing them and being seen was way worse that hearing them and not.
The amps kicked to life with a buzz, as Gareth sat down and sought you out with his eyes. He raised a drumstick in lieu of a wave, and you slowly wiggled a few fingers at him from the back. It was reminiscent, you had done this a thousand times before at The Hideout just a few miles away.
“Well, I know I didn’t get to make a speech yet, that’s probably for the better.” Eddie started into the mic, throwing his guitar strap over himself. Tonight, he used the same guitar he used all those years ago. You hadn’t seen him with it since their first night at The Troubadour.
“But uh, I’m really glad I got to come back home to see my sweet Dusty-bun get married. Suzie, you’d better take good care of our boy.” A laugh settled over the crowd as he pointed at Suzie, who sat snugly under the arm of Dustin.
“I don’t want to get too sappy here, but uh, I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. It took me two tries to graduate high school. I was angry at the universe for no reason, hell, I ruined the best relationship I’ve ever had with the love of my goddamned life because I couldn’t pull my head out of my own ass.” He sought you out in the crowd, the same eyes that bore holes through your back a mere twenty minutes ago staring straight through you now. You cursed yourself for leaving your sunglasses off. Dustin and Suzie turned, Dustin’s brows furrowing. All of the rest of the old club, along with a few guests turned to look at you, seeing who he could possibly be talking about. It was such a small mention, but all the most unnecessary. But suddenly, you were back at The Troubadour, except, this time, you didn’t have Connor next to you. You didn’t have a camera, or the malice of Hollywood, or the thrill of the press behind you. Here, you were absolutely vulnerable. You were the girl who snuck out on Tuesday nights to see a shitty local band play. You the girl who stole kisses under bleachers and in the back of vans, on pretty tip toes. You were the girl who giggled and ran down the drive barefoot for one last hug.
This was worse than being called a bitch. This title, you couldn’t wear as a crown, because you tried so desperately to rid yourself of it.
“But Dustin, adopting you and the boys was one of the few things I never regretted for a second-”
You didn’t bother to hear the rest of the speech, or the song that preceded, instead, you grasped on to your composure like a child with a blanket, and walked off. Your heels clicked in a slow tempo, keeping you grounded to the concrete.
You reached the other side of the building, sitting down on the wrought-iron bench settled in between hydrangea bushes and took a few deep breaths. You heard the last of the song fizzle out a few minutes ago, and hoped that everyone had forgotten you by now. You settled your glasses back down over your eyes, and pulled one of two emergency super-slim cigarettes from your clutch. You exhaled with a billow of smoke, as a voice pulled you from your trance. You knew exactly who it was.
“Hey.”
“No.”
You were quick to sharp words this time, not wanting to play the same.
“I wanted to talk to you.” Eddie said to you, inching closer to the beach. He stayed standing. You didn’t look towards him, instead opting to stay staring forward and act like he wasn’t there.
You continued your well-placed silence, recalling from five years prior when your silent treatment would make him squirm with anticipation. It still did.
“Will you please just listen to me?” He pleaded, crossing his arms in front of him in defense.
“I feel like you’re gonna talk anyways.” You said. He swore the smoke that rolled past your lips was frost.
He paused, thinking of what he could say that wasn’t going to send you over the edge into a screaming rage- though that would have been preferable to the blank expression you carried now. He couldn’t read you.
“I saw you stopped saying you were from Hawkins.” He spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.You took another long drag off of your cigarette.
“Nothing good ever came out of this town anyways” You said to him, still staring forward. Smoke billowed from your mouth as you spoke.
“What about us?” He said, quickly, like the question has been stirring in his brain for a while.
“We never made it out.”
“What about California?” He pleaded, at this point still trying to get any sort of interaction out of you.
“What about it?” You questioned, meanly.
“I woke up one morning and you were just… gone.”
“You seriously don’t remember?” You raised your voice slightly, finally cracking.
“I-I was drunk, I don’t really remember the last five years.” He said, taken by surprise at your sudden anger. You scoffed, remembering the night.
“You skipped out on my press party and then told me I was putting my career before you. I couldn’t fuckign stand it, being canceled on time after time even when you were home and then being the antichrist the second my career starts taking off. I wasn’t going to make you choose, you didn’t deserve to choose. So I picked me.” You let yourself ramble for a second, standing up and pacing back and forth from the bench. You stopped your eyes from glossing over with the tears you wouldn’t spare yourself.
“What happened to our dreams? Us against the world? What happened to the promise you made me?” He asked. It was soft… hurt. You didn’t let yourself dwell on it.
“The promise I made Eddie.” You corrected him, leaning back hard and folding your arms, cigarette still smoldering between your fingers.
“I am Eddie?” He asked, confusedly.
“You’re not him. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” The malice rolled off of your tongue like venom. You wore angry well now. You wore bitch well now.
“You don’t know who I am? You saunter in here with all of this shit on and act like you don’t know anyone and act like you don’t know me. You don’t even know who you are. That shit hurts.” He snapped, finally getting angry. He waved his arms around, gesturing to you and your outfit. It was never something you would have considered wearing five years ago, but now it was an armor.
“You know what really hurts, Edward?” You shot back, more quietly this time.
“What, what could possibly hurt you, Miss Congeni-fucking-ality?” he said, mirroring your stance as he looked you up and down.
