#Pumpkin Night layouts | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

indouloureux · 2 years

Text

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 (part one)

summary: she sought for validation; he sought for acceptance. two juveniles who believed they’d spend the rest of their lives playing red guitars and borrowed claviers, (along with the trepidation of isolation), meet in one boring afternoon, and find themselves reveling in caterwaul voices, laying in a field of colossal grass, and writing lyrics with botched ballpens and crumpled papers.

— or: two people bond over emotional trauma, and fall in love through great manifestos

warnings: 1hr reading time, slow burn, friends to lovers, slight teenage angst, jealousy, tooth-rotting fluff, eddie being a sap, weird manifestos, reader being adopted, eddie and reader both having a self discovery whilst falling in love, fem!reader (she/her pronouns), me not knowing how to write both piano and guitar playing properly, deep words (sorry guys open google), lengthy, idiots in love, a love story about two sad teens going through a phase (jk) eddie has a bit of a corruption thing (not kink) bc he introduces reader into new things lol!

explicit warnings (for part two): virgin!reader, virgin!eddie; piv, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, overstimulation, first time, soft, vanilla porn, mentions of blood, handjob, cum eating, biting, marking, missionary, maybe soft!dom eddie bc he watched porn a lot and thinks he "knows his way", sweet but short aftercare

a/n: this is a story of fiction. i do not know the locations in both indiana and illinois. this is written in the way i prefer it to be to fit its story telling, and i am well aware of the things i write in here, and how i write this story. based on the song '1979' by the smashing pumpkins. the whole lyrics layout inspired by @/upsidedownwithsteve! 1979 is like one of my fav songs ever and i wanted to write a story about it. sorry it took a while to post :( hope you guys all enjoy.

PART TWO; SERIES MASTERLIST

Shakedown 1979

Cool kids never have the time

On a live wire right up off the street

You and I should meet

In a field miles away from a town that’s cursed him, Eddie lays in the colossal grass with his hands on his chest and his eyes closed, the sun blinding him through the thin skin of his eyelids. Growing weeds tickle his inked skin, dirt stains his leather jacket, and ants cross over his hair; he does not mind one bit.

He daydreams of the sky. How accepting they’d be — how they wouldn't mind his disheveled, long hair, or his punk style and see him as one of them; One of the clouds who form themselves into whatever they want and float freely across the cerulean aether atmosphere. A place where he can be himself, where he can bring his darkness into that white airy cotton, even when it turns grey or when the night begins. Eddie would be himself, and no one would judge.

Ringed fingers touch the grass when he removes one from his chest, soft beneath his fingertips that he massages. Eddie hums, taking in the calming sound of air swishing the trees, the faint sound of passing cars, the optimistic birds, and the sound of Dustin talking to his girlfriend with a sickenly high-pitched and lovey-dovey voice. Which reminds him:

“Hey, Henderson,” he turns around, laying on his stomach. Eddie takes a quick glance at his watch — 7:05 am. “Wrap it up lovebirds. We gotta go to school.”

Dustin nods his head, his cap blocking his eyes. “Yeah hold on. I gotta go, Suzie-poo. I’ll talk to you later, I promise. I miss you already. I love you.”

A giggle. “I love you more, Dusty-bun.”

“I love you more multiplied by all the stars in the galaxy.”

“No, I love you—”

“Alright,” Eddie suddenly takes the microphone from Dustin, shooting him a judging look with a raised brow before he speaks. “Sorry, Suzie-poo. Gotta take Dusty here to school or else you won't be seeing each other and he’s gonna spend the rest of his life running up this hill crying. Bye-bye now.”

He almost laughs at the thought of Suzie’s shocked face when he turns the radio off. And maybe that same laugh comes out when he sees Dustin’s horrified expression when he realized he’d — or Eddie — had just cut her off. He looks back at Eddie, mouth agape, before he playfully punches his shoulder.

“Asshole,” Dustin kicks his shin. “That was my girlfriend, you idiot. She’s gonna be pissed that you cut her off!”

“Nah, she loves you too much,” he stands up, patting the dirt off his knees and his jacket, fixing his hair. “Now come on, Dusty bunny, we gotta go to school.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dustin swats his hand away when Eddie tries to ruffle his hair by slipping it beneath his hand, but the kid smiles anyway. Anything for the affection he gives. “You know, you’ll be like this one day,”

Eddie plays with his keys, walking down the hill in heavy footsteps that threaten to twist their ankles. “What’d you mean?”

Dustin hops over the fence, followed by Eddie who grunts loudly. “Being sweet. Disgusting. In love.”

He scoffs, walking over to the side of his van and opening the door, but not before he looks at Dustin over the hood of his van with a look. “So you admit that you and Suzie are disgusting?”

“From the words of you, Steve, Lucas and Mike — who actually both have girlfriends — yes, I admit that we are disgusting. Disgustingly sweet.”

They close the doors simultaneously, the keys jingling when Eddie shoves the keys in the ignition. “You know, when I was fifteen, I spent my time playing the guitar and studying songs. My fingertips were bleeding, Henderson,” he shows him his palm, letting Dustin see the faint scar lines on his fingertips. “I never dated a girl. So I highly doubt I’d fall in love.”

“The only reason you never dated was because of your reputation,” Dustin throws his bag behind him. “And you’ll fall in love. I bet you will. You may be cynical and mad, but you’ll find the right person, Eddie,” he smiles at him. “Trust me.”

“Yeah yeah,” he shakes his head, the car shaking into a start and Mötley Crüe starts blasting that startles the poor boy beside him. “We’re gonna take this bet to my grave, then.”

Eddie Munson has only fallen in love once. When his Uncle, Wayne, had come home with a red guitar after his night, tiring shifts at the plant. He remembers clearly the way his eyes lost focus of the world and remained on that guitar, like the center of attention; the only attraction in this terrifying world. Eddie remembers the way his heart pounded like he’d fallen down a roller coaster, and remembered the way his tears had mimicked said coaster when he hugged his Uncle and sobbed out his gratitude.

That had been five years ago. When he was fifteen. And he swears he’ll never fall in love again.

Because love—in his own concept—was a dangerous game. More dangerous than when you decide to go and attack Vecna powerless in Dungeons and Dragons, or taunting a swarm of demobats. It’s a game with unknown intentions and arduous side quests that render you defeated before you even get to love itself. Dangerous and tiring, if you’d shorten it. And no one wants to delve into a love so treacherous if you’ll end up getting hurt anyway.

It’s what Eddie thinks; understood. How he perceives love and what he thinks love is with his semi-nihilistic mind despite never having to fight for love. It’s a game he refuses to partake in and narrate, and would rather watch people struggle with it from the sidelines (with a beer in hand and a freshly rolled blunt in his mouth, as he’d imagined).

So he prays Dustin would win that game. Despite being miles away from his girlfriend; give him all the makeshift spears and shields made of garbage lids and dull nails. He cares so much for him that he actually hopes their love will succeed, that he’d go out not scathed but covered in grime and a triumphant smile. Even now when Eddie looks beside him to see the lovesick smile on Dustin Henderson’s face who replays every memory he had with Suzie during that one summer.

He reaches over to give his friend a pat on the shoulder, which gifts him a bright smile before he races off to Hawkins High with eternal dread.

—

His day wasn’t at all dreadful. It felt like a normal day.

Probably because Jason Carver wasn't at school today due to a foot injury, and his little balls-in-laundry-baskets friends had no leader to bark at them around all day. They did nothing but practice and sit quietly at their tables, and so did Eddie.

Albeit the day being normal, he’d still get his usual judging stares and glares. Eddie Munson wearing a Dio shirt today? Freak. Eddie Munson wearing shoes other than his Reeboks? Freak. Eddie Munson trimmed his bangs today? Freak. Eddie Munson’s not wearing his vest? Still a freak.

He kept his head low, eyes on the ballpen that draws on his palm as he walks through the emptying hallway. Dustin had gone with Steve Harrington, and the rest had decided to leave early. Eddie? He’d just gotten out of detention for spacing out during class. Why detention? He'd never know why. Even Ms. O’ Donnel thinks he’s a freak.

Eddie whistles. Mandy. Something new and unusual, a song he’d heard from Wayne early in the morning that he too whistles as he makes his coffee and smokes outside the porch. He’d woken up to the sound of it for two weeks and he finds himself subconsciously copying his Uncle.

His footsteps echo in the walls of Hawkins High. He jumps and spins and occasionally taps his fingers across the lockers covered in stickers, if not dents from rowdy students. The sight of the exit doors surprises him when he turns right, and a bright smile comes up to his face when he sees them. Eddie pulls his keys out of his back pockets, shoves his pen inside, and continues to whistle like he’s taking a walk on a quiet, sunny day at a park.

Until by the time he’s about two rooms away, he hears the sound of a piano. Soft and ear-pleasing, yet startling since it’s been an hour after school ended and no one, not even the teachers other than Ms. O’ Donnel should be here. Eddie stops his whistling, eyebrows furrowing as he hears the piano play the same tune he’d been whistling.

And then a voice. Far and hushed, like a ghost. Unseen through the walls, floating and yearning to be noticed; so they sing to be noticed instead. Eddie’s heart palpitates a little in panic, wondering if the ghost is singing the same song he’s whistling to get his attention. His hands curl into fists and prepare to run away.

But he thinks of disturbing whoever's in that room. He also thinks he should just go home because it probably could just be a ghost, seeing as half the victims from the Starcourt fire had been students and they’d probably come here for refuge in the afterlife. But Eddie’s curious. Maybe taking a glimpse over the small window on the door and seeing a ghost would cause no harm other than a possible possession, right?

So he tiptoes his way to the door he recognized as the music room. He’d seen this room once when he snuck in here during middle school and he needed a guitar for Gareth or else they would have lost that talent show (they did. No adult would let a child playing quote unquote, Satan’s Music, win).

Carefully, he peeks sideways through the small window, where he sees through the blurry glass; a girl sitting in front of a keyboard. Her back to him, head bobbing slightly at every key she presses, showing merely the tip of her nose and the plump apples of her cheeks when she sways lightly to her gentle playing. Eddie quietly shoves his keys back inside his pockets, pressing his ear against the glass, and watches the grace take upon her fingers.

“I see a memory. I never realized how happy you made me,”

A voice so celestial, like an angel he’s never seen but envisaged. Maybe like an angel he’d imagined in the clouds up above; a voice so warm like the summer breeze, soft like silk and the denim of his vest. It’s inviting and it’s hypnotizing, with every perfect lilt.

Something new from his usual heavy ululating music. Something he might like and never get used to.

And it’s tempting. So tempting that he finds himself opening the door harshly that the doorknob slams against the thin wall of the room that even startles Eddie.

“Oh Mandy, well you came—”

You scream, hands slamming on the keyboard that makes a distorted sound of unmatched keys. Eddie’s eyes widen and his hands raise in defense, hiding behind them when your own hand comes up to gasp into your palm, horrified by his sudden arrival. His heart pounds against his chest, hands coming down to clasp at his pec. And he’s staring at your petrified look.

“Mother of God,” you whimper.

“I’m sorry!” he closes the door behind him hastily. “It’s, uh, I heard you. And I thought you sounded… great,” Eddie’s shoulders deflate, sighing when a small smile comes up to your face.

“Really?” you finish for him. “Sorry. I- I thought I was alone.”

“No, it’s okay.” Eddie finds himself smiling with you. More at the way there’s dimples at the bottom of your mouth and your teeth show slightly through your lips.

