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eddiemunsonbignaturals · 14 days

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BEAUTIFUL!

ronnie ecker recounts the last first day of the worst of her life or i wanted to rewrite beautiful from heathers the musical, hellfire and ice version. warnings: first person narrative (ronnie's pov), swearing, era-typical misogyny, bullying and slurs, mention of eating disorders, everyone's a dick, everyone's kind of gay for lacy doevski. wc: 3.8k

September 1st, 1984.

First day of the end of your life. It’s hard not to get a little intro-outrospective.

If I was a diary keeping person, which I’m not because I don’t like to leave a paper trail outside my own goddamn academic brilliance, I’d write something like this.

Dear diary, I believe that I’m a good person–y’know, relatively speaking, if you don’t count that one time I bit that one kid for catcalling me. But, here we are! First day of senior year! And I look around at these kids I’ve known all my life and I ask myself–what happened?

We’re in the hallway, bottlenecking toward the cafeteria. It’s right around lunchtime, so everyone’s getting a real good look at everybody else, categorizing who they hate, who they hate more, who got boobs over the summer. God, do we ever stop slinging shit at each other, even when we think no one’s listening? There’s a constant cacophony in the hallways of Hawkins High.

Freak! Slut! Burnout! Bug-eyes! Poser! Lard-ass!

And no one does anything about it.

It’s pretty sad, considering where we came from.

We were so tiny, happy and shiny, playing tag and getting chased.

Freak! Slut! Loser! Shortbus!

Singing and clapping, laughing and napping, baking cookies, eating paste. Especially me. I was crazy for that shit.

Bull-dyke! Stuck-up! Hunchback!

Then we got bigger, that was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome. “Shit, my bad!” That underclassman I just walked straight into looked terrified. And for good reason.

Welcome to my school, this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome.

Trailer trash!

For the very first very last time, I crane my head around the swamped hall and try to recall where my new locker is. First star on the right, and I wiggle in my combination and dump my books inside. I take a second, shoving my head inside the cool metal darkness (voluntarily, for once) and mutter, “Hold your breath and count the days, we’re graduating soon–”

“–Christ. College will be paradise, if I’m not dead by June.”

I crane my neck out. Two lockers up from me, elegant fingers pull open an identical door to mine except hers, of course, already has a vanity mirror hung up inside. She checks her reflection, not like it ever needs checking. One of her faithful little redheads stands beside her, smacking bubblegum so loud it makes my ears pop.

“You are so melodramatic, it’s crazy.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing…”

It sucks how the chrysalis of adolescence has made most of us completely obnoxious. I try not to be a sucker for nostalgia, but I can’t help but remember how much easier this was in middle school. Waking up on a weekday didn’t have to be like living in a segment of Creepshow.

I know, I know, I know, life can be beautiful. No plastic Jesus on my dashboard (or… handlebars, I guess) but I pray, I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again…

Then I get a whole shoulder of dork, right to the face. Bubblegum snaps between snorts, I can see that he’s been shoved my way. Yeah, we could be beautiful…

“Ow!”

Just not today. “Hey, are you okay?”

This Jansport sporting asshole twists his face up right in mine. “Get away, nerd!” Jesus Christ.

The choir of angels go on–I’m just trying to make it to the cafeteria and grab a fucking chicken pot pie. I’m starving, and I could use a little less soundtrack.

Freak! Slut! Cripple! Homo! Homo! Homo!

But, listen. It’s not a total nightmare. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. Things will get better soon as my letter comes from Harvard, Duke or Brown–

–or, NYU, if we’re being really serious.

“Wake from this coma, take my diploma–” God. This chick’s voice seems to cut through the din of the hallway like a bell, “Then I can blow this town. Dream of ivy covered walls and smoky French cafes…”

“Sooo uber pretentious!”

