hellfire club

Eddie Munson's bedroom carried his own distinctive smell. . .

To simply put, it was a blend of unwashed laundry and dishes, the sweet sick scent of Reese's Pieces that melted into the carpet, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke drifting in from Wayne's room through the vents. And like most teenage boys, the space was cluttered and lived-in, but what made it special was Eddie's eclectic taste.

The walls and shelves proudly displayed his passions in a mix of Lord of the Rings trinkets, Star Wars posters and memorabilia, vintage robots and the latest heavy metal band poses he'd torn from the music magazines his uncle occasionally surprised him with.

It wasn't very much at all, but at thirteen, Eddie's room was still very much a work in progress, he thought. One he imagined would gradually evolve and bloom over the coming years into something fully his own. For now, though limited, what he had was his treasures.

While you continue sleeping unbothered, the entire trailer carried in pervasive smokiness, and the choking smell of scorched butter drifted. Sunlight cut through the crooked slats of his blinds in thin, dusty bars of gold, casting striped patterns across the rumpled sheets where you lay curled beneath them.

Eddie Munson now stood at the foot of his bed, balancing a chipped ceramic plate in one hand like it was a trophy he'd just won. He had egg white swiped on his forehead and all over his overused Black Sabbath shirt while looking equal parts proud and terrified.

"Hey. Sleeping Beauty," He gave the mattress a gentle but insistent shake with his foot. "Rise and shine before this gets any colder."

You stirred, slow and disoriented like it was the best sleep you ever had. And it honestly was because your bed back in the lab was nothing compared to the pillow soft one this was.

You woke and sat up still half asleep in a way that made Eddie chuckle. Your eyes popped open one at time when he waved the plate of food under your nose until you slowly came to; pupils adjusting to the light.

Eddie dropped to one knee on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, and set the plate carefully in your lap.

Burnt edges curled around a lumpy yellow omelette that had clearly fought for its life against Eddies culinary expertise. Beside it lay a thick, glistening slab of cooked canned Spam sat for an afterthought. And a bent fork that saw better days, resting across the rim of the plate.

He sat back on his heels, arms crossed, trying, and failing, to look casual.

"First time I've ever cooked anything that didn't come out of a cereal box or a toaster," he announced, voice bright with the kind of bravado only someone who'd just risked setting the kitchen on fire could muster. "You're witnessing history. Eat it before it turns into a science experiment."

You looked down at the plate, then up at him with surprise flickering across your face. No one had ever made food for you like this, obviously.

All you guys got your entire life was cold or warm soups and stale white bread on sterile metal trays. And if you were good, followed instructions and met expertise, then you would be rewarded with a plain taffy candy.

So, the feeling of your stomach jumping was new, and it made you feel a little sick. Yet your stomach chose that exact moment to let out a long, rolling growl that seemed to echo off the wood-paneled walls.

Eddie threw his head back and laughed loud, "Whoa, listen to that thing. It's been serenading me for the last two hours while you were out cold you know."

He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed his own plate of identical meal, that was seemingly more tragically burnt in appearance, and dropped onto the very edge of the bed so the springs creaked.

"Go ahead. Eat. Before it files for emancipation," he says with his mouth full.

You hesitate for a second longer, amazed by the food. The fork trembles slightly in your fingers while cutting into the omelette. A small piece coming away, steam curling up until you brought it to your mouth.

The first taste hit your tastebuds dramatically, the mix of flavors making your eyes go wide. And you can't help but chew slowly and stare at it weird which makes Eddie frown a little as he witnessed your brow furrow.

You never knew food could taste this good, and it almost made you cry even if you didn't know what burnt food meant. So, to Eddie's surprise you began to stuff your face quickly. Eddie froze mid-bite, fork hovering. He watched the transformation like someone witnessing a squirrel stuff its mouth.

"Good?" he asked, quieter now, almost afraid of the answer.

You nodded once, fiercely, already reaching for another bite and your shoulders loosened. The tension you carried in every line of your body eased, just a fraction.

Eddie exhaled through his nose, a soft, relieved sound, and took another bite of his own food. To which tasted like charcoal and complete victory as he grins.

"See?" he said around a mouthful, gesturing with the fork. "Told you I;m a culinary genius. Next week I'm tackling pancakes. Maybe even bacon if the Munson fortune holds."

You didn't answer with words, just gave me a smile with eyes full of gratitude. Just savoring every imperfect bite because it was the first real thing you'd ever been allowed to eat.

The plates were empty now, scraped clean of every last charred crumb. You sat cross-legged on the unmade bed; the thin blanket pooled around you like a makeshift nest. In your hands was the small plastic R2-D2 figure Eddie had pressed into your palm earlier, which was surprisingly heavy for something so tiny.

You admired its little dome head that gleamed silver in the light with its blue stripes across the body and catching every stray beam like it was trying to signal something.

You turned it around slowly in your fingers, tracing the raised details with your thumb, and memorizing the shape as you gathered flashes of the straw dog you had once called a toy of your own.

Eddie had disappeared toward the kitchen with both plates stacked in one hand, muttering something about needing to clean up the others left behind.

His footsteps faded down the short hallway, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the trailer and the soft mechanical click of R2-D2's legs as you tilted him.

When Eddie returned, he paused in the doorway. You didn't look up right away, but you felt the shift in the air, and the way the room seemed to brighten just because he was back in it.

He crossed the small space in two easy strides and dropped onto the mattress beside you with a plop, springs groaning under his weight. Close enough that you could smell the faint cheap drugstore shampoo he used.

He leaned in, elbow on his knee, and nodded toward the toy in your hands. "You like Star Wars, I take it?"

You lifted your gaze from R2-D2 to Eddie's face, then back again. The question hung there, but it felt like it had traveled across galaxies to reach you.

"What is a . . . Star Wars?" The words came out careful, like you were tasting each one before letting it go.

Eddie just blinked. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped him. "You don't know—Wow. Have your parents kept you locked in a basement or something?"

The joke landed soft, meant to be light, but it struck something hurtful. So, you didn't answer. You only looked down at the little droid again, fingers tightening around it as though it might shield you from the question until silence stretched between you both.

Eddie watched you for a long beat. His usual restless energy stilled. He stared at the carpet between his worn black sneakers, then dragged a hand over his head, like he could pull the right words out of his scalp.

"Hey," he said finally, quieter now. "You know, you speak. So . . . tell me a little about what's going on here? Because it kinda looks like you're a runaway. Clearly."

He gestured vaguely at you, at the stolen borrowed oversized sweater swallowing your frame andat the way you held yourself like you were still waiting for the walls to close in.

"And I honestly don't know what to make of this."

Your stomach twisted with the images flashing behind your eyesm making your head throb in your skull from the night everything ended. Your pulse kicking hard against every point.

You sat up fast, blanket sliding away. The mattress rocked as you swung your legs over the side and stood. Bare feet hit the thin carpet as you moved toward the door without looking back.

"No—wait. Please."

Eddie's voice cracked on the last word. It stopped you in the middle of the narrow hallway, one hand already reaching for the wall like it could steady the sudden spin of the world.

You turned slowly. He was still on the bed, half-risen, palms open like he was trying to prove he wasn't a threat. His eyes were wide, but soft and earnestly locked on yours.

"I can't say," you told him.

The words felt clumsy in your mouth, too big, too small all at once. Your gaze darted to the peeling wallpaper, the crooked Van Halen poster, anywhere but his face.

"It's something I don't want to talk about."

You meant it to sound final. Instead it came out small. Eddie didn't move closer. He stayed where he was, watching you the way someone watches a startled animal that might bolt at any second.

You understood every word he said, more than he probably realized. But understanding wasn't the same as knowing how to answer. Dr. Brenner had never bothered with conversation. There were commands, numbers, and tests only. Simple words for following orders.

No one had ever asked you what you wanted, or why you were afraid, or what you dreamed about when the lights went out. Social was not a skill they taught in the lab. Survival was. And more or less becoming a weapon of war to them.

And now, standing in this dim hallway that smelled faintly of yesterday's popcorn and motor oil, you felt the old instinct rise again . . . Don't involve him. Don't let him close. People who got close ended up hurt. Or worse. A flash of Henry flickered in your mind.

But Eddie didn't look like he was going to hurt you. He looked like he was the one who was scared honestly. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Outside, a distant lawnmower coughed to life and somewhere down the street, kids shouted over the whine of bicycle tires on gravel.