He stares at you, longer than he intends to, a sense of familiarity waves down him when he traces the slope of your nose and the thick eyelashes that meet with your cheeks when you blink. Eddie thinks you’re pretty — especially with your small smile that makes his heart feel weird when he realizes he’s the receiving end of it. A faint picture flashes in the back of his head, and he limply points at you. “Hey, uh, I kinda remember you,”

Your eyebrows raise a bit, hands falling to your lap. “You do?”

“Yes! I think…” his eyes narrow. “Middle school.”

“Yeah,” you tell him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It was back in middle school.”

Yes, he remembers you. Only that blurry picture in the back of his mind only focusing on the small pigtails of a girl shorter than him, the ends of a borrowed purple dress that tickled his knees, and that similar smile of yours except you’d been missing a tooth on the bottom row of your teeth that matched his. And that voice, still sweet but deeper than it used to be, still entices him like it used to do.

Eddie gawps. “Holy shit,” he says your name with pure shock, the smile on his lips starting to strain his cheeks. But he doesn't care, not when you’re prettily smiling with him. “You— you played that same song! Mandy, right? You played that too?”

“I did, yeah,” he walks over to you, hands on his lap and slightly bent. Eddie walks until he’s standing beside the bench you’re sitting on, hand grazing the plastic of the borrowed keyboard. “Mandy by Barry Manilow. Yep.”

“I’m Eddie Munson. Although I'm sure you already knew that,” he offers his hand, hoping you won’t notice the trembling and the silent clinking of his rings. You smile at him, taking his hand into yours and he wonders why even the handshaking felt familiar.

And your hand is warm. Soft like the grass he’s touched earlier this morning, feeling the same small scars in the pads of your fingertips when his thumb slyly runs through them. They were light and they were pretty, your own dainty little ring made by a wire that loops around a gemstone was a hard contrast to the abominable ones on his hand. Almost like an angel shaking the devil’s hand.

Eddie wishes to feel this way again. How a simple touch ignites something new, yet the fire starts within him that he can't find.

“I know,” you place your hand back on your lap, his own falling disappointedly on his side. “Sat behind you during History.”

He nods his head down on the bench you’re sitting on, asking for permission. You scoot aside, motioning for him to sit beside you; and Eddie, for the first time in his life, shyly does. He sits beside you, thighs almost an inch apart as he nervously watches you toy with the black keys. “How come I remember you a bit in middle school but not…?”

“Your early years of high school?” you press on a key he doesn't know. “I left after middle school. Moved to Queens, for my dad’s work. Came back here because my nana got sick.”

“Oh,” he plays with his rings, pulls them up before he puts them back on, a slight indentation on his fingers. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,”

Eddie exhales, feeling his heart unwind when you begin to play a steady beat, watching as you press down on the plastic keys. “I came inside because I thought you sounded good,” he nods his head to you. “Your voice. It’s nice. And, because I also thought that ghosts might have heard me whistling and decided to play with me. Scare me shitless.”

“Ghosts?” you repeat, pressing on a key that emits a deep tune.

He hums. “Hawkins is filled with dead people. Right beneath this school and those roads you walk on,” he points behind him. “‘ve you heard of the mall fire last summer?”

“I think so,” you furrow your eyebrows. “My dad’s friend called him about that.”

“It was horrifying,” his eyebrows meet for a split second when your eyes widen and you look away from him. Eddie smiles a little. “So, piano huh?”

You look at him again. “Well, technically it’s a keyboard but…it makes the sound of a piano,” you slam a finger onto a black key.

Eddie has gotten to the point where he realizes there’s no future in this conversation if he doesn't make up another question. And he doesn't want this to end. He just met you again, and he’d like to stay here a bit more even though he’s been craving to leave the school an hour ago. Anything to get to know you a bit more before he sees what’s going to happen next.

“Can you play me a song?” he asks quietly, feeling embarrassed by his diffidence. “Only if you want to.”

“Of course,” you smile at him, fists clenching that your index scratches on the cuticles of your thumb. He wants to stop you, but he worries about crossing borders and you’re probably just as nervous as he is as you say, “what song?”

“Mandy,” he deadpans. You blink at his tone, which makes him clear his throat and speak again in a rather forced cheerfulness that means no harm but to correct himself. “Please?”

You let out a short chuckle, unclenching your fists to spread them out and stretch. “Yeah sure.”

You began with grace, you performed with aplomb, and his ever-curious mind was captivated by how simple it was for you to play and croon at the same time, as if he didn't know how to do it himself. Eddie watches silently, sings in his head with your gentle humming; remembers how he’d caught Wayne swaying to this song once and thinking he looked funny and at peace, wearing his usual red flannel with a cigarette in his mouth and eyes closed. He looked high back then, unperceived that his nephew had been standing there to the side with crossed arms and an amused smile.

Is this what his uncle felt? Finding peace in music other than electric guitars and heavy drums? Lacking all that yowling rasps and instead replaced with a voice that runs through velvet flawlessly like yours. Where he sways and taps his feet, watching your slender hands switch between keys without having the pads of your fingertips stuck in between them despite him noticing the slight shakiness in your hands, dwelling in on the missing memory that scratches on the back of his mind as he watches you play.

“Caught up in a world of uphill climbing, the tears are in my mind and nothin' is rhyming,” you take a shy glance at him, eyes flitting to the redness of his ears. Eddie smiles to take your attention, making his ears turn redder when you smile back at him. “I…I forgot the next lyrics,”

Eddie chuckles. “So have I,” he lies. He just doesn’t want to sing. Not in front of you, at least. He worries he might crack his voice and he could just jump out that window.

There’s a faint sound of a door slamming shut from outside that makes you jump a bit, which makes Eddie turn around to where the sound was before he completely ignores it.

Trying to hide the disappointment that flows from him when you stop playing, he focuses on the fact that you’re looking at him as you do so. Which twists his heart in a way that’s far from bad, and tries to distract himself by clapping like one of the people he wishes he had after his shows. “That was it, all I could remember,” you motion to the piano, flushing bashfully. “I- stop,”

You laugh, your hand barely touching his wrist but motions for him to settle it down. “Bravo,” he smirks at you, wiggling his eyebrows. “That was amazing. Talented. You could be the next, I don’t know, Billy Joel.”

“I barely finished the song,” you nudge your knee with his. “I actually think I made a few mistakes but, uh, thanks,” Eddie fights the urge to remove the lone lint from your hair. He smiles at you instead, settling his hands on his lap. “What about you? Still playing the guitar?”

Eddie’s shoulder bumps with yours when you sway gently as your right hand presses all five fingers onto the keys. He can't stop looking at you, anywhere but your eyes really, so they mostly stay at your cheeks. Sometimes shyly at the plumpness of your lips chastely, or at the dimples threatening to deepen. “Still do. We play at The Hideout every weekend for some cash. We’ve got a crowd of about five…drunks.”

He feels that unfamiliar sensation of heat blooming in his cheeks when you laugh. It’s as soft and inviting as the piano that your hands rest on. “You should come see us,” Eddie continues, nudging his shoulder with yours. “That way I can tell my uncle we’ve got six people watching us now.”

“Hm,” you remove your hands from the keyboard, copying his slumped posture albeit a bit more poise. “I might think about it. If you play me a song too,” you raise your brow at his grimace. “What? It’s only fair.”

“Fine,” Eddie crosses his legs over the small bench, walking around with his hair twirling over his shoulder as he does so. His eyes never leave you even as he crosses the room to pick up an acoustic guitar. “Damn room doesn’t even have an electric guitar. Amplifier’s at the gym and I hate that place.”

You laugh, watching him take the neck of the brown guitar and grab a monobloc from a stack beside the door. He sets it beside the keyboard, awkwardly sitting down before he sets the guitar on his lap eagerly. Eddie smiles at you, grabbing a part of his hair and hiding his mouth behind it bashfully.

“What song, m’lady?” he peers at you through his eyelashes. Eddie feels triumphant when he makes you laugh again, thinking he could watch you push your hair behind your ear with a demure look any time of the day.

Your shoulders raise into a shrug, the smile on your face falling a bit. “Dunno. Ever heard of The Outfield?”

“On the radio. When my uncle listens to music early in the morning,” his fingers slide across the strings, pressing randomly on frets. “Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I listen to music other than metal.”

“Shocker,” you gasp dramatically. “You’ve ruined your image for me. I don’t see you as a metalhead anymore. You’re merely a commoner. A pretender.”

“You wound me,” he pouts at you. “Come on, (y/n). Give me a song,”

“Alright,” you rest your elbow on the keyboard, cheek on your fist. “Your Love. The Outfield. Think you know it or you’re just pretending?”

“Think I might have studied this for… other embarrassing purposes. But yes, I know it.” He clears his throat. “Prepare to cover your ears,”

Your Love wasn’t a song that was merely played by a guitar. However, an acoustic wouldn’t hurt. Not when he’s doing it for you. Eddie fears pressing his fingers on the wrong string, or a strain from his voice because that would just be plain humiliating.

Your observance adds fuel to the fire of his confidence, while it also simultaneously makes him nervous ‘cause you’re watching; not just listening, not judging. You’re watching him like you actually want to see him play. And as far as he could remember, you’re the first girl to actually pay attention to what he’s playing without any cruel thoughts. He wonders if you think he’s great at this, just as much as he thought you were remarkable in the whole piano thing.

Come on. E, C minor, B, E- no A. A, goddamnit.

When he almost misplaced his finger on the wrong string, he almost cried. But you’re not looking at his face anyway, perhaps too enthralled with the gentle sound of plucking; the deep baritone-like sound that the brass string produces makes you sway similarly like his earlier.

“I ain't got many friends left to talk to, nowhere to run when I'm in trouble,” he shoots you a nervous glance, and he’s almost thankful that you’re looking at his hands. “You know I'd do anything for you, stay the night but keep it undercover,”

“You’ve got a nice voice,” his fingers slide across the brass string so quickly that it almost burns his fingertips when his voice dies in his throat and he looks up at you. “S-sorry.”

Eddie sets the guitar down, the flat of its back on his lap and knees. “No, it’s alright. Thanks,” you smile warily when he scratches nervously at the guitar. “So um- you gonna come see us in The Hideout? No pressure. Just, so I can show you that I really am into metal.”

Your lips tug downwards into an upside-down smile that teases him. Eddie tips his head back, flashing you a toothy grin as you say. “I’ll see to it, Eddie Munson,” you take a glance at your watch. “U-unfortunately though, I’ve got to go.”

He fights the urge to voice his disdain through a quiet groan of protest when he sees you reach on the other side of the bench to take your bag and sling it over your shoulder before you stand up from your seat. Eddie places the guitar on the ground, nervously fiddling with his fingers. “Um. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Stopping in your movements, your thumb slides between the leather strap of your bag and your shoulders. “Yeah. Sure. If you’ll see me, anyway.”

“I’m sure I will,” he offers you a smile.

He watches you leave with a sad frown.

But later that night though, when he talks to Dustin on the RT, he remembers telling him that the girl in the purple dress wore ripped jeans now and a yellow blouse covered in pink flowers, her hair down in loose waves over her shoulders that enticed him. Eddie remembers telling him you’d looked mature, prettier, and that maybe you’d come to his show next week.

What he doesn’t tell him, though, is that he remembers every spot on your face that had dimples when you smile. That your voice was like petal silk that pleases his fingertips as he rubs it between them; or that your hands had similar scars like his, only you’ve gotten them for a different reason. How graceful you’d looked playing the keyboard like you’d been the only one in that room.

A veridical sense of déjà vu makes his mind tingle and his heart twist. In his bed, Eddie has his hands over his stomach, staring up his ceiling with a poster of Tiamat he once saw during a yard sale that he bought. But he thinks of you, the exiguous curiousness grows the longer he remembers that bright smile on your face. And he feels nothing but the want inside him that yearns to see you again.