“My life’s work being known as your bitch ex-girlfriend.” You spat, and you saw his eyes soften. You knew he remembered that night because he immediately turned defensive.
“Well, it seems like you’ve done pretty fucking well for yourself.” He said to you, sarcastically. His eyes moved up and down your body in judgment.
“You haven’t.” You said, not bothering to filter it out. You both knew what you were referring to, and, if you were in a different headspace, you would have immediately regretted the cheap shot.
He paused, and you saw something break behind his eyes. His defensive stance faltered, and he brought himself down to the bench to bury his face in his hands, taking a breath.
“Yeah, I know I haven’t okay?” He started, lifting his head to shake his hands, dramatically,
“I had to go to fucking rehab because I got so blasted out of my mind after I saw your shit with Bikini Kill that I almost killed someone and myself. I have literally fucked Every. Single. Thing. In my life up to this point, okay?” He rambled, hiss mentioned at your publication shaking you to your core. He had seen it. The thoughts that you never allowed fruition came flooding back into your mind, and you immediately felt the guilt from even thinking them.
“You read my stuff?” You asked, the shred of that girl you were before coming through. You fell back onto the bench next to him, snuffing out your cigarette beneath the toe of your shoe.
“It’s kind of hard not to. It's everywhere.” He said back to you, more civilly this time. This felt more like a conversation.
“Only because it was about you.” You said, and he chuckled a bit. It was breathy and quiet, but it was there.
“Did you really have to write all of that?” He asked you.
“Did you really have to call me a bitch?” You asked back.
There was a long pause while he thought about his next word.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I am a bitch. Kinda in the title.” You laughed at that, slightly. He didn’t.
“No. I mean… like, everything. For The Troubadour that night, for neglecting you even though you stuck around way longer than you should have.”
He paused for a second, looking back up at you.
“For everything.”
+
You spent the next dew days in hiding, trying to process the events of the wedding and ultimately, catching up with your parents. Once you had convinced yourself that it was safe to go outside, you decided a quick stroll around town was in order. You stopped to sit at the bar at the local diner, wanting to have a coffee and breakfast for the first time in over three years. You hated to admit it, especially with all of your food options in California, but these shitty diner scrambled eggs and bacon were the best you ever had.
You recognized Wayne’s voice immediately over the jingling of the door bell. The man had been your second father for five years of your life, and you always looked back on memories with him fondly.
He spotted you almost immediately. You knew it was because you were an eyesore in this town now.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He said, taking off his hat and walking towards you with arms extended.
He locked you in a firm embrace. He still smelled like cigarette smoke and it was so endearing that you had to stop yourself from tearing up. His rough hands clapped against your shoulder, very much mimicking the way men pet dogs.
“Wayne.. Oh my god. Come, sit. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.” You said to him, pulling your purse off of the stool next to you. He obliged, letting the waitress pour him a cup of coffee.
“You look… different.” He said to you, looking you up and down. You did. You knew it.
“So I’ve heard.” You said back, with a nod of your head.
“I saw that magazine you wrote. I’ve got it up on the fridge.” He said to you, and, for some reason, for the first time in a while, you felt proud of your work. You would take Wayne’s fridge approval over a solid gold trophy any day.
“You read my stuff?” You asked him, still surprised that people here cared.
“I think everyone here does. Someone’s gotta keep tabs on the two of you.” He laughed, and you tried not to think about Eddie. You worried about Wayne after you left.
“My boss would be so glad to hear that.” You both laughed at that.
“I saw that you were just out and about with those Pearl Jam guys.” He said, referencing back to the band you did a spread about just before you left.
“Yeah, I was! It seems like everyone knows more about my life than I do.” You laughed, only half humoring yourself.
“Only what the tabloids say, sweetheart.” Wayne reassured, and it did make you feel better- despite the fact that he probably knew about your and Eddie’s public disputes.
“It feels like I live in one, if we’re being honest.” You said, your laugh carrying little to no humor this time. Your face fell, and you pushed your eggs around with your fork, suddenly lacking your previous hunger.
“How was the wedding? Crazy to think that boy found someone to love him.” Wayne changed the subject, not wanting to make you upset.
“It was beautiful. Eddie played with the band.” You said, hoping you sounded unaffected by the mention of his name.
“That boy’s put me through a lot these last few years. I think I've aged fifty of ‘em… trying to keep him straight- and I thought the teen years were gonna kill me.” Wayne said to you, his own face falling now. You could tell he blamed himself for Eddie’s shortcomings. You remembered how worried he had been when the band signed on with Elektra.
“It’s not your fault, Wayne. It’s a shitty industry.” You tried to reassure him, placing a hand on his arm.
He put his elbows up on the counter, smoothing his hands over his thinning hair.
“He still hasn't come to see me.” Wayne said, disappointedly. It made you want to cry and beat Eddie’s ass and give Wayne a hug all in one.
“That's shitty.” Was all you could muster in your own disbelief. You wondered why Eddie avoided Wayne. If there was anyone that you knew he would never stop defending to the end of the Earth and back, it was his uncle.
“He’s different too.” Wayne spoke, sadly.
“I think we all are.” You squeaked, feeling guilt growing in your own heart. Is this how your mother felt when you canceled Chrismtas for the last three years?