You started to move again in slow, deliberate steps down the narrow hallway toward the living room, the worn carpet muffling the sound of your bare feet.

The air felt thicker here, heavier with the scent of old cigarette smoke and the lingering burnt smell of the food he had cooked you both.

And all you could think of was distance and space, rather, keeping this person safe and getting away. The door at the side of the trailer suddenly looked like the only safe exit left in the world.

Eddie's hand closed gently around your wrist but it made you flinch hard. A full-body jerk that ripped through you like electricity, and locking your muscles, causing your breath to snag in your throat.

The world narrowed to the point of contact as his warm fingers, put careful pressure, and nothing like the cold, bruising clamp of Henry's grip that night before.

But memory didn't care about intent. Eddie let go instantly. His hand flew back as though burned, and his eyes went wide in concern that he hurt you.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice low and rough, eyes wide with the kind of panic that comes from realizing you've just stepped on something fragile. "I'm—shit, I'm really sorry."

You didn't move, only stood frozen in the dim hallway, one arm curled protectively across your chest, the other hanging at your side. Your fingers had instinctively wrapped around your opposite wrist, hiding and shielding it. But the motion only drew his gaze downward.

Though difficult to see, your wrist did appear very swollen and felt tender and bruised. The phantom feeling of Henry's fingers pressed deep into the skin like a brand.

Eddie's breath caught audibly. He stared at the swollen parts, before his eyes caught onto the tiny black ink tattoo there. Holding simple block numbers.

012

His jaw tightened before something dark and unfamiliar flashed across his face out of anger, yes, but the slow, simmering kind that had nowhere to go yet.

He didn't know your story, hell he didn't even know where you came from, but he saw enough now and no one got a number tattooed on their wrist because they asked for it at your age.

"Did they give you that?" His voice was quiet, but the question carried weight.

He pointed, not touching, just indicating the tattoo with the tip of his index finger. Tears stung hot at the corners of your eyes. You felt them gather and threaten to spill, but you refused to let them fall. Instead, you turned away, facing the front door to look at anything but him.

Eddie frowned, deep lines carving between his brows. His mind raced, leaning to call Wayne or to call the cops. Hawkins PD wasn't great, but they had to do something about this, right?

Welts like that didn't happen by accident. Strange tattoos on a child didn't happen by accident. But something quieter whispered in the back of his skull that he shouldn't.

Don't. Not yet at least. Push too hard and whatever this is will come back chasing her. Or worse—you. He swallowed the impulse. Took one careful step forward instead.

His hand settled feather-light right between your shoulder blades. You tensed again, shoulders hunching, breath hitching—but he didn't pull away. He just moved his palm in slow, steady circles, the motion gentle and repetitive, like soothing a spooked animal.

"I promise," he said, and the words came out thick, past the lump lodged in his throat. "I won't say anything. To anyone. Not unless you tell me to. Okay? You have my word."

You stayed rigid for another heartbeat. Then, slowly, the tension in your back eased just enough. Eddie reached into the pocket of his jacket then. His fingers closed around the small R2-D2 figure the size of his finger. You'd dropped it on the bed in your rush to leave. He held it out to your side, not forcing it into your hand, just offering.

You felt the movement more than saw it thanks to your telepathy. And slowly, you turned. He was closer now, close enough that you could see the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose, the way his dark button eyes searched yours without flinching.

You stared at him longer than what felt comfortable. Longer than most people could hold a gaze without looking away. It was like you were trying to peel back every layer of him.

Searching for the lie, the trap, the moment he'd turn into someone else, but he didn't blink or look away. So, you reached out your fingers as they brush his and collect the toy.

"You can have it," Eddie said, nodding toward R2-D2 now cradled against your chest. "Think you might need him more than I do right now."

He gave a small, lopsided shrug, the corner of his mouth lifting into something soft and friendly. "He's good at getting people out of trouble. Or at least beeping really loud while you do."

The smallest smile tugged at your lips. Eddie nodded once, acknowledging it like a victory he hadn't expected to win. The sky outside had bled from pale blue to bruised indigo much too soon. The last thin strips of daylight clung to the horizon like it didn't want to leave.

Inside Eddie's bedroom, the single lamp on the nightstand cast a warm amber pool over you both and the scattered treasures of all his dog-eared copies of The Hobbit, The Two Towers and so on. There on the bed lay a half-finished model of the Millennium Falcon made from scratch, a stack of recopied scratched VHS tapes labeled in Sharpie with titles like A New Hope and Alien.

He'd been walking you through it all with the enthusiasm of someone finally sharing his secret language and pointing out the intricate engravings on a pewter Gandalf figure, explaining why Han Solo was objectively the coolest smuggler in the galaxy, and laughing when you tilted your head at every new name like you were trying to learn a new trick.

You sat on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up, R2-D2 still clutched in both hands like a talisman. While the knot in your chest had long since loosened, just enough to breathe. Then Eddie glanced at the digital clock on his dresser completely forgetting the time as it blinked 6:47 p.m. and the excited grin vanished.

"Shit," he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. "My uncle's gonna be back in forty minutes. And as much as I wish you could stay, I'll be in deep shit if he finds a girl in my room. Or anyone, really. I'm actually grounded."

You frowned, the word foreign on your tongue. "What is . . . grounded?"

Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then let out a short, helpless laugh. "Um . . . it's like—okay, it's when your parents—or in my case, uncle, decide you're in timeout, urm. No leaving the house, no friends over, no fun. A form of punishment? Basically, house arrest without the cool ankle bracelet."

The word punishment shocked you so much, that you had half the mind to get up and leave yourself. But before you could ask what any of that meant, the low rumble of an engine rolled up the gravel drive outside. Eddie's head snapped toward the window.

"Shit. He's thirty minutes early!" He vaulted off the bed, crossed the room in two strides, and twisted the lock on his bedroom door with a sharp click.

Then he spun in place, eyes darting to the closet? Under the bed? Behind the laundry stack? Before landing on you again. You were still sitting there, watching him with quiet amusement, the corners of your mouth twitching and the sound of your soft, stifled laugh stopped him cold.

He stared at you, surprise flickering into something softer. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips despite the panic.

"Wait—No!" He said, pointing at you jokingly like you'd personally betrayed him. "We don't have time for this! You gotta go—"

The words died when he looked over you though without a backpack. Bare feet and no shoes that fit. No place to run to except the dark stretch of woods you'd come from. His shoulders sagged and he stood stock-still in the middle of the room, frozen between protectiveness and practicality.

As if you could hear the question screaming behind his eyes, you rose smoothly from the bed and pointed toward the window.

Eddie blinked, "What? The window?"

He followed your finger, then looked back at you. Realization dawned like sunrise. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could sneak out the window."

After he pulled out his drawers to search for clean socks, he made you put a bunch of them on your feet since his shoes couldn't fit you. Then he yanked the blinds up, opposite of where his uncle sat in the van—with a metallic rattle, then shoved the window open wide. Cool evening air rushed in, carrying the smell of the woods and distant bonfire smoke. He popped the screen out with practiced ease and leaned his head through the gap, assessing the drop to the patchy grass below.

"This is so wrong, actually," he muttered, half to himself.

You stepped past him without hesitation. One hand on the sill, the other still cradling R2-D2, you swung your legs over and dropped.

Eddie's jaw dropped as you landed with your knees bending just enough to absorb the impact, feet steady on the ground like you'd done it a hundred times—which you kinda have.

"Okay, then," he breathed, eyebrows climbing toward his buzzed hairline.

You turned back to him, tilting your head up. The yellow light from his room spilled across your face, turning your face liquid gold against the gathering dark.

"Eddie," you said his name.

It was the first time you'd spoken it aloud and it made a wide grin break over his face, like you'd just handed him something priceless. You started to walk away, gravel crunching under your borrowed, layered socks.

"Wait!" His whisper-shout carried just far enough. "I never got your name."

You paused and turned to look up at him in the framed open window, elbows braced on the sill, the warm light behind him making him look almost heroic.

"A name," you repeated, softer now and he nods.

You glanced down at the ground, at the dark weave of shadows between your feet. Twelve. That was all you'd ever been. Just a number.

The word felt wrong in your mouth now, too small for the person standing here. But when you lifted your eyes again, Eddie was still watching you without judgment, just that same open, worried smile.