“Watch it, freak!” I don’t even need to turn around to figure out who that’s directed at. But, I’m a little preoccupied with singing my own tune, here! Muscling through to the lunch line, grabbing a tray while I–

“–fight the urge to strike a match and set this dump ablaze. Hey, Ronnie!”

Dude, shut up! I swing around, trying to spot the owner of that very different, very familiar dulcet tone when some duckbill hat wearing dickwad upends my lunch tray. Dressed in Hawkins Tiger green and gold, this is one of many prize dickwads.

Bear with me, I’m trying to place him.

“Ooops.”

Andy Sweeney. Indiana’s worst point guard… “whose true talent lies in being a huge dick.”

Did I mention before about that lack of filter between my brain and my mouth? I patch it up pretty good most of the time, but sometimes…

“What did you say to me, skank?” Andy demands of me all darkly and shit. It’s scary. Even if I’ve got a foot and a half on him.

“Aaah!” I recoil, looking at his flexing fists, “Nothing.”

I back up from him, way way up, leaving my mess of a lunch tray on the ground. Even though that makes me feel shitty–when did I become the guy who left stuff for the already harangued janitorial staff to clean up?

We were kind before; we can be kind once more…

Head down. Stalk through. Find the Hellfire table. But, not before someone chucks me lightly on the arm.

“Agh!” I holler before I register him. I am totally on edge. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey,” he grins in a sardonic way that says I cannot believe we’re putting ourselves through this again.

Eddie Munson. My best friend since pre-pube. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother, unless Granny finally lets me get that gecko I’ve always wanted. I’m almost eighteen, for Chrissake, I should be allowed.

Anyway, Eddie rocks. We know this. Look at him.

“We still on for movie night?” he asks.

I beam. Our first day of school comedown tradition. “Shit yeah, you’re on Jiffy Pop detail.”

Eddie’s got a little pep in his step and it jangles his wallet chain. Dude can’t help but attract attention– almost all of it unwanted. “I rented Evil Dead.”

“Hohoho, again? Wait, don’t you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say?” Before I can even warn him, Eddie’s backstepping straight into– “I’m a sucker for a gory ending.”

“Eddie Munson, king of the trailer park! What, you didn’t qualify for free lunches this year?”

A hand comes down hard on the age-old tin lunchbox Eddie’s carrying. The clatter it makes against the lino makes me want to cover my ears and hide, especially when I see Eddie’s face. Total resignation. It’s humiliating.

This guy?

Tommy Hagan. He’s the smartest guy on the basketball team, which is kind of like being the tallest dwarf.

“Too goddamn easy, man!” he guffaws, and I would try to figure out what farm animal he most resembles, but apparently I’m too busy–

“Hey! Pick that up! Right now!” –being the hero.

“I’m sorry, are you actually talking to me?” Tommy also tries to tower over me, but I’ve got a decent number of inches on him too.

My cheeks blaze.

“Yes, I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my friend. You’re a high school has-been waiting to happen. Tell me, Tommy, do you actually have a personality outside of sticking your nose right up Steve Harrington’s ass?”

Tommy gets closer and closer. So close that I can see the nose hair move as he huffs through his freckly nostrils. His finger points right between my eyebrows.

“… you have a zit right there.”

Cue rapturous laughter from the peanut gallery.

Dear diary…

Why do they hate me? Why don’t I fight back? Why do I act like such a creep? Why won’t he date me? Why did I hit him? Why do I cry myself to sleep?

Somebody hug me! Somebody fix me! Somebody save me!

Send me a sign, God! Give me some hope here! Something to live for!

The doors of the cafeteria burst open and Tommy’s attention is thankfully wrenched away from me. Everyone’s attention is wrenched away from me. Because we’ve all been waiting for this.

They enter the caf in a solid formation, so solid that people part for them. Some gazing, some gawping, some glaring. The name calling ceases, the bullying pauses.

This is the royal court. They float above it all.

Tina Burton, head cheerleader. Her dad is loaded. He sells engagement rings.

