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sourwolf-sterek32 · 4 months

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The Dirt (Your Version)

Summary: Meeting Nikki Sixx and Tommy Lee was a coincidence. Being friends was a choice. But falling in love with them both was beyond your control.

A rewrite of The Dirt with all the highs and lows of Mötley Crüe from your perspective.

Pairings: Nikki Sixx x Reader, Tommy Lee x Reader, Nikki Sixx x Tommy Lee x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Alcohol, language

Previous Chapter

Chapter 4- Mistakes were made

Tom Zutaut's girlfriend dragged you into your brothers dressing room because apparently the jeans and leather jacket you were currently wearing wasn't going to cut it for the stage.

"You got five minutes!" Doc shouted from outside the room.

Five fucking minutes. Jesus Christ.

You were going to die.

No wonder the guys were so nervous about this. You were about to go out on stage for the first time in front of 300,000 people. What if you screwed up the lyrics? What if the crowd hated you? What if you tripped over on stage? What if-

"Put these on." Tom's girlfriend suddenly said snapping you out of those horrible thoughts.

She was holding up a pair of black leather pants that you were pretty sure belonged to Vince, but it wasn't like he hadn't worn your clothes before, so this seemed fair.

Before you knew it, Toms girlfriend -who was actually a really nice girl despite the fact she just cheated on her boyfriend in this exact dressing room earlier- had you dressed in an outfit that had you feeling extremely self-conscious.

"Seriously, you look stunning. Just let me..." She trailed off and grabbed her makeup bag and within a few minutes, she had drawn on perfect eyeliner and bright red lipstick as well as adding to your mascara before finishing the look off with a single thin warpaint stripe on your left cheek bone.

Your first thought was - Oh, God, Nikki is going to hate that. Quickly followed up by, you were actually going to die on stage dressed in this.

You stared at yourself in the mirror taking in the tight leather pants and matching black heeled cowgirl boots. That part of the outfit was fine. It was the black laced bra under your open leather vest that showed too much cleavage and skin for your liking which was the problem.

"Can't I zip up the vest?" You asked, motioning towards the perfectly functioning zip.

"No. You look fucking amazing. Come on." She grabbed your hand and pulled you back out the changing room before you could say anything else.

Tommy was the first to see you. His jaw quite literally fell open with a shocked gasp before quickly covering his mouth with his hands realising what he did.

That caught the rest of the guy's attention. Mick gave you a quick once over taking in the outfit before nodding in approval, but Nikki's eyes widened as he looked you up and down in utter surprise before averting his gaze.

"Oh, hell no!" Vince exclaimed, shaking his head. "She's barely wearing anything!"

"She's wearing more than you!" Tom's girlfriend shot back fiercely motioning at your brother's practically shirtless body.

She had a point.

Vince glared at the woman but couldn't really say much in fear of her blabbing about what the two of them just did in the change room.

"At least do up the fucking vest." Vince pleaded.

"Gladly." You zipped up the vest instantly causing Tom's girlfriend to sigh.

"Let's compromise." She said, stepping forward and lowering the zip down to the middle of your stomach so that your black lacey bra was still visible. "Better?" She asked pointily looking at Vince.

"Not really." He answered.

"Too bad."

"So, what do I do exactly?" You asked changing the topic before your brother could say anything else. "Like, just stand in the corner and sing the backup lyrics?"

"There's already a microphone setup for you between Vince and Nikki. Can you dance?" Doc asked and he must have seen the look of absolute horror on your face at his question because he didn't wait for a verbal answer. "Doesn't matter. You don't have to. Just sing the backup lyrics and try to look like you're having fun."

"I don't know if that's possible, Doc. I feel like I'm gonna pass out." You admitted, resting your hand over your chest as you sucked in a deep shaky breath.

Vince sighed, "I'll guide you through it. It's gonna be fine."

You glanced over at your brother who, despite hating this idea, was trying his best to reassure you.

"C'mon guys. It's nearly time." Nikki announced, motioning everyone towards the stage.

You trailed behind the guys up the steps to the side of the stage, your legs feeling like jelly and ready to collapse at any moment.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Nikki whispered, grabbing Vince's shoulder. "You do realise we just signed a record deal with his company and that fucking his girlfriend could seriously fuck that up?"

Vince smirked, patting him on the shoulder, "only if he finds out, man."

Tommy suddenly leant over the railing and threw up.

Yeah, you felt like doing that too.

"Seriously, we're gonna die." Mick muttered under his breath.

"I'm good!" Tommy insisted, grabbing a random beer from the table beside him and taking a large drink which you didn't exactly think was a good idea, but he already drank it before you could say otherwise.

"Right, listen up. Come on, gather round, guys." Nikki ordered holding his arms out and ushering the boys towards him.

You remained standing by the railing and watched them as they huddled around each other. Nikki lifted his head from the huddle and glanced over at you, a million different emotions washing over his face in a singular moment, but they were gone before you could decipher any of them.

"Get in here, princess." Nikki instructed, holding his arm out.

That nickname had stuck since the first day you walked into their apartment and after all these months you had given up trying to change that.

Taking in a deep breath, you joined the huddle as Nikki and Tommy wrapped their arms around you.

"Look where we are. We've got an old man, a kid drummer, a cover band singer, a new girl and a fucking runaway." Nikki's eyes met yours briefly. "No one would have thought we'd make it here, so fuck them. Win it all or lose it all, we're Mötley fuckin' Crüe. So let's destroy these motherfuckers!"

"Yeah!" The guys all cheered, their nerves twisting into excitement from adrenaline.

Fuck, you couldn't do this.

"You got this." Mick insisted, reaching up and giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

You simply nodded despite not believing him in the slightest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from Los Angeles, Mötley Crüe!" A voice over the speakers announced.

"Don't look at the crowd. I'll be next to you the whole time, so will Vince. Just look at us, okay?" Nikki whispered into your ear. "It's gonna be fine."

Vince suddenly reached out and grabbed your hand and before you realised what was happening, you were on stage in front of thousands of people.

Holy shit.

Flames burst out from the front of the stage and the entire crowd went nuts. Vince led you over to your designated microphone making sure you were okay... or as okay as possible, before he turned to the crowd and threw his fist in the air causing them to scream louder before Tommy started on the drums.

"Title track from our up-and-coming album. We call it Shout at the Devil!" Vince spoke through his microphone.

You felt like a statue standing stiffly behind your own microphone unable to tear your eyes away from the mass number of people before you. Nikki said not to look at the crowd, but fuck, you couldn't look away.

The crowd stretched for as far as you could see. It was quite literally a sea of people. 300,000 people Tom had said.

Holy fuck.

Suddenly, Nikki appeared in front of you, blocking your view of the crowd like he could somehow sense your thoughts. He continued to play the bass while thumping his head to the beat of Tommys drums, but his eyes were glued to yours and silently asking if you were okay.

No, you were definitely not okay. And you felt like you were going to throw up at any moment.

This was so much bigger than the club crowds during your backup singing days with Vince's band, Rock Candy. This was so far out of your comfort zone, you couldn't even see the zone anymore. It was gone and you were downright terrified.

Nikki shifted until he was standing beside you. You forced your eyes to follow him instead of looking at the crowd and he didn't look away from you either before he leant towards your microphone instead of going back to his own.

"Shout Shout Shout..."

Nikki sung into the microphone giving you a small encouraging nod and after the third repeat, you began to sing it too.

"Shout Shout Shout."

"Shout at the Devil!" Vince screamed into his microphone.

The fans cheered loudly, and you hesitantly looked away from Nikki and scanned the large crowd while your brother continued to sing.

Nikki remained by your side for a little while, his shoulder brushing yours whenever you'd both use the microphone, but it wasn't long before you began to slip right into place and got lost in the music.

After finishing Shout at the Devil, you knew Mötley Crüe had made it.

The crowd had never heard the song before but by the end, they were singing along, pumping their fists into the air. With every word Vince sung, every guitar lick Mick played, the crowd ripped in response.

Your confidence began to rise with each song, and by the end of it, you were sad that it was over.

"Holy fucking shit, dude! That was awesome!" Tommy exclaimed while the four of you walked back down the corridor from the stage, the crowd still cheering and clapping behind you.

Your heart was beating out of your chest. Hands trembling by your side from the adrenaline of the show, but you couldn't wipe the smile from your face because Tommy was right, that was fucking awesome.

"How do you feel, sis?" Vince asked, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he walked in step with you.

"Ask me tomorrow?" You answered because honestly, you couldn't put a label on your emotions right now.

That show was fucking epic.

Vince chuckled softly, "you did good. Real good."

"You guys were fantastic, and MTV want an interview. Follow me." Doc instructed.

Within a few minutes, you and the band were squished together on a leather couch in front of a cameraman while an MTV interviewer sat in the seat opposite.

You were seated between Nikki and Tommy, their shoulders and thighs pressed against yours due to the small couch. Tommy was bouncing his leg either from nerves or from the adrenaline still soaring through his veins. Maybe a combination of both.

The interviewer asked the general questions which the guys all answered easily. He asked about the new Shout at the Devil album questioning whether it supported satanic worship which Nikki was quick to shut down.

"It says Shout at the Devil. Not Shout with the Devil. At the Devil." He explained pointing to the vinyl record cover that the interviewer had handed him.

You had to hide your smirk at his words because it wasn't that long ago Nikki had actually wanted to call the album Shout with the Devil, but Electra were quick to shut that down.

"Vince, your little sister has officially joined Mötley Crüe. Is that correct?" The interviewer asked changing the topic as he looked over at your brother.

Officially joined Mötley Crüe? Um, no. That was not correct. None of you have had a chance to even talk about this. Would they even want you to be a backup singer at other shows?

Vince leant forward and glanced over at you before looking to Nikki, Tommy and Mick. The three of them seemed to have a silent conversation that you were not part of before Vince turned back to the interviewer and nodded.

"Y/N is officially our new backup singer."

Holy shit.

Seriously?

"How does it feel Y/N?" The interviewer asked, addressing you directly for the first time since he started asking the band questions.

"Unreal." You answered nervously but honestly.

"Boys what is it like having Y/N as Mötley's new backup singer?"