“You’ve got that right. Him especially.” Wayne chuckled, mirroring your own lack of humor.
“Sometimes I wish we weren’t.” You spoke back, and you meant it.
“He never stopped missing you, y’know. Wrote all of these letters in rehab about how he wouldn’t be there if he still had you.” He said to you, taking you by surprise. The suddenness of seeing you and mentioning Eddie paired with the pain of not seeing him probably brought up a lot of emotions from him- emotions that you would understand.
“It’s been five years, Wayne.” You said to him, trying to pull him out of the dark what-if place.
“It don't feel much like it.” He said, resting his hand over the one you had placed on his arm.
“I know.”
“Did he talk to you? Last night, I mean.” Wayne asked, at least wanting to hear that his nephew was coherent.
“Yeah, he did.” You said, not wanting to elaborate but knowing you would have to.
“And?”
“He apologized for everything. The Troubadour that night, the breakup, the neglect. Everything.” You said with a sigh, pulling your hand off of Wayne’s arm and burying your face in your hands with a groan. You didn’t want to look at him. You didn’t want to look at the sad eyes that mirrored Eddie’s almost exactly.
You both sat in silence for a moment.
“I remember the morning he realized you weren’t coming back. He called me.” He started, putting a firm hand on your back, between your shoulder blades.
“Oh?” You asked, bringing your head up again to look at him.
“He told me he didn’t want to be famous anymore… if it meant he had to be famous without you.” You were right, he gave you those sad, sad eyes. You felt your eyes well up with tears, but you quickly blinked them back.
“He didn’t have to choose.” You said to Wayne, barely above a whisper.
“Because you made that choice for him.” Wayne finished for you.
“I made that choice for me.” You tried to reason, and, really, you did. But it was so sudden. You had ripped off the band-aid to avoid keeping yourself hurt all of the time.
“And I don't blame you for that. But, sweetheart, if I know one thing about my boy, is that he’s stupid. He doesn’t know how to talk to girls, you made him so nervous- even after you were dating. I don’t think he knew how to talk to you then, or really, why you left so suddenly, for that matter.” Wayne said, turning and gripping your shoulders.
“Give him a chance. He went through hell and back trying to find you again. At least for my sanity, let him have this win.”
You couldn’t help the sad eyes, you were never able to resist Eddie’s. You still had so much endearment for Wayne that you sighed,
“I’ll think about it, Wayne.” You agreed.
He sat there and stared at you for a second, gripping your shoulders still- like he contemplated putting you into a hug. And he did- but not before saying,
“If there’s one thing he was right about, it’s that you’re still as pretty as ever.” This made you giggle.
“Thank you, Wayne.” You said when you finally separated from the hug, still holding on to his elbows. He paused and looked you over again, reaching up and touching the large sunglasses perched on top of your head.
“These really don’t look like you, y’know.”
+
Your return to California brought a work load hurdling at you with full force. You honestly don’t know how David and Connor ran the place in your absence (you say this in the most endearing way possible). Within a few weeks, you were scuttling your way down Santa Monica Boulevard, in the heart of West Hollywood. David had scheduled a last minute Headliner so you could get the next edition of RayGun out by the deadline. You stopped complaining when he sent out out to the field, especially since he asked so nicely and you were so good at it.
You were meeting up with a long-time acquaintance, someone who you had worked closely for a while now- but never really spoke with. Doc Mcghee, management for Hollywood’s greatest of the last decade. Skid Row, Kiss, Mötley Crüe, and now, Corroded Coffin- but you chose purposefully to ignore that last one.
You listened to your heels click and reverberate off of the large corridor of his office, his secretary offering you a smile as she buzzed you in.
You kept your bitch crown in your back pocket, in case any unwelcome conversation were to arise.
Doc knew about you. He also knew about Eddie. He also knew about your pretty famous publications- but who could blame you? Honestly, it was probably the most tame public scandal he had ever had to deal with. He was quite friendly to you in other settings, so you didn’t worry.
You stepped into his office, and he greeted you with a hug. Professionalism in the rock industry had a different, much less formal flavor- yet, it was still comforting to know that he didn’t see you as a nuisance.
You sat yourself down in one of his office chairs, folding your legs and shuffling through some of the paperwork you had brought while he got comfortable.
“You ready, Doc?” You asked him, though, he kept eyeing his pager- which was going off every few seconds. You figured he was a busy guy, and that thing was constantly going off.
“Uh.. Yeah, go ahead, sweetheart.” Doc said to you, rolling his eyes and shoving the pager into his top drawer.
“I’ll try to make it quick.” you chuckled.
You didn’t even get through the first question before his office phone was ringing. He didn’t pick up. You started again after a quick apology, and the phone cut you off once more.
“Just give me a minute, sweetheart.” Doc said to you, apologetically before throwing the phone off the receiver, cord flying violently behind it.
“What is it? What could you possibly want at this exact moment?” Doc yelled into the phone, swiveling in his office chair to have his back facing you.
You laughed, thinking fondly at the way Steve Harrington talked to the boys back home. You had been thinking of home a lot more lately. You had been thinking about Eddie a lot more lately.
“I’m in an interview.” Doc roared back, through gritted teeth.
A few seconds passed.