"Twelve," you said bravely.

His face faltered for half a second in confusion, then memory flashed across his features as he glanced toward your wrist, hidden now under the sleeve of your oversized sweater. He swallowed whatever reaction wanted to surface and forced the smile back, brighter this time.

"Twelve," he echoed. "Cool name."

You smiled at that and started to turn away again.

"Wait!"

You stopped, glancing back over your shoulder.

"You're not gonna leave far, are you?" His voice dropped lower, sounding urgent. "You should come by again. I—" He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I could . . . help? Maybe?"

You held his gaze for a long beat. The night pressed in around you, cool and quiet except for the distant chirp of crickets and the faint hum of the trailer's air conditioner kicking on. Then you gave him one last small, grateful smile and slipped into the treeline.

Eddie watched until the shadows swallowed you whole. He eased the window shut, locked it and lowered the blinds before he sank onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet like it might give him answers.

He'd been walking home from school, backpack slung over one shoulder, when he first saw you, slipping out of those same woods like a ghost, buzzed head catching the late afternoon sun, clothes stiff with, what he hoped wasn't your dried blood.

He'd thought it was some elaborate prank at first. Then he'd seen the way you moved. A little too careful, seemingly starved, and utterly lost.

When you'd darted behind Mrs. Berg's clothesline and started yanking down something that looked like it might fit, he'd stepped forward without thinking.

Now here he was. Heart still hammering. A girl named Twelve vanishing into the dark with his favorite R2-D2 in her hands and a welt shaped like someone else's fingers on her wrist.

What did you just get out of? Because he had no idea what he'd just stepped into but he also knew he wasn't walking away from it.

He thought long and hard on how his presence in his middle-school rejected him like some kind of an outsider. Now what if that applied to you too, but in your strange unknown conditions?

He found that there were a lot of kids like you and him in some sense. Outcasts he thought. Runaways. People the world decided didn't count, and labeled societies rejects. Eddie flopped back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling where he'd taped a faded map of Middle-earth years ago.

"Crap," he whispered to the empty room with as the woods rustled once, softly, as though answering.

The local woods surrounding Hawkins had become both your new prison and your sanctuary. For two whole weeks since your escape, you learned to move through them and carefully avoided people and the area that surrounded the lab.

You refused to stay still. Slipping between the trees and tangled underbrush. You slept beneath low branches or the crevices against the rough bark of fallen logs.

You wore the same oversized sweater you had stolen too, though now it was heavier with debris and dirt that hung uncomfortably on your frame. The sleeves began to fray at the cuffs from constant brushing and did nothing to save you from the cold after a while.

The shorts that Eddie kindly let you have were a little too big as well. It was cinched at the waist with a length of twine you'd scavenged, but it slipped low on your hips whenever you had to run.

Eddie . . . Whom you thought about a lot. It left a strange feeling in your chest you didn't know meant missing him. It was kinder than all your family back in the lab had ever treated you, but then you remembered how kindly Henry seemed and betrayed you.

You hadn't gone back to the trailer. Not once. Even so, you had kept the droid clutched close to your chest every minute of the day. Wiping him clean with the hem of the sweater every night, as though keeping him bright might keep some part of that safe feeling alive.

The memory of Eddie's wide, worried eyes and the gentle show of kindness he had given stayed with you. Despite missing the sound of laughter and hearing him rant about his favorite things, you ignored the ache of going back.

Because, if Henry found you or the lab people ever tracked the trail of your escape, anyone who had touched you would most likely become a target. You knew, because of the events that happened after your little sister Eight escaped. You just couldn't let that happen. Not to Eddie.

And so, hunger also became a problem. You got sick a lot from not eating anything or only drinking rain water. Hunger, didn't care about noble intentions.

You'd lived on trays of bland bread and watery soup for years, measured portions delivered through slots, never enough to feel full, just enough to keep functioning. Then Eddie's burnt omelette had cracked something open inside you. Food could taste like more than survival.

Late one afternoon, a day after leaving Eddie's, the scent hit you before you even broke the treeline. It smelled like grilled, smoky meat. Something sweet and fizzy underneath it all that just made your mouth water and stomach growl loudly.

Your stomach clenched so hard it hurt. Repeated, long, rolling growls tearing out of you, loud enough that you pressed a hand to your middle as though you could silence it. You crouched low behind a thicket of ferns at the edge of the woods and peered through the leaves.

A park stretched out below in a wide green lawn dotted with picnic tables, and red-and-white checkered cloths flapping in the breeze. Children shrieked as they chased each other around a swing set. Adults in polo shirts and sundresses laughed over plastic red solo cups.

A grill smoked lazily near the center, and the long table beside it groaned under platters of food you'd never seen outside magazine pages Eddie had shown you.

It had glistening hamburgers stacked with lettuce and tomato, golden ears of corn dripping butter, bowls of bright red Jell-O studded with fruit, towers of cookies and other desserts, and an entire tray of hotdogs still steaming from the grill.

You didn't even think. You could only act on your stomach in a soft pulse of will, and with a flicker of focus, the world bent around you.

You used the trick of perception again, twisting it until you became nothing more than a ripple in the air. Invisible and silent as you moved, avoiding touching anyone in the process.

Over-layered socked feet, crossed cool grass discreetly until you reached the table. Your hands trembled and closed around a warm six-pack of glass bottles labeled Coca-Cola, the condensation slick against your palms before they too disappear with you.

Then, before anyone noticed, you lifted the entire platter of hotdogs nestled in soft buns. The mustard and ketchup already swirled across the tops of some.

You ran like hell out of there, back into the tress with your heart leaping out of your mouth with the soda pack on top of the hotdogs your clutched tightly to your chest.

When you finally stopped, deep enough that the sounds of the park faded to nothing, you sank against the base of an oak. The hotdogs were still hot. You wasted no time in digging in and lifted one to your mouth with reverent care.

You nearly spat it out because the first bite was overwhelming. Nothing like the food even Eddie made. This one actually had seasoning, something that was definitely new.

It was so incredible that you had to just stare at it for a moment. Your eyes fluttered closed, your brows pinched together and chewed slowly, letting the flavors unfold like something sacred.

When you finished off four hotdogs you finally reached for one of the glass colas. You recalled the Yoo-Hoo Eddie shared with you, and how he took off the cap, but this one seemed different.

Every time you tried to twist it off, the clasp bit painfully into your skin, pinching and refusing to give. Until frustration finally overtook you and with a sharp surge of telekinesis, you ripped it free by force.

The glass bottle was painfully cold against your lips as you took that first sip. The instant the liquid hit your tongue and fizzed down your throat, you froze, eyes locked on the dark woods stretching out ahead.

Your face twisting in pure, offended disbelief. How could they have only given you guys water and bread to eat your entire life when these things existed?

You had let yourself cry, for reasons you couldn't really understand after all of that. When you finished, your stomach felt full for the first time in memory, not just no-longer-empty, but satisfied. Though, it wouldn't last and yo knew you were going to have to find more food eventually.

A few days later, a fundraisers bake sale, had pies cooling on a folding table, with a plentiful amount of flavors. You took two slices wrapped in foil and a paper bag of powdered donuts.

Another afternoon, a Little League game, someone left a cooler unattended. You slipped away with a handful of sandwiches and a bag of chips that crunched so loudly you had to stuff them into your sweater pockets before retreating.

You learned quickly. If you were careful enough, and clever enough, you could take what you wanted. And therefore, eat. You learned clothes could be replaced too.

You eyed some laundry line one night and took a pair of jeans that almost fit, a soft flannel shirt, a teenager's forgotten hoodie next.

You kept a small duffel now, scavenged from a campsite along with a puffy blanket. the growing collection of stolen food, the clean clothes you rotated through.

Every morning you packed up and moved to a different clearing, a different hollow, or a new fallen tree. Never the same place twice, that way there was never a trail for them to find you.

Sometimes you almost got caught. A dog had barked too close one evening. You froze, invisible, but heart slamming against your ribs as its owner scanned the trees.

Another time, a flashlight beam swept across the spot where you'd just been sleeping. You rolled behind a log and manipulated everything to seem invisible while holding your breath until the footsteps retreated.

R2-D2 stayed with you though, who you pretended helped like Eddie said he would. At night, when the woods turned black and cold, you held him close and traced the familiar lines of his dome with your thumb.