Justine never knew the rules

Hung down with the freaks and ghouls

No apologies ever need be made

I know you better than you fake it

“Lost in a purple hill, shake these zipper blues? Hey, Nancy, do you think—”

A shoulder bumps you, too hard to be taken as an accident. Your notebook falls to the ground, ball pen tight in your hand as you let out a startled gasp. You look at the boy first, whose eyes widen in embarrassment as they flicker between the journal on the floor and to your agape mouth.

You should have expected it. The halls were crowded and there were very eager students to enter the cafeteria and take tables before someone else would. But still, you’re taken aback by the sudden impact, even after almost squeezing yourself against the lockers just so you would avoid this kind of incident.

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry,”

You give him a tight smile. “‘S alright,” he apologizes through a useless smile before he’s being dragged away by his friends. Nancy spins around at the upheaval, and follows the direction of your eyesight before she frowns in disdain.

Asshole didn’t even bother to pick it up for you. Or ask if you were alright.

“What a prick,” she clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. You ignore the slight throb on your shoulder, bending down to pick up your notebook and wipe whatever dirt it's picked up from the ground. “Is it ruined?”

Shaking your head, you close it shut and hug it close to your chest. “No. It’s alright. I’m just lucky the floor doesn’t have any piss or something. Or else I would have…punched that guy,”

Nancy chuckles, shaking her head. She turns back around, clutching your wrist to go through the sweaty sea of rushing students. “I doubt that—ow, hey!”

Your face hits Nancy’s permed coils, nose meeting the Fabergé glory of her shampoo. You grimace, moving away to see your friend rubbing her shoulder before you see Patrick McKinney furrow his eyebrows in worry at his mistake.

“Sorry. You alright, Wheeler?” he reaches out to rub her shoulder chastely, but Nancy shrugs it off, nodding. Patrick’s eyes relax, taking a glance at you before he realizes he doesn’t know who you are before he pats her shoulder carefully. “Alright. Sorry, again.”

It was difficult to hide the frown that paints itself on your face when Nancy simply grabs your wrist, guiding you around the crowd once more. And there’s this annoying itch in your head that keeps on reminding you how unlucky you’d been that you bumped into an apathetic guy who hadn’t even bothered to ask if you were alright whereas Nancy got sympathetic eyes and genuine concern.

And you thought, well that’s because they knew her. Having to date Steve Harrington when he was still here, who’d been part of the basketball team himself, of course they knew her. You? The guy looked at you like some random crayon found on the ground. So you tell yourself to get over it; they don’t care and neither do you. It was a simple bump. Your friends would have asked if you were okay.

Nancy didn’t.

Well, she was distracted.

No, she wasn’t.

Shut up.

The cafeteria doors are left open with the people that surges through. Nancy stands on her tiptoes, searching for the boy with glasses that made his eyes larger and took up half his face — Fred, you remember; you practically sink onto her shoulder in fear of accidentally bumping into someone again. And fuck, how muscly was that guy for your shoulder to hurt?

When she spots him, Nancy’s quick to drag you to her side and sit you down beside her in front of Fred, who’d immediately chatted about this thing he’s seen somewhere you don't bother understanding. But when his eyes land on you, his talking stops. Lips snapping shut and he’s staring at you with those wide eyes of his, the scar on his cheek bending when he smiles cheekily at you, his forearms resting side by side on the table as he leans closer.

“I heard a rumor that you were with Eddie Munson yesterday,” he narrows his eyes playfully. Nancy whips her head at you, astounded with the new gossip she’s heard, especially now that it included you.

Nervous with the attention diverted to you, you move back, fingers fidgeting on your lap. “What? Where’d you hear that?”

“Andy saw you.”

“Who’s Andy?”

“That guy who kinda looks like Arnold Schwarze-something.”

Nancy snorts. “He does not look like him.”

Frowning, you lean closer. “What was he doing there yesterday?”

Beside you, Nancy opens a pack of pudding pie that she quietly offers to you. You shake your head politely, offering her a short smile before Fred asks for your attention with a simple tap on your elbow. “He left something by the locker room. Then he said he caught Eddie Munson sitting beside you on a small chair inside the music room being…shit, Nance, what’d he say?”

She shrugs, mouthful. “Dunno. Cute? Or, weird?”

“Somewhere along those lines, but we’re sugarcoating it for you,” he leans closer. “You do know who Eddie Munson is, right? Like, what people say?”

Nancy reaches behind you to take the Hi-C juice box in your bag and puts the straw in for you, shoving it in front of you that you gladly take and quietly thank her for as you say, “That he’s a freak? Just because he dresses out of the trend doesn’t mean he’s a freak, y’know?”

“Steve used to think he was,” Nancy raises her eyebrows at you. “I mean, I don’t think he’s a freak. He does have an influence on my brother though. He’s growing his hair out. Like a mullet, or something.”

“Well he’s not a freak,” you bring the small plastic straw to your lips, the sweet orange-y flavor of the mechanized juice filling your taste buds. “He’s nice. He said I had a…nice voice.”

No one’s said that to me before.

“That’s sweet,” Fred pouts. “Don’t know. Maybe he’s planning on luring you in as a sacrifice.”

Eddie? Cult leader luring you in for some sacrifice? The same person who’d smiled kindly, watched you play the piano like he was actually interested in your performance and applauded you like he’d been watching a breathtaking opera at the same time, invited you to watch his band at some dingy restaurant and thought ghosts might have been haunting him?

His style might say otherwise—with all those brutish rings he’d harbored so proudly and his disheveled mullet-ish hair. But with those wide, curious eyes that watched you like the most interesting flower blooming from the iced frozen ground, a voice so benign and placid who’d praised you in a way anybody else wouldn’t? No. He’s not a cult leader. Or a freak.

And you’d only known him from the mystifying, blurry memories and the couple minutes you’d spent with him yesterday.

That same Eddie who you found with a small frown that lifts into a charming smile when his eyes find you. Briefly does he stop talking with his friends from across the room when your eyes link with his. And Eddie presents you a smile so pretty it makes you dizzy; with his style different, that same leather jacket with a red flannel beneath and a band shirt you don’t recognize, but he had the same fondness in his look that makes your heart flutter wildly like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon.

You feel a spark of electricity ignite in the tendrils of your veins; the sound of your heart beating in your ears as everything else muffles and the spotlight goes onto him — like the sun beaming through the window to show you what you’d been looking for.

Yeah sure, he’s a cult leader.

(A cult leader who made you feel noticed in a town with 15,000 ignorant, judgy people despite being with him in less than thirty minutes.)

“What’s she smiling at— oh,” with her laced fingers, Nancy places them beneath her chin and tilts her head sideways to take a glimpse of Eddie, who’s still looking at you. “That’s cute,”

“You really shouldn’t believe rumors,” You turn to her, nudging your juice box with her hand. “I mean, I’ve been here for three months. I barely know him and I think he’s just…being himself. It’s like this town hates people who are comfortable being themselves.”

The corners of Fred’s lips tug down. “Ouch,”

“What? It’s true,”

“Y’know, we had a yard sale last year,” Nancy tells Fred. “Eddie was there lurking.”

“And?”

“Seemed like he didn't caused any trouble. Just roamed around, gave this kid a stuffed animal when he couldn't reach it. He seems nice, Fred.”

And you almost tell them that five years ago, Eddie Munson followed you backstage when he saw you crying; That he’d asked you if you were okay, that he said you’d do great and you did, and in between those hazy flashes of cut memories, you almost tell them that he wore a Bauhaus shirt too large for him, that his hair was buzzed and he made you laugh until you’d—quite literally—forgotten the reason why you cried in the first place.

—

“Hey there, Mandy,”

You yell, clutching the notebook closer to your chest and the pen tight in your hand that it might pop the ink out. Eddie’s hands raise in defense, eyes widening in shock as you both stop walking, the leaves crunching beneath your worn-out shoes and his white sneakers, the birds flying away from the disruption.

“Jesus Christ,”

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” familiar, but the memory’s lost in your worry-filled mind. You laugh disbelievingly at him, closing your notebook and tucking the pen behind your ear. “What?”

“Nothing!” you scratch the dents on your notebook, shying away from Eddie’s intensive look. “Mandy? ‘S not my name.”

“I know. But it’s a cool nickname. And you know,” he tilts his head sideways. “The song.”

You smile when his head lulls back, chuckling shortly when you both begin walking again. Eddie has his hands behind his back, his hair wild from the harsh winds of August’s warm breeze. Which he fixes with quick pats to the hair covering half his forehead, his eyes never leaving you.

“Why are you walking home?” you see him bring his hands in front, toying with his rings, pushing them in and out of his fingers.

When you look up at him, your right eye squints from the brightness of the sun until he steps over it. “I wanted to walk home. And, um, I don’t have a car,” you flush beneath his piercing gaze. “What about you?”

“Because I saw you walking home,” he grins. “You were writing while you were walking so I thought maybe I should come join you in case you accidentally trip,”

The sun draws a halo above his head, painting over the devil horns drawn onto him. It gives him a sacrilegious glow, intriguing you to just push his hair behind his ears and ask him all the things that made him smile just so you could see him smile once more. Yet, you don’t; your hands stay around your notebook, your mouth parts but never says anything, and you merely try to say those words through your eyes.

Cult leader, my ass.

“What, so you…left your car in school so you could walk with me?”

He shrugs. “I guess so. It’s still there when I come back, anyway. After I walk you home,” Eddie swallows. “...after I walk you home as a friend.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

Eddie’s lips purse. “So…” he makes a noise, like a random music note. “I didn’t see you in history today,”

History was (unfortunately) the only class you shared with Eddie. Where in the first three months, you’d kept on asking yourself where you’d seen him over and over again as you stared at the back of his head. (Wishing he’d turn around and ask for your name, if he’d seen you before, and notice you like he’d notice every random fuzz he’d find on his table.)

And he noticed you today. Even when you weren’t there, the thought of him thinking about you and wondering where you were sets a comfortable flame in your cold chest.

“I was at the clinic,” you smile a little. “Some guy bumped into me earlier and I don’t know what he’s made of. It really hurt,”

His eyes darken into a gloom of concern, his eyebrows meeting like a broken bridge. “Are you alright? You okay now? Does it, uh, still hurt?”

“A bit,” you roll the injured shoulder. “Still kinda sore. ‘S like I played football, or something.”

Eddie’s teeth join behind his lips that remain separated, his bottom lip jutting out into a pout you can’t fathom the meaning behind. Then he’s biting it, his hands clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to make the hardest decision of his life before he’s pointing his thumb behind him.

“Do you wanna go back to my van?” he asks quickly. “I’ve got something cold in there and I could help you. And I can drive you home, too,” his voice is eager and almost excited with a lace of hope. “But only if you want to,”

You’re unheistant when you say, “Yes,” take me with you. Aid me. Ask me how I am and I’d tell you.

The walk back to school was quicker with his urgent feet that you had difficulty catching up with. You spot his car parked behind the school, befuddled with the amount of dents and the way his van leans sideways more than evenly. Eddie has a hand hovering behind you as he guides you, the other hurling the backdoors open that tricks you into thinking it’s gonna be thrown aside.

The back of his van was messy — with four empty beer cartons stashed aside, a Bauhaus poster that matched Eddie’s shirt with its sides ripped, white ridges seen in that black paper, a red cooler behind the cartons, and a blanket that you assumed used to be white but has been left unwashed for who knows how long.

But despite the messy appearance, you sit on top of the blanket when he asks you to. And he sits beside you,

a heavy hop that makes the van shake slightly and a creak underneath. He shoots you an embarrassed smile, a hand behind him to prop himself up as he twists his torso and pulls on the cooler until it slides near him.