Heather Holloway, runs the yearbook. Badly. No discernible personality, but her mom did pay for implants.

Even the lessers are notorious. Carol Perkins has been having sex since, like, seventh grade. Cass Finnigan’s been pretending to save it for Jesus but giving a backdoor key to whoever buys her peach schnapps. Nicole Summers invented three new slurs last year alone.

And finally, Lacy Doevski.

The Almighty.

She is a mythic bitch.

These girls, they’re solid Teflon. Never bothered. Never harassed–

“I would give anything to be like that.”

And I know I don’t sit in that thought alone. Glancing around the tables, the coagulation of cliques, I can hear the desire coming from my classmates.

I’d like to be their boyfriend. If I sat at their table, guys would notice me. I’d like them to be nicer.

“What’s the over-under on one of those harpies getting kidnapped, taken to some abandoned warehouse to be photographed naked and left for the rats?” Eddie mutters into my ear as we slam ourselves down at our regular table.

I roll my freakin’ eyes. “I told you that your Barb Holland theory was insane.”

Eddie shrugs, flipping open his recovered lunchbox. “Just sayin’... They never found a body. Anyway, my money's on the ice queen. If everything they're sayin' about her dad is true, she is prime ransom material.”

“You are so unnecessarily twisted.” But my eyes are still following the crown jewels. I notice that Lacy, Tina and Heather all rise to the girl’s room immediately after they finish their minimal lunch.

I interrupt Eddie and Gareth’s too-intense-for-lunchtime debate about the morality of posthumously publishing The Silmarillion. “I have to take a leak.”

As I gently push the door of the bathroom open, I can see Tina standing nervously at an open stall door. Heather is ralphing like her life depends on it. The reptilian arch of Lacy Doevski is bent towards the mirror, touching up her lipstick.

“Grow up, Heather,” Lacy says in this voice that could weirdly be misconstrued as concerned, “Bulimia is so sophmoronic.”

Tina grimaces. “Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather.”

From inside the stall, Heather’s voice echos. “Yeah, Heather– I mean, Tina. Maybe I should.”

I’m about to open my mouth, say something about ginger ale or peppermint tea, but Mrs O’Donnell enters behind me. I dive into a nearby stall, pretty confident I haven’t been spotted. But, I leave just enough of a crack in the door to watch everything that unfolds out there.

“Ah, I should have known–”

Heather vomits again. Damn, how can she pull trig so much on so little?

“–the witches from Macbeth always travel in a trio.” Her heels click over the cracked, yellowing tile, but the way Lacy turns from the mirror gives even O’Donnell pause. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell over all the vomiting. You’re late for class.”

Hey. Idea. I dig around in my backpack and scribble on a piece of paper, leaning against the bathroom door.

“Heather wasn’t feeling well.” Lacy says. Again, confusing enough to sound kind! “We’re helping her.”

O’Donnell chuckles all airly. Like she’s any match for her. “Not without a hall pass, you’re not. Week’s detention.”

That’s my cue. I scurry out of the stall, presenting O’Donnell with–

“Um, actually, Mrs O’Donnell, all four of us are out on a hall pass.” I gulp and glance at Heather, who’s finally hauled herself off her knees. “Yearbook committee.”

It’s super hard to breathe as O’Donnell inspects my handiwork. It hits me that this could go horribly, horribly wrong, and I can feel Lacy’s eyes boring into a hot spot on the back of my head.

O’Donnell arches her eyebrow. “I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

She goes to hand the note back to me, but Lacy intercepts. Once the coast is clear, she takes her time looking it over.

“This is an excellent forgery,” she tells me. A drop of freezing sweat runs down my back. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Ronnie– Veronica Ecker,” I stumble. “We were lab partners last year?”

Lacy’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t remember taking the lead on coolly dissecting a frog in front of me, it seems.

“Doesn’t matter. I crave a boon.”

She holds her glare on me. Jesus, why do I feel like I’m about to have my throat slit? “What boon?”