"Oh, it's great!" Nikki answered without hesitation, and to your surprise, he sounded genuine.

"She's been with us since the start, man. She's always supported and helped us out before we even played our first show. She might be the new backup singer, but she isn't new to Mötley Crüe." Tommy answered.

Your heart swelled at his words, and you could feel your cheeks blushing, so you ducked your head a little allowing your hair to fall over your face hoping to block the redness on your cheeks.

"Vince, are you worried these guys might steal your sister?"

"They know Y/N is off limits." Your brother answered easily. "I made that clear months ago."

He did. He made that very clear back when you first moved into the Mötley House with them. At the time, you had been frustrated with him because Tommy and Nikki were both attractive guys and you wouldn't have been opposed to something happening between them. But now, there was no way you would do that.

You'd never act on your attraction to those guys. Vince would probably kill them and that would be the end of Mötley Crüe. You were not going to risk that, and you certainly were not going to be the reason for the breakup of Mötley Crüe. No way.

"So, no one has made a move on her? I find that extremely hard to believe." The interviewer stated looking at the guys doubtfully before his eyes focused on you. "I mean, surely someone has. Her outfit with that body..."

The interviewer's eyes shifted down to your chest and he wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was staring at your boobs.

"My eyes are up here." You said sternly pointing to your eyes while glaring at the man.

"You can't wear that and not expect me to... anyway, there is no way one of you boys haven't tried to fuck her."

"What the hell did you just say?" Vince questioned anger evident in his tone.

You quickly reached for the zip of your vest and yanked it up covering your upper body completely.

"I meant no offence. Your sister is a beautiful woman. And that exposing outfit she was wearing on stage and now..." He began to say pointing towards you before looking to the other guys. "...there is no way one of you haven't touched that."

"This interview is fucking over!" Vince growled standing up from the couch abruptly.

Tommy and Nikki quickly stood too and stepped in front of you protectively blocking the interviewers view of you.

"Get the fuck out!" Nikki ordered pointing to the door.

"Oh, come on. You can't be serious?" The interviewer asked looking between the guys.

"You're about to see how fucking serious I am." Vince threatened, his fist clenched and ready for a fight. "Get out! Now!"

"You heard them." Mick suddenly said standing up slowly, his hand grabbing Vince's shoulder to stop him from doing anything stupid. "Get out."

You remained seated on the couch lifting your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them trying to cover your body despite the vest now being zipped up entirely.

It was stupid to wear this on stage. You knew it was.

The interviewer and cameraman quickly left the room and practically ran into Doc on their way leaving Mötley's manager standing in the doorway in utter confusion.

"What the hell happened during the interview?"

"That fucking guy is banned from all our shows!" Vince's voice raised an octave as he spoke. "Make sure he doesn't hang around."

Doc clearly had a million more questions but did as the singer asked and left the room to ensure the MTV interviewer was leaving immediately.

"Are you okay, Y/N?" Tommy asked, his voice so much calmer and gentler than your brothers.

You looked up to find both him and Nikki now looking at you as you sat on the couch hugging your knees to your chest.

"It was stupid to wear this on stage." You whispered, shaking your head at yourself.

You knew what men were like. You should have seen all of that coming from a mile away. Your jeans and leather jacket would have been a better option.

Sure, you had felt self-conscious at first in this outfit but once you were on stage and singing... you were more confident than you had ever felt. The outfit had grown on you. You had started to like it, but now... fuck this outfit. Fuck that interviewer.

"Hey, no. It wasn't." Tommy insisted, sliding over and sitting beside you. "It wasn't stupid."

You scoffed, "it was."

"It wasn't." Nikki insisted.

Tears were burning in the back of your eyes, but you refused to let them spill. It was stupid. Why were you even upset about this? It wasn't a big deal, and it wasn't like you hadn't dealt with sexist assholes before.

He was meant to be an MTV interviewer. He was meant to ask about the show, about the songs, about the new album. But instead, all he cared about was what you were wearing, and which guy had fucked you.

"You were right." You said, your voice barely above a whisper as you glanced over at Vince. "I shouldn't have worn this."

Your brother let out a deep exhale. The anger soaring through him slowly subsiding as he walked over and plonked himself down on the couch beside you.

"I wasn't right."

You tilted your head towards him as a silent tear trickled down your cheek and you quickly averted your gaze and wiped it away.

"He ain't worth your tears." Vince wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side. "Fuck that guy, okay? Fuck him."

"Yeah, fuck him." Tommy agreed from your other side while Mick and Nikki nodded in agreement from where they were standing.

You smiled softly, "thank you for defending me."

"You mess with one member of Mötley Crüe, you mess with all of us." Nikki simply stated, his sea green eyes meeting yours as he gave you a small smile from the corner of his mouth. "Welcome to the band."

Later that night the band all retreated back to the hotel you were staying at and dispersed to your own rooms to get changed. You thought about having a shower, but decided to have one in the morning instead, so you stripped out of your concert clothes and switched back to the jeans and leather jacket you had been wearing earlier.

The singular warpainted stripe was still on your left cheek and the more you looked at it, the more you liked it.

You didn't want Nikki to feel as if you were trying to copy him, especially after Tommy now had warpaint too, but he never commented on the stripe when he saw it and didn't seem to care, so that was a small relief.

Grabbing your key, you locked your hotel room behind yourself and wandered across the hall to room 32 which was Vince's.

With the benefit of hindsight, you should have knocked on the door first. But the two of you still shared a bedroom back at the Mötley House, so you didn't even think and twisted the knob walking inside to see if your brother was ready to go to the bar.

That was your first mistake for the night.

"Hey, Vince, are you ready- EW!" You gasped, instantly covering your eyes at the sight before you.

Your brothers naked back and ass was facing you while he pounded into some woman leaning over the bed across the room. You had no idea if it was Toms girlfriend or not, but you were not going to look to find out that answer.

"Y/N! Get out!" Vince shouted over his shoulder.

"Learn to lock your door!"

"Learn to fucking knock!" He shot back before you slammed the door shut.

"Fucking gross." You mumbled to yourself trying to fight the urge to gag at that vivid image now seared into your brain.

Sadly, that was not the first time you had walked in on Vince fucking someone, and you hated to admit, but knowing your brother, it wouldn't be the last either.

"Got an eye full?" Tommy's voice called out in amusement.

You tilted your head to the left to find the drummer walking out his own hotel room further down the corridor and simply nodded, screwing your face up in disgust.

Tommy grinned, "I did the same thing a few minutes ago. He needs to learn to lock his door."

"Tell me about it!"

Pushing yourself away from the door, you made your way over to Tommy noting he switched out his red and black leather pants for simple black ones and a tank top. He still had his eyeliner and warpaint on his cheek and you smiled looking at it.

"You were great out there tonight." Tommy suddenly said, his hazel eyes flashing down to your own warpaint before those dreamy eyes met yours and he smiled shyly. "I mean, I knew you could sing, but man, that was- that was great."

You smiled, "thanks Tommy."

"Nikki and Mick are at the club across the road. Wanna get some drinks?"

"Hell yeah."

That was your second mistake of the night.

It wasn't the first time you had been out drinking with the guys, far from it. You went out drinking with them most nights after their shows, it was nothing new. Mick would stick with vodka, Vince with whatever alcohol he could get his hands on along with cocaine (which you hated with a passion, and he knew it) while Nikki and Tommy would drink and snort anything within sight. That's just what the guys did and although you didn't approve of the mass number of drugs, you weren't their mother nor manager, it wasn't your place to comment on it.

So, you'd usually stick with whatever alcohol you wanted and let the guys go loose. However, tonight, you joined them on the loose part wanting to forget about that MTV interview.

By the time you realised that you had drunk too much, it was already too late. So your intoxicated brain figured you might as well keep drinking.

That was your third mistake of the night.

You had vague memories of dancing on top of the pool table with Nikki and Tommy throwing money at you for the performance. You could remember all the shots Vince and Mick ordered for the group, but after that, it was all fuzzy.

So, you really had no idea how you ended up in Tommy's bed the following morning.

Next Chapter

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deadboyfriendd · 2 years

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ＨＥＡＤＬＩＮＥＲＳ.

Summary: Eddie Munson was famous. And an asshole. You were also famous. And a Bitch. You had both been reading each other's lives through headlines for the last five years, so then what happens when you both start to miss out on life milestones?

Hurt/Comfort, Exes-to-Enemies-to-Lovers, Angst

Warnings: Lots of reading time- this guy is long. Fem!Reader, Eddie Munson x Reader, mention of Eddie's horrible parents, rehab, alcohol abuse and addiction, brief mention of a car accident, fighting, language, angst, Eddie publicly humiliates reader, hurt/comfort, joking about serial killers. Not proof read. Don't come for me.

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 13.8k

Author's Note: Please read this. I've been working on it for weeks. I also hate it. Thanks.

Your face had hardened since then, your jaw had become angular, lost that beautiful late teenage fluff that pushed your sad, innocent eyes into a perfect almond. Your eyes, that you batted like weapons that won wars against men, carried a type of sadness that only came with age and experience. You were meaner now than you were then. You liked it that way.

The summer of 1988 was the eve of your own disdain. The summer that household names like Tom Zutaut and Elektra Records became bitter when they rolled off of your tongue. Gradually, and all at once. When Eddie, your lifeline for the last five years, had been approached by Tom at their first night playing The Troubadour, and asked to sign on to Elektra Records, you were ecstatic. Tom felt like your hero. You held Eddie, you cried happy tears, you waved him off to shows, and you held down the fort. And then it felt like you only kept waving goodbye.

The design school was rigorous, but you held on to that piece of yourself like tinder just barely aflame. As the lonely nights grew darker, you blew and tended to it, igniting that part of yourself further. With Eddie on his first full-length tour, you found the late night, drunk phone calls more of a chore than an occasion, and you found yourself leaning further and further back on your art. As Corroded Coffin caught traction, so did your career. Before you knew it, David, your own Zutaut, was pleading for you to work under him, at his office in Carlsbad, for Transworld Skateboarding.

