#noch

Eddie hasn't thought about her in a long time, had completely forgotten her. But a visit from the past awakens not only old memories but also completely new feelings. From friends to lovers, a story from Eddie's perspective, nicknames, lots of flirting, sexual innuendo, very fluffy, lots of emotions Watch out! There are several chapters.

<- chapter one

Later. I’m lying on my bed, the blanket half over me, the fan buzzing like a stunned mosquito. My left foot taps along to Master of Puppets playing softly on my old cassette deck. In my right hand is a half-finished joint. I take a deep drag, close my eyes, let the smoke fill my lungs.

Her. She won’t get out of my head. The way she sat there, alone. How she blushed. How she brushed those curls from her face like it was nothing—and yet it was… something. That feeling that I knew her, that there was something hidden in my head, tucked underneath a dusty drawer full of childhood memories.

I exhale smoke toward the ceiling and mutter, “Who are you?” Knock knock. I jump. Quickly I stub the joint out in the ashtray, frantically wave an old Metallica shirt like a sacred fan against the smell of doom. Wayne’s on the late shift, but you never know—maybe some nosy neighbor thinks I’m into Satanism. Not entirely wrong, but, damn people, let me just smoke weed like everyone else, okay?

I head to the door, open it… and there she is. Her. Curls, leather jacket, those damn eyes. “Hey,” she says, her smile a bit crooked and nervous. “I thought you probably still live here.”

I blink. “Uh… yeah. Welcome… to my kingdom.” She grins. “Remember now, or do you need a hint?”

Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, trying to play it cool… and I have no clue what to say.

“I kinda thought,” she continues, “that you wouldn’t remember. But I’ll never forget little Eddie Munson, making mud cakes with me and hunting monsters in the woods.” She looks me over. “But little Eddie’s grown up big.”

Suddenly a switch flips in my brain. The fog clears, and there she is—barefoot, muddy, with a watering can full of muck, deep in Hawkins woods. Me. Her. A fallen tree root that was our hideout. And I called her… Dolly. “Dolly…” I murmur.

She nods, her eyes shining. “You called me that because I was small and round like a dolly.” I laugh—real laughter. The first all day. “You were cute like a doll.” “Were?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are,” I correct, biting my tongue.

She laughs, and her laughter… god, it’s like sunlight on a rusted tin roof. Strange. But beautiful. Real. “Dang, Dolly!” A wave of happiness hits me. I can’t control the goofy grin on my face—and, Jesus, she’s grinning back. She reaches out, steps closer, and hugs me tight. Feels like reuniting after far too long. At that moment, I realize exactly that’s what it is.

She wraps her arms around my waist, clasps her hands behind my back, and I knot my arms around her shoulders. We just stand there, me sure she can feel my heart pounding—but hell, I can’t do anything about it.

After a while she pulls away, her eyes shining, grinning wide. It’s strange: in an instant, the image of that tooth-gap little girl flickers before her face—past Dolly and present Dolly merging into one person. Did she have this experience earlier in school when she looked at me?

Dolly sits in the grass in front of my trailer, blinking at me expectantly. “You gonna stand there or sit with me?”

Of course that wasn’t really a question— as if I had any other choice than to sit next to her. The grass is damp; the moisture seeps through my jeans. I wonder if Dolly notices—or just doesn’t care.

I light a cigarette to busy my hands; her presence makes me crazy-nervous. “So,” I say, “what brought you back to Hawkins, Dolly from Germany?”

She pulls a blade of grass from the ground. “Remember why I moved away in the first place?”

Honestly, no. Until just now I couldn’t even remember I had a close friend as a kid. I shake my head, and she sees I’m in the dark.

“My parents split before I was born. I just lived with my mom.”

Ah—something clicks in me. A little crowded living room—didn’t we play orphanage there? Switching roles, me or her being the child adopted or rejected. Strange. She giggles and I focus on her again.

“I can see how the memories come flooding back. Your eyes go all glassy.”