“Um. Let me sit at your lunch table. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think that you guys tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone…”

What? It worked for Nancy Wheeler. Even if she had to boink Steve Harrington to do it, but I can't quite stretch that far.

The girls all chorus in laughter at me. Oof.

“Before you answer, I can also do report cards, permission slips and absence notes.” Dude, I cannot tell you where this boost of bravery (or foolhardiness) is coming from.

“How about prescriptions?” Heather asks.

“Shut up, Heather,” Lacy cuts.

“Sorry, Lacy.”

Then, she zeroes in on me. Takes slow steps toward me, just like Tommy Hagan did. But her stare is tearing strips right through me. I even freaking hunch as she gets closer.

“For a greasy little nobody,” Lacy says, her voice dropping low so I have to strain to hear her, “you do have good bone structure.”

Tina and Heather must already be tuned into this Lacy-only frequency.

“And a proportional body,” Tina adds. “If someone didn’t catch you during a basket toss, you’d probably only kind of fracture your spine. That’s very important.

“Of course, you could stand to de-hobo your wardrobe.” Heather goes so far as to flick the flappy pocket on the front of my overalls. “Salvation Army much?”

“And ya know, ya know, ya know…” the shiniest jewel in the crown hums, tapping her lipstick tube against her cheek, “This could be beautiful.” Her painted fingers pinch my chin and turn it down toward her–because I’m fucking tall. “Mascara, maybe some lipgloss and we’re on our way. Get this girl some blush– and Heather, I need your brush. Let’s make her beautiful.”

A manic looking Tina produces a vanity bag out of absolutely nowhere. “Let’s make her beautiful…”

“Let’s make her beautiful?” Heather snarks, but Lacy shoves a hand in her face.

Her eyes turn on me again. Dark and sparkly and… and… smiling. At me. “Okay?”

“Okay!”

Then, whaddaya know, smash cut, it’s the next freaking day. I don’t know how that works, but I don’t see another goddamn narrator so pipe down.

The halls are their usual shitshow– Billy Hargrove shoves the new Hellfire freshman, Gareth, into a locker. Eddie hauls him up by the collar and they run headlong into a gaggle of girls, who all scream because every nerd that plays a fantasy game is contagious.

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Get away, pervert!”

“What did I ever do to them?” Gareth yelps, exasperated. Hard not to feel bad for the kid.

But Eddie’s sage about it, even though he knows it’s as unfair as I do. “You’ll get used to it, freshman.”

“No, dude!” Gareth pushes back, verging on a panic attack, “Who could survive this! I can’t escape this–I think I’m dying!”

O’Donnell, hot on the tardy check, appears behind the both of ‘em. “Who’s that with Lacy?”

“Damn. Someone got a welfare increase,” Nicole Summers hatefully snarls.

“Who’s the babe?” says Andy Sweeney.

But Eddie Munson, oh-ho, Eddie Munson settles his eyes into slits. Anytime, any place, he’d know–

“Veronica?!”

“Veronica?” Cass and Carol caw.

“Veronica?” Steve and Tommy mimic.

And Lacy Doevski… she looks to her dutiful right, and smirks. “Veronica?”

And you know, you know, you know, life can be beautiful!

My whole life, I haven’t had a choice but to be one of the boys. My best friend’s a boy. I’m in a band with all boys. I’m surrounded by boys all the time who make gross boy jokes and do stupid boy shit. Nobody, not even my Granny, even though she fucking rules, ever asked me if… if I wanted to put on a skirt and get my goddamned nails painted. And it’s not as if I mind being on the more masculine side of things but, shit, is it so wrong to want something? Even if I believed what I was pretty much dragged up to believe, by all my friends and the world at large around me–that being a chick was totally dumb. Couldn’t I try it on?

You hope, you dream, you pray, and you get your way!