“RayGun. You knew about this. And you knew not to bug me.” He said again, after a few seconds. Whoever was on the other line must have been persistent.
A few more seconds.
“No one that you need to be concerned with.” He said before slamming the phone back down on the receiver- only for it to ring again immediately after. He groaned, getting up and pulling the cord straight out of the wall, killing access to the phone.
“I swear, if I knew I was going to be babysitting grown men, I wouldn’t have taken the job.” He said to you, with a laugh. You giggled back and the absolute circus of it all.
It was moments like this that made your job enjoyable- and you had forgotten about this.
He settled back into his chair, urging you to continue. Finally, you found your list of pre-written questions and asked,
“So Doc, you’ve dealt with some pretty crazy stuff since you’ve been in the industry. You once said that most of these bands usually were up to some tomfoolery once they sign because they were supposed to, but Crüe did it because they were Crüe… Do you care to elaborate on that more?” You asked him, and he laughed, leaning back.
“I swear, these last couple years I’ve managed some of these kids and they’re just getting worse and worse. And I’ll tell ‘ya, they’re really starting to lose their sense of boundaries. Now, I swear they just burst in through my do-”
At that exact moment, his glass french doors were thrown open. Gangly, tall, out-of-breath, and unfortunately familiar before you.
“Doc.” He said, rocking back and forth on his feet in greeting.
“Eddie.” He said in the same tone, much angrier.
Doc looked at you, smiling.
“They don’t pay me enough for this.” He said to you, rubbing his face in stress.
“They don’t pay her enough for it, either.” Eddie teased, smiling at you.
“I know they don’t. Now stop bothering her, Eddie.” Doc said to him, scolding him like a child.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had an interview with RayGun?” He asked, smirking at the both of you. Pulling a strand of hair in front of his mouth, leaving the other hand crossed across his chest.
“I did. And, I specifically told you to stay away from here.” Doc said, crossing his arms adn leaning back in his chair.
“I do not recall.”
“I swear to God, you are worse than all of Crüe combined.” He rubbed his face, stopping at his temples and pulling the skin back there.
“Don’t you think that we could use a little publicity?” Eddie asked him.
“No, Edward, I don’t. I think RayGun has had enough of your publicity.” Doc chuckled, humorlessly.
“Oh you mean that little thing? We’ve already straightened that out, haven’t we?” He said, looking towards you with an absolutely shit-eating grin.
“Edward, I told you to stop bothering her.” Doc said, more firmly this time. Eddie chose to ignore him.
“I wanna start back over. Go out with me. Tonight.”
This made your eyes go wide. You looked between him and Doc- who also looked between you and Eddie. The both of you were terrified. He had overstepped a boundary, and Doc looked like he either wanted to vomit, throw Eddie through the glass from his top-floor office, or both.
“Uh-” You started, but Doc attempted to jump in and save you.
“Edward, no.”
“Puh-lease? For old time’s sake?” He pleaded, getting down on his knees.
It felt all too familiar. It smelled like Hawkins High’s cafeteria, reeked like highly processed, barely-recognizable food and all-too-heavy cheap perfume. It felt like Eddie on his knees in front of the entire cafeteria, delivering a nearly-Shakespearean monologue. He confessed his love you you, splayed right there out on the commercial tile to be mopped up later by the janitor. You remember the way he gripped your knees, and then your hands ever-so tenderly. You remembered the way his voice reverberated out of his chest and echoed off the walls in the room. It was horrible, and you loved it. So much so, that, even after all of this, it still made you giggle.
“I’m working late.” You said, attempting not to let the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth life.
“Then I’ll go to your office.” He pleaded, knowing exactly what he was doing.
“No.” You said, firmly, choking back a giggle.
“Please let me prove myself? Can I at least do that?” He said, grabbing your hands ever so gently. It was too familiar, yet not unpleasant.
“If I say yes to you, will you get out of my interview?”
You had said this same thing all those years ago, in an entirely different situation. Yet you couldn’t help but feel the same pang in your stomach as he looked into your eyes. You couldn’t tell if it was love or embarrassment- yet, you couldn’t tell if it was last time either.
He had a funny habit of making you feel everything all at once.
“Yes.”
“Then fine.”
+
You half expected him to not show up- to regret his decision entirely and recluse back into wherever the hell he was residing currently. You purposefully stayed at the office late, and you half expected him to now show up. You wanted to be mad at him still, you needed something to be mad about. Sso when you shuffled out of your office, hair thrown up into a mess, jewelry thrown haphazardly into your bag, and blazer thrown over top of your purse, and saw him- you couldn’t help but to roll your eyes.
He was leaned up against the hood of his car- no longer sporting the 70’s era GMC van. Instead, he was now leaning across the side of an all-black stingray- the newest one that year. It felt foreign, it wasn’t him. He kept his arms crossed, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and the glow of the Hollywood lights casting a glow across his face.
He smiled at you, even in your state, and followed you silently around the car. He pulled the passenger side open for you, letting you climb into the low vehicle before circling back around the front.
“So… What are you listening to these days?” He asked, shifting the car and rolling from the sidewalk to the street. He was trying desperately to make conversation- you remembered that much. He couldn’t handle awkward silence.
“Um… Not much, really.” You said, honestly, allowing him to put on whatever he had previously been listening to on.