He didn't speak, didn't beep, nor judge. He simply existed as a small friend and protector. And a small reminder of proof that someone had once looked at you and decided you were worth giving something to.

The caution of getting caught always made you sleep with one eye open. And the hunger came back every day, but then so did the guilt that began to grow.

You knew, somewhere deep inside, that taking was bad. That the families at the park had worked for those hotdogs, that the children had probably counted their cookies.

But the knowledge felt distant when survival had always been the only rule you understood. And survival meant a number of things. Which included eating, moving and just staying hidden.

So, you kept moving in and out of Hawkins, but always in the woods and through the trees that whispered to you since you had an ear to listen.

Even through the long, lonely, quiet nights when the only sound was the chilly wind in the branches and your own uneven breathing—and God forbid lurking animals. You told yourself this was okay, it was enough but you weren't sure what to believe anymore.

The woods had slowly grown familiar in their silence. Even if it became lonely. It was the way pine needles muffled your footsteps and the gleaming sun that peaked through that reminded you this was better than anything you could've hoped for.

Only two weeks of hiding had come and gone, and it this was only the beginning of being on your own. Of moving and surviving on stolen goods. Until you couldn't take the nagging curiosity that begged you to go back and get a glimpse of Eddie.

Curiosity, that small, stubborn thing, had finally pulled you back. You stood at the very edge of the treeline, just where the shadows thinned and the gravel lot of Forest Hills Trailer Park came into view.

Eddie's trailer sat third from the end, same crooked antenna on the roof, same faded awning sagging over the porch. You told yourself you only wanted a glimpse. Just to see if he was still there. Just to know he was okay, only to change your mind.

You turned to slip back into the trees in a hushed manner, a soft crunch of gravel beneath you as you spin around to go back only to have your heart stop and slam into your ribs as you nearly stumbled backward.

Eddie stood there. Arms folded across his chest, black band tee stretched tight over his shoulders, ripped jeans tucked into scuffed converse, silver rings glinting on every finger.

His appearance was wilder than you remembered, silver trinkets spilling over the collar of his jacket like he'd just collected a bunch of yard sale pieces. He stood in the same easy, crooked stance he'd had the first time he had snuck up from behind you.

"Normally," he said, uncrossing his arms and kicking at a loose stone with the toe of his shoe, "I don't make new friends often. Or at all."

You stared, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

"People tend to not like my presence, you see." He waved a hand down the length of himself, the chains and patches, the hanging scarf, everything that screamed outcast in a town full of polo shirts and perfect lawns.

"But I guess there was something in me hoping you wouldn't be like that. Despite . . . whatever's happening with you."

He took a step closer, then another. Hands clasped behind his back now, like he was trying very hard not to spook you again. Then his gaze dropped to the R2-D2 still clutched in your fingers, its silver dome catching the late afternoon sun, and a slow smile curved his mouth.

"I'm glad I was right." His voice softened, yet hope flickered in his dark eyes. "Did you . . . come back to see me?"

The question hung there, terrifying him if he was wrong. You felt the tension in your shoulders loosen, just a fraction before you took a step forward and accepted that you were caught.

"Yes," you said guilty.

Eddie's whole face lit up the moment you said it. He bowed in a dramatic, theatrical way then jumped once in pure, uncontrollable joy, sneakers scuffing the dirt.

When he straightened, he was suddenly much closer, leaning in until you could smell that faint drugstore shampoo, and the lingering trace of cinnamon gum.

"Good," he said, grin stretching impossibly wide. "Because I made you something, anddd I'm ungrounded, and my uncle isn't home, which means I can have friends over. So come on."

He reached for your hand gently this time, and his fingers closed around yours like they belonged there. You let him pull you forward, across the gravel, up the metal steps, and through the door that squeaked the same way it had before.

Inside his room nothing had changed. If anything, it had gotten worse, more cassettes spilled across the floor, more clothes draped over the amp, two new posters peeling at the corners. Chaos of mad destruction in every direction. You didn't mind and neither did he.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reached underneath, and dragged out a medium-sized duffel bag of army green, that was scuffed at the corners, zipper half-broken but holding. He set it on the mattress with the reverence of someone presenting a holy relic.

"I made you a survival bag," he announced, eyes bright like you were about to embark on the greatest quest of your life.

He unzipped it and pulled out a green paper sack first, unfolding the top so you could see the stack of flat, golden-brown bread inside.

"Check this out. I got some sort of flat-looking bread that reminded me of Lembas bread from Lord of the Rings. You know—waybread? The stuff the elves give the Fellowship? So when you're out there traveling or . . . whatever it is you do, you can be like them. One bite is supposed to keep a grown man on his feet for a whole day." He grinned. "I wrapped it in green paper instead of leaves, though."

You smiled and he dove back in like a kid showing off birthday loot.

"I put a blanket in here, it's extra thick, in case it gets cold. Toilet paper—because, uh, I don't know about you, but the thought of wiping with leaves? Not great. Definitely poison ivy territory." He shuddered theatrically, then kept going.

"Toothbrush and some toothpaste—not used I swear. Some of my old camp T-shirts, had to dig deep for those, they're my favorites, but . . . you need 'em more. And—" He reached into a hidden side pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag stuffed with candy. "My secret stash. Snickers, Reese's Piece's, some Swedish Fish. Emergency sugar, basically."

He kept talking and rambling, really pointing out the bottles of water tucked along the bottom, the small flashlight with fresh batteries he managed to find, and the old folded rain poncho he'd swiped from Wayne's closet. Everything was old and used but at least something.

"I just figured . . . you're out there alone, maybe. And probably not eating so good, huh?" His voice dropped lower, quieter. "So I tried to put a lot of water and food in there. Just . . . in case."

The excitement faded into something shyer. He shuffled his feet, rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the frayed carpet. You stepped closer, reaching out, until your fingers found his. Cool at first, then warming under your touch.

"Thank you," you said softly. "Eddie."

He looked up and the grin that broke across his face was brighter than the sun still slanting through the blinds. And it made you happy to see it again.

You stayed that afternoon until the sky bruised purple again, and in that mean time the trailer's thin walls creaked as the temperature dropped.

Earlier, Eddie had wrinkled his nose at one point, leaning in with exaggerated drama. "No offense, but you smell like the forest floor after a rainstorm decided to take a dirt nap on you."

You'd crossed your arms, stubborn, cheeks heating. You'd survived weeks without hot water; a little earth decay wasn't going to kill you.

But he'd just tilted his head, softer now. "Shower's free. Soap's cheap. I won't even peek, promise. Scout's honor." He held up three fingers in a mock salute that looked nothing like any scout he'd ever met.

You relented—mostly because the thought of warm water felt like something from another life. When you stepped out, skin finally clean and changed into fresh clothes, Eddie had pretended not to notice how much lighter you looked.

He only handed you a fresh towel and one of his old sweaters to sleep in, then walked you to the treeline before Wayne's headlights swept the gravel.

"Come back tomorrow," he said, voice low against the gathering dark. "I mean it."

You did. And the day after. And the one after that.

Friendship settled over you both like a well-worn blanket. No questions asked that either of you weren't ready to answer. Eddie never pushed about the welts that faded or the way you still flinched at sudden movements.

You never told him about the lab, about the numbers, about the things you could do with your mind and the green things that answered when you called. Some secrets were just meant to stay hidden or shielded and you wanted him safe behind yours.

He started calling you "Ve" more than anything else, mostly without permission, not that you minded.

"Well, Ve is better than Twel. Twel just sounds unfinished and may as well be Twelve," he'd drawl in a ridiculous, high-pitched voice whenever you scowled at the many nicknames he tried giving you.

He treated you like the little sister he'd never had, ruffling your growing-out hair over time, saving you the last slice of pizza when Wayne ordered from Benny's, or leftovers they had on game nights. Teaching you how to sneak extra goods from places without making them look obviously missing.

You were his first real friend too. The first person who didn't flinch at his choice of words or interest. Such as music, his clothes, his loud laugh, his everything. He didn't judge your silences or your secrets. He just stayed for you, and you for him.

When the leaves turned crimson and gold, then began to fall in drifts, the nights grew sharp enough to bite. And sometimes you'd viait him with a runny nose and Eddie began to worry for you.

