#larb

Now, criss-cross on your bed in his pajamas with one of your silk-encased pillows hugged tight to his stomach, you can feel his big brown eyes following tirelessly as you comb through your closet in indecision. The only thing you managed to get done before his arrival was put on one of your Billy Idol records, and, likely in silent compromise for the blatant intrusion, he’s restrained himself diligently from uttering any complaints.

“...Alright, Eds,” you say. Still clad in just a robe from your shower, you turn back to face him with the first two options in hand; a black, ruched, sleeveless dress, or a leopard print corset top, bottoms to be decided. “What do you think?”

Eddie doesn’t even look between them—his eyes lock instantly on the leopard print and stay there, his eyebrows popping up in disbelief. “What the hell kinda question is that?”

Typical. “...I don’t know why I even ask,” you sigh, taking the top off the hanger and flinging it at him. He snatches it up with a gleaming smile and holds it to his chest with your pillow.

Now for the bottoms. A minute or so of deliberation and you hold up two more options; a black, lacy ruffle skirt and a black leather skirt, both hitting around your mid thigh. Eddie glances at your expectant look and shakes his head, exasperated. 

“You never listen to a word I say,” he bemoans. “What do I tell you every single time? It’s leather, babe, it’s always leather.” 

You roll your eyes to the moon and back, but in this case, he happens to be right—the ruffle skirt returns to the closet, and the leather one is freed from its hanger. “You tell me every time because you have a dirty fetish, Eds, not because you care about fashion.”

You toss the skirt at his nasty grin and he lets it hit him in the face, sliding off onto his lap. “Can’t it be both?”

“I need to change,” you tell him pointedly, hands on your hips.

He doesn’t move a muscle, blinking innocent eyes at you. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Part of you is more than willing to beat him at his own game—drop the robe without a care and blow the head clean off his shoulders—but you decide the time isn’t quite right for a move that devastating. Instead, you just snatch your outfit out of his grubby hands. Reluctant to part with it, Eddie makes you play tug of war to get your skirt back and then raises his hands to cover his face, instantly splitting his fingers to peek through with a twinkle in his devious eyes.

With a good-natured eye-roll, you yank the pillow off his lap too just to smash it into his face. Eddie makes a sound like “oof!” and falls back onto your mattress, his hands whipping around to secure the pillow in place as he does, and only then do you push the robe off your shoulders, letting it crumple to the floor as you dig in your dresser for some underwear.

Eddie wouldn’t actually look, but you decide to tease him anyway. “...I catch you peeping and you’re gonna pay for it, Munson,” you warn, stepping into your panties.

“Oh yeah?” The smile itself is hidden, but you can hear it in his muffled voice. “How much?”

Next, you shimmy into some fishnets and pull the skirt up your legs, fighting briefly with the zipper. “More than you could afford on a record store salary, I can tell you that much.”

Eddie grunts and chokes like you dealt a fatal blow, squeezing the pillow tighter to his face, convulsing lightly beneath it. “...Ouch, babe. Have a little heart.”

Most of the way into your shirt, you stand in front of him and swat him above the knee. “You can look now. Help me zip this up.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Eddie tosses the pillow aside and springs up like a catapult. His eyes flit over your outfit and a wide, toothy smile grows on his lips, so genuinely delighted that your face goes a little warm. “...Jesus fuck, warn a guy, wouldja? I think my heart just stopped.”

“You helped me pick the outfit, doofus,” you point out, but Eddie ignores you completely, pressing two fingers all around his neck; looking for a pulse.

“See, it’s gone,” he says. He checks his wrist too, and then shakes his head in lament. “Can’t feel shit. I’m fucked, babe.”

“The zipper, Eddie,” you groan, though you’re smiling almost as wide as he is as you turn around.

“Alright, alright, c’mere,” he says, planting two hands on your hips to tug you a little closer. They linger there deliberately, both thumbs lightly stroking against the leather until you give the back of one hand a harsh pinch and he snatches them back to himself and clicks his tongue. “Ow. I was just feeling it.”

“I don’t have time for you to get your rocks off, Eds,” you scold, resting your own hands where his used to be. “The girls are gonna be here in like, twenty minutes.”

He makes a low, rumbly sound in displeasure. “What girls?” 

You can feel his finger tracing up along the zipper, about three-fourths closed by your own hand. “Monica, Yvonne, some other girls from work, maybe. I told you last night.”

Eddie hums distractedly and starts oh-so-slowly tugging the zipper in the wrong direction. 

“Oh, brother,” you sigh, letting your head droop backwards. “I’m at least ninety percent sure you know up from down.”

“Oops,” he jokes, fooling no one at all. “My bad. Thought you wanted it off.”

“Sure you did.”

With one firm tug, Eddie zips you up. Packed tight in your outfit, you sit at your vanity to do your hair and makeup, and Eddie shifts around until you can still see each other in the reflection, back to hugging your pillow. 

“What is it you’re abandoning me for again?”

“Jesus, Eddie, you're hopeless,” you groan, smudging black around your eyes. “I literally just reminded you.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he teases. “I can't focus for shit when you're dressed up so pretty.”

“It’s Monica’s birthday,” you tell him once again. “We’re going to Club Electra.”

His head falls forward in repugnance. “Ugh.”

Eddie has a raging allergy to any and all nightclubs—one of his only aversions that has consistently won out against his comparably raging allergy to letting you do anything or go anywhere without him. 

“...You could come, if you want,” you joke, only because you know he’d probably rather die. “Yvonne would be ecstatic to not have to be the DD.” 

“Eugh… Maybe next time,” he lies with immense difficulty. Then, his head whips back up in alarm. “Wait. You’re not gonna flirt with other guys, though, right?”