And so, alone, you packed your apartment and moved halfway across the country. You made your fizzling relationship work from California for a few months, now being closer to the recording studio. But it felt like he couldn’t be located further from you. He took your convenience and availability for granted, skipping date nights and weekend plans for ritzy rockstar parties and opening concerts. And even though your shared apartment was only an hour commute, you now saw him less than you did when you lived back in Indiana. The argument came well past midnight. You came quietly through the front door, already angry that you had attended your press party alone- a commitment that he had also bailed on last-minute. Removing your heels well up the hallways to not disturb him from his drunken slumber, you found him sitting there, slovenly as ever, without a doubt drunk.

“Where were you?” He asked, accusingly, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“I was at the press party that you were supposed to come to.” You said to him, rolling your eyes. You knew your words would pass through his ears like a breeze anyways.

“We were supposed to go out tonight.” He said, getting angrier with you.

“No, Edward, that was last night.” You explained, back to him as you set your heels back on the rack and pulled up your hair. You were sure he wasn’t going to remember this in the morning, anyways.

He cringed a little bit, even in this state, he knew you were mad when you used his government name. But tonight instead of resulting in his apologetic nature, he turned defensive.

“Okay, fine then, what about me?” he asked, crossing his arms. You froze and turned around.

“What do you mean, ‘what about me?’” You asked, face twisting up into a grimace. You were seething now.

“I mean, you basically begged to spend time with me this weekend, and then blow me off for some stupid work party.” He raised his voice, throwing his hands up in the air- room-temperature foam from the bottle splashing up and back against the wall behind him.

“Edward-”

“Edward what? You’ve just been blowing me off for work all of the time now. Y’know what? Fine! Just think all about your little tabloids and forget all about our relationship!” He finally blew, standing up and pacing around.

You went quiet, voice sharp like a razor.

“Well, it feels like you already have.”

It didn’t take long for you to find yourself again, since you had been searching for her in Eddie’s absence for almost a year before your relationship ended. You had a commonly expelled name in the design industry, and you had connections. You giggled at the term, frequently. And, even though you found security in yourself, you felt a pang in your stomach every time you saw his name on the cover of some magazine or another. The tabloids sold him out the quickest, new girlfriend here, a Mötley Crüe-level shenanigan there, and their second full-length U.S. tour.

The summer of 1991, David split from Transworld Skating, pulling you, his prized possession with him. Together, you now served as the creative backing and dream-team for an up-and-coming publication called RayGun. This publication was supposed to be the new competitor for Rolling Stone, it was abstract, it was modern, and it was what the people of the new decade wanted to read.

You were new to being in the field, not typically having to conduct the interviews for your own spreads, but there was an alarming lack of young-and-hungry journalism interns three weeks before the school year started, and David had asked so nicely. He told you to take it as an opportunity to get out, get a feel for what the audience is like. Consider it a learning opportunity. It was so last-minute, that you didn’t even see who you were supposed to be taking a field trip to go see.

You dragged your photographer with you, gripping on to his arm. You barely knew his name. He was a newer kid from the university that showed enough potential to be considered for a permanent position. He was nice enough, though, nice didn’t get you anywhere in this industry. He would harden with time, but for now, you gripped his bicep and dragged him past the line and bouncer, flashing your ID at them without a second glance, through the waiting crowd, and back into the green room.

The second you locked eyes, you froze, followed by the entire rest of the band- containing every original member. You had all known each other in high school- been close friends, actually. You snapped out of it as Gareth attempted to break the tension, clapping you on the back and pulling you into a warm embrace with an ‘Oh my God, you look great!’. While it was kind of refreshing to be cordial to the rest of the band, Eddie sat, staring up at you from the couch and chewing on his thumb nail, skin replacing words that he couldn’t think of.

“So, you’re still chasing a dream, huh?” Eddie asked you, only half condescending. The other half was genuinely curious about where your life had been for the last three years. Your intern choked, not daring to limit you to that.

“Dude, she’s my boss.” Eddie shot him a look, and he cowered slightly.

“He’s right, I’m living it.” you defended, “Creative director of RayGun.”

You showed him your ID, for good measure.

“Then what are you doing in a greenroom, like an intern?” He spit back, other band members going rigid.

“Consider it a field trip. Learning my audience.” You spun around, hating that you pulled those words straight out of David’s mouth. You grabbed your intern’s arm, dragging him back out into the crowd to calm down.

“Who was that?” he asked, leaning down so you could hear him against the roar of an excited crowd.

The stage lights flicked on, blinding, and the crowd roared- devoted fans back for an entirely exclusive kick-off show.

“Are you fuckers ready?” Eddie screeched from his microphone, running his fingers down a different guitar, creating the most awful pinch-harmonics that made the crowd go wild.

“That’s Eddie. Eddie Munson. Lead guitarist for Corroded Coffin.” You explained to him, purposefully attempting to be vague.

Eddie locked eyes with you from the stage, shit-eating grin stretching across his face. Except, there was nothing but malice behind it.

“No, I know that” Connor stated, clicking a few pictures in between, “I mean- who is he to you? He obviously had some stuff to say to you.”

Before you could open your mouth to even half-assedly explain, Eddie pulled the mic back up to his lips.

“I want to dedicate this show to Corroded Coffin’s number one girl, my bitch ex-girlfriend.” He pointed at you, waving. You could see Gareth go absolutely rigid and people in the crowd started to turn to look at you. Connor at least had it in the right mind to snap a couple of pictures.

“Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to write all of this awesome music for you guys.”

Connor put his camera down slowly, looking at you with wide eyes. You wanted to cry, but instead, you allowed yourself to be filled with a steaming rage. You grabbed your intern by the bicep and dragged him out of the show, flipping Eddie and the rest of the now nearly-silent crowd the finger.

Once you were outside of the venue, you looked at Connor. Your brain went into full overdrive thinking about how the press would probably have this spit out for public speculation by tomorrow and you knew you’d be screwed if you didn’t leave with some sort of publishable material.

“Connor, I need you to snap some pictures of me. Now.” You told him, leaning back against the brick wall.

“Wh-why?” He asked, in between the shudder sounds on his camera.

“We’ve got a fucking story to write.”

You ignored the throbbing behind your eyes that radiated from your sinuses, mostly because you were trying to ignore the fact that you did, in fact, cry last night. Actually, you cried on the shoulder of your poor, gangly photographer in the back of a cab as he gently and uncomfortably patted your shoulder. You would be surprised if he came back to work in the morning, but he actually never left.

You spent the night in your work studio, Connor bringing back chinese takeout while you finished your spread- which was also set to headline this month’s publication. The media had already been in a frenzy, tabloids left and right mass-rolling your name and your RayGun title as Hollywood’s hottest new rockstar’s Bitch Ex-Girlfriend.

You hated how well it rolled off the tongue. Why was it that bitch had such a ring to it? Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. You kept repeating, sometimes out loud. It lost its pang every time you repeated it- turning it into a crown that you wore with pride. And you wore that crown high on your head as you sauntered into David’s office that morning, slamming your test-print down on his desk.

“Publish it.” You told him, and he looked at you like you were crazy. He didn’t question your artistic integrity in the slightest, and you knew that, but he worried that you hadn’t fully thought out the repercussions of your name being out there in that light.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? Is this really what you wanna be known for?” He asked you, eyebrows raised.

“Listen, David, they’re gonna give me that title whether I like it or not. So the way I see it, we have two options.” You told him, leaning over his desk to pluck one of his cigarettes off of his desk and lighting it right there in his fancy client chairs.

“Have you even slep- Jesus!” David exclaimed, watching you. You could tell he thought you had reached your breaking point. You had gone full Basquiat, but he knew better than to ask. You disregarded his concern, continuing through the smoke rolling from your nostrils.

“Listen to me, I can take cover and lay low, wait for all of this media shit to roll over….or…. We can publish this shit, and milk this thing for all it’s worth.” You said to him, taking another long drag off of the cigarette.

“Sweetheart, this is going to be a lot of bad publicity for you-” He tried to reason.

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, David, it’s all just attention. And attention is what we need. Make it a women’s issue. We have that editorial with Bikini Kill coming up next month, I can get in with Bratmobile, and you get in touch with L7’s publicist. That gives us a headliner, some up-and-comings, and something to run with.” You said, and he sighed, knowing he couldn’t argue this with you.

“Bu-”

“Publish. It.”

And so David gave it the green light. Within days, the August 1991 edition of RayGun magazine was mass-published and released with the cover reading, “Bitch Ex-Girlfriend: An Inside Scoop to Hollywood’s Hottest New Frontman.”

It was the highest grossing magazine in the company’s history, to date.

Your name was gaining traction, tabloid after tabloid begging on their knees for any sort of words from you, but you kept your lips sealed tight. All of the information that was worth sharing was out there for the world to see, but only through the eyes of RayGun. You relished in this new found fame- even printing the original pictures and cover large for your studio.

A little more money came rolling in, and now, you felt untouchable.

As a punishment- sort of- David sent you back out into the field to talk with some of the bands for the next RiotGrrrl editorial. He said he was making it a women’s problem, like you had said earlier. He expected you to clean up your act a little bit- not become some sort of third-wave feminist icon.

But you wore the name bitch like a crown, and these girls loved it.

So much so, that when Kathleen Hanna opened their show that night, she took Eddie’s moment of power from him, and she gifted it back to you. And when she grabbed your hand and pulled you back up onto the little soapbox stage, you could have sworn you were back at The Troubadour.

But when she screeched,

“That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood,

I’ve got news for you, she is

They say, she’s a bitch, but I know

She is, my best friend”

It solidified you, etched you into stone.

You had a new sense of power, now- a new sense of security within yourself. For the second month, you landed yourself on the cover of RayGun- a magazine that you worked for. You stood hand-and-hand with Bikini Kill’s front and your newfound hero, screeching your heart out about your shitty ex boyfriend and taking your goddamned self back. The September 1991 edition read, “Bitch: How RiotGrrrl is Reclaiming the Name.”

You knew no subtlety, but considering how many men didn’t either you didn’t know if you would ever collect enough sense to learn some.

And even though it was the exact opposite of what you should have been thinking, you hoped to God Eddie saw it.