"Snow's coming," he said one evening in early December, arms crossed like he was daring the weather itself to argue. "You're not freezing out there like some tragic Tolkien character. . ."

He walks to his closet, and opens it wide to reveal he had cleared a space in the narrow walk-in, and pushed his old amps to one side, then layered blankets and a sleeping bag into a surprisingly comfortable pallet.

Even strung a small battery-powered lantern from a coat hook so you'd have light if you woke up scared. The door stayed cracked open just enough for air and for him to hear if you needed anything.

He sighs before facing you and going over all the rules to do this. ". . . And we'll have to be extremely quiet when my uncle is home. He never comes in my bedroom so it should be fine, but you gotta stay here. If you continue going out in the woods during winter, you'll catch pneumonia at this point. . ."

You both knew it was reckless. One wrong move or sound, one early return from Wayne's shift, and the questions would start. But Eddie never hesitated and you never argued. And somehow you both managed to make it work.

Eddie was right though. The snow fall that came was worse than anticipated. It even made Wayne worry about the heater for the trailer he had to fix twice already.

Christmas came in quietly, wrapped in biting cold, but for Eddie it stood out as one of the most memorable ones he could remember. Since he could share it with a friend for once.

The trailer smelled of pine from the small, lopsided tree Wayne had dragged home, and cinnamon from the cookies they'd half-burned trying to bake.

The entire trailer didn't change, beside the Christmas tree. But the neighbors had done their best in stringing colorful lights that looped crookedly around trailer awnings, a few plastic wreaths hung on dented doors, and one of those inflatable snowmen that leaned drunkenly in tiny front yards, glowing defiantly against the winter dark.

Eddie didn't have money for gifts since Wayne's paycheck stretched thin between them as is, but when you sat cross-legged on his bed the night of Christmas, he reached under his pillow and pulled out a battered, empty journal. The cover was black, edges worn soft, a few old chord scribbles still ghosting the first page.

"For you," he said, almost shy. "Figured you might want to write stuff down. Or draw. Or . . . whatever. It's yours."

You turned it over in your hands, feeling the weight of blank pages with a smile.

The next day, you slipped back to the trailer while he was out running an errand for his uncle. When he returned, you held out the denim vest you'd taken from a clothesline two towns over.

It was faded blue, oversized even on him, buttons missing but perfect in every other way. You knew he wanted one, so couldnt help yourself. Eddie stared at it, then at you.

"Are you kidding?" His grin split wide. "This is the best! I can do so much with this! Like patches, studs, maybe paint a dragon on the back. You just handed me a masterpiece, thanks Ve."

He shrugged it on immediately. It hung completely loose on his frame, but he looked at himself in the cracked mirror like he'd just been knighted.

The holidays passed in a gentle blur. And you either curled up in his closet with the lantern glowing, or wandered Hawkins' quiet streets wrapped in the puffy blanket, watching lights flicker in windows that weren't yours.

New Year's Eve came with a surprise. Wayne had the night off and Eddie invited you over, properly, and a little too nervously, like he was asking for something bigger than fireworks.

"Uncle Wayne knows you're a friend," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Told him you're . . . going through stuff. He's cool. Just don't mention the closet thing."

You met Wayne for the first time on the sagging porch steps. He was taller than you expected, quieter, with tired eyes and a mustache that made him look like he belonged in an old Western. He offered you a Coke and a small nod.

"Eddie talks about you a lot," he said simply. No questions but a polite smile.

The three of you sat on mismatched lawn chairs in the yard while the sky exploded in all kinds of colors and shapes that bloomed overhead like flowers made of fire to you.

Eddie kept glancing at you, watching the way your eyes widened with every burst, the way your mouth parted in silent wonder. You'd never seen fireworks before and after getting used to the noise, it made you smile.

Eddie's mind was already racing with ideas, you could see it in the way his fingers drummed against his knee. Fireworks for Corroded Coffin someday would be nice, seeing how you like them too. Oh, and smoke machines . . . stage lights for sure. Something loud, bright and just unforgettable.

When the last bloom faded and the night turned quiet again, he leaned over and bumped your shoulder with his. "Happy New Year, Ve."

Your smile reached your eyes now more often than not, "Happy New Year, Eddie."

The year of 1980 rolled in quickly. The snow still clinging to the edges of January days. The trailer park felt smaller now, much more familiar and lived in, because you had a place in it.

Eddie's room became your second home, the closet pallet upgraded with an extra pillow he'd borrowed from school and a string of Christmas lights he'd left up for ambiance vibes.

You watched his appearance start to change in small, bright bursts. His interest in music sharpening into something more profound he liked to say.

He spent hours hunched over his beat-up stereo, rewinding cassettes until the tape hissed in protest, scribbling lyrics and chord progressions on the backs of old homework assignments he never turned in.

One afternoon in late February, he found another outcast named Gareth, a quiet kid with a mop of curls and a drum set he kept in his garage.

They jammed in the trailer's living room while Wayne was at work sometimes, which made the walls vibrate with tentative riffs that would one day become Corroded Coffin.

Eddie introduced you to heavy metal the way someone might introduce a best friend to a top-secret club. He slid a cassette into the deck, labeled Overkill and hit play without a second thought. And the moment the opening drums and growl of guitars filled the room would be a memory embedded in your brain forever.

"This one's by Motörhead," he said, voice low and reverent at first, then building with excitement. "Ahh, yes. Music that defines metal's raw energy and aggressive style." He says to the wall, clutching his fist.

He cranked the volume until the speakers buzzed, Lemmy's gravel-rough vocals crashing right through and making your eyes go wide.

You'd only ever known the precise, elegant strings of classical pieces Papa played in the lab such as limited Beethoven, Mozart, Puccini . . . operas that felt sweet and perfect, rather for punishing. This was definitely the opposite. It was more messy, loud, and alive.

Eddie grinned like a Cheshire cat, leaning in close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "Listen to that bass line. It's like the earth's heartbeat when it's pissed off."

He jumped up without warning, hands curling into the shape of an invisible guitar, neck snapping forward as he threw his head up and down in perfect time with the double-kick drums. Hair whipping, chains rattling, he looked ridiculous but completely free spirited.

"THIS IS MUSIC!" He shouted before he stopped mid-headbang, pointing at you. "Your turn. Come on. Join the dark side!"

Causing laughter to bubble in you. You hesitated only a second before standing. He grabbed your hands, positioned them like you were holding a guitar, and nodded encouragingly. You mimicked him, tentative at first, before your heads banged in unison, and the room went spinning with sound and motion.

You kept going until the world tilted with too much momentum until regrettably your foreheads cracked together. You both staggered back, laughing so hard it hurt, hands flying to the blooming pain.

The next morning you both sported matching Looney Tunes' bumps right above the eyebrows. Eddie caught sight of his in the bathroom mirror and cackled.

"Battle scars," he declared, pressing a finger to yours gently. "Metalhead initiation complete."

And just like that, the music sank into you. You borrowed his Walkman on long walks through the woods, letting Black Sabbath and Judas Priest drown out the old echoes of NINA.

The aggression and speed, plus the unapologetic volume, at least it felt like permission to be loud, to exist without apology. You became a blooming metalhead in your own quiet way thanks to Eddie.

Headbanging or dancing alone under the trees when no one could see, learning to mouth the words of these lyrics to expand your vocabulary until they felt like yours.

Eddie didn't stop at music. He taught you everything about Lord of the Rings in small book sessions sprawled on his bed with dog-eared paperbacks, voicing for Gandalf and Gollum that made you snort Yoo-Hoo out your nose.

He explained why Aragorn was the ultimate badass, why the Shire felt like home even if you'd never seen grass that green. Then you guys had a marathon for Star Wars and Alien on classic VHS tapes borrowed from a guy at Waynes workplace and watched on the tiny TV in the living room after Wayne went to bed.

You absorbed it all like dry earth drinking rain. He was surprised, sometimes, at how fast you learned. You picked up Elvish phrases he tried to teach you, remembered plot points after one telling, mimicked Han Solo's act almost perfectly. Eddie would tilt his head, half-smiling, half-wondering.

"You're scary smart. Like, a scary fast learner. . ."

You never told him why. Never told him about the punishments for hesitation, for anything less than perfect recall. The lab had drilled knowledge into you like a weapon; Eddie gave it to you like a gift. You kept the difference locked away, because some things were better left in the dark.

