🌞|Jaga | Virgo | 29 | fic writer | I do art too sometimes | Arcane/ ST | She/her |🌛
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My friends, apart from being three beetles in a long coat I am a fandom hopper, multiple blorbo haver, so there will be different ships at random. If you follow me don't expect only one : D And above all I enjoy writing, so it's not as much about the ship as it is about the process for me personally. Always happy to yap about writing!
So far all my fics are x f!reader with some fantasy/magical element to them. This is +18 blog! Minors do not interact!
Masterlist below:
Smut marked with: *
ARCANE:
Viktor x reader
And it was all yellow * - Mer!Vik x reader | Series | completed
Amaranthyne - Fae!Vik x reader | One-shot | completed
STRANGER THINGS:
Eddie Munson x reader
The Metalwork* - Series | Art uni | Witches | Monster hunting | Friends to lovers | Slow burn | on-going!
DISPATCH
My favourite fish* - Mer! Rob x reader | One-shot | completed
AKOTSK
The Note* - Lyonel x reader | Hate sex | Mini one-shot | Request | completed
The Joust* - virgin! Dunk x reader | One-shot | Smut no plot, he takes you against a tree | completed
Currently obsessed with the new Dracula movie (This is YEARNING guys) and Eddie from ST (just give me puppy-eyed, long-haired man and I'm down bad) and well Vik from Arcane ofc! A Blorbo forever : D
Summary: you and Eddie raise a baby… only you’re not a couple and the baby isn’t real… and now Tina’s Halloween party changes the trajectory of your lives forever.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader [WC: 10k]
Warnings: language, discussion of drugs, idiots in love, you all have been too kind which makes me nervous to post this.
Quick Links: Masterlist | Part One | Part Two
“What about this one?”
From the other end of the rack, Gareth held up a pair of pants high above his head. Eddie took in the look carefully before shaking his own.
“No holes, remember? I literally just said that like a second ago.”
Who knew picking out clothes for Halloween would be so hard?
“I don’t know why you even have to dress up. Most of the guys will just throw on a leather jacket and call it a day. Greasers from the fuckin’ Outsiders or some shit,” Gareth mumbled as he put the pants back in the lineup of the other hundred pairs on the rack.
Hawkins thrift had a hefty supply of men’s pants with and without holes because the rich and fortunate changed fashion quickly.
Small blessings for those living paycheck to paycheck.
“That’s practically what I wear every day,” Eddie sighed, sifting through the opposite end where a pair of Levi’s in vomit green disgusted him. “And I just have to look the part, alright? It’s one night.”
“Look the part,” his friend snorted, “you’re just trying to impress her. You could wear a potato sack and if she liked you in that, impressing her would be the least of your problems.”
“Is that so bad?” Eddie stopped browsing and stared down at Gareth.
“What? Trying to impress her?”
“Yes,” Eddie answered bluntly causing Gareth to breath in deeply.
To Gareth, no, it wasn’t a bad thing. High school was a zoo and for freaks like Eddie and himself everything was like walking in a glass cage. They were oddities; stickers on pristine windows that said ‘kick me’ and ‘dunce.’ He figured long ago that happiness was something not given or sought, but uncovered from personal discovery and self-preservation.
Eddie walked a tightrope.
One week ago he was assigned a partner that Gareth had passed in the hallway intermittently and thought, ‘oh, she’s cute,’ but Eddie never mentioned her. He didn’t talk about girls the way the jocks or preps talked about them; he didn’t ogle often at the cheerleaders in their little skirts because Eddie’s doctrine told him it was rude—even if he was as hormonal as the rest. He harbored those feelings like a scared little boy and now here he was, with Gareth in Hawkins’ only thrift store, trying to find the perfect pieces for a Halloween costume on a Thursday afternoon for one girl.
Gareth wanted Eddie to be happy. The curly-haired sophomore just didn’t trust people to not play a game with his best friend. He didn’t want to see the person he looked up to most be the laughing stock of high school because he fell head over heels for you.
“No,” he answered honestly, “it’s not a bad thing. I mean,” Gareth snorted, “if Katie Yang told me tomorrow she loved me, I would run off in the sunset with her and never return.”
Eddie barked a laugh. It would never happen. He was pretty sure his fellow senior member of Hellfire swung a very different way—but he couldn’t let Gareth’s dreams of marrying her falter. It would make Gareth too sad to even participate in Eddie’s campaigns.
“Yeah, well,” Eddie went back to searching, “she’s my Katie Yang.”
“How about these then?” Gareth held up another pair and for what Eddie needed them for, they were perfect. He left his spot at the end of the rack, snatching them from his friend's hands and grinned.
“Perfect.”