A while later, after you had stabilized and come down from the initial, embossed shock of fame, you saw a magazine article that made you stop completely in your tracks. You had to go into the store to buy it. You never wasted your money on these. You stared at it the whole walk to the office, up the stairs, and even at your desk. Your brain couldn’t even begin to process the words in the article itself- so you called in Connor, shoving it at him and making him read it aloud to you, your head buried in your hands as you groaned loudly.

“Corroded Coffin’s lead guitarist, Eddie Musnon, was seen earlier this week checking himself into an undisclosed inpatient rehabilitation center in southern California earlier this week. The decision came after a non-fatal head-on collision in Los Angeles earlier this month, in which we know that alcohol was a factor. Other members of the band have chosen not to comment on the band’s, or Munson’s, condition at this time.” Connor read aloud, lowering the magazine from his face to look at you with wide eyes.

He couldn’t tell what you were feeling, or what you wanted from him. Honestly, you didn’t know, either.

Most of you would never wish this on anyone, not even him. Part of you just wanted to run back and hug him and tell him that everything was going to be okay- just like you did almost every night for five whole years of your life. Part of you wanted to be soft again, to lace your fingers in between his curls and hold his face to your neck. You wanted to be back in high school, where you could run rampant through the city and wreak havoc with your clean face and pretty eyes and youthful disposition. You were supposed to destroy the world together, hand-in-hand. But instead, it felt like the world just kept kicking you while you were down. What happened to that youthful optimism? You wondered. When did living stop being so fun?

But there was also a little part of you that screamed in horrible, awful, relinquishing rage. It was so much smaller than the soft part of you, but so, so much louder. It screamed at the top of its lungs that he deserved this for what he did to you, and what he had probably done to other girls, and- oh God, Wayne- you hadn’t thought about him in so long. A part of you loved the fact that you were doing better than him, and a part of you, the part that also hoped to God that he saw your publications, liked to think that he went over the edge thinking about you. It was a terrible awful. You choked that mean part of you down for no one else to see, never ever letting these thoughts come to fruition.

You sat with your head in your hands for a long time, for most of your work day, actually. Connor was the best intern you had ever had, bringing up your coffee and your lunch delivery and checking on you periodically. You made a mental note to hassle David about giving him a permanent position. You had already put the poor kid through so much.

After Connor had clocked out for the end of his work day, he stopped by your office again, shutting the large french doors and making sure the interior blinds had stayed drawn in the event that you were mid-meltdown. You were laid dramatically sprawled out on your office couch, cigarette in hand and forearm thrown over your eyes. You were sulking, processing your emotions, you had called it, but Connor understood.

“I brought you your mail.” He said, like he was walking across a freshly-frozen lake, “Your box was getting a little full.”

“Read them to me.” You groaned, comfortable in him knowing that you weren’t above this.

He read off several outreaches from publicists, startup bands, the odd bout of junk mail or magazine subscription offer, before he settled on the final letter. It was hand-written, and he didn’t recognize the name.

“Hawkins, Indiana.” He said to you, and you sat up, snuffing out your cigarette on the ashtray at the end table.

“Who the hell is still trying to get a hold of me from there?” You scoffed at him, and he squinted a little bit to read the name on the side.

“Dustin Henderson.” He said to you, giving you a questioning look.

“Open it.” You said, and he tore it open.

“You are cordially invited to celebrate the union of Dustin Henderson and Suzanne Bingham in marriage on the fifth of May, 1992. Ceremony to be held at Miller’s Wedding Venue, reception to follow. Please RSVP by February first, 1992.” He read aloud, and you couldn’t help the warmth that filled your heart, partially because he still thought of you, despite how long it had been, but also because the sweet little boy you remember from Hawkins had grown up and was getting married.

You didn’t hesitate to RSVP.

The months leading up to the wedding had you biting at your nails- which you also desperately needed to get done before you left. You slapped some sense into yourself, finally, knowing it was stupid to worry so much about the current events in Eddie’s life when you were sure he hasn’t given a rat’s ass about you after your nice little public scandal.

What you had remained senseless about, however, was the absolute terror you felt of going back to Hawkins. You had met up with big-whig producers, rock stars, artists, and the like. You attended yacht parties with large-scale celebrities on the regular- most of them greeting you on a first-name basis every time. You attended high-profile events, you took exotic vacations, and you had a net-worth (though, you didn’t really know how much it was or what it really even met), but, for whatever reason, you so desperately wanted to impress the patrons of your home town.

You decided to stay for a week to visit with your parents, who were more than thrilled to see you since your personal hiatus of three years. Though, the bags that you dragged through the little airport in Indianapolis said you were coming home to live. You cursed Indiana when you left, and you cursed it now. Even with Indianapolis being the biggest city you had ever seen up until you turned twenty, the airport’s concierge service was lacking. Your heels clicked loudly against the commercial-grade tile- something that you would have been much more impressed by a few years ago. Now, it just drew more attention towards you. Other airport patrons turned their heads to look at the spectacle before them- like they knew you weren’t from around here.

You hailed yourself a cab, grumbling something about loading your own bags yourself- that you didn’t even receive this kind of treatment in Vegas.

Before you knew it, you were stepping on that cracked sidewalk panel in front of your parents’ walkway. You could still feel the way the worn grain of the concrete felt against your bare feet as it transitioned to grass. You could still feel the way your sneakers ground against a rock when you leaned up to kiss Eddie goodnight. It was a thought that you quickly shook from your head as your mother- the brightest and bubbliest woman you had ever had the pleasure of knowing- was running down the drive, barefoot herself, and tackling you with the force of a D1 offensive lineman. Your father chuckled, following her from the door.

You skipped the ceremony, in part because you couldn’t decide on a single thing to wear, the other part felt like you had no place there. You hadn’t spoken to Dustin in over a year, you didn’t call or ask or wonder- and for that you felt guilty. You felt like the ceremony should have been for the people that had been there consistently and just… not you.

Your mom drove you to the reception- held in the outside hydrangea gardens of the historic building. The wedding was beautiful- you knew that much. It was quaint, thought-out, and was simplistic. It felt home-y, and your young mind had strayed so far from home-y that you had forgotten what this kind of warmth felt like.

Your heels clicked against the flagstone pathing, this time, you didn’t curse it. You welcomed it- it made you feel less alone in the silence of the entrance. You could hear the music and laughter in the large courtyard just beyond the breezeway that cut through the building. You wondered how pathetic you would look walking inside alone. You had only RSVPed for one. You wondered how many of your acquaintances were married by now, or, even worse, had children of their own. You hadn’t had time to date again, and you just now realized that you really had no friends- not that you weren’t well-liked. You could probably count David and Connor, but you couldn’t ever recall a time where you had spoken to either of them outside of work. You were alone. Just you and your clicking heels. Footsteps for one.

You put your bitch crown on, hardening your face. It was a defense mechanism, now. Look mean so no one asks you any questions. Not about Eddie, not about your brush with fame, and now, not about your lack of human interaction.

You walked in, being met with a semi-formal seating arrangement, thank God. You kept your purse around you, not bothering to mingle or sit down before you headed to the bar, ordering yourself whatever sauvignon blanc people usually get at weddings. There were tables scattered about, and a plethora of party guests- most you recognized. You shrunk yourself into one of the few high-top tables by the bar, trying not to be seen. By now you had realized that you had overdressed for the occasion, sporting an oversized palazzo pant and a matching blazer, slung over your shoulders. You cursed yourself slightly, forgetting about the down-home attire for weddings. Guests stared as inconspicuously as possible, yet you felt it. You felt like you were being forced down a catwalk at gunpoint. At least you knew you looked good albeit out of place.

You clicked your rings against your glass, distracting yourself with the noise it made. Your large sunglasses stayed on, so you could people-watch while you settled into the new environment. Immediately, you looked for Dustin, spotting him almost immediately. He still looked like Dustin- you couldn’t help but smile at that- but, he had this more grown-up charm to him. He was taller, and filled out more. He lost the baby weight and gained it in muscle. His hair was still a tight, coily mess, but had been wrangled in and tamed with an adult haircut. You still saw fourteen-year-old Dustin in his face when he smiled at you, crows feet wrinkling around his eyes as the corners of his mouth almost touched his ears. He was talking to an older couple, alongside his bride. Suzie was different than you imagined her- maybe even more so now that she was an adult. She was a beautiful girl, with thick, dark hair that flowed down her back and moved as a unit. She had kind, dark eyes. You knew in your heart that she would do well in the industry, but her place was here, with Dustin. He waved, quickly, rushing towards your compound.

“Oh my God, I’m so glad you could make it.” Dustin said, encasing you in a hug. It felt different, having him be so much larger than you now.

“I’m so glad I could come.” You replied back, heart overtaken by the boy that had always had your soft spot.

“Y’know, there’s a spot for you reserved at the Hellfire table.” He said, pressing a firm hand to your back and pulling you towards the exact table you had been avoiding. You couldn’t bear for anyone to ask you about all of your, very public, dirty laundry.

“Oh my God, Dustin, seriously? That’s too sweet.”

“Yeah, we got all of the original members to show up!” He chanted, and you could feat your brain turning to mush.

You watched Eddie round the corner, buttoning that god-awful blazer up again. Never in your life would you have ever guessed he would be buying, much less wearing, something so gaudy and expensive. But never in your life would you have guessed any event in the last five years would have happened.

But Dustin was so excited, and you couldn’t bear to break his heart at his own wedding. You realized then that this was Hawkins, and that no one read tabloids here- except for the off teenage girl or overly-involved mother. You realized that no one here thought much about you and Eddie, and that, even if they had seen it, it was over a year ago. You took a deep breath, repeating this mantra over and over again in your head.

Dustin walked with you over to the table, where you were promptly greeted by the other members of Corroded Coffin- yes- but also the other, younger boys that were involved in Eddie’s pride-and-joy club in your younger years. Mike and Lucas were both still tall and gangly- though much more bordering the heir of lean instead of scrawny. That boyish scrawniness was replaced with something much, much different.