Through him, you also collected words. Colorful ones it seemed. Mostly ones Wayne muttered under his breath when the truck wouldn't start, ones Eddie flung with gleeful abandon when a riff didn't land right.

You learned asshole, bullshit and douchebag, with total innocents. Often testing them quietly when you were alone or when someone bumped harshly into you near the shopping district.

You people watched in Hawkins too. All the kids at the arcade, moms at the grocery store, the old man who always sat on the bench outside Melvald's. You mimicked their ways, borrowing their phrases like souvenirs which Eddie noticed.

"You're starting to sound like a local," he teased one day, tossing you a Mountain Dew. "Next thing you know you'll be asking for a pop instead of soda."

You caught the can one handed out of reflex from years of catching training through telekinesis and popped the tab with a hiss.

"Whatever, metalhead."

He laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed. Spring crept in slow, then all at once. Mud underfoot, green pushing through brown. It turned out to be your favorite.

The plant life buzzed with energy and while you made sure you were completely alone, you tried your abilities out on every plant you saw.

A little tree growing in the woods? It was fully grown within a minute. The dead flowers that weren't watered outside someone's trailer? Bloomed into a full out garden, that surprised the little old lady, making her entire day. You did little things like that right under Eddie's nose too, which sometimes made him scratch his curly head

Over the course of months you and Eddie kept meeting in the same spots. Best friends who'd chosen each other without fanfare.

The summer of 1980 unfurled slowly, then all at once, and with it came the first real taste of freedom you hadn't known you were starving for.

You discovered wigs by accident. One humid afternoon you wandered farther than usual into the heart of downtown Hawkins, past the hardware store and the diner that always smelled like frying onions.

A small boutique window display caught your eye in a lin e of mannequins with glossy, impossible hair in every shade the human eye could dream up.

Platinum blonde beehives, chestnut curls that spilled like waterfalls, sleek black bobs sharp enough to cut glass. You stood outside the glass for a long time, breath fogging the pane, before the bell above the door finally pulled you in.

The shop smelled of hairspray and new plastic. You moved between the racks like a ghost, fingers brushing synthetic strands that felt alien and thrilling all at once.

You chose one in the end to your liking and paid with crumpled bills you'd found in a coat pocket two weeks earlier and left with the wig tucked carefully under your arm like contraband.

When you showed up at Eddie's trailer the next day, you knocked once, having slipped the wig over your short growing hair long before he opened the door. He froze mid-sentence of something about a new Black Sabbath bootleg he'd scored, his mouth open, eyes going comically wide.

"Holy shit, Ve. . ." He stepped back, taking you in from head to toe. "You look badass. Like you just walked off a album cover." His grin split wide and delighted. "You're so cool it's actually unfair."

Before you could duck your head or mumble, he grabbed your wrist gentle, as always and tugged you inside.

"That's it," he declared, already pacing. "Tomorrow, we're going to the record store. It's my favorite one. The guy behind the counter lets me hang out in the listening booth for hours. One day I'm gonna work there, mark my words. You're coming with me. We're gonna make you listen to everything."

And you did. The next afternoon you walked side by side down Main Street for the first time in broad daylight without invisibility.

The wig sat comfortably against your scalp; the weight of it feeling more like armor. Eddie kept glancing over, grinning every few steps like he couldn't believe you were really there beside him.

You started leaving the powers off when you were with him. Not always, but old habits died hard. The world felt less dangerous when he was laughing beside you, when he slung an arm around your shoulders and called you sis in that casual, careless way that made your chest ache with something warm and familiar.

Soon your little group began to grow. Gareth, with his quiet drumsticks tapping against his thigh even when he wasn't near a kit. And then Jeff came along, he was the tall and awkward one, but also endlessly patient.

A handful of other kids who drifted toward the edges of things the way you and Eddie always had. You all ended up loitering outside the record store, the comic shop, the tiny arcade that still had a working Asteroids machine.

Leaning against brick walls, passing around headphones, arguing over whether Dio or Ozzy had the better solo career. You didn't talk much at first, but you listened and they let you.

Then summer ended. What was most different though, was the back to school year that crashed in like a cold front. Hawkins High began to swallow Eddie whole in his Freshman year that he constantly ranted about how the teachers already looked at him like they'd written him off before he opened his mouth.

He couldn't always meet you during the day anymore. After school he was either buried under homework he only half-understood or grounded for a C-minus in algebra.

Sometimes both. The trailer felt too quiet when he wasn't there filling it with music and motion. You wandered Hawkins alone way too often again. Past the quarry, through the woods, along the back roads where the streetlights flickered unusually as if following you.

The wig stayed in your bag most days and the invisibility slipped back on like a second skin. But Eddie never let the distance grow too wide.

One crisp October afternoon, Eddie showed up at your usual meeting spot behind the old mill with a new face in tow. A lanky sophomore named Ronnie Ecker, all sharp elbows with a sharper tongue, and hair cropped short on the sides and longer on top.

She carried a battered skateboard under one arm and a perpetual half-smirk, like she was always one step ahead of whatever joke the world was trying to play on her.

Eddie slung an arm around her shoulders, too casual, and grinned at you. "Ve, meet Ronnie. Ronnie, this is Ve, my sister."

My sister. Your heart gave a hard, happy flutter behind your ribs. You met Ronnie's eyes and managed a small nod. Ronnie's eyes flicked over you, quick and assessing, then she nodded once.

"Cool wig," she said simply. "Suits you."

You managed a small smile as Ronnie didn't push. She just dropped her skateboard to the ground, kicked it once to test the wheels, and fell into step beside you both like she'd always been there.

Eddie kept collecting strays after that. More like outcasts. More people who didn't quite fit. He introduced you the same way every time, but a little less casual, but proud, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, he discovered Dungeons & Dragons. A couple of older juniors with the entire image Eddie strives to be.

Leather jackets, the iconic long hair and all that gave off that rugged rock appearance. They ran a campaign famously named The Hellfire Club in the back of the drama room after school, and happen to let Eddie sit in once. Then twice.

Then he was showing up every week with notebooks full of scribbled maps and character sheets. Hellfire was born in pieces for him, stitched together from late-night arguments and pilfered graph paper until one day he brought it home to you.

First it was just the two of you on his bedroom floor, dice rolling across the carpet, his voice dropping low and theatrical as he narrated.

You listened, fascinated, the way you'd once listened to opera stories, except this time the story was yours to step into. You rolled badly at first, hesitated over decisions, but Eddie never mocked you. He just leaned in, patient, and guided you through the game.

"Whatever you want to do, Ve. You'll get it like you always do."

Together, you both got better. Every session sharpened something in you too. The way you had to think three steps ahead, anticipate outcomes, read people through their choices, it trained you in a strange way.

Later you'd realize it trained your powers too. Your focus and control, and the subtlety, but back then it was just fun. Just the two of you laughing when your wizard accidentally set a tavern on fire, or when Eddie's DM voice cracked on a dramatic monologue and he had to bury his face in a pillow to keep from breaking character.

The outcast squad all climbed the ranks in Hellfire faster than you did though. They became officers, lore-keepers, and much more. You didn't mind or rather liked to stay on the edges and learn through listening with every campaign.

The afternoon sun slanted low across Main Street, turning the sidewalks gold and the shop windows into mirrors of reflected light. The air smelled of exhaust and frying dough from the donut shop two blocks down as you and Eddie walked shoulder to shoulder.

His hair was longer now, dark curls bouncing with every step, the denim vest you'd given him patched with new band logos and safety pins.

You were laughing at something Eddie had just said. Some ridiculous theory about how Gandalf could've taken down the entire orc army with one good fireworks spell and when the double doors of the Hawk Theater swung open.

A crowd spilled out, chattering and laughing as the matinee let out in a wave of popcorn-scented bodies and rustling coats making your steps slow to a stop.

People streamed past, some tossing half-eaten bags into the metal trash can bolted to the sidewalk. One landed on top, still plump, kernels glistening with butter, the red-and-white striped paper bag barely crumpled.

Your stomach gave a quiet, familiar grumble. And my, to Eddie's surprise do old habits die hard. You veered toward the can without thinking, hand already reaching.

"Whoa!" Eddie's arm shot out, gentlely catching your wrist mid-air. "Don't get that, Ve. That's the trash."