“Really?” He scoffed, in disbelief, “Mrs. Glenn Danzig doesn’t like music anymore?”
“I try really really hard to not bring work home with me.” You explained, digging haphazardly at your own fingernails.
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job of that.” Eddie chuckled at you.
“Of what?” You asked, confusedly, brows knitting together on your forehead.
“Taking work home with you.” He gestured to himself, leaving one hand on the wheel.
“But we’re not going home.” You quipped back, and he looked at you briefly with his eyebrows raised.
“That we are not.” He said, mouth turned upwards in a half-grin. You knew that look. He was scheming something.
“But… Where are we going?” You asked, finally, not really even thinking about it until then. You hoped it wasn’t somewhere nice. You only were sporting your casual-friday jeans and white top.
“That is for me to know, and for you to find out.” He said, giving you that same crooked smile.
“That sounds like you’re gonna kill me.”
“Would it make you feel better if I promised I’m not?”
“No.”
+
The drive was a longer one, and you took the time to look out the window. You never realized how nice it was to look out at Hollywood sometimes. You were either usually in bed or at a venue by now and forgot how magical this city was when you first moved. You felt a little twinge in your heart, and you remembered the way Eddie’s eyes sparkled the first time you came with him out here. It had been his first time out of Hawkins that he could remember. Eddie indulged in this comfortable silence, smoothing his way over the sharp, round turns and steep roads of Mount Lee Drive. He stole a few glances at you, and the way you rested your head on your folded arms out the window. He saw the way the wisps of your stray hairs floated around your face with the wind from the outside. It was like he could see your body deflate- and he realized then how tense you had been all this time. He hadn’t seen you this relaxed in years- even in passing.
He made it to the end of the street as far up as he could go, and pulled off to where his car wouldn’t create a disturbance for the residents that lived on that street. You opened the door and stepped out- and he wished he would have been a little faster to open it for you.
“So… we’re robbing a house?” You said, raising an eyebrow at him. It was silly, but it was the only conclusion you could make for being in a wealthier neighborhood in the middle of the night.
“No, we’re gonna have to walk a little bit, but you’re gonna have to keep your eyes closed.”He chuckled.
He opened his trunk and pulled out a bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
“This really looks like you’re gonna kill me.” You said, eyeing the bag.
“Well I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.” He winked, starting off walking.
The walk was slightly longer than it should have been, seeing as he was trying to guide you by your waist, uphill, in overgrown grass. It felt like you were tripping over your keds every other step. It smelled slightly mildewy- reminiscent of those quiet Hawkins nights all of those years ago. The soil was soft and spongy with dampness beneath your feet. You were slightly out of breath from the uphill incline, but when Eddie commanded you to remove you hands from your eyes, you gasped.
It felt like a movie scene, the giant letters of the Hollywood sign glowed so bright from the lights that were set on them that they were almost incomprehensible. You thought you could see all of Los Angeles from here- the lights speckling as far as the eye could see like glitter. Eddie chuckled at the dumbstruck look you gave him.
“All this time in Hollywood, and you never figured out how to get up here?” He asked you, pulling a blanket from the bag. You recognized it as the one from the floorboard of his van.
He spread it out on the ground, urging you to come sit.
“I guess I’ve just been busy.” You offered as an excuse, walking over and folding your legs beneath yourself.
“You need to learn how to live a little, sweetheart.” He said to you, plopping down on the blanket next to you and reclining back on his arms.
You sat in silence for a little- taking it all in. You kept your ankles crossed, knees pulled up to your chest as you slid off your shoes. While you were talking in the glitter of the city before you, he was taking in the details of your face. He looked for the softness in your face that lingered in the way your eyelashes kissed or the way the corners of your mouth curled upwards when you were thinking. You looked different, hardened by age and the struggles of adulthood. He wondered if the few unruly strands of gray hairs were from him- in the same way Wayne swore up and down that he would have still had a full head of hair if it hadn't been for Eddie.
“I hate it here.” He spoke finally. His volume scared himself, snapping both him and you back to reality in an instant. You furrowed your brow at him, pulling your attention away from the lights and aiming it at him.
“Why? This city did you good.” You said back. He felt your eyes on him, and the way he thought they looked directly into him instead of just over his physical being.
“I miss Hawkins.” He admitted, sheepishly, running a hand up and down his arm for comfort.
“Why?” You scoffed, remembering the many late nights talking about running from there and never looking back. He shrugged, then ran a hand up over his face and through his hair.
“It was simpler then. We just played and we didn't care if we sounded like shit and five people was a lot and we didn't have to worry about putting up the numbers.” He rambled, huffing exhaustedly at the end. You shrugged back, nonchalantly.
“It really was. Simpler, I mean. I miss it too.” You admitted, his sudden onslaught of heavy eye contact making you slightly uncomfortable. You turned your eyes back out towards the city, but your ears were dialed on to him.
“So why did you stop saying you were from there?” He asked, reiterating a question from the last time you were back home.
It stung a little bit- remembering how excited your family and friends were to see you after so long. You realized they probably felt the same abandonment that you felt when Corroded Coffin caught traction. Since then, you had made a point to call your mother a little more.
“I couldn’t be associated with you anymore.” You finally breathed, and, though the hurt didn’t register in his voice, you could feel it radiating off of him with a vigor.