There were a few words exchanged, a hesitant you look great, and a few vague how are you’s. Eddie sat two seats to your left. You could feel his eyes scan you from your peripheral. He chewed on the skin of his thumb, quite clearly wanting to say something. It almost felt neurotic, the way he would quickly spit a few words out to contribute, flick his eyes back and forth a few times, and then snap back out of it. You tried to act like he wasn't even there.

You sat at the table in silence, sunglasses still on like a shield against Eddie’s wandering eyes. You couldn’t let him see this vulnerability from you. You had to seem unbothered. Other than the odd smile or two-word greeting reserved for one of the boys, you were stone cold- only being brought out of your trance when Gareth rested a warm hand firmly on your shoulder, leaning down to quietly whisper,

“May I have this dance?” He asked, you, already starting to pull you up

“Of Course.” You replied, probably a little too quickly.

Gareth dragged you to the dance floor, where a plethora of couples were dancing to a slow song. He pulled you into the crowd on the opposite side of the dance floor, away from the prying eyes of everyone else. You could feel Eddie’s eyes boring a hole through your back like a laser beam.

“You looked like you needed rescuing.” He said to you, fastening his hands high on your waist. High enough to still be considered platonic, but still comforting.

“I was holding my own just fine, Gareth the Great.” You giggled a little at the old nickname, remembering the freckle-faced kid that you had attended school with for all twelve years you were there.

Up close, his face seemed hardened, too. He still had a smattering of freckles across his nose, but they were shrouded by the bags under his eyes that matched yours. You could see the beginnings of crows' feet forming. You took comfort in knowing you weren’t the only one who had lost some of their glow.

“No. You weren’t.” He said, knowingly.

“No. I wasn’t.” You agreed.

You let yourselves fall into a comfortable silence, swaying back and forth. You toyed absent-mindedly at the tuft of hair on the nape of his neck. Gareth had always been a close friend- since elementary school. He was always so nice to you, and it was just as gratifying seeing his claim to fame happen alongside Eddie’s. He was always genuine, and you never, ever wished harm on him, despite being the one to introduce you and Eddie. No, he didn’t deserve that. In fact, you thought he deserved the world.

“He was talking about you, earlier.” Gareth said to you, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Oh really. And what did he say?” You kind of didn’t want to know, yet that part of you that seethed and hoped that he saw your articles absolutely begged to know.

“He was saying he hoped you would show. It kind of crushed him when he didn’t see you at the ceremony.” Gareth replied with a sigh, knowing how out-of-bounds his friend could be. Even now. You scoffed, feeling too many emotions at once.

“I don’t know why. The last time I spoke to him he called me a-”

“A bitch. I know. I was there. And I saw the articles.” Gareth said, looking at you intensely now. You were a bit taken aback.

“Oh. You read my stuff?” You asked, with wide eyes. You knew people read your articles, hell, you got the reports for how many people were reading RayGun every month. You still didn’t think anyone you knew or anyone worthwhile paid attention to these things.

“Yeah. He does too.” Gareth admitted.

“Oh.” You replied, not knowing what exactly to say next.

Before the two of you fell back into an awkward silence, Gareth spoke up again, this time, to heed a warning.

“Just a heads up. He wants to talk to you.” He said to you, and you could feel his grip on your waist tighten, just a bit.

“Oh good God, what could there possibly be to talk about?” You rolled your eyes, your mixed emotions sorting out into annoyance.

“He wants to apologize.” Gareth told you, with sad eyes. Probably halfway because he wants to cheer Eddie on, but also in part because he doesn’t want to see you hurt. He was caught in the crossfire between his two friends.

“There’s nothing left to apologize for.” You said, stark and cold. You meant it.

“I think he means everything. For the last five years.” Gareth continued to explain to you.

“I’m a different person than I was then. She’s not even there for him to apologize too.” You finally blurted, pulling every stop out in an attempt to deflect.

“I think she is. Under all of… this.” He gestured over your body, taking his hands off your back for a second. He pushed your sunglasses off of your eyes and let them rest on the top of your head. He continued,

“She’s still in there, and she’s still hurt.” He stared into your eyes intensely, in a knowing way. It felt familiar. It was the same way he stared at you when you cried to him about how Eddie would never love you. You were wrong then, and he knew you were wrong now. Yet you were stubborn and persistent. Some things never change.

“She’s really not, Gareth.” You explained, to him, averting your eyes in discomfort.

“Then why did you come?” He accused

“To watch Dustin get married.” You said, truthfully. As soon as you had gotten the invitation, you RSVPed. Though, a part of you thought otherwise.

“You weren’t even at the ceremony. At this point you should have just sent a card.” He scoffed at you, calling you out.

“My plane was late.” You lied straight through your teeth, still trying to play it cool. He knew it.

“No it wasn’t. Your mom’s been talking to my mom all month about you coming home. You came for him.” Gareth finally said, piecing it all together.

You could have argued further. You wanted to argue further, but Jeff came up behind you, pushing through the crowd of other couples dancing much happier dances. He held up his wrist, tapping on where a watch would be and pointing at Gareth, who sighed.

“Thank you for the dance, we’re going on in a few.” He said to you, pulling apart.

“You guys are playing?” You asked, not knowing that they were going to be performing tonight.

“As per Dustin’s request.” He chuckled, knowing very well that Eddie could never have said no to him.

Within minutes, you had shuffled back to a hidden place in the very back of the outdoor venue. You settled back in, nursing your glass of wine. Your body was leaned casually against the historic column holding up the awning to the breezeway. You didn’t want to watch them play, but you had no choice. Hearing them and being seen was way worse that hearing them and not.

The amps kicked to life with a buzz, as Gareth sat down and sought you out with his eyes. He raised a drumstick in lieu of a wave, and you slowly wiggled a few fingers at him from the back. It was reminiscent, you had done this a thousand times before at The Hideout just a few miles away.

“Well, I know I didn’t get to make a speech yet, that’s probably for the better.” Eddie started into the mic, throwing his guitar strap over himself. Tonight, he used the same guitar he used all those years ago. You hadn’t seen him with it since their first night at The Troubadour.

“But uh, I’m really glad I got to come back home to see my sweet Dusty-bun get married. Suzie, you’d better take good care of our boy.” A laugh settled over the crowd as he pointed at Suzie, who sat snugly under the arm of Dustin.

“I don’t want to get too sappy here, but uh, I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. It took me two tries to graduate high school. I was angry at the universe for no reason, hell, I ruined the best relationship I’ve ever had with the love of my goddamned life because I couldn’t pull my head out of my own ass.” He sought you out in the crowd, the same eyes that bore holes through your back a mere twenty minutes ago staring straight through you now. You cursed yourself for leaving your sunglasses off. Dustin and Suzie turned, Dustin’s brows furrowing. All of the rest of the old club, along with a few guests turned to look at you, seeing who he could possibly be talking about. It was such a small mention, but all the most unnecessary. But suddenly, you were back at The Troubadour, except, this time, you didn’t have Connor next to you. You didn’t have a camera, or the malice of Hollywood, or the thrill of the press behind you. Here, you were absolutely vulnerable. You were the girl who snuck out on Tuesday nights to see a shitty local band play. You the girl who stole kisses under bleachers and in the back of vans, on pretty tip toes. You were the girl who giggled and ran down the drive barefoot for one last hug.

This was worse than being called a bitch. This title, you couldn’t wear as a crown, because you tried so desperately to rid yourself of it.

“But Dustin, adopting you and the boys was one of the few things I never regretted for a second-”

You didn’t bother to hear the rest of the speech, or the song that preceded, instead, you grasped on to your composure like a child with a blanket, and walked off. Your heels clicked in a slow tempo, keeping you grounded to the concrete.

You reached the other side of the building, sitting down on the wrought-iron bench settled in between hydrangea bushes and took a few deep breaths. You heard the last of the song fizzle out a few minutes ago, and hoped that everyone had forgotten you by now. You settled your glasses back down over your eyes, and pulled one of two emergency super-slim cigarettes from your clutch. You exhaled with a billow of smoke, as a voice pulled you from your trance. You knew exactly who it was.

“Hey.”

“No.”

You were quick to sharp words this time, not wanting to play the same.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Eddie said to you, inching closer to the beach. He stayed standing. You didn’t look towards him, instead opting to stay staring forward and act like he wasn’t there.

You continued your well-placed silence, recalling from five years prior when your silent treatment would make him squirm with anticipation. It still did.

“Will you please just listen to me?” He pleaded, crossing his arms in front of him in defense.

“I feel like you’re gonna talk anyways.” You said. He swore the smoke that rolled past your lips was frost.

He paused, thinking of what he could say that wasn’t going to send you over the edge into a screaming rage- though that would have been preferable to the blank expression you carried now. He couldn’t read you.

“I saw you stopped saying you were from Hawkins.” He spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.You took another long drag off of your cigarette.

“Nothing good ever came out of this town anyways” You said to him, still staring forward. Smoke billowed from your mouth as you spoke.

“What about us?” He said, quickly, like the question has been stirring in his brain for a while.

“We never made it out.”

“What about California?” He pleaded, at this point still trying to get any sort of interaction out of you.

“What about it?” You questioned, meanly.

“I woke up one morning and you were just… gone.”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You raised your voice slightly, finally cracking.

“I-I was drunk, I don’t really remember the last five years.” He said, taken by surprise at your sudden anger. You scoffed, remembering the night.

“You skipped out on my press party and then told me I was putting my career before you. I couldn’t fuckign stand it, being canceled on time after time even when you were home and then being the antichrist the second my career starts taking off. I wasn’t going to make you choose, you didn’t deserve to choose. So I picked me.” You let yourself ramble for a second, standing up and pacing back and forth from the bench. You stopped your eyes from glossing over with the tears you wouldn’t spare yourself.

“What happened to our dreams? Us against the world? What happened to the promise you made me?” He asked. It was soft… hurt. You didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

“The promise I made Eddie.” You corrected him, leaning back hard and folding your arms, cigarette still smoldering between your fingers.

“I am Eddie?” He asked, confusedly.

“You’re not him. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” The malice rolled off of your tongue like venom. You wore angry well now. You wore bitch well now.