Lacy beckoned me into her walk-in closet, which was about as big as my bedroom and smelled of gardenia, and put me in a pleated skirt set that she said didn’t fit her temperament anymore. ‘But it’d work for a novice.’

Ask me how it feels, lookin’ like hell on wheels–

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Eddie seethes as I pass, carried on the cloud of Lacy’s perfume.

‘My god, it’s beautiful!’ I’d said, spinning around in the stupid, flippy skirt.

“Those bobbleheads totally morphed her!”

‘I might be beautiful!’ I mumbled, fingering the diamond studs she put in my ears that she made Heather pierce.

“She looks like–like–” Gareth chokes.

And when you’re beautiful…

“A girl!”

… it’s a beautiful fuckin’ day!

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Now, at first, I think I’m fucking flatlining, expecting to wake up with goddamn tubes down my throat and shit– but I’m not. I’m in my regular old bed, with my regular old alarm clock screaming at me. I smash my hand down on it and jerk up, out of the covers.

First place I go is my wardrobe.

I feel the physical sensation of my heart dropping like a lead kite when I flick through my old thrift store samesies and Granny Ecker hand-me-downs to find no such minty plaid skirt set.

Just a dream.

Which is such a bullshit conceit. Sorry to break it to you.

I admit defeat and pull on my overalls, scrunching my ballcap over my head and muscle out the door. I’m already late, for me.

But–then, there’s an apparition hovering at my mailbox.

Someone who excitedly takes notice and waves when she catches me staring, arm stretching out of her fur-trimmed peacoat–which is looking a tiny touch shabbier than it used to these days.

“Happy early acceptance day, asshole!” Lacy Doevski sing-songs. Sing-songs. Which is… something I have to readjust to, given the liminal version of her I just experienced.

“Oh.. jeez,” I mutter, feeling dazed still, “I forgot that was today.”

Lacy’s brow gets all pinchy. “You okay? You look like steamed dogshit.”

“Thank you so much,” I drawl sarcastically, “It’s nothing, I slept funky. Where’s Eddie?”

Lacy shifts in herself a little, tucking hair behind her ears and avoiding my eyes. “How should I know?” Right. That. The daylight version of this little tryst they pretend they’re not having. Honestly, if the two of them would just bang it out– well, maybe things might be worse off and this weird little platonic ménage à trois of ours would be totally ruined forever, but at least I’d have to stop tiptoeing around them. “Come on, are you gonna open it or what?”

Oh, right. There’s a whole gravity of a situation supposed to be happening here.

I kind of feel the saliva gathering at the hinges in my jaw, you know the way you do when you’re about to puke your guts up? But then, I remember. Bulimia is so sophmoronic.

I yank open that rusty mailbox and a thick, thick envelope with a New York University imprint sits inside. I yank it out.

Lacy stares at me like I’m the dude holding the thing the Ten Commandments were written on.

I’m not drawing this shit out. I am not teasing myself, dude, you couldn’t pay me to–savagely, I rip the envelope open, which makes Lacy cringe. She probably has a little knife for these sorts of things, knowing her.

Dear Veronica,

Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you…

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Well…?”

I thrust that hot, heavy paper right into that pretty girl’s face. “Full. Goddamned. Ride.”

Lacy gasps, grasping the letter so hard it leaves claw marks. Her eyes shake back and forth, reading and re-reading the whole acceptance ream. It’s weird, and I know it’s weird, but I’m standing there, looking at her and trying to make her make sense with the Lacy that showed up in my dream. That girl existed, and she was mystifying, in a horrifying way. A total reign of ice cold terror. But now, I’m staring at Lacy, who’s all short, weird angles and specific enthusiasm and… it’s hard to see how those two girls ever lived in the same body.

She’s a little Whitman. She’s got those multitudes. And, actually, so do I.

“I knew it!” Lacy hisses, “And I want you to know that I’m not at all bitter. While I should be celebrating early acceptance with you, I’m glad–”

I grin at her. “You’re a little bitter.”