You froze, fingers inches from the bag, he let go slowly, scratching at the back of his neck where his curls had grown thick and unruly. "What a waste, though. Damn. People throw away perfectly good popcorn like it's nothing."

You stared at the can, then at him. The embarrassment was small but there, old instincts clashing with the new life you were trying to build.

Eddie's eyes flicked from the trash to your face, then back again. An idea flashing above his head like a light bulb above his head.

"Come on." He grabbed your hand in his warm, callused from guitar strings and tugged you toward the theater doors. "I'll get you some popcorn. Real popcorn. I've got enough dollars saved up for a movie for us too."

You blinked, letting him pull you along. "A movie? In here?"

"Yeah. It's a bigger screen than the one at home that you have to watch with the lights out. And sometimes you can get a giant bucket of buttery goodness. You've never seen one I guess."

You shook your head and he smiled, delighted. "Then today's the day, sis."

Inside, the lobby smelled of hot butter and candy just like he promised. Eddie marched straight to the ticket counter, slapped a few crumpled bills down, and came back triumphant with two tickets to a replay of The Empire Strikes Back, and an enormous striped tub of popcorn so full it threatened to spill over the edges.

The usher tore the tickets, waved you through the heavy velvet curtains and darkness swallowed you both as you found seats near the very back rows.

The screen lit up with previews, colors exploding in a way that made your breath catch. You'd never seen anything like it so far. The sound wrapped around you in rumbles that rather soothed you.

Eddie handed you the popcorn first as you took a handful, and popped a kernel into your mouth. The salty taste with classic theater butter melted into warmth making you smile and savor each bite.

Your eyes gleamed when you saw your favorite, R2-D2. Eddie watched you, then shoved a fistful into his own mouth satisfied. You both laughed, quiet then louder here and there, because the theater made it all more spectacular.

He choked on a kernel the exact moment Yoda appeared; he thumped his chest, eyes watering, while coughing into his sleeve due to no beverages. Just the water fountain in the hallway when the credits rolled for later. But right then, in the flickering dark, it didn't matter.

You were both so engrossed by the movie that you didn't even notice your surroundings anymore or the boy two rows ahead. Steve Harrington sat with his arm slung around a girl.

His friends scattered around him, laughing too loud, kicking seats, tossing popcorn at each other like it was a game. The theater was packed, but their corner felt louder than the rest.

Steve turned once, mid-laugh, scanning the rows behind him for no real reason when his gaze snagged on Eddie Munson, the freak. The long-haired metalhead weirdo everyone whispered about—slouched low in his seat, head thrown back in silent laughter, sharing a bucket of popcorn with a girl Steve oddly recognized.

You leaned into Eddie's shoulder, both of you still giggling over whatever had made you choke. There was something easy between you that made Steve's brows pinch together. You just looked . . . Familiar, but certain he's never seen you before.

Not in the way he knew people from school or parties, it kinda nagged at him a little until the girl on his arm yanked him back toward her, fingers curling into his collar. She pulled him into a kiss, glossy lips with strawberry lip gloss.

You were too busy whispering theories about what would happen next despite knowing already and passing the last handful of popcorn back and forth.

When the credits finally rolled and the house lights came up, Eddie stretched, cracking his neck. "So?" he asked, voice low and hopeful. "Worth the ticket?"

You looked up at the blank screen, still glowing faintly, then at him. "Worth everything," you said softly.

He ruffled your hair in a brotherly fashion and stood. "Come on. Let's get out of here before they kick us out for loitering."

The quiet part of town had always carried a distinct unease, even in broad daylight for you. Locals called it cursed once, back when the Creel house still stood tall and proud before it became a hollow-eyed ruin.

The streets out there were narrower, the houses sparser, the silence creepy and broken only by the occasional creak of wind through cracked windows or the metal swings of a park near the haunted place.

One gray afternoon, you, Eddie, Gareth and Jeff dared each other to walk the whole length of it. It started as a stupid dare, half-joking, half-curious, the kind of thing teenagers do to prove they're not afraid of old ghost stories.

You lingered longer than the others without real care, over near the edge of the Creel property. Staring up at the boarded windows and the ivy that had begun to strangle the porch columns. Something about the stillness felt . . . Familiar, but not safe, exactly. You couldn't shake it.

The next day you returned alone and the sun was low and pale, the kind of light that made everything look like a faded photograph.

You walked straight to one of the smaller abandoned houses a few streets over. It was nothing grand, just a single-story cottage with peeling green paint and a sagging front porch.

The door hung crooked on its hinges; inside smelled of a number of things such as mildew but the roof was mostly intact, the windows still held glass, and a small wood-burning stove stood cold in the corner. You stood in the middle of the empty living room, turning in a slow circle, and decided this could be home.

When you told Eddie that evening, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he tuned his beloved guitar, his fingers froze on the strings. He looked at you for a long moment searching your face for the joke that wasn't there.

"Twelve," he said finally, voice low as he used your full government name meaning he wasn't pleased. "That place is a death trap. No heat, no running water, probably rats the size of cats. You can't live there."

You tilted your chin downward, "I've lived in worse."

He exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing a palm over his face. "Yeah. I know. That's the part that scares me."

He didn't yell or try to lecture. Instead he leaned forward, setting the instrument aside and drew his elbows to his knees, trying to smile even though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Alright, if you've already made up your mind. But I'm not gonna let you freeze or starve or get tetanus out there alone. I'm gonna see you every day. Or better yet, you're gonna be here. With me majority of the time." He stood to place his guitar back on the wall.

"Wayne's already used to you crashing in the living room half the week. He doesn't care anymore as long as there's no funny business. . ." He waggled his eyebrows once, trying for levity. "Which there isn't. Obviously."

You gave him a small, grateful smile and he sighed again, softer this time, and reached out to ruffle the top of your head. "Just . . . promise me you'll come here when it gets bad. Winter's coming again. I'm not losing my sister to black mold and hypothermia."

You promised and so the rhythm shifted again. Some nights you slept in the cottage, wrapped in every blanket you owned, R2-D2 tucked against your chest, listening to the wind moan through the eaves.

Most nights, though, you ended up back at the trailer, curled on the closet pallet with Eddie's old sleeping bag pulled tight, the muffled sound of his guitar or Wayne's late-night TV drifting through the thin walls while you started to dream again. Your dreams weren't very vivid however, because the moment you'd wake, you forgot all about the dark place that lingered beneath you.

One bright afternoon the following spring, you sat alone on one of the picnic tables outside Hawkins High. The sky was a perfect, endless blue, streaked with slow-moving white clouds that looked soft enough to touch.

You tilted your head back, watching them drift, letting the sun warm your face. For once your mind was quiet while you just enjoyed the feeling of being small beneath something vast and beautiful.

Across the parking lot, Steve Harrington leaned against the side of someone's car, arm slung around the shoulders of a new girl, different from the one at the theater.

His friends were loud, jostling each other with keys jangling, and someone tossing a hacky sack that kept hitting the asphalt. Steve was only half-listening, gaze wandering when it snagged on you.

You were simply sitting alone on top of the table, face tipped toward the sky, expression soft. Something pinched behind his sternum again. That same nagging familiarity he couldn't place.

He'd seen you before, now he was sure of it. But where? Not in class . . . Well, not that he payed attention. Definitely, not at parties. Not anywhere that made sense.

He straightened slightly, arm loosening around the girl and opened his mouth to call out something casual toward you, when Eddie's laugh cut through the noise his friends were making.

Eddie appeared first, vaulting onto the table beside you with a dramatic flourish, followed by Gareth, Jeff, Ronnie, and the rest of the outcast squad.

They swarmed the table in seconds, someone tossing you a soda, someone else starting an argument about last night's campaign, Eddie slung an arm around your shoulders and said something that made you laugh so hard you nearly tipped backward.

Steve watched the easy way they folded you into the center of their circle, the way you leaned into Eddie's side without hesitation. The girl on Steve's arm tugged at him, giggling, pulling him back into their conversation and he forgot about you again.

Another year slipped by and 1982 arrived with the sound of distortion pedals and late-night rehearsals. Eddie had finally done it. He'd gathered the pieces and Corroded Coffin took shape.

Garage practices turned into gigs at the Hideout on Tuesday nights, the crowd thin but loyal and you were always there, front row, the only person who knew every lyric and every chord change by heart.