“You don’t know who I am? You saunter in here with all of this shit on and act like you don’t know anyone and act like you don’t know me. You don’t even know who you are. That shit hurts.” He snapped, finally getting angry. He waved his arms around, gesturing to you and your outfit. It was never something you would have considered wearing five years ago, but now it was an armor.

“You know what really hurts, Edward?” You shot back, more quietly this time.

“What, what could possibly hurt you, Miss Congeni-fucking-ality?” he said, mirroring your stance as he looked you up and down.

“My life’s work being known as your bitch ex-girlfriend.” You spat, and you saw his eyes soften. You knew he remembered that night because he immediately turned defensive.

“Well, it seems like you’ve done pretty fucking well for yourself.” He said to you, sarcastically. His eyes moved up and down your body in judgment.

“You haven’t.” You said, not bothering to filter it out. You both knew what you were referring to, and, if you were in a different headspace, you would have immediately regretted the cheap shot.

He paused, and you saw something break behind his eyes. His defensive stance faltered, and he brought himself down to the bench to bury his face in his hands, taking a breath.

“Yeah, I know I haven’t okay?” He started, lifting his head to shake his hands, dramatically,

“I had to go to fucking rehab because I got so blasted out of my mind after I saw your shit with Bikini Kill that I almost killed someone and myself. I have literally fucked Every. Single. Thing. In my life up to this point, okay?” He rambled, hiss mentioned at your publication shaking you to your core. He had seen it. The thoughts that you never allowed fruition came flooding back into your mind, and you immediately felt the guilt from even thinking them.

“You read my stuff?” You asked, the shred of that girl you were before coming through. You fell back onto the bench next to him, snuffing out your cigarette beneath the toe of your shoe.

“It’s kind of hard not to. It's everywhere.” He said back to you, more civilly this time. This felt more like a conversation.

“Only because it was about you.” You said, and he chuckled a bit. It was breathy and quiet, but it was there.

“Did you really have to write all of that?” He asked you.

“Did you really have to call me a bitch?” You asked back.

There was a long pause while he thought about his next word.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I am a bitch. Kinda in the title.” You laughed at that, slightly. He didn’t.

“No. I mean… like, everything. For The Troubadour that night, for neglecting you even though you stuck around way longer than you should have.”

He paused for a second, looking back up at you.

“For everything.”

You spent the next dew days in hiding, trying to process the events of the wedding and ultimately, catching up with your parents. Once you had convinced yourself that it was safe to go outside, you decided a quick stroll around town was in order. You stopped to sit at the bar at the local diner, wanting to have a coffee and breakfast for the first time in over three years. You hated to admit it, especially with all of your food options in California, but these shitty diner scrambled eggs and bacon were the best you ever had.

You recognized Wayne’s voice immediately over the jingling of the door bell. The man had been your second father for five years of your life, and you always looked back on memories with him fondly.

He spotted you almost immediately. You knew it was because you were an eyesore in this town now.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He said, taking off his hat and walking towards you with arms extended.

He locked you in a firm embrace. He still smelled like cigarette smoke and it was so endearing that you had to stop yourself from tearing up. His rough hands clapped against your shoulder, very much mimicking the way men pet dogs.

“Wayne.. Oh my god. Come, sit. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.” You said to him, pulling your purse off of the stool next to you. He obliged, letting the waitress pour him a cup of coffee.

“You look… different.” He said to you, looking you up and down. You did. You knew it.

“So I’ve heard.” You said back, with a nod of your head.

“I saw that magazine you wrote. I’ve got it up on the fridge.” He said to you, and, for some reason, for the first time in a while, you felt proud of your work. You would take Wayne’s fridge approval over a solid gold trophy any day.

“You read my stuff?” You asked him, still surprised that people here cared.

“I think everyone here does. Someone’s gotta keep tabs on the two of you.” He laughed, and you tried not to think about Eddie. You worried about Wayne after you left.

“My boss would be so glad to hear that.” You both laughed at that.

“I saw that you were just out and about with those Pearl Jam guys.” He said, referencing back to the band you did a spread about just before you left.

“Yeah, I was! It seems like everyone knows more about my life than I do.” You laughed, only half humoring yourself.

“Only what the tabloids say, sweetheart.” Wayne reassured, and it did make you feel better- despite the fact that he probably knew about your and Eddie’s public disputes.

“It feels like I live in one, if we’re being honest.” You said, your laugh carrying little to no humor this time. Your face fell, and you pushed your eggs around with your fork, suddenly lacking your previous hunger.

“How was the wedding? Crazy to think that boy found someone to love him.” Wayne changed the subject, not wanting to make you upset.

“It was beautiful. Eddie played with the band.” You said, hoping you sounded unaffected by the mention of his name.

“That boy’s put me through a lot these last few years. I think I've aged fifty of ‘em… trying to keep him straight- and I thought the teen years were gonna kill me.” Wayne said to you, his own face falling now. You could tell he blamed himself for Eddie’s shortcomings. You remembered how worried he had been when the band signed on with Elektra.

“It’s not your fault, Wayne. It’s a shitty industry.” You tried to reassure him, placing a hand on his arm.

He put his elbows up on the counter, smoothing his hands over his thinning hair.

“He still hasn't come to see me.” Wayne said, disappointedly. It made you want to cry and beat Eddie’s ass and give Wayne a hug all in one.

“That's shitty.” Was all you could muster in your own disbelief. You wondered why Eddie avoided Wayne. If there was anyone that you knew he would never stop defending to the end of the Earth and back, it was his uncle.

“He’s different too.” Wayne spoke, sadly.

“I think we all are.” You squeaked, feeling guilt growing in your own heart. Is this how your mother felt when you canceled Chrismtas for the last three years?

“You’ve got that right. Him especially.” Wayne chuckled, mirroring your own lack of humor.

“Sometimes I wish we weren’t.” You spoke back, and you meant it.

“He never stopped missing you, y’know. Wrote all of these letters in rehab about how he wouldn’t be there if he still had you.” He said to you, taking you by surprise. The suddenness of seeing you and mentioning Eddie paired with the pain of not seeing him probably brought up a lot of emotions from him- emotions that you would understand.

“It’s been five years, Wayne.” You said to him, trying to pull him out of the dark what-if place.

“It don't feel much like it.” He said, resting his hand over the one you had placed on his arm.

“I know.”

“Did he talk to you? Last night, I mean.” Wayne asked, at least wanting to hear that his nephew was coherent.

“Yeah, he did.” You said, not wanting to elaborate but knowing you would have to.

“And?”

“He apologized for everything. The Troubadour that night, the breakup, the neglect. Everything.” You said with a sigh, pulling your hand off of Wayne’s arm and burying your face in your hands with a groan. You didn’t want to look at him. You didn’t want to look at the sad eyes that mirrored Eddie’s almost exactly.

You both sat in silence for a moment.

“I remember the morning he realized you weren’t coming back. He called me.” He started, putting a firm hand on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Oh?” You asked, bringing your head up again to look at him.

“He told me he didn’t want to be famous anymore… if it meant he had to be famous without you.” You were right, he gave you those sad, sad eyes. You felt your eyes well up with tears, but you quickly blinked them back.

“He didn’t have to choose.” You said to Wayne, barely above a whisper.

“Because you made that choice for him.” Wayne finished for you.

“I made that choice for me.” You tried to reason, and, really, you did. But it was so sudden. You had ripped off the band-aid to avoid keeping yourself hurt all of the time.

“And I don't blame you for that. But, sweetheart, if I know one thing about my boy, is that he’s stupid. He doesn’t know how to talk to girls, you made him so nervous- even after you were dating. I don’t think he knew how to talk to you then, or really, why you left so suddenly, for that matter.” Wayne said, turning and gripping your shoulders.

“Give him a chance. He went through hell and back trying to find you again. At least for my sanity, let him have this win.”

You couldn’t help the sad eyes, you were never able to resist Eddie’s. You still had so much endearment for Wayne that you sighed,

“I’ll think about it, Wayne.” You agreed.

He sat there and stared at you for a second, gripping your shoulders still- like he contemplated putting you into a hug. And he did- but not before saying,

“If there’s one thing he was right about, it’s that you’re still as pretty as ever.” This made you giggle.

“Thank you, Wayne.” You said when you finally separated from the hug, still holding on to his elbows. He paused and looked you over again, reaching up and touching the large sunglasses perched on top of your head.

“These really don’t look like you, y’know.”

Your return to California brought a work load hurdling at you with full force. You honestly don’t know how David and Connor ran the place in your absence (you say this in the most endearing way possible). Within a few weeks, you were scuttling your way down Santa Monica Boulevard, in the heart of West Hollywood. David had scheduled a last minute Headliner so you could get the next edition of RayGun out by the deadline. You stopped complaining when he sent out out to the field, especially since he asked so nicely and you were so good at it.

You were meeting up with a long-time acquaintance, someone who you had worked closely for a while now- but never really spoke with. Doc Mcghee, management for Hollywood’s greatest of the last decade. Skid Row, Kiss, Mötley Crüe, and now, Corroded Coffin- but you chose purposefully to ignore that last one.

You listened to your heels click and reverberate off of the large corridor of his office, his secretary offering you a smile as she buzzed you in.

You kept your bitch crown in your back pocket, in case any unwelcome conversation were to arise.

Doc knew about you. He also knew about Eddie. He also knew about your pretty famous publications- but who could blame you? Honestly, it was probably the most tame public scandal he had ever had to deal with. He was quite friendly to you in other settings, so you didn’t worry.

You stepped into his office, and he greeted you with a hug. Professionalism in the rock industry had a different, much less formal flavor- yet, it was still comforting to know that he didn’t see you as a nuisance.

You sat yourself down in one of his office chairs, folding your legs and shuffling through some of the paperwork you had brought while he got comfortable.

“You ready, Doc?” You asked him, though, he kept eyeing his pager- which was going off every few seconds. You figured he was a busy guy, and that thing was constantly going off.

“Uh.. Yeah, go ahead, sweetheart.” Doc said to you, rolling his eyes and shoving the pager into his top drawer.

“I’ll try to make it quick.” you chuckled.

You didn’t even get through the first question before his office phone was ringing. He didn’t pick up. You started again after a quick apology, and the phone cut you off once more.