When Eddie opens it, it’s nothing but almost melted ice and four bottles of Boston Lager with one of them being half-empty. You peer over the red box, watching as his hand dives through the cold mess before he hands you an unopened beer bottle.

Out of curiosity, you bring it up to your nose and take a whiff just because.

Eddie chortles. “What’s it smell like?”

You frown. “Like water.”

He stops you from putting the bottle right at your shoulder, looking for something behind him before he sighs scornly, reaching out behind him to pull out a black bandana decorated with large, intimidating skulls. “Here just—wrap it around so it won't wet your shirt too much,”

Eddie gently takes the bottle from you, half of his fingertips covering yours. Half a touch and it already makes you feel like someone had thrown a rope down the hole you’d been stuck in and pulled you out; in that slight formidable tactility does your skin tingle, a warmth that feels like you’re hovering your hands over the flawless dance of a flame. A caress that barely lasts ten seconds, but was a lifetime of gratifyingly dizzy touches.

The coldness of the bottle doesn’t scathe you anymore now with his handkerchief wrapped around it. It seems like Eddie felt the same way, with how his neck reddens, and abruptly places his hands on his lap, watching you from the corner of his eye as you place the bottle on your shoulder.

But the silence is comfortable, with the howl of the wind and the rustling of the trees. You dab the bottle on your shoulder, the bandana itself smelling of cigarettes and a boyish aroma you can’t comprehend, but you had a feeling it smelt just like him. The white skull turns gray, the cloth dampens and turns cold, and you turn to see Eddie with his nose wrinkled into a quick sniff before he looks around him and settles on your notebook.

“So what were you writing?” He gently takes the purple notebook into his hand, tracing its ridges and checking its black spine, flipping it around where he sees your name written on the upper left corner in small cursives.

“Um, just…things,” you pinch your nose with a vacant hand. “Just lyrics, I guess.”

“You? Lyricist?” Removing the hand from your nose, you reach over to flip the journal open, thumb skimming across the thick pages. “Just when I thought you were cool with the whole piano thing,” your face heats, smiling sheepishly at him.

“I wouldn’t say I’m great at this whole thing, though,” your thumb stops on a page you’d been writing on. Eddie diverts his attention on the half-filled page, head tilting down as he brings the notebook closer to his face.

You fear his judgment; not because you don’t trust him, but it leans more into what you’d gone through. That his criticism will be cruel, unkind and harsh like others had been, taking out all their negativity into the words you’d poured your mind onto, leaving without an apology or at least a clement admonition.

There’s doubt that spreads across your mind. You watch as Eddie pokes his tongue out to graze his teeth, his thumbs drumming on your notebook, his own eyes flitting between your unaligned writing. But the smile that breaks across his charming face calms the dread down. Eddie looks at you, the crinkles on the corner of his eyes so endearing.

“Lost in a purple hill, shake these zipper blues,” he reads out loud. “I like it. It’s very…savvy,”

“Savvy?”

“Savvy. Innovative. Creative,” you beam at him, your lips starting to ache from the bright smile you hold as Eddie’s head flips between your creative words and your contagious joy. “What? It’s amazing. Literally, all the words you can find in a dictionary that’s a synonym for creative. It’s—it’s that. W-what?”

His eyebrows join in a confused hill as the smile remains on his face, shaking his head at the shock that amalgamates with your glee. “Nothing,” you look away, feeling your entire body heating with the new sensation of appreciation. “I just thought it was kinda stupid. Like, maybe no one would understand it, y’know?”

Eddie’s thumb rubs his bottom lip. “Well, tell me what it means—hey, please?” he pouts playfully at you. “Tell me what it means, come on. I like it, I might as well know the meaning behind it, right?”

You shake your head in disbelief, placing the bottle on your shoulder to the space beside the two of you. “Alright. Um, well, a hill right? You get up this hill and you feel disconnected from the world in…a good way. You- lose all toxicity and burden this place gives you. And I chose purple because, well, I like the color purple,” you laugh nervously. “And, zipper blues. It’s this depressed feeling you get from moving around too much. So you get lost up this hill, you get rid of that sorrow, and just disconnect all your problems. And, I don’t know if it makes any sense but—I’m rambling too much. I’m sorry—”

“No!” Eddie reaches out to place his hand on top of yours, quick and urgent to touch you again and the way his hand softens on you feels like he’d been substantially relieved to do something Eddie’s stopping himself from doing. Like water to a slowly dying flower, your heart blooms at the touch you’ve wanted to sense since earlier as he stops you from your ranting. “It’s okay. I- I get what you mean. And it’s…”

You feel him squeeze your hand gently. “It’s…?”

“I’m thinking of other cool words,”

You laugh bashfully, a laugh he copies. A laugh that reaches his eyes, went from deep into something high like a giggle until a small snort comes from him. You feel elated to make him laugh this way despite saying nothing.

“It’s amazing, (y/n),” he doesn’t say Mandy, but it mantles your insides nonetheless. “You have other songs you’ve written?”

Toying with the neck of the beer, you nod. “I’ve got a couple of papers back in my place but, uh, I’m not exactly allowed to invite boys in my place yet.” he moues playfully. “But I could um, talk to you over it on the phone? Or give it to you tomorrow? I should just give it to you tomorrow, you don’t have to give me your number—”

Eddie squeezes your hand again. “Hey,” he chuckles at you. “Relax, Mandy. I’ll give you my number and we can talk, yeah?”

You feel like you’re waiting for an ice cream cone to be offered to you when Eddie plucks the pen behind your ear and writes his number down on the bottom of the page that he’s read. His writing is scrawny, unaligned like yours, capitalized when he leaves a note beneath the digits that you can’t read. He tells you not to read it yet after he offers to drive you home.

The drive to your home was filled with small talk and music from the stack of cassettes on the back of his car. Ranging from Metallica to Judas Priest as said from the cases you gave him. And despite his attempt at his careful driving, the van sways against the uneven asphalt of the town streets.

Eddie, with a hand on the steering wheel, has a hand hovering behind you as you twist your torso and lean towards the backseat to search for more cassette tapes.

“What are you even looking for?” he asks, carefully turning left. You pick through the mountain of unarranged music, placing them next to each other when you see something you’re not looking for. “Careful. You might fall forward and I’ll just laugh at you.”

“I found it—turn right!” The wheels of his car screech at the sudden pivot, makes you clutch the grab handle and his arm, feet lifting off the clutch and onto the brakes where he presses lightly. “Fuck,”

“Sorry,” he pushes his hair out of his face, glancing at the cassette in your hand. “Oh, I didn’t know I have that,”

The black case of Reggatta De Blanc is clutched tightly in your hold. “I didn’t know you listened to The Police,” you flip it, scanning the back. “They’re my favorite band.”

“I didn’t know you listened to rock,” he’s still pressing lightly on the brakes to slow the van down, the smoke leaving the hood grows both your concerns. “I used to listen to them. Well, when I used to drive my Uncle to work when his car broke down for a while. Refused to listen to any of my tapes. Misfits? No. Iron Maiden? Still no. I mean, I get that he’s old, or something, but he has to try new things out!”

You open his player and withdraw Sisters of Mercy, prompting him to express his displeasure with a half-joking gasp and a short 'hey!' across the cut music. But you swiftly insert the tape to stop him. Eddie's fists clench over the peeling leather steering wheel, his gaze fixed on you.

“The Police, huh,” he grins at you. You swallow the upbeat tempo of Message in a Bottle, bopping your head to the introduction riff. Eddie’s head turns between the road and you. “Thought you’d be more Kate Bush, or something. Billy Joel. Madonna, maybe. Queen. Elton John. The Cure…”

With a twisted smile, you run your nails through the polyester filament yarn of your seatbelt. “I do. I don’t have a specific genre, Munson,” you turn to him. “I can like anything. Hell, I like W.A.S.P. And Joan Jett”

He gasps, turning right. “& The Blackhearts?”

“Fuck yeah,”

Eddie’s tongue clicks with the roof of his mouth, shaking his head. “What a potty mouth, Mandy.” his nose wrinkles when he laughs. Angelic, you think. A laugh a cult leader wouldn’t have; something Eddie would have.

“Well, people usually don’t believe me,” you laugh timidly. “‘S like people need to like just one genre and make it their whole personality. Like, what if I like metal and pop at the same time?” his eyebrows raise a bit. “Sorry. N-no offense. It’s just…annoying, at times.”

You remember being twelve, recently having left Hawkins with a deep frown on your face. But you had a girl invited to your room in search of a new friend. With a borrowed boombox, you showed her Blue Öyster Cult after going through countless tapes of pop artists. And when she found out that the band had a different type of music, way different than the ones you’d just listened to, she’d told you: listening to different types of music makes you unbalanced. You need to stick to the one that makes you you. Or else people wouldn’t know who you are.

Wise words for a pretentious girl, you thought back then. Nevertheless, you believed her.

For five years.

But when you returned to Hawkins, you need reinvention. Because girls were only ever interesting when they’d reinvent themselves every once in a while to keep people hooked on. And you were tired of being unseen, invalidated; so you went back to your older self. Someone who played the piano but enjoys metal as much as Eddie Munson did, from what you’ve seen. You want to show him that side of you, in hopes for affirmation.

“None taken,” he breathes. “But, you’re right. No need to apologize.” your stomach buzzes with his accordance. “Metal’s just…me, though,” unlike earlier, Eddie turns the hazard before he turns. “So, I hope you don’t mind a man with a shag who’s a high school repeat’s driving you home, sweets,”

Sweets. Your whole body burns in the best way, biting back a smile. “No. I don’t mind. I like that.”

“I like that for you, though,” he gesticulates to you. “Being unashamedly yourself. Without aaany judgment whatsoever. And, uh, that’s amazing,” Eddie, although with his words genuine, smiles weakly and sweetly at you; harbors something that he wants to say but stops himself from doing so. “I should be like you more often.”

“I think you’re already being yourself,” your eyes trace the scratches on the windows, the slight blur on the corner of his windscreen; what once was a far distance of a motion blur of modern homes turns slower when Eddie’s foot lifts slowly from the accelerator. “I should be like you.”

“Trust me. You-...” when he looks at you, he visibly softens at your countenance. His adam's apple bobs in what seems to be rich poignance with the way his pupils slightly shrink when he flits his eyes away from you, only to dilate and almost take over his brown irises when they look back at you a mere second later. Eddie chuckles dryly, can't help but smile earnestly at you. “I like you as yourself, (y/n),”

Your hand compels you to reach for his. Like magnets forced to meet. But the console which separates you both hinders you from doing so. But maybe it was your fear; your lack of courage. A film reel in your mind that slides through its mid-tone dull colors of a possible incident — he’ll hold your hand tighter with the gentle caress of his calloused thumb that alleviates the rigorous pounding of your heart and smiles brighter than the ultraviolet sun.

Or his face would twist in disgust and shove your hand back on your lap, lips curled into revulsion and he’d ask you what was wrong with you, reject any excuse that would come out of your mouth like they always did before he’d drop you home and ignore you like you didn’t exist.

Keep it together.

“Thanks,” you mumble, the pads of your thumbs come across the linear scars on your fingers. You see Eddie balk in his seat, lips pursed to make small incomprehensible sounds while he bobs his head to Message in a Bottle. Your house emerges, curtains drawn and run down car missing. Disappointedly, you press on the red button of the seat belt buckle. “Right here, Eddie.”

The van halts to a stop, passenger door right in front of the pathway to your small home. The radio lowers, the seat belt snapping back in place tickles your arm, and dismay wooshes with his loud ac.

But Eddie leaves unexpectedly before you do, the unlocking sound of his car door disappears quicker than the door slamming shut. You watch as he crosses over with squinted eyes, until he reaches to open your door, bowing lightly with an arm stretched towards your house; a smile that reaches up his eyes and a dimple that comes with.