“Why?” He asked, probably a little too quickly.
You thought about it for a second, assessing your next few words carefully. You thought he deserved at least this answer- since the only thing he really knew about your life was from you publications for the last five years.
“Because…” You trailed off, burning your face in your knees as you thought, “-after the whole Troubadour thing, I was only known as your bitch ex… And before that, people only knew me as your girlfriend. No one was gonna take me or my art seriously unless I was someone that didn’t have a tie to you.” You sighed finally, knowing there was no way you could say it that wouldn’t hurt his feelings.
“Was I that bad? That you couldn't even say you dated me?” He said in a near-whimper. For someone who was so famous and so well-speculated, you were almost surprised to hear that he was as hurt as he was.
“Being with you?” You started, thinking about it, “No. It was the idea of being forgotten that I couldn't handle.” You explained to him, honestly.
“I’m sorry.” He said after a drawn-out silence. He couldn't think of anything else that would be appropriate to say then. You hated the vulnerability, and rushed to change the subject.
“Why didn't you see Wayne? During Dustin's wedding?” You asked, already getting defensive. You winced at yourself, not meaning for it to sound as mean as it did.
“How did you know that?” He asked, not matching your defensive nature in the way you had expected him to. In fact, he sounded like a kicked puppy.
“I saw him. He was really hurt. Thought you forgot about him too.” You said, sounding just as mean again, though you couldn’t tell how much you meant it this time.
Eddie sighed, rubbing his face and taking another long silence before giving you an answer.
“...I couldn’t look at him and let him know what a fuck up I’ve been. He tried so hard with me after Dad… I couldn’t look him in the eye knowing how much I’m turning into my father.”
You softened, immediately, remembering what the tabloids had said about him just a few months prior. You didn’t think about what he was feeling, or what Wayne would have been feeling. In fact, you worried about how much of it had to do with you.
“He's worried about you. You should call him.” You said, much more softly. You didn’t want to say anything else- you didn’t know what to say. You had no right to talk about his dad despite knowing the brunt of it.
“Thanks for looking out for him.” Eddie said to you, and it was genuine.
“He misses you, you know.” You blurt, hoping to make him feel better. Eddie chuckled, sadness still lingering behind it.
“But I think he misses you more.” He said to you, genuinely.
There’s no way you would have ever possibly known, but any time within the last five years, Wayne filled him in on you like he wasn’t seeing it anyways. He filled him in about your family, how he talked to your mom at the grocery store. You and Wayne had always had a soft spot for each other during the time of yours and Eddie’s relationship- he offered advice that rolled through cigarette smoke and you offered the warmth only a woman could possess. Wayne had been alone since.
“I missed him, too.” You said with a soft smile, thinking back about your cherished trailer-park memories.
There was another pause and you both sighed. This time, it was tense- like Eddie was thinking really hard about the next thing he was gonna say.
“What about me?” He asked you, finally turning back towards you. It caught you by surprise, and you couldn’t help the look that registered on your face when you turned back to him.
“What?”
“Do you miss me, too?” He asked again, louder and more annunciated.
You thought about it for a second, the way you felt a deep, guttural ache in your heart when you saw the headlines about him, the way you felt warmth spread through your chest when you hugged Wayne, or the way you felt relaxed amongst the familiarity of it all. Maybe it was stupid. So, so stupid. But maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you swore you did.
“Yeah… I guess I do.” You said, finally, wide eyes locking on his much wider.
“I missed you too…It's, uh, kinda lonely out here,” He started quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean… I have the guys but even then, they all have lives and girlfriends and families outside of the band.” He explained to you, sheepishly.
“No, I get it. Dustin's wedding kinda just made me see that I skipped over a whole section of my life.” You replied, and it was true.
It was strange seeing all of the kids you were old enough to babysit surpassing your life milestones. You put domesticity on the back burner when you put your career in the driver's seat and had yet to even begin searching for it again. There was a secret want in your heart to not be so damn lonely all the time. You considered even a cat, but you weren’t home enough to give it a fair life. So instead, you lived your life between exhausting social outings with people you were considered acquaintances with, but stayed far enough away to remain mysterious.
“Maybe we can start over.” Eddie suggested, blindsiding you out of your own train of thought.
“Like how?” You asked, already knowing the answer.
“Like our lives.” He said, reaching for your hand. You didn’t stop him, “Let me take you on the nice date I couldn't give you when we were kids.” He suggested, almost pleading once again.
“I go to plenty of nice restaurants now, Eddie.” You laughed, gripping his fingers back.
“Then let me take you somewhere else. Anywhere. Money isn't an issue.” He continued to plead with you.
“Eddie, when I said I missed you, I meant that kid from the sticks who got down on his knees in a cafeteria and begged me for a date. The one who took me to lovers lake in a shitty van and told funny stories and read me Tolkien every night.” You said behind a laugh. It was so genuine, he swore it was like the last five years had never happened.
“I remember that night. I was scared shitless. You were so pretty and I had never been on an actual date like that before.” He laughed back at his own memory, giving his thumb leeway to pass over your own.
“I'm sure you see lots of pretty women now.” You said, a little more sheepish this time. You remembered the title, you remembered every title about him.