“Just give me a minute, sweetheart.” Doc said to you, apologetically before throwing the phone off the receiver, cord flying violently behind it.

“What is it? What could you possibly want at this exact moment?” Doc yelled into the phone, swiveling in his office chair to have his back facing you.

You laughed, thinking fondly at the way Steve Harrington talked to the boys back home. You had been thinking of home a lot more lately. You had been thinking about Eddie a lot more lately.

“I’m in an interview.” Doc roared back, through gritted teeth.

A few seconds passed.

“RayGun. You knew about this. And you knew not to bug me.” He said again, after a few seconds. Whoever was on the other line must have been persistent.

A few more seconds.

“No one that you need to be concerned with.” He said before slamming the phone back down on the receiver- only for it to ring again immediately after. He groaned, getting up and pulling the cord straight out of the wall, killing access to the phone.

“I swear, if I knew I was going to be babysitting grown men, I wouldn’t have taken the job.” He said to you, with a laugh. You giggled back and the absolute circus of it all.

It was moments like this that made your job enjoyable- and you had forgotten about this.

He settled back into his chair, urging you to continue. Finally, you found your list of pre-written questions and asked,

“So Doc, you’ve dealt with some pretty crazy stuff since you’ve been in the industry. You once said that most of these bands usually were up to some tomfoolery once they sign because they were supposed to, but Crüe did it because they were Crüe… Do you care to elaborate on that more?” You asked him, and he laughed, leaning back.

“I swear, these last couple years I’ve managed some of these kids and they’re just getting worse and worse. And I’ll tell ‘ya, they’re really starting to lose their sense of boundaries. Now, I swear they just burst in through my do-”

At that exact moment, his glass french doors were thrown open. Gangly, tall, out-of-breath, and unfortunately familiar before you.

“Doc.” He said, rocking back and forth on his feet in greeting.

“Eddie.” He said in the same tone, much angrier.

Doc looked at you, smiling.

“They don’t pay me enough for this.” He said to you, rubbing his face in stress.

“They don’t pay her enough for it, either.” Eddie teased, smiling at you.

“I know they don’t. Now stop bothering her, Eddie.” Doc said to him, scolding him like a child.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had an interview with RayGun?” He asked, smirking at the both of you. Pulling a strand of hair in front of his mouth, leaving the other hand crossed across his chest.

“I did. And, I specifically told you to stay away from here.” Doc said, crossing his arms adn leaning back in his chair.

“I do not recall.”

“I swear to God, you are worse than all of Crüe combined.” He rubbed his face, stopping at his temples and pulling the skin back there.

“Don’t you think that we could use a little publicity?” Eddie asked him.

“No, Edward, I don’t. I think RayGun has had enough of your publicity.” Doc chuckled, humorlessly.

“Oh you mean that little thing? We’ve already straightened that out, haven’t we?” He said, looking towards you with an absolutely shit-eating grin.

“Edward, I told you to stop bothering her.” Doc said, more firmly this time. Eddie chose to ignore him.

“I wanna start back over. Go out with me. Tonight.”

This made your eyes go wide. You looked between him and Doc- who also looked between you and Eddie. The both of you were terrified. He had overstepped a boundary, and Doc looked like he either wanted to vomit, throw Eddie through the glass from his top-floor office, or both.

“Uh-” You started, but Doc attempted to jump in and save you.

“Edward, no.”

“Puh-lease? For old time’s sake?” He pleaded, getting down on his knees.

It felt all too familiar. It smelled like Hawkins High’s cafeteria, reeked like highly processed, barely-recognizable food and all-too-heavy cheap perfume. It felt like Eddie on his knees in front of the entire cafeteria, delivering a nearly-Shakespearean monologue. He confessed his love you you, splayed right there out on the commercial tile to be mopped up later by the janitor. You remember the way he gripped your knees, and then your hands ever-so tenderly. You remembered the way his voice reverberated out of his chest and echoed off the walls in the room. It was horrible, and you loved it. So much so, that, even after all of this, it still made you giggle.

“I’m working late.” You said, attempting not to let the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth life.

“Then I’ll go to your office.” He pleaded, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“No.” You said, firmly, choking back a giggle.

“Please let me prove myself? Can I at least do that?” He said, grabbing your hands ever so gently. It was too familiar, yet not unpleasant.

“If I say yes to you, will you get out of my interview?”

You had said this same thing all those years ago, in an entirely different situation. Yet you couldn’t help but feel the same pang in your stomach as he looked into your eyes. You couldn’t tell if it was love or embarrassment- yet, you couldn’t tell if it was last time either.

He had a funny habit of making you feel everything all at once.

“Yes.”

“Then fine.”

You half expected him to not show up- to regret his decision entirely and recluse back into wherever the hell he was residing currently. You purposefully stayed at the office late, and you half expected him to now show up. You wanted to be mad at him still, you needed something to be mad about. Sso when you shuffled out of your office, hair thrown up into a mess, jewelry thrown haphazardly into your bag, and blazer thrown over top of your purse, and saw him- you couldn’t help but to roll your eyes.

He was leaned up against the hood of his car- no longer sporting the 70’s era GMC van. Instead, he was now leaning across the side of an all-black stingray- the newest one that year. It felt foreign, it wasn’t him. He kept his arms crossed, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and the glow of the Hollywood lights casting a glow across his face.

He smiled at you, even in your state, and followed you silently around the car. He pulled the passenger side open for you, letting you climb into the low vehicle before circling back around the front.

“So… What are you listening to these days?” He asked, shifting the car and rolling from the sidewalk to the street. He was trying desperately to make conversation- you remembered that much. He couldn’t handle awkward silence.

“Um… Not much, really.” You said, honestly, allowing him to put on whatever he had previously been listening to on.

“Really?” He scoffed, in disbelief, “Mrs. Glenn Danzig doesn’t like music anymore?”

“I try really really hard to not bring work home with me.” You explained, digging haphazardly at your own fingernails.

“Well, you’re not doing a very good job of that.” Eddie chuckled at you.

“Of what?” You asked, confusedly, brows knitting together on your forehead.

“Taking work home with you.” He gestured to himself, leaving one hand on the wheel.

“But we’re not going home.” You quipped back, and he looked at you briefly with his eyebrows raised.

“That we are not.” He said, mouth turned upwards in a half-grin. You knew that look. He was scheming something.

“But… Where are we going?” You asked, finally, not really even thinking about it until then. You hoped it wasn’t somewhere nice. You only were sporting your casual-friday jeans and white top.

“That is for me to know, and for you to find out.” He said, giving you that same crooked smile.

“That sounds like you’re gonna kill me.”

“Would it make you feel better if I promised I’m not?”

“No.”

The drive was a longer one, and you took the time to look out the window. You never realized how nice it was to look out at Hollywood sometimes. You were either usually in bed or at a venue by now and forgot how magical this city was when you first moved. You felt a little twinge in your heart, and you remembered the way Eddie’s eyes sparkled the first time you came with him out here. It had been his first time out of Hawkins that he could remember. Eddie indulged in this comfortable silence, smoothing his way over the sharp, round turns and steep roads of Mount Lee Drive. He stole a few glances at you, and the way you rested your head on your folded arms out the window. He saw the way the wisps of your stray hairs floated around your face with the wind from the outside. It was like he could see your body deflate- and he realized then how tense you had been all this time. He hadn’t seen you this relaxed in years- even in passing.

He made it to the end of the street as far up as he could go, and pulled off to where his car wouldn’t create a disturbance for the residents that lived on that street. You opened the door and stepped out- and he wished he would have been a little faster to open it for you.

“So… we’re robbing a house?” You said, raising an eyebrow at him. It was silly, but it was the only conclusion you could make for being in a wealthier neighborhood in the middle of the night.

“No, we’re gonna have to walk a little bit, but you’re gonna have to keep your eyes closed.”He chuckled.

He opened his trunk and pulled out a bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“This really looks like you’re gonna kill me.” You said, eyeing the bag.

“Well I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.” He winked, starting off walking.

The walk was slightly longer than it should have been, seeing as he was trying to guide you by your waist, uphill, in overgrown grass. It felt like you were tripping over your keds every other step. It smelled slightly mildewy- reminiscent of those quiet Hawkins nights all of those years ago. The soil was soft and spongy with dampness beneath your feet. You were slightly out of breath from the uphill incline, but when Eddie commanded you to remove you hands from your eyes, you gasped.

It felt like a movie scene, the giant letters of the Hollywood sign glowed so bright from the lights that were set on them that they were almost incomprehensible. You thought you could see all of Los Angeles from here- the lights speckling as far as the eye could see like glitter. Eddie chuckled at the dumbstruck look you gave him.

“All this time in Hollywood, and you never figured out how to get up here?” He asked you, pulling a blanket from the bag. You recognized it as the one from the floorboard of his van.

He spread it out on the ground, urging you to come sit.

“I guess I’ve just been busy.” You offered as an excuse, walking over and folding your legs beneath yourself.

“You need to learn how to live a little, sweetheart.” He said to you, plopping down on the blanket next to you and reclining back on his arms.

You sat in silence for a little- taking it all in. You kept your ankles crossed, knees pulled up to your chest as you slid off your shoes. While you were talking in the glitter of the city before you, he was taking in the details of your face. He looked for the softness in your face that lingered in the way your eyelashes kissed or the way the corners of your mouth curled upwards when you were thinking. You looked different, hardened by age and the struggles of adulthood. He wondered if the few unruly strands of gray hairs were from him- in the same way Wayne swore up and down that he would have still had a full head of hair if it hadn't been for Eddie.

“I hate it here.” He spoke finally. His volume scared himself, snapping both him and you back to reality in an instant. You furrowed your brow at him, pulling your attention away from the lights and aiming it at him.

“Why? This city did you good.” You said back. He felt your eyes on him, and the way he thought they looked directly into him instead of just over his physical being.

“I miss Hawkins.” He admitted, sheepishly, running a hand up and down his arm for comfort.

“Why?” You scoffed, remembering the many late nights talking about running from there and never looking back. He shrugged, then ran a hand up over his face and through his hair.