“M’lady,” he nods his head at you. You can’t help but laugh, picking the bag up from between your legs and slinging it over your shoulder, the heat adding an unfortunate ache on your eyes that shoots up to your head and almost burns any skin that’s exposed. Eddie notices. “‘S hot, isn’t it?”

“Unusually hot,” you shake your head. Eddie closes the door, walking on the unmowed grass on your small lawn until you both end up beneath the porch, in the shade that soothes you.

His eyes desecrate the components of your door, tracing the doorbell button, lips making small psh sh sounds before Eddie finally looks down at you. “Can I have your number?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “But I already have yours.”

“So I can call you anytime, Mandy,” he laughs heartily. “I can’t exactly save phone numbers, can I?”

You flush in embarrassment. “Right. Sorry,” you take the pen from behind your ear, reaching out. “Can I have your arm, please?”

Eddie smiles. “Lovely manners.”

He shows you his arm, a small, almost unnoticeable butterfly tattooed on his wrist where you write your number above it. “Nice tat,” you smile up at him, your own blue ink that’s botched to almost unusable decorates his pale skin.

“Yeah, I don’t really know how I got that,” his eye shuts, nose wrinkling, watches your eleven digits appear on his wrist along the veins. “Nice,” he sings. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get going,” Eddie tugs on his bracelet, his feet lifting off the porch. “See you ‘round, Mandy. Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari for me, won’t you?”

You bid him goodbye with a sad wave, but you cover it with a smile.

Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari. Huh.

Morphine city slippin' dues

Down to see

That we don't even care

As restless as we are

It was a battle between who was gonna call first.

That day when Eddie drove back to the trailer, quietly as Wayne took a nap on the fold-up bed in the living room, he went inside his bedroom and locked the door. Barely was it night. Barely. Yet there he was, sitting on his bed clad in nothing but a random shirt and boxers as he waited for your call.

Nothing.

So he sat and played and thought and dreamed.

Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari? What the fuck does that even mean?

The first ring on his phone, it hadn’t come from you. Mike Wheeler asked if he’d used any kind of shampoo on his hair, and what brand it had been. Eddie answered that it was three-in-one, no specific brand. Just anything he could afford. The second had come from Dustin, who’d asked about something DnD related that Eddie had already forgotten.

And then the third was from Reefer Rick, who was put on probation and asked how he was and honestly, the phone call lasted for two hours. A conversation that barely included any drug talk whatsoever and simply what had happened in their lives.

So obviously, Eddie couldn’t help but mention you. Minus your name for safety reasons.

“Shit, dude. She’s… she’s nice. She’s smart and she writes songs like I do and she plays the piano. And I actually met her before! ‘S just that I don’t exactly-... remember it, y’know?”

“Don’t tell me you’re fallin’ in love, kid.”

“I’m not!”

“You know about love and how dangerous it is, don’t you?”

He did.

Like a dangerous game of Dungeons and Dragons.

Yet there he was, the sun gone and the skies Stygian, painted with scattered specks of the burning stars and the crescent moon. Eddie’s patience had slowly been wilting, his knee bounced on the floor and his ass was sore from sitting too long on his lumpy mattress. A notebook in hand with his own clusterfuck of rhyming words with deep elucidations in hopes you’d be talking about songwriting.

And when the phone rang, he stood up faster than the speed of light and he took the handset off the wall and pressed it up to his tingling ears.

“Hello?”

A huff of a laugh. “Hey, Eds.”

Eds. Eds Eds Eds Eds.

His heart palpitated; a ruthless attack of the Cupid’s red piercing arrow shot through his heart. Eddie Munson rested his hand against the wall and the other tight on the phone receiver as his knees liquified from your giggle.

“Hey there, Mandy.”

“I took your lyric, by the way,” he could only imagine what you looked like that night—pajamas, sleep shorts, a crop top, or a random band shirt he thinks you’d totally have, you’d still be pretty nonetheless. “Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari. It’s very impressive. Kinda making me not want to give you credit here,”

Eddie shook his head in playful disbelief and turned over to rest his back on the wall with a silly smile and a belly full of butterflies. “I’d very much appreciate the credit. At least then the world would know who I was.”

A playful sound of consideration kisses his eardrums. “Maybe. Yeah, sure. I’ll give you credit.”

Since then, phone calls had been filled with exchanged conceptualizations and words written with a botched ballpen onto crumpled pieces of papers; Eddie would see you in school, too. Passing each other shy smiles, listening to music in his van as he offers to drive you home, his hand discreetly turning back to you to pass notes during History. He no longer found the random fuzz on his table interesting and thought that the girl who answered his notes that ended each message with a smiley face was way more interesting than anything else in the world.

Maybe DnD and metal, too. But you came in first.

And every night, after a campaign or band practice, after his uncle would wish him farewell before heading off to work, the usual jejune midnights had turned into cavorting twilight nights. Before he knows it, he’s already brushing his teeth at six pm, like you’d smell his breath through the phone, and bounces his knee in anticipation in front of the phone.

One night, when Wayne stayed home to get some proper rest, he'd noticed how Eddie had barely left the room to watch the tv with him, or how he hasn't played a guitar in weeks, or suddenly rush out a farewell to meet his friends.

He took a peek in the crack of his bedroom door, saw how his nephew had a lovesick smile as he laid on the floor with the phone on his ear babbling about things that has happened on his day or something about his past.

"You've been hogging up the phone, Eddie. I've got someone to call too, you know?"

Poor Eddie yelped, almost dropping the phone to the ground. Wayne chuckles, walking over to him which made Eddie clutch the phone to his chest. Wayne claps his shoulder.

"Yeah like who? That recently divorced mom beside Kapinsky's trailer?"

He jested to his uncle, who barks out a laugh. "Probably. I'm not the only one trying to woo girls here, son,"

"I- I'm not trying to woo him, man! I'm just-... trying to be her friend."

Wayne huffs with a smile and a light shake of his head.

It went on for weeks; countless calls that he didn't realize months had passed. Every day, every night, you’d become his friend; conversations started turning into somewhat remedial talks other than songwriting, telling each other the stories in your lives that none had experienced, talking shit of the judgementals and the great pretenders, and gave each other keys to your hearts for safekeeping.

“What ever happened to Benny’s Burgers?”

“Heard some Russian kid got him killed, or something. Jason’s using it for his orgies now. Like ritualistic sacrifices are way more important than teenagers having sex all together. The children of god hath given into their temptations! Those gents might not but repent their sins for foul fornication!”

“Eddie, I don’t care if you sell drugs. Half the kids in my old school in Queens sold them. Would almost kill each other for ‘stealing’ their clients. Hell, even half of the NYPD sold drugs.”

“In all honesty, it’s weird how you’re so normal about this.”

“My mom died when I was a baby. The orphanage had different answers on how I ended up there, though. My dad died, he was in jail, he dumped me there. But it doesn’t matter — I’ve got a new family now, anyway.”

“My old man’s in prison. Haven’t talked to him in years. My mom died too, so at least we have that in common, eh?”

“Sometimes I wish people cared. Like-... sometimes I wish they’d see me; stop treating me like a ghost and ask ‘hey, what songs can you play on the piano?’ and all that shit. ‘Hey, are you okay? What’d you feel about getting left at an orphanage? Sorry, I hit you on the shoulder.’ And all that stuff.”

“‘M kinda tired of being seen as a freak. I know everybody has their own thing. But sometimes I… wish I liked the same thing everybody else did. But that’s the thing about society and their codependency on approval — you like something that people think is far from normal, or something that people say isn’t- trendy, you’re a freak. I mean, sorry I like playing a fantasy game than Monopoly. Or- that I like Eddie Van Halen than Olivia Newton-John.”

“Hey, you love Olivia Newton-John!”

Laying in his bed of lumps and stains, Eddie imagined he’s in a field. The tall grass stroking his inked skin, the clouds that hover over him, all his devotion laid upon the clouds that mutate into your silhouette, which beguiles him more. And even when his visual morphs the sky gray and lets its sickening tears drip down onto him, he stares up at this cloud indentation of you that looks back at him. Until it’s blown away and he finally sees your spellbinding beauty.

“Hey,” your voice startled him. “Still there, or you’re asleep?”

“No. This is Eddie’s soul speaking. He’s very asleep,” his jest was followed by an obnoxious snore that made you laugh brightly. He smiles. “Yeah, no. I’m still here. Sorry,”

“It’s okay,” you softly said. “Hey, um, my neck’s aching.”

He frowned. “Oh. Do you wanna continue this tomorrow?” Eddie twirls the cord around his finger, trapping the phone between his neck and ear.

“No,” you sighed. “Keep talking, please?”

“Okay,” Eddie cleared his throat. “Band practice went well. We, uh, learned a new song. Something that’s not metal. Gareth was kind of a bitch about it but hey, there’s no harm in trying something new.”

“Really?” he nodded, remembering you were not there before he said ‘yes’. “What song is it?”

Eddie turned to his side, facing his Blue Öyster Cult poster. “It’s a surprise, Mandy,” his scoff etched a smile on his frivolous face. “You’ll hear it when you come to Hideout.”

“Shame,” he thought you’d been pouting. Playfully, with your pink lip jutted out. “What should I wear when I watch, though?”

“Anything you want,” it made him panic a little; he didn’t have an outfit for the show. Eddie sat up, his foot knocking over an empty bottle that fell down on his floor that thankfully did not break but was loud enough to disrupt you.

“What was that?” you had asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he clutched his ankle, face crumbling in pain. “Yeah, babe, I’m alright,”

Shit.

He sensed it then. When your breathing went silent, when his heart stopped beating for a millisecond, the way your mind registered what he said the same time he did. Eddie’s body had loosened in panic.

“Okay,” you finally said, quiet and gentle. “Um, careful.”

“Thanks,” he almost said it again, getting himself distracted. “Thanks, (y/n),”

A pregnant pause. Eddie was massaging his ankle with a look that berated him for his idiotic freudian slip. He scolded himself by bumping the sore spot against the foot of his bed, hard enough that another loud thump was heard and tears brimmed the edge of his eyes.

“Okay, seriously, what is going on in there?” you chuckled incredulously.

“Nothing!”

“You know what? You should come here before you accidentally trip on a knife.”

Eddie’s head dipped. “I thought you weren’t allowed to invite boys in your home?”

“I can rebel, you know,” he felt an eye roll. “Besides, my parents aren’t home and- I’m bored. And my neck hurts and everything’s better when you’re here.”

He deceived himself into thinking you meant nothing in the last part. Eddie felt the warmth rise to his cheeks then, something he’d grown familiar to seeing as it only happens when he’s with you.

“Sure,” he picked up a random pair of shoes beneath his bed and opened his drawer to pull out the finest pair of jeans he owned. “Be there in a couple of minutes.”

That night, he parked his van a few houses from yours, and he immediately spotted the purple curtain of your windows. The light dimmed with the yellow warmth of your lamp, your silhouette moving across with something rectangular in your hand that he can only assume was your notebook. He felt slightly eccentric.

Eddie, ever the man who loves to put on a good show, decided to climb up the side of your home using the uneven ridges of the brick wall and your pipes. His palms had lightly scratched against the rough surface of the bricks, where he used all his strength to lift himself up until his head peeks through your window.

When his forearms rested on the stool of your window, he propped himself on one arm and used his left hand to knock rhythmically on the glass. Eddie saw your silhouette stop pacing, your shadow growing as you near your window and pulled the curtains back.

He’d smiled, bigger when he saw your shocked, wide-eyed gaze. Eddie knows you’re berating him when he hears your muffled rambling. You unlatched the window and pulled it up, your hands clutching his bare elbows.