“Pretty women, sure, none like you though.” He encouraged, switching the hand that he was holding yours with and dragging the other up your forearm, comfortingly.
“What do you mean?” You questioned, eyeing this traveling hand as it sent a shiver up your spine.
“I remember every night you would run out the door barefoot to give me one last kiss before I left. I started waiting for it when you dropped me off. And I remember you hanging out the window of my van screaming hybrid moments out the window. You scared me half to death. I had to hold on to your ankle so you wouldn't fall.” He chuckled, fondly, bringing his hand back down to massage the back of yours with his thumbs.
“I wasn’t gonna fall.” You said, sassily, half rolling your eyes at him. The version of you that currently existed definitely would have, though.
“I guess I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.” He scoffed, “Ain’t that a bitch?”
“Well, maybe you don’t have to lose me.” You said back to him, turning your hand around to grip his.
“What are you saying?” He questioned, locking eyes with you. You could see his smile lift the corners of them gently.
“I’m saying let's try again. We’re different people than we were five years ago.” You leaned a little closer to him, grabbing both of his hands and shaking his limp arms a bit.
He could have sworn he was looking at you for the first time.
“I don't think we are.” He smirked.
“Why do you say that?”
“You're barefoot now.”
You giggled as you looked down at your bare feet in the grass. Some things never change.
“You know, you look a lot different without all of… that.” He changed the subject, pulling his hands out of yours and twiddling his fingers up and down your frame.
“What?” You asked him, looking down at your clothes with a furrowed brow.
“The clothes, the shoes, the glasses. You look like you.” He explained, reaching up towards your face and pushing your hair out of your face.
“You’ve always looked like you. I think that’s kinda what hurt the most.” You admitted, sheepishly, reclusing slightly.
“What happened to us?” He asked, tenderly, leaning forward to close the space you had created.
“We got old. We got mean. We let a bunch of other people tell us who we were.”
“So then who are you?”
“I’m me?”
“No, like reintroduce yourself. You don’t know me.” He prompted, leaning back to look you over. You sighed as you started,
“I am the creative director and self-appointed journalist for RayGun magazine. I live between the office, The Troubadour, and my apartment. I am from Carlsbad, California. And I am Eddie Munson’s bitch ex-girlfriend.” You sneered slightly, plucking the first few things off of the top of your brain like one of those stupid conference icebreakers.
“No,” He said, shaking his head. He leaned forward and placed his hands on your shoulders, “I mean… really? Behind the headlines, who are you?”
You sighed, racking your brain for a few long seconds before trying again.
“Uhm…I am a painter. I hate shoes and I read tabloids in passing recreationally. I am from Hawkins, Indiana and I love music, so much, in fact, that I consider it my second love.”
“What was your first?”
“You.”
“Oh.”
“Okay, now you.”
“What?”
“Who are you, Edward Munson?”
“I am Edward Munson,” He mimicked your voice, sneering at the name, “-lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin. I live between a tour bus and between shows. I have a normal respect for shoes… Outside of work, I am a kid from a trailer park in the sticks. I read RayGun magazine in passing recreationally. I also happen to really really love this girl I hurt a long time ago.”
“You loved me?” You asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. He swore he saw his entire future flash in front of him- and none of it had to do with that stupid tour bus or stupid guitar or even Doc. He saw your eyes, and how small you sounded in front of him. He saw a house that he could finally afford and a white picket fence (if that's what you wanted, of course.) He saw Wayne clapping him on the back at a wedding and stupid ties and a white dress. He saw Dustin and Suzie and all the bearable parts of his youth.
“I don’t think I ever stopped.” He whispered to you, his hand snaking around to hold your cheek in a cradle, taking the plunge and pressing his lips to yours.
He tasted the same as he did during the years leading up to the summer of your own discontent, saccharine sweet and down-soft. You swore you saw the best parts of your life flash before your eyes. You saw summers at Lover’s Lake, windblown hair framing his face like a halo in the van that left your clothes smelling like cigarettes and burning oil. You saw hopeful promises that hadn’t yet been broken and Eddie filling all of your senses.
“Fuck I missed you. So goddamn much.” He groaned softly, breaking the kiss for oxygen.
“Please promise me you’re never gonna leave again.” You whimpered, pushing your mouth back against his, feverishly.
“God fuck please just promise me that.” You started again, between kisses.
Can we talk about Eddie's bed please? I am fully aware that, as an adult, those stains are both gross and unacceptable (even though he kinda gets a pass for the lack of guidance). But for some reason, I can't help but to think his bed is the most comfortable bed in the world.
For starters, it's a known, but unacknowledged phenomena that boy beds are the most comfortable. Their comforters always feel softer and their pillows are always fluffier and their mattresses feel like a hug. Every guy that I've ever dated has had the most comfy bed I've ever felt, and that includes a futon. Like I am fully aware of what kind of biohazard that could potentially be, but I will still continue to roll around in it like a swine in the mud.
I am especially aware of what kind of biohazard Eddie’s bed would be. You would have to do a constant sweep of crumbs and garage check before you crawled in. I’m sure there could be an actual ecosystem under his pillow. I’m sure the throw blanket could at any point become sentient and overthrow the US government.