“Fine, I’m a little bitter, but I’m mostly excited. New York City, Ron! That’s transformative!”

“Yeah… speaking of. Lacy?”

“Yes?”

Dreams are meant to be prophetic and shit, right?

“Doyouwannagivemeamakeover?”

She cocks her head at me. She still hasn’t let go of that acceptance letter yet. “What?”

“Do you.” I take the envelope from her hands. I know she’s capable of identity theft. “Want to give me. A makeover.”

“Huh?” Her fingers stay curled around imaginary paper. Oh, my god.

“You heard me! And I hate repeating myself!” I flail a little. I get like that, quick to bug sometimes. “Look, you said it, New York is gonna be… transformative. I’m going to be a freaking lawyer, dude, fingers crossed, all going well.”

Lacy nods, not a hair out of place, with perfect confidence,“You are.”

“And when was the last time you saw a lawyer wearing fuckin’ overalls?! Huh? The people vs Howdy Doody?”

“I like your overalls.” I know she’s saying this because it’s the right thing to say, and she’s been practicing doing that really hard. She also might like them now, after repeated exposure, in a Stockholm syndrome sort of way.

“But they don’t scream esquire,” I impress upon her. And it’s true. I truly do believe that I can’t set foot in New York fucking City looking like I just fell off the back of a turnip truck–nor do I want to.

It takes a big fat beat, but her face changes. Lacy looks almost dastardly–dark, sparkling eyes like Lacy from the dream. She looks me right over, making the calculations of how to reupholster tragically unfashionable me in her mind. And then she arches her eyebrow.

“Well, remember… you asked, Veronica.”

#ayo fancast brilliant #‘andy demands of me all darkly and shit’ you are so funny and when the ronnie worm seizes you again i’m sat this was so great

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eddiemunsonbignaturals · 27 days

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Loving Eddie (Grim Reaper!Eddie x Reader)

Pairings/Relationships: Reaper!Eddie Munson/Reader

Warnings/Themes: Implied Character Death, Animal Death, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

Note: I was in a mood tonight and had the sad playlist going as I read Loving Reaper so I wrote a little thing inspired by it. Definitely gonna shoot some recognition to @fairyysoup for forging the path with Death and the Maiden and @vintagehellfire who is an excellent writer regardless and has mentioned a future Reaper!Eddie story. And of course @chestylarouxx who wrote the softest puppy story and @somnambulic-thing for their edit.

I guess this is a little love letter to all of you guys. And just...a soothing little thing for me.

I know this isn't the point but...I'll be making a donation to Chicago Animal Care & Control for some fun little treats so the little babies know how loved they are before they find their forever homes.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

---

Life and Death have been in love for longer than we've had words to describe...

Eddie knew what it was like to be alone in the world, with no one to love and no place to turn to.

It wasn't that long ago that he was left to wander, to pass unseen, unable to meet a soul that cared to know who or what he was.

First his body had been left in the Upside Down to rot, and then his spirit was left to wander the Earth to do the same.

It jaded him.

Turned him off people, who saw his disheveled spectral form but thought nothing of him. Not to stop or even give him a second glance.

But animals?

Animals flocked to him.

That was where he rediscovered his place in this endless mortal coil.

He'd always considered himself an animal lover, feeding the stray cats and the raccoons that wandered around Forest Hills. Giving extra pets to Mr. Ford's dog that got left outside a little too often.

Even in Death, the birds ruffled their feathers and sung a little louder for him. A butterfly had no fear to land on his fingers and kiss them with their wings as they became bony and unfamiliar.

And the first time he came across a poor little soul that had been left, tethered to a stake, on the side of the road...he knew what his path would be.

He sad beside them and ran his hand overhear head, giving it companionship for the last time...

Maybe I was a bad dog?

No, you just loved bad people. You were a good boy.

...and when it was time to get up, they followed him for as long as they could, until they disappeared into starlight, feeling love for one last time.

It happened again and again.