“You idiot!” you hissed. “I told you my parents are gone. And you come up through the window? Are you insane? You could break your back or stab yourself with the bushes!”

Eddie fell face down, his cheek meeting your carpeted floor. He pressed his palms on the ground, pulling his entire body in until he flopped on your floor. And when he finally fixed himself and rids of the leaves and dirt that stuck to him, he stood up. And you slap his arm.

He gawped at you. “Ow!” he pouts, massaging his arm. “You wound me.”

“Relax,” Eddie took his shoes off. “It was just a slap, you drama queen.”

Eddie’s eyes wandered across your body. You were wearing a band shirt: Dead or Alive. He didn’t know who they were. But he didn’t care because then he’s got his eyes on your exposed legs, black sleep shorts that barely come across half your thighs and it made him swallow thickly, his blood flowing everywhere and god forbid had he popped a boner right in the middle of your room, he would have jumped out your window and broke his neck instead.

“Y-you know me,” his voice cracked the slightest. “Always a queen. Which is why I love the Queen. Not the Queen of England. The band, I mean. Well, I listen to them occasionally.”

You sat on your bed, kicking his shin. “I know, dummy.”

That had been a couple of nights ago.

Now he’s sitting bored, fourth row in the second lane, his chin on his palm, right hand drawing a small bat on the corner of his notebook. Along with some other words until he quietly rips the page off, folds it, and takes it in his hand before he moves it behind him.

Eddie feels the paper slip off his fingers. He thinks of your smile, whether it be a toothy grin, a closed lip or the one that made your teeth shine prettily. His body shivers from head to toe, cheeks tingling while his knee bounces in anticipation.

A light graze on his bare elbow startles him, the heel of his foot knocking against the metal leg of his seat. He takes the paper from the corner of his table, silently unfolding it.

I think that’s a bad idea.

Offended, he writes. I just said hi >:(

He gets a quick reply after he gives it to you. I can smell you thinking. I’m like a vampire. And I’m already telling you that filling someone’s locker with shaving cream is boring and a bad idea.

You snicker when he takes a quick glance at you with a silent gasp. Then what do you suggest we do?

Fill it with shaving cream and stick someone’s hair in it. It’s grosser.

It’s followed by a brief drawing of two stick people, one with a small triangular skirt and one with a guitar in it’s hand, in front of a crooked rectangle which he assumes is the locker, the door opened and curved drawings oozing out. And some small, clustered lines that represent the hair you’d told him about.

Eddie smiles brightly, folding it and shoving it in his pocket before he shoots you a silly smile.

The bell rings, obnoxious and almost deafening. Eddie stands from his seat, watching you meticulously gather your stuff together, hands gently pushing your items inside your bag. He sits on his table, waiting.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Mandy,” He tucks his book on his torso, watching you sling your bag over your shoulder and narrow your eyes at him. “It’s a great idea,”

“I’m not one for bullying, but I think, even though I contributed to your prank knavery, it’s pretty tame and shit,”

Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you, slapping the top of the door as he passes through. “Oh yeah? Give me something better, do tell.”

“I say fill the locker with water, but then it’ll just slip out,” he towers over you. Sometimes he likes to take advantage of the fact that people would move out of his way merely because they didn’t want to be touched or grazed by him like some disease; he can move faster. “Or we can get your little shrimps to make some machine type of thing that could explode in their locker.”

“Who? Dustin?” Eddie bumps his shoulder with yours. “I mean, yeah could be. And we can just blame it on him,”

“Great idea,” your face wrinkles in confusion. “Wait, who’s locker are you destroying, anyways?”

“Gareth’s,”

Your nose wrinkles. “What did Gareth ever do to you?”

“Breathing,” he sighs. “Anyway, are you doing something later?”

Even in a clustered hallway, Eddie finds it in himself to get the wind knocked out of him when you look up with pensive eyes. Your mouth parts, the ends of your front teeth peeking just a bit from beneath your top lip. You blink and your eyebrows widen.

“Nothing. Homework, maybe. Or just writing again,” his heart pangs at the sad sigh you let out. “Wanna come over?”

He brightens.

Eddie lays on your thick mattress, hands clasped together on top of the notebook that lays open on his chest. Eddie scans every saxe glory of your blue walls, smelling the citrus fragrance of your new white sheets. It’s soft, maybe softer than the field up weathertop, and comforting. You sit on the edge of the bed, W.A.S.P. playing out loud but not loud enough for a complaint.

He turns his head to you, sees how your back is hunched with your notebook on your lap and your fingers drumming on the sides with your pen wedged in between your lips. Eddie leans up, peering over your shoulder.

I put my heart on a piece of paper and you throw it away(?) my heart’s on a string around my neck and

Half the page is scribbled words and annotations with doodles of flowers on the corners. The annoyance radiates off the inelegance of your structure, the bite marks that deepen on the plastic cap of your black pen, and your eyebrows that meet in the middle. Eddie wants to kiss your worry lines away, taking your face in his hands and wonder how, despite the agitated expression, could someone still look so pretty?

Taking his pen from beneath the notebook, he takes the cap off with his teeth. Eddie props himself up on one hand, crosses his arm over yours and presses the black tip on your lined page.

Hi. Notice me pls :(

You laugh cordially, snapping your head to him with your chin on your shoulder and his chin on your bicep, his bottom lip jutting out from the lack of attention.

“What’s up, Mands, huh?” his chin nudges your arm. You soften. “Writer’s block?”

“Writer’s block are for authors,” you say in a small voice.

“Writers. Songwriters. Semantics,” Eddie purses his lips. “Do you wanna turn the radio off? It’s what usually ruins the whole thinking thing, sometimes.”

“No,” you pout. “Maybe I just need a break. I don’t even know why I’m so upset about this. ‘S so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Eddie readjusts himself, his upper body being propped up by his arm with his legs spread on your mattress, knocking your arm with his temple. “Tell me why you’re upset. Come on.”

You ruminate, staring deep into his eyes. “God, I don’t know, Eddie. It’s like my mind’s all hazy these days. It won’t work. Everytime I try to finish this stupid song, I- my mind just stops. It’s like I’ve forgotten the English dictionary, or something. I feel so illiterate. A freakin- a fucking ten year old could make a christmas jingle faster than I can finish this stupid stanza.” you slam your pen in the middle, closing your eyes in a deep sigh. “It’s tiring— I’m sorry. I talk too much.”

Eddie wants to draw this out. Close the space that’s almost not even there and take you into his arms as he heeds the words you avow with the silk petal of your voice that burrs when you tiptoe the edge of a breakdown. But you’re already looking away from him with a visible wobble of your bottom lip.

“Hey, hey,” he finally sits, ignoring the ache on his arm when he limits himself by touching your shoulder rather than grasping your chin; there’s still the lingering hesitation of crossing boundaries when it comes to physical contact, and he doesn’t want to drive you away. “You don’t talk too much. I love listening to you talk,”

A shimmer in your eyes from the tears that coat your irises. You blink rapidly and smile weakly. “Thanks. That’s- that’s nice.”

“You know what,” he plops to his stomach, reaching over to the ground where his open bag laid and took out two cans of Budweiser, warm with dents on the silver tin. “Let’s drink— just one! Have you ever tried?”

“I told you I used to live in New York. The only things I haven’t tried are coke and marijuana,” you take the can from him. “My dad gave me beer when I was fifteen. Not exactly great parenting but, we were alone and he didn’t know what to feed me.”

He opens the can and drinks the bitter alcohol with ease, letting it leave a burning sensation on his tongue as he watches you do the same. Eddie chortles when your face rumples in distaste, a frown replacing your woeful pout.

“You alright there, Mands?” He raises a brow. “Sure your daddy didn’t give you apple juice?”

“Jesus christ,” you clear your throat. “I’m starting to think he did.” Eddie gently takes the can from you when you give it to him, gently placing it on your bedside table. “You know, Fred Benson has a party a couple blocks from here.”

Eddie takes another athirst sip. “Who?”

“Fred. The guy with glasses who’s with Nancy? I sat with him during lunch?”

“Oh right!” He sets his beer beside yours. “He’s nice. He put Hellfire Club in the student yearbook.”

“We should loosen up a bit,” you stand up, stretching your limbs and wince at the ache on your back. Your Beatles shirt, cut up to a midriff, exposes your stomach, a small scar just on the side of your hip and it makes Eddie flustered. He looks down at his hands. “We should go to the party.”

Eddie hops off your bed with the twist of his legs. “You can’t just leave. What about your parents?”

“I can rebel,” you repeat playfully. “And since when do you care about all that stuff, guy-who-got-arrested-once-when-he-sold-weed-to-an-undercover-cop?"

“I care when it comes to you,” he says softly, and he thinks you must have been pretending not to hear what he said. “Gonna call them or leave a note?”

“Gonna tell them I’ll sleep at Nancy’s,” you pull your drawer open and take a yellow sticky note out, scribbling down. Eddie takes his shoes from beside your bedroom door, frowning at the smudged dirt on the heel of his right shoe before he slips them on. “Can you wait outside? I’m gonna change.”

You looked breathtaking.

Embellished in a simple dress that stopped just above your knees, a pair of high-cut canvas sneakers that needed a bit of washing; a jubilant vogue that beguiles him, lifting him off his jittery fee. Your adroit hands accoutred in rings with lilliputian gems, warped around your dexterous fingers in delicate silver wires. And your hair, free from all its restraint, flowing down your shoulders.

Driving to Fred’s house, you looked like a bright star found in the darkness of Eddie’s van. Sat on his seat, listening to all his metal mixtapes and headbanging to the songs you found endearing. His heart quivers whenever you awe at mixtapes you find in the back of his car.

You were beautiful.

Covet reigns his cynical heart; he yearns to touch you. Wrapping his arm around your waist, holding your hand, or taking your face into his palms and telling you all the things that’ll make you smile. He wants to fortify you from all the savage things that ought to hurt you; Eddie yearns to proclaim his devotion into a dulcet whisper until he feels the rapidness of your heartbeat that thumps against his.

But confusion regnants. He doesn’t know why he feels this way for a friend who simply knocked the wind out of him by wearing a simple dress. Then again, he thinks if it were any other person, they’d feel the same way. It’s you. You and your kind, shy, delicate heart that he wants to keep.

You, that he’s also lost.

It has been an hour since you guys have arrived. Maybe more than an hour. Eddie doesn’t know, but when he glances at his watch, it’d already been eleven in the evening. He wasn’t fond of parties but when it came to you and anything related to your happiness, he’d tolerate it. And for the first time in his life, in a house full of alcohol, he’s still sober. For your sake.

You told him you’d go to the bathroom, and he waited at some couch, stuck between two very drunk people who made out and completely forgot that they’re sitting right next to Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson. But, in all honesty, it felt nice not having someone run away as soon as they saw him.

But when twenty minutes pass, where he debates on fetching you in case something happened, or thought maybe you were taking a shit, he ultimately decides to search for you.

Foreigner guides him between the sweaty limbs of drunk teens and students who’ve already graduated high school but remained in Hawkins (aka Steve Harrington. He saw a glimpse of his voluptuous hair towering over the crowd).

“I wanna know where (y/n) is,” he sings subconsciously. “I want you to show me,”

And then, he sees you. In a situation that proves his nagging thoughts right.

Standing against the wall is a drunk you. And lo and behold, Steve Harrington peers over you with a flushed face that spreads up to his neck, shirt unbuttoned like he’s seducing you with the jungle on his chest. Eddie feels the bottom of his stomach twist uncomfortably, a twinge of jealousy floating within the acids inside.

He pushes the people away, as gently as he could, making his way toward you.