But you just can’t help that his old flannel sheets are just so soft and even though there’s a lingering smell of weed and cigarette smoke settling in a haze over the whole trailer (because that shit sticks to everything), it has the faintest smell of his hair and his really human-ey scent that’s just so decadent that you can’t help but to want to wrap yourself in it.
He has an old throw blanket, like one of those really soft and fuzzy ones that is probably older than him and probably hasn’t been washed since he’s owned it. He sleeps with it every night and it’s partially because it’s the perfect weight to not be too hot or cold but also because it’s so soft and he really just likes to hold it and feel it against his cheek.
His pillows are old and lumpy and also probably second hand but they’ve absorbed his smell so much and even though he usually sleeps with the only two that he owns, he usually lets you keep one behind your back or between your legs. And then shares the other one with you because he likes having you close.
But the thing that makes his bed the best in the world is him. His room is small, there’s no other seating in there besides the bed so it’s the hub of all of your hangouts. Even if you’re just being alone together and doing your homework while he strums you a little song to concentrate it’s the feeling of closeness and feeling so connected to him that’s the most comforting to you. And if you are sleeping it’s when he can allow himself to be vulnerable and feel his touch-starved feelings and try to crawl into your skin like a parka. It’s where he can shove his head under your shirt and feel the warmth radiate off of you and feel your hair tickle his face (which he thinks is way better than that blanket, by the way) and where he can feel you tracing the constellations in between the freckles on his shoulders like he is the entire galaxy wrapped up into one tangible human life form. His bed is where he can feel protected and vulnerable and, just for a little bit, he can feel the most Eddie.
Okay since my last post about Eddie being three raccoons in a trench-coat did so well, I bring more thoughts because I don't know peace, I only know Edward.
He has a bong, that's canon, what's not covered in the show is that that bong is an absolute warcrime. No, seriously, there's so much biohazardous material floating around in the water that he hasn't changed in a hot second that it should be considered a weapon for biological warfare. I think ketamine would be safer than that thing.
He's a music snob, but not like cool hipster likes whatever and will share music snob. No, he gate-keeps shit so bad. It's his safety net. He's a "name three songs" bro. It's super annoying and you want to deck him every single time for it.
On the topic of music, I think he actually really enjoys Woody Guthrie. His acoustic guitar is a direct homage to that. I think Wayne liked it because his mom, Eddie's grandma, liked it and it just became a family thing and it reminds him of when he was young and when his grandma was alive and he at least felt like he had a little more family besides Wayne. I also wrote a Drabble about this that you can find on my Matsterlist. It's called "This Machine Slays Dragons".
He's superstitious and has a couple of weird mental mannerism. He creates little rules in his head that he's followed since he was a kid. He only walks through the right sides of double doors and only on the right side of the sidewalk. He won't step on crack. He always has to see the color of the M&M before he eats it and goes as accurately in the order of the rainbow as he can (this isn't me projecting oops).
Eddie talks to himself out loud. And he's not quiet about it. Everyone all the time is like "did you say something to me?" and he has to be like, "No just myself."
This extends into maladaptive daydreaming. He has ADHD and this is such a form of escapism for him and he's really bad at it. Like one second he's dozing off and then suddenly it's been a couple of hours. He can straight-up turn the lights out up there and let his brain run wild. It's almost a super power at this point.
He is a super messy eater. Like gross. Like get him a bib or something. Like did you actually get any of that into your mouth? I think this also has to do with the ADHD and he can't regulate his hunger when his brain gets fixated so he usually ends up starving and then overeating and he just eats so fast because he's so hungry that he doesn't care if he's getting it all over himself.
He is not a morning person. Trying to wake him up before noon means waging an all-out war, dealing with an actual temper tantrum, and then actually getting into a fight. There's no being nice and gentle and waking him up with a back scratch and a kiss because he sleeps so heavily. But when you yank the blankets off and shake him he gets so irrationally angry that he will say something hurtful and It will start a fight and he might even be mad at you for the rest of the day.
Dating Eddie means scary dog privileges. People are automatically scared of him and he's kinda mastered his front to where can can command a room. No one messes with you. You know that behind that front he's so non-confrontational and honestly not violent in the slightest but he is a protector and will go out of his way to defend you or your honor.
He is a kleptomaniac. He doesn't even mean it. It started with pens and little stuff but then it resulted in you having to remind him to put stuff down and empty his pockets because he just steals shit and can't help it. Eddie is literally a raccoon.
He also chronically doodles on everything. Himself, his notes, his notebook, you. If there's a marker present, somethings getting drawn on, He also likes to sticker-bomb everything he owns. If he had more money to spend on stickers his entire room and Wayne would be covered.
Most people think Eddie hates kids. He doesn't dislike them per se, he's actually just terrified of them. I think he's an only child with no cousins and raised by a man who had to figure out parenting on-the-fly alone. He thinks he's gonna break them or say something inappropriate and damage them for life or make them cry. Like he thinks of seventeen different scenarios in which he can go wrong with a child. However, in the case of Dustin Henderson, if there is a particularly persistent child dead-set on his friendship, he has a homie for life. Eddie would literally die for the children he pack-bonded with if they asked him to.
I literally have so many more of these because Eddie lives in the shallow crevices of my tiny pea-brain and I only ever think about him. If this does well I'll continue to share my thoughts.