I laugh—more in surprise than anything. Dolly really sees me, notices my reactions. That’s… not what I’m used to.

“Anyway,” she continues, “my mom met my stepdad. A German guy. And surprise… eventually she decided to move there. We were in fifth grade. Then it was Stuttgart.”

“And how was the move for you?” I ask.

She laughs, but bitterly this time. “Moving from a small town to a big city sucks. Everything’s highways, noise, and piss. Jesus, Eddie,” she sighs, looks at me dead serious, “it all smells like sausage and piss!”

Her serious face combined with her word choice makes me laugh so hard I almost cry. I lie back flat in the grass to endure my own laughing fit. When did I last laugh that hard? I hear her laugh too—almost scream. Quickly I turn toward her; I want to see her laughing. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she rocks forward and back.

“That’s not funny,” she pants. “But your laughter!”

That makes me laugh even more. We sit there—or I lay there—and laugh up at the sky. Eventually she takes my hand and squeezes it. “My stomach,” she pants. “Ouch.”

Honestly, my abs hurt too—my muscles aren’t used to that kind of laughing. The last few years have been seriously short on joy.

We calm down, but Dolly’s hand remains on mine. Her skin is warm and soft. I’d love to brush my thumb over the back of her hand, to see if it’s soft there too. But I don’t—she’ll figure out soon enough I’m the “freak.” No need to rip that Band-Aid off.

I frown. “So now? Why are you back?”

She shrugs. “My mom and I… we’ve been fighting. A lot. Loud. About everything. About nothing. So I moved in with my dad.”

I nod. “Welcome back to the hell.”

She laughs again—and I want to bottle that sound, store it somewhere safe.

But then I notice it. The accent. The way she’s careful with her words, like every syllable might betray her.

“You sound… kinda…” I start.

“Like someone with German accent, who not speaks English since long time?” she says, sighing.

I raise my eyebrows, amused. “Who hasn’t spoken English in a long time,” I correct gently.

She groans and covers her face. “Ugh, yes. That. See? I sound like a stupid child.”

“Hey, no,” I say, touching her hand briefly. “It’s cute. Kind of charming, honestly.”

She looks at me, doubtful. “Yeah, until I try say ‘squirrel’ in class and everybody laughs.” She frowns. “That word is evil.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You mean… skwrrrlll?”

She attempts it. “Squrlle.”

I chuckle. “Close. Try again.”

“Squirr-luh?”

“Better,” I grin. “You’ll get it.”

She smirks. “I can say ‘Dragon’, but not ‘squirrel’. Is unfair.”

“That’s life. Weird and unfair,” I say, still smiling. Then, softly: “But you’re doing great, you know?”

She snorts, but there’s a tiny blush rising on her cheeks. “My teacher says I talk too quiet. Like I hide.”

“You do,” I say. “But here… with me… you talk more.”

She pauses. Then: “Because you make me feel… like no need to hide.”

I blink. That hits harder than it should.

And suddenly the air feels warmer. Softer. Like a memory you thought was lost but somehow found its way back.

It goes quiet for a moment. I feel my heart jumping in my chest. Not like after a jump scare, but like… when you rediscover an old song you haven’t heard in ages.

“And why did you guys argue?” I ask curiously. “You and your mom.”

She suddenly grins. Crooked. Mischievous. “She caught me smoking a few times. A few times too many.”

I widen my eyes. “Really?”

She leans toward me, sniffs in my direction. “By the way, I can smell what you did in there.”

I act offended. “I’m a good citizen, Dolly. That was… uh… sage. Medicinal.”

“Sure,” she says, winking.

And suddenly that feeling from back then comes back — when we sat together under the tree root and believed dragons could live in the woods. A thought arises in me, a thought I’ve never had before. I wonder if I should invite her inside. Not because of any dirty thoughts, God no, but because… medicinal purposes. Smoking alone is nice, but in company, it’s much better.