They treated you like VIP royalty of course. The sister of the band. Eddie made sure you had the best spot, the first bottle of Coke, and the first request of the night.

"Should make you manager," Gareth joked once, wiping sweat from his brow after a particularly blistering cover. "You're the only one who shows up consistently."

Eddie grinned, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "Nah. She's our good-luck charm. Can't promote her, she'd start demanding raises."

You laughed, shoving him lightly. That same year, you watched Eddie try to flirt for the first time too. It happened inside the record store.

Some junior girl with dark eyeliner and a denim skirt, flipping through cassettes while Eddie hovered nearby, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.

His hands kept moving and fidgeting with his new rings, tugging his shoulder-length hair, gesturing too big when he talked about Dio's latest album. The girl smiled at seeing Eddie's cheeks going pink.

Later, sprawled on his bed, he groaned into his pillow. "I think I bombed," he muttered.

You sat cross-legged beside him, curious. "You said when two people like each other, they kiss. You did that with her, why don't we do that?"

"E-Oh, yeah. Um. . ." He lifted his head, wary now. "But not like—not us. Sibling-like best friends don't do that."

You tilted your head, "Why not?"

He blinked sitting up and rubbed the back of his neck. "Because . . . it's different. There's like, certain feelings. Romantic feelings involved. Not the same as . . . family feelings or friend feelings."

You waited. He sighed, searching for words he didn't quite have yet. "It's, a warm fuzzy feeling? And scary. And you get this stupid flutter in your chest like you're gonna puke but in a good way."

He turns to you, "With family it's different. When family smile at you it's like the whole world gets brighter and stays calm, whereas the person you like just becomes the sun or whatever but wrecks havoc on your heart."

You listen intently, doing your best to understand his clumsy, earnest word. "And sometimes your heart just screams for you to move forward, and you just wanna—" He stopped, hands waving helplessly. "I don't know. Kiss them. But not like a peck. Like it means something."

He looked at you then and something softened in his expression. "You'll feel it someday, I think. When it's right. It'll hit you like a freight train and then you'll understand, but it'll be the best kind of crash."

You nodded slowly, filing the description away like a new spell you hadn't learned yet. Emotions had always been distant things for you. Only numbers on a chart, reactions to be observed and controlled.

But sitting there with Eddie, listening to him stumble through the shape of something bigger than friendship, something warmer than family, and something Eddie couldn't show you, you felt the first faint stirrings of curiosity.

The next time Steve saw you, it was late. He was riding shotgun in someone's Camaro, windows down, radio blasting some Springsteen track the older boys were pretending to hate but singing along to anyway.

The car cruised slow past the small park near the edge of town, nothing fancy, just a few benches, a rusty swing set, and a drinking fountain that was useless.

You were on one of the benches, legs crossed, an old hardcover textbook open across your lap. Eddie's copy of junior year English, the spine cracked, pages a mess and annotated in his messy scrawl.

You traced a line with your finger, mouthing the words silently, brow furrowed in concentration. Studying was something you and Eddie did together some nights.

Either spread across his bed or the trailer floor, textbooks and notes were everywhere, half the time dissolving into laughter or arguments about whether Fitzgerald was secretly a wizard. It was messy and it was the closest thing you'd ever had to real school.

Steve's gaze landed on the book. He knew that cover, "What class is she in?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Tommy glanced over, followed his line of sight, "Who?"

Steve nods his head toward you, "That girl over there, with the book."

Tommy snorted. "Don't care, don't know her."

After that, you started appearing at the edges of Hawkins High more often. Never inside the building for long, just slipping into empty classrooms during lunch, or lingering in the back of a study hall when the door was left propped open.

You'd sit in the last row, invisible to all, absorbing lectures like dry earth drinking rain again. Steve caught glimpses though, your hair catching the fluorescent light, your head bent over a notebook, scribbling furiously.

He tried approaching once or twice, giving a casual wave, "Hey, you okay?" but every time he got close, you'd vanish around a corner like smoke. Gone before he could round it.

It bugged him more than he wanted to admit.

Late in 1981, Eddie became Hellfire's new Dungeon Master after the others graduated. The table that had scarred from years of campaigns now belonged to Eddie, as he sat at the head now.

Oh, and did he take it seriously more than anything you'd ever seen. Holding the screen in front of him and dawning a new DM voice that dropped into that low, theatrical timbre that did leave chills.

You were always there, cross-legged on a chair beside his, rolling for your character quietly with actions more than words, watching the way his hands moved over maps like he was conducting an orchestra.

For his sixteenth birthday, Wayne surprised him with the van. It was old and rusted but Wayne handed over the keys with a gruff "Don't wreck it, she's been good." And Eddie tackled him in a hug.

That night, he drove you out to the quarry overlook, windows down, tape deck blasting Judas Priest with all the stars sharp overhead.

"I'm putting a mattress in the back," he announced, tapping the steering wheel. "Blankets, pillows, the works. That way when you can't crash at the trailer, you've got somewhere warm instead of that creepy house all the time."

"The house isn't that bad," you said, arms crossed.

"It has no roof, Ve. A big chunk of it collapsed a week ago, what happens when another part does?" He shot you a look. "Like, literal holes are everywhere and rain comes in. Bats probably live up there. It's a health code violation waiting to happen."

You huffed, staring out at the dark water below and he grinned, reached over, and pinched your cheek gently. "You're cute when you're stubborn." You swatted his hand away, but the warmth stayed and you smiled.

Another year slipped by. 1983 dawned cold and gray on top of it. Eddie got the job at the record store just like he'd always said he would.

Behind the counter, sorting vinyl, he loved recommending albums to the few customers who didn't flinch at his patches and rings. He loved the way he could talk music for hours without anyone, take from you, telling him to shut up.

What he didn't tell Wayne, or you or what he didn't tell anyone—was the side hustle he took part in. Small baggies of "funky plants," as he called them when you were around.

He kept it quiet, and remained careful to never let you near it. When buyers came by the trailer or the back of the store, you were already gone or sent on some errand, or tucked safely in the van with a new mixtape and strict instructions to stay put.

You knew, though. You weren't stupid. You saw the extra cash he slipped into your bag for new clothes, for food when the cottage got too cold, for the little things you never asked for but he always noticed you needed. He took care of you the way you took care of him.

Then came the day you found him broken for the first time. It was in late fall, leaves crunched under your boots as you walked to the trailer.

Wayne let you in on his way out to work with a tired nod, before he drove off. Eddie was on his bed, knees drawn up, hugging a pillow to his chest. His eyes were swollen red, cheeks streaked and the room was uncharacteristically quiet; even the stereo was off.

He looked up when you stepped into the doorway. Panic flashed across his face. He swiped at his eyes fast, forced a grin that didn't fit.

"Hey, Ve. Perfect timing. Um, I was just practicing my Oscar-worthy ugly-cry for the next Hellfire dramatic monologue—"

You didn't buy it. You crossed the room in three steps, climbed onto the bed, and pulled him into your arms without a word. He stiffened for half a second through pride and embarrassment, whatever wall he still tried to keep up before it shattered.

His arms came around you hard, face buried in your shoulder as sobs tore out of him, the kind that hurt to hear. You held on tighter, one hand stroking the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls the way he'd done for you so many times.

He cried until there was nothing left, until his breathing evened out into shaky hiccups, until the pillow between you was damp and crumpled and your shirt was soaked at the shoulder.

You didn't ask why because he had already talked about it earlier with a laugh like it was no big deal. Repeating senior year was a bruise he carried quietly, but you felt how much it really weighed on him.

When he finally pulled back, eyes bloodshot but clearer, he looked at you like you were the only solid thing in the room. You cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing the tear tracks.

"I'd do anything for you," you said, voice low. "Anything." Protect you. Fight for you. Give my life if it came to that you thought. "We'll learn together and try again next year, okay?"

His breath hitched again, not a sob this time, just something soft and stunned. "You're my best friend. You and me," you told him. My sweet brother.

Eddie stared at you for a long moment, then leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours. "Same," he whispered, voice wrecked. "You and me, Twelve. Always."

A/N: MC's R2-D2 is smaller than the one in the gif btw, I'll leave it up to your imagination, but it's the size of a finger at least

This is chapter 2 to this Steve H. series -> Masterlist here intro | prev chapter | next chapter hashtag ' #loveburn series ' for updates