Cats and birds and fish.

And he didn't know where they went when they crossed into starlight, but he took comfort that he was the one to ferry them there.

To show them the softness in death that they lacked in life.

One day...it wasn't an animal that earned his softness.

It was a human.

It was you.

He was softly petting a rabbit who had dreamed of a lush field of greens, and had only known a cage, promising them flowers and the blue skies and an endless spring when you'd shown up.

Determined.

Your hand went through his as you scooped the little creature up.

"I'm sorry Bunny," you whispered gentle. "Lets get you someplace nice."

He watched your retreating form resentfully. Not because you'd taken his charge away...but because you must have been just like the others. His natural resentment for everything human now.

He followed, of course, and watched as you nursed Bunny back to health. As you called around to friends and family to see who could take them. As you told your neighbor off for buying a rabbit on Easter in the first place if they had no intention of caring for it.

"Susie told me you'd brought it out to the woods. Bunny was dying. What did you even feed it?"

His anger dissipated, just the slightest bit. But he still distrusted you.

No matter. Bunny survived, and had the endless spring they deserved.

And Eddie could forget you.

But he couldn't. Because you showed up again and again, in his path. Stole his purpose from him.

Why he hung around, he wasn't entirely sure.

It's not like he needed to validate your sincerity. You'd stopped your car for enough ducks and bottle fed enough chipmunks for him to know that his little buddies were safe with you.

He could have moved on, soothed the abandoned souls and led them to starlight elsewhere.

He simply felt tethered to you.

Life sends countless gifts to Death...

You had even seen him one day.

You'd stumbled coming down the some steps as you shopped around town, a sudden and unexpected imbalance, and he grabbed you on instinct.

Eddie expected...well he didn't know what he expected. But it wasn't your hand coming to grip his. It wasn't your soft, relieved breath filling his hollow cheeks with life again. It wasn't the sparkle of your eyes meeting his as you thanked him.

"God I don't know what's wrong with me," you laughed. "Sorry...sorry. I didn't mean to just fall on you like that."

"It's alright," he replied with a voice gone raspy from lack of use. "People fall for me all the time."

The smoothness of his response was unexpected too.

You talked for a few minutes.

You always came this way; did he? Was he new in Hawkins? Did he try that coffee place on Main? Anyway, it was nice to meet him. You'd see him around.

He was dumbfounded.

Because you saw him.

You talked to him, touched him.

Showed him the humanity that he'd been lacking--secretly yearning for deep down--for decades. The kind that he had begun to believe didn't exist anymore.

And as you walked away, and as everyone ignored him, he decided he didn't want anything to do with it.

The time had come and gone. Eddie Munson had come and gone. The starlight, the softness, was his new purpose now.

Death was his new name.

He did his best to avoid you, but when had what he wanted ever come to fruition. The more he tried not to see you, the more you saw him.

A bird had fallen from the nest in your neighbor's yard, and you saw him as he carried their soul away, wings too small to fly yet.

You waved hello to him as you hobbled up the sidewalk, after you'd sprained something on your lunchtime walk.

He told another little friend at the animal shelter that their suffering was over, that the hands and feet that never stopped for them were silly and stupid. He would take them to the park for one last game of fetch.

And you were there for a work picnic, the sight of him being the only thing that had put any light in your eyes all day, tired and sunken as they were.

You'd really put your all into planning the picnic, you told him.

He couldn't care one bit.

All he saw was someone who tried too much, gave too much--to people and things--and he simply...despised it. Because those little things you did to give, also took.

They took from him.

He tried one last time to escape you.

Went to the beach.

Walked long and fast and far on untiring feet until his skeletal toes that had long-since ripped through the caps of his sneakers touched the lapping waves of Lake Michigan.

It was a wasteland, and exactly where he belonged. Exactly where he could give some softness. He was right where he needed to be.

The gulls looked for food and only found trash.

Choked on cigarette butts and straw wrappers.