“I know— Eddie!” you gasp, pushing away from the wall. You open your arms and fall against him, wrapping your limbs around his torso tightly so that it makes him just as shocked as Steve was. “Where have you been?”

“I was waiting,” a hand massages your forearm, the other resting cautiously on your back. “You said that I stay there.”

“Have you met Steve?” Eddie smiles tightly at him. He tries to hide his disappointment when you uncurl an arm from him.

“Yeah, I met him,” he says softly. “Dustin kept on talking about him.”

Steve’s eyebrows raise in bewilderment. “Uh- yeah. Nice seeing you again, man.” he nods his head at him. “Haven’t seen you since I left highschool,”

“Kinda surprised you’re still here,”

He narrows his eyes at Eddie. “I could say the same,” Steve runs his hand through his hair, shifting all his weight on his left leg. “Didn’t you repeat high school?”

You gasp beneath Eddie, turning your head at him. “You repeated high school?”

“Didn’t I tell you that?”

“Yeah but I forgot,” you rub your nose with the side of your finger. “I’m sorry. That must have sucked.”

It used to. Until you came back.

Eddie’s mouth parts, but all that could come out was. “Wanna go back home?”

“I haven’t peed yet,”

“You’ve been talking to Steve for twenty minutes?” he exclaims his disdain over this fact, tightening his arm around you without even realizing it. “Alright, I’m taking you up to the bathroom,”

“Hey hey hey,” Steve reaches out to grasp Eddie’s elbow, clumsily but tight as he can see the drunken gloss in his eyes. “Where’d you think you’re going?”

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

“Oh I heard it loud and clear,” he scoffs. “You’re not taking a drunk girl to the toilet, Munson.”

Eddie turns, hiding you behind him and lets you pick on the loose thread of his vest. “And what do you expect me to do? Let her piss herself in here?” he wonders wherever Steve found the nerve to act all protective over you. “Sending her up there alone is more dangerous, Harrington.”

“And you think I’ll let you take her up there?”

“Hey, excuse me,” with your hands around Eddie’s torso, you spin, your cheek right on the DIO print of his vest. “If you’re thinking that Eddie would take advantage of me, h’wont. You don’t know him. He- he won’t do what you’re thinking,” you narrow your eyes at him. “You know, if you people would just take the time to get to know him, you’d know that he’s not a freak. Or that he’d sacrifice me to the devil, or some shit. He’s a really nice person and you’re just—judgemental morons. And I really need to fucking pee.”

Your sweet mien is stripped off. An austere look makes Steve stumble back, face flushed in embarrassment than inebriation. He sputters out an apology, his eyes sobering in genuity. But surprisingly, he apologizes to Eddie. “I’m just drunk. I know it’s not an excuse but… she’s my friend.”

Still, with your words that left his heart unveiling and pounding like a fast drum bass, Eddie nods his head at him in slight forgiveness. “I get it, man. No hard feelings.”

(But he still is jealous that Henderson liked him more.)

Eddie takes you into his arms, smiles reassuringly at you as he pushes your hair out of your face, and leads you up to the nearest bathroom.

Lamented and assured

To the lights and towns below

Faster than the speed of sound

Faster than we thought we'd go

Beneath the sound of hope

Eddie Munson had only been in love once.

But maybe he’s wrong.

You sit patiently in the passenger seat, swaying to a Barry Manilow mixtape you found in Fred’s house that Eddie didn’t stop you from taking. He watches you from inside the convenience store, the beep of the scanner faint as well as the jingle of coins.

He bids a quiet goodbye to the cashier and pockets his change, holding two water bottles in his hand, sauntering to his vibrating van, and hopping in with ease.

Your eyes snap open, wide in its demiurgic inebriation. Eddie shuts the car door, placing his bottle on the cup holder in front of the gear shift so he could open yours to save you the struggle before he hands it to you. “Sober up, princess,”

Although half-drunk, you manage to swallow his sobriquet and flush. Princess. Babe. Mandy. What’s next? Love of my life?

God, I kinda hope so.

Eddie’s got his eyes on you, searching for any signs of struggle as you open the bottle with a small grunt before you bring the plastic up to your lips, swallowing heavily. Your eyes flutter shut, eyelashes caressing the gentle skin of your cheeks as you moan.

“Shit,” you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What’s in the water?”

“Special K,” he jokes, opening his own. “You sober yet?”

“I can physically feel it-” you gesture your hands to yourself, waving it in a downward motion as you swallow the thick saliva on the edge of your tongue. “-disappear. I can feel it go down to my bladder.”

Eddie chuckles, shaking his head as he faces the steering wheel and twists the key in the ignition. “Just make sure you don’t have to pee yet. I’m gonna take you somewhere,”

You screw the cap back on, tugging on the ends of your dress as solemn curiosity makes you look up at him through your eyelashes. “Ooh. Where ya takin’ me, Eds?”

“It’s a surprise,” he pulls out of the parking lot, watching carefully from the rearview mirror with his eyes squinted. “I take Dustin up there every morning to talk to his girlfriend. But there’s a special spot I’m taking you.”

“Dustin has a girlfriend?” you gasp. “I always thought he made that up,”

“Oh, but she’s very real,”

Tucking the bottle beneath your chin, you wriggle your brows at him with a skittish look. It enamors him, and it can’t stop him from turning his head at you and smiling softly. He wishes this would last — a fortuitous moment of abundant reposefulness, in his shitty van with your presence gracing the darkness of his world.

Your face reappears in the darkness whenever a streetlight passes by. And every spark, you grow even more beautiful despite the intoxication that drops a barbell onto your eyelids. Eddie watches the buildings disappear, replaced by old trees, huddled together beside the road that swishes and collides with the passing breeze.

With the doo-wop music pleasing to your ears, you hum beneath your breath, hand reaching out to roll the windows down and peak your head out. The wind strokes your skin headily, but the attempt to sober you is in vain. At least, with the alcohol that’s left in your system; you're clearheaded enough to register the lyrics from the radio and Eddie’s words of carefulness.

Unable to detach his eyes from the lengthy road, Eddie filches every moment he’d glance at you out of worry you’d get your head decapitated off a pole or anything that passes by.

But the sight of you with your back arched against the open window, hands in the air and your hair across your tipsy face was enough to relieve his worry. Were his eyes cameras, he’d taken every picture at every blink he took and kept in his mind. Just in case he’d never see such an unfathomable sight again.

“Hey, Mandy,” he yells slightly. “Having fun there, girl?”

“Totally,” you sigh, teeth gleaming. “Are we there yet, Munson? The inside of my mouth’s getting all dry here.”

“Get back inside, then,” he glouts playfully. “We’re almost there, babe.”

He’s getting really fucking comfortable with those petnames, now.

You slither yourself back inside, slumping on his chair, your dress ridden up to your thighs. Eddie blushes from his face to his chest, snapping his eyes back on the road as you squirm on your seat, tugging on the ends until you’ve settled properly and rose the window up halfway.

He tugs on the collar of his Paranoid shirt, a stark contrast to his exposed, opalescent skin. “You had fun poking your head out the window?” he cocks a brow. “Or do you still wanna go chase the cars that pass by thinkin’ they’re treats?”

“Dick,” you kick his shin, dirt smudging on his blue jeans.

Eddie stops beside a broken fence, the vibration of his van coming to a halt when he twists the keys from the ignition and pulls it off. You blindly open the car door much to his dismay, and hop off with bleary feet. He does the same, shuts the door the same time you did and watches you cross over the van until you stand in front of him.

But you look at the hills, high and dark; its luscious green grass unseen by the darkness. He watches your jaw relax and your blinks decelerate.

“We’re gonna walk up there?” you say smally, fiddling with your rings.

“You don’t wanna?” his left eye narrows, a small pout coming up to draw itself on his face. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna. I can try to drive my car up the hill. Unless you also don’t wanna climb up the hill then I can just take you wherever you wanna go.”

You shake your head, tugging on his leather bracelet, hooking your finger around the ornament and crossing the shattered fence. “I can do it. I’m—I’m sober enough. I think I just have to remove my shoes. Hold on,”

He crosses the fence first, planting his feet on the ground as you use him as leverage. You balance yourself on one foot, pulling on the laces of your shoes and pulling it until he sees your socks—blue covered in black bats. Eddie takes your shoe as you do the same to the other, until he’s got your high-cuts in one hand, and the other being pulled by you.

Everything was untroubled. Laughs shared when he trips and scrapes his bare knee on the uncut grass; your socks darkened by the damp soil, his white Reeboks the same. And Eddie matches your heavy huffs, the remaining energy on his body on his legs that continue to lift him up the hill.

When you reach the top, you half-yell in relief, bending with your hands on your knees. Eddie sets your shoes down, letting himself fall on his ass. Once you’ve obtained your spent breath, you plop down beside him.

“Holy shit,” you press your hands on the earth below, shifting to rest on your knees. “Eds, we can see Hawkins from here,”

You see the lights that brighten up the town. The miniscule homes of the village from across, the burnt Starcourt mall, the sirens that lead its way to the Hospital and the variegated radiance from the arcade. You gawp silently.

“Exactly why I took you up here,” he tugs down on your dress when the wind blows it up, keeping his eyes at your face. “And if you look very closely, or if you have the eyes of an owl, you can see the trailer park.”

He laughs amusingly when you squint your eyes. Eddie knows if he can’t see it, so can’t you. But you try, nonetheless.

“I don’t see it,” you lament, sitting back down beside him. Eddie tries to ignore the weight you rest on his arm; the pinky that grazes his behind your backs for anchor, and how your bare legs graze his jeans but despite the covering, he can feel the heat radiating off your body.

“You’ll see it better when the sun’s up,” he leans on his right arm, shoulder bumping yours when he reaches for his Lucky Strike pack. Eddie flips it open, his small lighter lodged to the side of his cigarettes. You peer over, chin on his shoulder. He pulls out one, sticking it between his middle and index before he uses his thumb to pull his lighter out.

Then he looks at you, nose beside yours with the minimal proximity. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No,” you say. “My dad smokes. The dad who adopted me, I mean.”

“I know,” he smiles before he sticks the cigarette between his lips. He shoves his pack back on his pocket, sitting back down. “Do you smoke?”

The question was muffled through a lisp, but was still understandable. “Haven’t tried,” you answer. “But I almost did. It was weed, actually, that shit you sell? When I came back during summer, Steve picked me up and he asked me if I wanted to get high,”

“Really?” The cigar bobs when he speaks, the hand that cups over lowers slightly, his thumb stopping on the sparkwheel. “How long have you and Harrington been friends?”

He finally lights it up, the white paper burning into a crisp orange until smoke begins to vent. “Since middle school. Met him after my parents adopted me from my foster care. They took me to Hawkins, our house was near his, and we were invited to dinner by Steve’s parents when they were still present in his life.”

A burning jealousy on the pit of his stomach, ignited not by the lighter. “Were you good friends?”

“I’d like to think we were,” you tilt your head back and look at him. Eddie feels your pinky tap his, which he taps back. “When his parents started going on business trips, and mine were…well, working in Hawkins, Steve and I hung out in either his bedroom or mine,” you smile at him. “But, we rarely talked when I left for New York. It was a phone call every three months. And then he picked us up at the airport,”

He lets the smoke leave the corner of his lips, on the other side where you weren’t. “Did he, uh, tell you all that shit about Henderson and Wheeler?”

“Through the phone. It’s kind of crazy,” his heart flutters at your light smile. “You know, I’m not sure if I should tell you this shit or not, but he told me about this whole thing about- monsters, and all that crap. Demogorgons, demodogs, the Upside Down. The Mind Flayer-”

“What, like DnD?” Eddie snorts. “Maybe the little shrimp talked to him about it, who knows,”

“I mean, he was half-drunk when he told me,” your lips purse. “Either he played DnD, or he dreamt about it. I mean, I asked Nancy about the Starcourt fire but she wouldn’t tell me anything!”