She looks at me, her eyes a little tired, a little curious. I clear my throat. Now or never, Munson.

“So… if you want,” I say, pretending it’s no big deal even though my pulse is already racing, “you can come in. I mean… smoke a bit, chill a bit. Only if you want.”

Her lips curl into a smile. Not the sweet, insecure one from school — more like a “I know you’re trying to be cool” smile. And then she just says: “Gladly.”

I try not to stumble as I open the door. Inside, of course, it smells exactly as expected: incense sticks, old vinyl, a slightly burnt cable somewhere in the wall, and a hint of… sin.

She steps in, takes off her jacket, and looks around. My room is, well… my room. Posters of Dio, Sabbath, Judas Priest. Action figures on the shelf. DnD dice scattered on the floor like they’d just had a fight and scattered. My bed’s unmade. Of course. An empty bag of chips wobbles on the amplifier.

“Sorry, it’s a bit…” I search for a word that doesn’t sound like total self-loathing. “…chaotic.”

She slowly turns around, takes it all in, takes her time. Then she simply says: “I like it. It looks like you.”

I’m silent for a moment. Like me, my mind thinks. No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that. Not… nice.

I clear my throat, reach into my little drawer under the window and pull out my stash. I roll the joint with the precision of an alchemist, light it, and hand it to her.

She takes it with a casualness that surprises me. Draws deeply, blows the smoke toward the ceiling. Then she looks at me.

“Not your first time, huh?” I ask, grinning.

“In Germany, it feels like there are more people with their own garden than with a driver’s license. Trust me, every other guy grows something in his garden shed.”

I laugh. We take turns smoking, and slowly that warm, fuzzy feeling settles over us. Not just from the weed. Also from… her. The way she just is. Without expectations. Without a mask.

Then she turns to me, her voice soft, a bit muffled: “So, Munson… now that I’m back… will you help me navigate this madhouse called Hawkins High? Who’s who? Who’s dangerous? Who’s dumb? Who’s nice?”

I sit up, rubbing my hands like a shady gnome about to sell a treasure map. “Oh, Dolly, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

She laughs. “I want names. Stories. And at least one warning.”

“Okay, so… there’s Jason Carver. Basketball player. Cheerleader boyfriend. Vain as a peacock and hollow as a door. If stupidity was currency, he’d be the richest man in Hawkins.”

“I remember. The one who annoyed you in history class this morning.”

“Exactly. Then there’s Chrissy, his girlfriend — cheerleader, but somehow… sad. I don’t know, something about her feels off. Like she’s wearing a smile that’s not really hers.”

She nods. “I saw that. She seems like a porcelain doll about to break.”

“Poetic, Dolly. I’m impressed.”

She grins broadly, takes another drag.

“Then there’s Hellfire — my club. We play DnD, so socially we’re somewhere between dust mites and athlete’s foot. But the guys are great. Dustin, Jeff, Gareth, Mike… outcasts, but loyal.”

“And the teachers?”

I roll my eyes. “Mrs. Harrison? I think she hasn’t felt anything since the Korean War. Mr. Thorne, our math teacher, definitely has dark secrets. Probably buries bodies. And Mrs. King from the cafeteria is running a conspiracy. At least, if you ask me.”

She laughs again, longer this time. Then suddenly she’s very quiet. Her eyes shimmer, half from the smoke, half from something else. And she says: “Thanks, Eddie.”

“For what?”

“For still sounding like you used to. Everything here is strange… but you’re still you.” She studies me so intensely again, “only your hair’s a lot longer.”

Automatically, I grab a strand and hold it between my mouth and nose — a desperate attempt to hide. But not from Dolly. She immediately reaches out, gently presses my hand down.

“Na ah,” she says, shaking her head, “that was a compliment, Munson!”

I feel myself flush. Goddamn it, I’m really blushing.

“Don’t hear that often,” I mutter, way too honestly.

“Well, get used to it.” She takes one last drag, then puts out the joint.

Noch & Heller . Argos Extractors