A wicked smile pulls across your face as you paint your eyelashes with mascara. The thing is, you and Eddie aren’t dating—you just act like you are. He’s been flirting with you since you were teenagers, and it started, if you had to guess, as Eddie’s best attempt at running damage control in the face of high school barbarism. The snide comments and backhanded compliments thrown at you for cheap clothes, trashy makeup, and whichever bodily features stood out as unsightly to Hawkins’ suburban middle class on any given day never truly got to you, but Eddie’s chosen remedy stuck around anyway, emboldened and dramatized with time and closeness. So when the opportunity came up to move in together, your running game of cat and mouse solidified into, essentially, a 24/7 play-marriage. 

No one else really gets it, but no one else has to. It’s always just been your and Eddie’s thing, and until the unlikely day that it ceases to be a source of infinite amusement for both of you, you’re pretty sure it always will be.

“Like you don’t flirt with other girls at your shows,” you say, with all the faux bitterness of a recurrently-aggrieved girlfriend. 

Eddie hangs his jaw and scoffs at the accusation. “I do not.” 

He’s completely full of shit and he knows it—one unimpressed glance at his reflection and Eddie breaks into a smile. He flings your pillow back to the headboard and stands up, slinking over to stand at your back and drop his big hands on your shoulders, stooping down so you can still see his face in the mirror.

“...And even if I did,” he concedes, grinning wider as it pulls a gigantic eye-roll out of you, “those are girls, alright? You—” He gives your shoulders a placating squeeze, rubbing his thumbs into your traps. “—are a dark and awesome goddess, and I, but your humble devotee.” He slips into his deep, theatrical dungeon-master voice, charming enough to put the smile back on your face.

You hum, mildly skeptical. “...I think a ‘humble devotee’ would zip up my zipper the first time I ask him to,” you mumble, moving on to refresh your hair as much as you can be bothered to.

“Can’t I have any fun?” he gripes. He turns around and throws his arms out, continuing on like he’s talking to some invisible third party in the corner of your room. “She never lets me have any fun.”

“I let you have way too much fun, as a matter of fact,” you insist. Eddie sits back down on your bed and grins at your reflection. “I should’ve slammed that door in your face, taught you a lesson for once. …Batting those no-good puppy dog eyes at me. You don’t have a sorry bone in your body.”

“...Well, I might have one.”

After a few second’s pause, he winks at you in the mirror, completely ridiculous, and you twist around to throw a comb at him in punishment. Eddie squeaks and ducks and covers, spreading out on his stomach over your duvet, and after that, is finally willing to let you finish up in peace.

Once you’re satisfied, you stand up and turn to face him. Returning back to earth from zoning out, presumably, Eddie pushes himself up on his elbows, looks you over, and then sits up all the way. 

“How do I look?”

He blinks at you like it’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked. “...Um, you look like you should tell Monica to fuck off and hang out at home with Eddie.” 

Your jaw drops to the floor. “It’s her birthday!” you cry out in horror, shaken up by a startled laugh.

“She’ll probably have at least a couple more,” he reasons, and his eyes are dancing well below your face. He jerks his head in a shake, making a low, appreciative sound as he reaches out and tries to put his hands on your leather-bound hips again. “...Keep the outfit on, though.”

Every attempt to grab you is smacked aside with wide eyes and zero mercy. “You’re rotten!”

“Oh, totally,” he agrees, bright pink lips pulling into a dimpled smile. “I’m a lost cause. Huge selfish bastard right here. …Christ, how am I supposed to share you with ‘the girls’ when you walk around looking like this?”

“That’s it,” you groan. “I’ve had enough of you.” 

The moment you start towards the door, Eddie scrambles across your bed to beat you to it, splatting himself flat against it hard enough to rattle your over-the-door mirror.

“Don’t leave me, baby,” he begs in practiced anguish. “What am I gonna do without you?”

You roll your eyes at him, pretending to no longer be amused by his antics. “Same thing you always do, probably.”

His brow furrows, sincerely confused. “What do I always do?”

“Your right hand still works, doesn’t it?”

Eddie briefly startles before throwing his head back with another loud thunk and groaning in agony, but he lets you grab his arm and peel him off of the door, stumbling dramatically over to sit on the side of your bed again.

“That’s cold-fucking-blooded,” he whines, but you can hear him smiling as you pull in the handle. “You could at least let me take a picture, sweetheart. Give me something to work with.”

You pause with the door half-open and give him a squint. Eddie perks up like he can tell you’re about to humor him.

“...Tell you what,” you say. “If you can make it to your camera before I make it out the front door, I’ll let you take a picture.”

Eddie’s eyes pop open wide. Then, he shoots through the door so fast that he leaves an Eddie-shaped dust cloud behind.

“Do me a favor and drag your goddamn feet!” he calls behind him, enough to send you cackling, and you hear more than you see him burst through his own bedroom door across the apartment. 

Taking leisurely steps as requested, you listen gleefully to the chaotic cacophony of Eddie tearing his room apart in a frantic search, cursing to himself repeatedly as he does.

“Damnit… God…damnit! Where the fuck did I…? I swear, I just had it!”

Smiling to yourself, you slip on your heels, hang your purse on your shoulder, and open the front door. Eddie’s loud and fruitless search continues.

“Don’t wait up!” you call back to him, to utterly no response. After a pause, you yell even louder. “...I mean it, Eddie!”

It’s wishful thinking at best. Just like every other night you’re out late (with “the girls” or otherwise), you know you’re gonna find him mostly-awake to greet you, coincidentally having ordered too much food for him alone and more than happy to help you peel yourself out of your clubbing clothes and wipe the ruined makeup off your face—a routine you enjoy far too much to suffer any real guilt over.

With a fond sigh and a pleasantly boosted ego, you close the door behind you.

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