“It was simpler then. We just played and we didn't care if we sounded like shit and five people was a lot and we didn't have to worry about putting up the numbers.” He rambled, huffing exhaustedly at the end. You shrugged back, nonchalantly.

“It really was. Simpler, I mean. I miss it too.” You admitted, his sudden onslaught of heavy eye contact making you slightly uncomfortable. You turned your eyes back out towards the city, but your ears were dialed on to him.

“So why did you stop saying you were from there?” He asked, reiterating a question from the last time you were back home.

It stung a little bit- remembering how excited your family and friends were to see you after so long. You realized they probably felt the same abandonment that you felt when Corroded Coffin caught traction. Since then, you had made a point to call your mother a little more.

“I couldn’t be associated with you anymore.” You finally breathed, and, though the hurt didn’t register in his voice, you could feel it radiating off of him with a vigor.

“Why?” He asked, probably a little too quickly.

You thought about it for a second, assessing your next few words carefully. You thought he deserved at least this answer- since the only thing he really knew about your life was from you publications for the last five years.

“Because…” You trailed off, burning your face in your knees as you thought, “-after the whole Troubadour thing, I was only known as your bitch ex… And before that, people only knew me as your girlfriend. No one was gonna take me or my art seriously unless I was someone that didn’t have a tie to you.” You sighed finally, knowing there was no way you could say it that wouldn’t hurt his feelings.

“Was I that bad? That you couldn't even say you dated me?” He said in a near-whimper. For someone who was so famous and so well-speculated, you were almost surprised to hear that he was as hurt as he was.

“Being with you?” You started, thinking about it, “No. It was the idea of being forgotten that I couldn't handle.” You explained to him, honestly.

“I’m sorry.” He said after a drawn-out silence. He couldn't think of anything else that would be appropriate to say then. You hated the vulnerability, and rushed to change the subject.

“Why didn't you see Wayne? During Dustin's wedding?” You asked, already getting defensive. You winced at yourself, not meaning for it to sound as mean as it did.

“How did you know that?” He asked, not matching your defensive nature in the way you had expected him to. In fact, he sounded like a kicked puppy.

“I saw him. He was really hurt. Thought you forgot about him too.” You said, sounding just as mean again, though you couldn’t tell how much you meant it this time.

Eddie sighed, rubbing his face and taking another long silence before giving you an answer.

“...I couldn’t look at him and let him know what a fuck up I’ve been. He tried so hard with me after Dad… I couldn’t look him in the eye knowing how much I’m turning into my father.”��

You softened, immediately, remembering what the tabloids had said about him just a few months prior. You didn’t think about what he was feeling, or what Wayne would have been feeling. In fact, you worried about how much of it had to do with you.

“He's worried about you. You should call him.” You said, much more softly. You didn’t want to say anything else- you didn’t know what to say. You had no right to talk about his dad despite knowing the brunt of it.

“Thanks for looking out for him.” Eddie said to you, and it was genuine.

“He misses you, you know.” You blurt, hoping to make him feel better. Eddie chuckled, sadness still lingering behind it.

“But I think he misses you more.” He said to you, genuinely.

There’s no way you would have ever possibly known, but any time within the last five years, Wayne filled him in on you like he wasn’t seeing it anyways. He filled him in about your family, how he talked to your mom at the grocery store. You and Wayne had always had a soft spot for each other during the time of yours and Eddie’s relationship- he offered advice that rolled through cigarette smoke and you offered the warmth only a woman could possess. Wayne had been alone since.

“I missed him, too.” You said with a soft smile, thinking back about your cherished trailer-park memories.

There was another pause and you both sighed. This time, it was tense- like Eddie was thinking really hard about the next thing he was gonna say.

“What about me?” He asked you, finally turning back towards you. It caught you by surprise, and you couldn’t help the look that registered on your face when you turned back to him.

“What?”

“Do you miss me, too?” He asked again, louder and more annunciated.

You thought about it for a second, the way you felt a deep, guttural ache in your heart when you saw the headlines about him, the way you felt warmth spread through your chest when you hugged Wayne, or the way you felt relaxed amongst the familiarity of it all. Maybe it was stupid. So, so stupid. But maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you swore you did.

“Yeah… I guess I do.” You said, finally, wide eyes locking on his much wider.

“I missed you too…It's, uh, kinda lonely out here,” He started quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean… I have the guys but even then, they all have lives and girlfriends and families outside of the band.” He explained to you, sheepishly.

“No, I get it. Dustin's wedding kinda just made me see that I skipped over a whole section of my life.” You replied, and it was true.

It was strange seeing all of the kids you were old enough to babysit surpassing your life milestones. You put domesticity on the back burner when you put your career in the driver's seat and had yet to even begin searching for it again. There was a secret want in your heart to not be so damn lonely all the time. You considered even a cat, but you weren’t home enough to give it a fair life. So instead, you lived your life between exhausting social outings with people you were considered acquaintances with, but stayed far enough away to remain mysterious.

“Maybe we can start over.” Eddie suggested, blindsiding you out of your own train of thought.

“Like how?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

“Like our lives.” He said, reaching for your hand. You didn’t stop him, “Let me take you on the nice date I couldn't give you when we were kids.” He suggested, almost pleading once again.

“I go to plenty of nice restaurants now, Eddie.” You laughed, gripping his fingers back.

“Then let me take you somewhere else. Anywhere. Money isn't an issue.” He continued to plead with you.

“Eddie, when I said I missed you, I meant that kid from the sticks who got down on his knees in a cafeteria and begged me for a date. The one who took me to lovers lake in a shitty van and told funny stories and read me Tolkien every night.” You said behind a laugh. It was so genuine, he swore it was like the last five years had never happened.

“I remember that night. I was scared shitless. You were so pretty and I had never been on an actual date like that before.” He laughed back at his own memory, giving his thumb leeway to pass over your own.

“I'm sure you see lots of pretty women now.” You said, a little more sheepish this time. You remembered the title, you remembered every title about him.

“Pretty women, sure, none like you though.” He encouraged, switching the hand that he was holding yours with and dragging the other up your forearm, comfortingly.

“What do you mean?” You questioned, eyeing this traveling hand as it sent a shiver up your spine.

“I remember every night you would run out the door barefoot to give me one last kiss before I left. I started waiting for it when you dropped me off. And I remember you hanging out the window of my van screaming hybrid moments out the window. You scared me half to death. I had to hold on to your ankle so you wouldn't fall.” He chuckled, fondly, bringing his hand back down to massage the back of yours with his thumbs.

“I wasn’t gonna fall.” You said, sassily, half rolling your eyes at him. The version of you that currently existed definitely would have, though.

“I guess I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.” He scoffed, “Ain’t that a bitch?”

“Well, maybe you don’t have to lose me.” You said back to him, turning your hand around to grip his.

“What are you saying?” He questioned, locking eyes with you. You could see his smile lift the corners of them gently.

“I’m saying let's try again. We’re different people than we were five years ago.” You leaned a little closer to him, grabbing both of his hands and shaking his limp arms a bit.

He could have sworn he was looking at you for the first time.

“I don't think we are.” He smirked.

“Why do you say that?”

“You're barefoot now.”

You giggled as you looked down at your bare feet in the grass. Some things never change.

“You know, you look a lot different without all of… that.” He changed the subject, pulling his hands out of yours and twiddling his fingers up and down your frame.

“What?” You asked him, looking down at your clothes with a furrowed brow.

“The clothes, the shoes, the glasses. You look like you.” He explained, reaching up towards your face and pushing your hair out of your face.

“You’ve always looked like you. I think that’s kinda what hurt the most.” You admitted, sheepishly, reclusing slightly.

“What happened to us?” He asked, tenderly, leaning forward to close the space you had created.

“We got old. We got mean. We let a bunch of other people tell us who we were.”

“So then who are you?”

“I’m me?”

“No, like reintroduce yourself. You don’t know me.” He prompted, leaning back to look you over. You sighed as you started,

“I am the creative director and self-appointed journalist for RayGun magazine. I live between the office, The Troubadour, and my apartment. I am from Carlsbad, California. And I am Eddie Munson’s bitch ex-girlfriend.” You sneered slightly, plucking the first few things off of the top of your brain like one of those stupid conference icebreakers.

“No,” He said, shaking his head. He leaned forward and placed his hands on your shoulders, “I mean… really? Behind the headlines, who are you?”

You sighed, racking your brain for a few long seconds before trying again.

“Uhm…I am a painter. I hate shoes and I read tabloids in passing recreationally. I am from Hawkins, Indiana and I love music, so much, in fact, that I consider it my second love.”

“What was your first?”

“You.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, now you.”

“What?”

“Who are you, Edward Munson?”

“I am Edward Munson,” He mimicked your voice, sneering at the name, “-lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin. I live between a tour bus and between shows. I have a normal respect for shoes… Outside of work, I am a kid from a trailer park in the sticks. I read RayGun magazine in passing recreationally. I also happen to really really love this girl I hurt a long time ago.”

“You loved me?” You asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. He swore he saw his entire future flash in front of him- and none of it had to do with that stupid tour bus or stupid guitar or even Doc. He saw your eyes, and how small you sounded in front of him. He saw a house that he could finally afford and a white picket fence (if that's what you wanted, of course.) He saw Wayne clapping him on the back at a wedding and stupid ties and a white dress. He saw Dustin and Suzie and all the bearable parts of his youth.

“I don’t think I ever stopped.” He whispered to you, his hand snaking around to hold your cheek in a cradle, taking the plunge and pressing his lips to yours.

He tasted the same as he did during the years leading up to the summer of your own discontent, saccharine sweet and down-soft. You swore you saw the best parts of your life flash before your eyes. You saw summers at Lover’s Lake, windblown hair framing his face like a halo in the van that left your clothes smelling like cigarettes and burning oil. You saw hopeful promises that hadn’t yet been broken and Eddie filling all of your senses.

“Fuck I missed you. So goddamn much.” He groaned softly, breaking the kiss for oxygen.

“Please promise me you’re never gonna leave again.” You whimpered, pushing your mouth back against his, feverishly.

“God fuck please just promise me that.” You started again, between kisses.

“Never, honey, never again.”

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