Eddie takes another puff, a long one that reaches his lungs. “‘M pretty sure he was just stoned,”

“What about you?” he sees you observe the cigarette, but he’s sure you’d been looking at his hands first and his dimly lit rings. “How’d you know him?”

He taps his finger on the rod, chunks falling down on the grass on the minimal space between your legs. “High school,” his lips twist into a frown. “I had my first senior year with him. And- uh, he was a douchebag. King Steve,” Eddie nods his head, a sardonic smile offered to you. “And when Henderson came and said that he was awesome, kept on insisting, actually, it was hard to believe.”

“Did he ever, uh,”

“Call me a freak?” he finishes. “Once. Twice. Dunno. We crossed paths but never really met, I guess. We knew we existed in each other’s lives but we never really acknowledged. He was too gung ho on Nancy Wheeler,”

You chortle, a plain snort leaving you that renders him amused. “Oh, God. Nancy. D’you know Steve wouldn’t stop talking about her whenever he called me.”

“You ever get jealous?”

He hopes you say no. Never did. He’s my friend. Only ever liked him as a friend. I don’t like his hair, I don’t like his smug smile. Eddie doesn’t care if it deems him jealous. But there’s nothing bad in hoping, right?

“No,” you ponder for a bit. “Maybe,”

His heart sinks.

“Only because I wished someone talked about me the way he did to Nancy,” a pensive gloss covers your irises, lit by the vibrant colors of the town upon your grazing knees and swaying feet. “He sounded so in love. And I always thought about how she would feel if she knew someone talked about her like that.”

He sighs. “You never know,”

You think he’s in thought, with the way his shoulder presses against yours absentmindedly and the silence that’s drawn out from his peart mien.

“I had this dream when I was a kid,” you whisper. “That I was the greatest pianist in the world. I was singing with Billy Joel and—everybody knew who I was,” Eddie smiles. “And, ever since that dream, I’ve taught myself how to be one of the greatest pianists in the World,”

You exert amenity towards him when he laughs bemusingly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” your eyebrows furrow for a split second.

A sudden memory climbs its way to his head. “Do you remember back in middle school? We, uh, hung out a lot after the talent show. And- and all we did was play music,” He says it with slight uncertainty; he himself can barely remember all those times yet he based on a single memory. “We played this one song all the time.”

“Does Everyone Stare,” you answer. “The Police.”

“That one,” he nods his head. “Because it was the only song we knew how to play that had guitars and pianos.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you nod. “I can’t believe we forgot each other,”

“But I do remember some parts,” he takes a short hit. “You said that you wanted to marry Billy Joel, and then you kept on bragging to me how you could play Die Young like, fifty times,”

“Only the Good Die Young!” you correct him. “God, yes! I played that even when I was in Queens. My grandma loved that song.”

“I always wondered why you had a huge crush on him. He was old,”

“He was not!” you gasp.

Eddie shrugs, lips curling in amusement when a huff leaves his nose. “Yes he was! And it was a good reason for me to get jealous, too,”

Shit.

If he could, he’d ululate his stupidity into the sky and embarrass himself further because it’s already out now, isn’t it? But confirming your jealousy didn’t mean he’d harbored feelings for you, right? He could be jealous for other reasons like…

He doesn’t remember.

“Jealous?” you repeat. “You were jealous of Billy Joel because I liked him?”

“We were kids. Hell, I got jealous when Tommy H. brought his Nintendo to school. Or when Barb Holland—may she rest in peace—won class president. I get jealous all the time,” he snickers. “Don't let it get into your big head, Mandy.”

Double crossed between his lies and what you truly perceive, you shake your head mirthly. “Yeah. Okay, Munson.” you roll your eyes at him. “God I… whenever I played that song, I always imagined I was in a concert. With this… huge grand piano. I’d play for those snobby rich people, then I’d get roses thrown at me. I’d play so hard my fingers would bleed and they’d give me a standing ovation,”

Eddie smiles. “What a dream,” he looks away, chin on his neck when he looks down on his lap. “I’d be your first ever watcher. Then I’ll throw tomatoes at you and boo you off the stage,”

He looks back at you and you laugh jovially.

The muddle of alcohol in your head almost makes you miss how his jaw clenches and his eyes soften. A solemn twinkle in his button eyes, nostrils flaring as he stares at you with the smoke on his cigarette flowing between the tangled strands of his hair.

Suddenly nervous with his intense stare, you nod at his cigarette. “Can I-uh, try?”

Eddie blinks. “Yeah, sure.”

He offers it to you with a balk stutter on his hand. You lean over, your hand almost on his thigh as you wrap your lips around, lipstick staining the orange filter that leaves a pink coruscating shine. Brazen do you inhale, cheeks sucked in, gray smoke filling your lungs until you cough abruptly and push it away.

Smoke puffs when you cough and he laughs jubilantly. “Mandy!”

“Fuck,” your hand grasps his shoulder, the other covering your mouth. “Christ. No wonder why my dad says I shouldn’t smoke. Oh- shit. Ah.”

He pats around beside him. “We left our water in the car,”

“Screw it. I’ll try again,” you wrap your hand around his wrist and take the cigarette in your mouth, sucking like your life had depended on it until Eddie himself has to pull it away. It’s a bit calmer this time, no coughs and only smoke.

His palm meets the side of his hand to a mock applause. “Bravo.”

“Who taught you this?”

Eddie takes a short puff. “My old man,”

Your smile falls. “Oh, shit, sorry,”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “My…mom got mad when she found out. I was eight,” he licks his lips. “And, you know, I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. But highschool happened and before I knew it, I have a metal lunchbox full of packs and weed,”

You feel his pink shyly tap yours. “My mom used to take me up here,” Eddie continues. “Way before Dustin did and- we used to go up before the sunrise so we could watch it. When he was dead asleep,” he swallows thickly. “She’d make these sandwiches, chocolate and peanut butter, and we’d eat them while we watched the sun rise; and she’d point out all these butterflies,” he shows you his wrist where the insect lays. “And she said ‘Eddie, you must always cherish the beginning of a new day,’”

He mimics the voice of his mother in a high-pitched voice and a tone that lilts to a posh border. Eddie knows it’s not exactly her voice, but he loves a good impression.

“She sounds like an amazing person,” you whisper.

“She was,” Eddie muses, a melancholy wave that crashes on him as he lays on the undertow, helpless. “She always had this bubble of hope, even if my dad always popped it. She just kept on blowing, and smiling, and loving even though she was struggling and honestly,” he looks at you with a sad smile, “she’s one of the strongest women I’ve ever met,”

Your heart breaks the slightest. But he looks at you like the brightest star he's ever found.

“She always had a bubbly personality even when everything was tough,” he sighs. “And I haven’t done this. Watching the sunrise since she, y’know, because I always slept in,”

His chuckle makes you smile breathlessly. But it had been more wistful. There’s a mosaic of maudlin rings over your eyes, on the verge of shattering. “Is that why you took me up here?”

“Kind of,” he drops his head sideways. “There’s no sunrise, though. So I hope this will suffice,”

“I’ll take anything you give me, Munson,” you smile softly. “It makes me happy, either way,”

Finally, your pinkies hook behind you. His finger is warm, bigger than yours but bears a whit of gracious familiarity. They hook, as thick as thieves; Eddie gifts you a smile so warm and loving that makes you lean close.

“Even if my van’s all run down and loud and on the verge of burning?” his eyebrow raises. “Or I stain your reputation?”

“I don’t even have a reputation,” you laugh. “But yes. Even if you van smells like marijuana and you, like, listen to Orgasmatron for god knows how many times. I’ll accept anything,”

I’ll accept anything.

Eddie leans close, tobacco breaths exchanged, nose bumping with yours; his eyes are low and hooded, his eyelashes that tickle his cheeks when he blinks rapidly, fearing that once he opens his eyes you’re a mist within the gray smoke. And fuck, you’re pretty.

Prettier than the barely there stars above you, prettier than the morphing clouds that entice him at seven in the morning, prettier than Sweetheart (his beloved guitar, yes); prettier than everything else, you being the center of attention, the only attraction in his terrifying world. His heart pounds like he’s fallen down the rollercoaster, and it feels gratifyingly amazing.

Your pinky clutches his tightly in a silent promise. And he vows to keep it, whatever it may be.

“Just where our bones will rest,”

Befuddled, he pulls back slightly. “What?”

“I thought of a lyric,” although disappointed, Eddie finds it in himself to smile lightly. “My heart's on a string around my neck and I stare just where our bones will rest.” you say. “Shit, Eddie, do you have a ballpen?”

“Lucky for you, I do,” he reaches for his pocket again and pulls out a blue pen with the cap covered in small indentation of bites. You frown. “Sorry. I get nervous a lot.”

“It’s okay,” you unscrew the cap. “Um, fuck,”

You unlace your pinky from his, pulling your left forearm out so you’d write the lyric just above your inner elbow, small across the skin of your forearm.

“I could get this tattooed,” you mutter. And then you look up at him with a proud, bright smile.

“I could do it,” his shoulders raise to a shrug. “I mean, I mostly do my own tattoos,” Eddie shows you his arms—the butterfly on his wrist, the bats on his forearm, before he pulls on the collar of his shirt and shows you The Devil. “Either I use my machine or the stick and needle,”

“Didn’t know you knew how to do tattoos,” you narrow your eyes at him. “What’s next? You can fix cars,”

He almost says yes.

You reach to touch the tattoo on his forearm in awe, delicate finger grazing his inked skin, petting the hairs on his arm. “Seriously. I’ll do it, (y/n),” he chuckles. “Just gotta tell me when,”

With your eyes gilded in delirium, you nod. And he smiles.

Eddie Munson had only been in love once.

But he had no idea he could fall in love twice.

You could remember how delicate he’d been.

Eddie had taken you back to his home. The place dark and desolate with the missing presence of his beloved uncle. He’d sat you down on his couch, apologized for how messy the place had been and that you’re getting your first tattoo at some dingy trailer. And you remember how your words succored the insecurity out of him; how he visibly deflated in relief and knelt in front of you.

Although covered in latex, his hands were warm against your arm, but it was incomparable to the spark you felt when you looped your pinky around his.

His words had saged the pain from the stabbing needles. Constant praises that made your stomach flip; ballyhoos that made your cheeks burn as your mind swallowed them in a way that you shouldn’t— “You’re doing a great job, babe” “Taking it so well, aren’t you, Mandy?” “I know it hurts, but it’ll feel good soon,” “Good girl.”

Good girl had been the last straw.

Eddie was doing it on purpose, right? Or your mind was just too deep into the gutter?

He’d traced the words you wrote on your inner elbow in vigilant precision. Eddie was fruitless of failure, nothing amiss in the Stygian tattoo. Which left you in awe given that he’d used a stick and needle rather than the machine hidden somewhere beneath the depths of his dusted bed.

When he was done, he lathered your arm with ointment before covering it with plastic—cling wrap. And he drove you home with smiles painting both the canvases of your faces; the inside of his van filled with nothing but twitching hands that yearn for reconciliation, and knowing looks exchanged between the music of The Police.

You had laid on your bed with the lingering feeling of his latex touch and his bona fide scrutiny that night. A silly smile on your face when you think of Eddie Munson; the boy who’d disappeared in your life who you miraculously found again.

special thanks to: @vendettaparker, @munsonquinns, @familyvideostevie, @applcrumbl for proofreading :3

PART TWO

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED 💕

1K notes · View notes