He could sooth them, nourish them, lead them to oblivion.

When he was 12...his uncle had taken him to the beach and he'd witnessed two of the dastardly birds fighting over a piece of fried chicken.

He wished he could see that now.

And not you, sitting on a blanket reading, bundled up in a pullover and sweatpants that dwarfed you.

Funny he could have sworn he'd seen you in those during one of your first encounters. They fit fine then.

It wasn't a particularly cold day...but cold enough where there weren't that many people on the beach so it was easy for you to spot one another.

"Oh hey stranger," you called out to him with a weak wave. "How is it that we keep running into each other? Even 3 hours away at the lake?"

He couldn't help but approach you, maybe save you some embarrassment from the few other stragglers noticing you were talking to yourself on an empty beach.

"Must be fate," he commented bitterly.

"Hmm," you shrugged and looked back at your book.

Eddie sad beside you, uncaring if he was on the sand or not. He couldn't feel the grains between his bones. There was no discomfort anymore.

He considered that for a moment, his appearance. He was sure he was just...a skeleton in some ratty clothes now. But you never batted an eye at him.

Why did he care?

Curiosity. That was all.

"You never seem shocked to see me," he commented after a beat.

"Why should I be?" you asked. "We live in the same town right? This...I mean I wasn't expecting you to be here."

"No, I mean...how I look," he clarified.

"You're like...a metalhead right?" you asked and placed your book down. You hugged your knees to your chest and then reached out to poke a patch on his vest that, to him, was just a tangle of threads now. "Just a little dated. Ok, ok...a classic...forgive me. Metallica is a classic."

"Of course it's a classic. It's Metallica," he scoffed and rolled his eyes. You smiled at him serenely and he felt his ribcage bloat with something.

Joy. Fondness? Maybe you weren't that bad.

He'd just hardened his heart for so long.

"Where'd you even find that? Do you go to the Five Star Flea Market on Highway 69?"

"Never been."

"Garage sales then? I just had..." you yawned. "I just had a garage sale last weekend. Got rid of a lot of junk. I don't need it."

"One persons trash is another's treasure." His uncle always said that when they brought some chipped old mug home.

Where were those mugs now? He wondered.

He told you about them, told you about the Garfield one he got for Wayne for Father's Day one time.

"He hated it but refused to drink coffee from anything else," he told you proudly.

"I have these Campbells soup mugs," you contemplated. "You can have them if you want. One for you, one for your uncle."

"Oh uh..." How could he tell you that both he and Wayne were dead? He couldn't. "That's ok."

"I don't think you like me that much, Eddie," you announced after some time.

You'd wheedled his name out of him at some point.

The shame burned, replaced the fondness he'd realized was there.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just a feeling."

"I wouldn't be here with you if I didn't like you," he said confidently, truthfully. He allowed himself to be soft with you, for the first time, tone so different from what I had been before.

"We friends then?" you asked.

"Yeah...friends."

You both smiled, renewed by the agreement.

You were funny and kind and you got his humor and even recognized his favorite band. 30 years after the fact.

Metallica was a classic though. He'd wouldn't have offered his friendship if you didn't know them.

But yeah, you could be friends, maybe more if you had the time and the means...if you were gonna keep showing up in his life.

In his Death.

Eddie pushed himself to his feet and then held his hand out to you.

You didn't hesitate to grab it.

You felt a lot lighter as he pulled you up, floating almost.

And the two of you started walking, walking, walking...until the night came...until the darkness came.

The starlight.

And for the first time, Eddie didn't have to lose the softness of a new friend to the starlight. You were able to stay for him for a long time, hand entwined with his.

Into eternity.

...And death keeps them forever.

#lamented a full shift yesterday god i’ll never find ghis fic again it was so good and true to him and not in my tags somehow mineswell just #scroll my blog til i find it but no it came to me of course its jo’s #this might be the first fic of yours i read love it still …dare i say …. til i die ……………………#em reads #fave

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