“Click got me with a pop quiz today,” Nancy whined as she leaned against your locker early Friday afternoon. She had her chin tucked against her chemistry textbook and trapper keeper.
“I don’t know anything about the War of 1812!”
“Does anyone know anything about the war of 1812?” You countered yet her disappointed face did not lift. Yes, some kids knew what had taken place but Nancy missed the lesson. She missed the lesson yesterday because all she was thinking about was how the relationship between herself and Steve was bullshit.
Bullshit. The exact word that you had used to describe it before Eddie swept you away.
“Linda Fischer did! And that Buckley girl that plays the trumpet? She knew all about it; answered nearly every question when it was over.”
“Maybe it’s because they have no life and just study all the time?”
Nancy scoffed, “I study all the time too and look where that got me.”
“It’s just one quiz, Nance,” you swapped your red calculus notebook for the blue history one. Bilbo was perched inside of your locker as you went about collecting your things for the next hour. “I don’t think your grade will suffer.”
Steve’s booming laughter echoed in the hallway.
“Doubt it,” Nancy muttered bitterly as the clang of lockers being hit sounded behind her. Steve smiled radiantly as he tossed a baseball in his hand—it was October, in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere Indiana, and he still managed to find and toss a baseball for fun.
“Doubt what?” He smacked his gum loudly as Nancy turned to copy the way he leaned against the lockers beside yours.
“Click’s pop quiz on the War of 1812,” you cut in before Nancy could. Everyone was required to take Junior American History and everyone remembered that pop quiz well… simply because everyone failed it.
“Oo,” Steve scrunched his nose, “Click is one haggard old broad, isn’t she?”
“The most haggard,” Nancy sighed. Steve peered over her shoulder and tipped his head at Bilbo.
“How’s the baby?”
“Baby is doing just fine, Steve. Just fine.”
“Yeah, mine too,” he winked as if what you said was a joke when it was far from it. Bilbo had mellowed out quite well, actually. It felt like a glitch in the system in many ways but the doll barely made a noise anymore. Two or three tantrums a day made life with Bilbo Munson-L/n a breeze.
“And Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson? What’s he like as a partner?” Steve questioned, “you seem to get on well.”
“Why? Because I’m nice to him?”
“I’m nice to him!” He took your words defensively, “doesn’t mean he isn’t a freak.”
“He’s a good partner, great, even. And you are not nice to him. Last year, you and Tommy would shoot spitballs at Hellfire every day until Higgins told you to stop.”
“That was Tommy’s idea.” He still went along with it. The amusement Steve still felt from the prank made your stomach turn.
“Eddie’s actually trying. We’re doing rather well I’d like to think.”
“Tell that to Tammy and Greg when he didn’t do his project in O’Donnell’s last spring. He nearly cost them their own grades.”
“Well,” you gripped the door to your locker. As you did, your thumb grazed that picture of you and the boys as Star Wars characters a few Halloween’s back. “O’Donnell’s a bitch. She has it out for everyone.”
That’s exactly what Eddie had told you.
“Yeah, right,” Steve said in disbelief, “he put you up to this? Makin’ everyone believe he’s actually gonna graduate on time like the rest of us?”
“Steve,” you huffed. He was angry he wasn’t succeeding at project parenthood and you and Eddie were. The fact that he and Nancy had barely spoken two sentences to each other that entire week also increased his belligerence.
“We’re all managing the best we can. Eddie’s a good partner. It surprised me too but here we are, almost done, and he’s done nothing but stay true to his word.”
Well, mostly. You tried to forget about the school day on Wednesday.
“He giving you free weed or something to get him a good grade? I heard he’s gonna deal the party which means it’s only gonna be fun for an hour before everyone is high and annoying.”
“Hey,” Nancy narrowed her eyes at Steve, “why is everything a deal? If she says he’s a good partner, then he’s a good partner. End of story.”
“So, you’re defending Munson now too?” He rose his eyebrows high beneath his three strands of hair that fell onto his forehead. “Jesus… it’s the literal apocalypse. Apocalypse!”
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
Done with Steve’s antics, Nancy turned her body away from Steve and back to how she was originally standing. Inside, her mind was fighting every physical urge to apologize and revert back to her timid self of one year ago.
But she could feel the way your demeanor changed when Steve began cutting on Eddie. You were her friend—best friend—and Nancy Wheeler would be dammed if her boyfriend was going to make you feel that way.
Steve was growing. However, he was far from perfect.
“Nance, come on…” Steve complained as he rested his head on her shoulder. She ignored him the best she could at the moment.
“Are you going to the game tonight? Last one for the year,” football game. Nancy’s wide eyes were hopeful that she wouldn’t be stuck standing by a wild Steve and the popular kids she didn’t like.
“No,” you shook your head, grabbing Bilbo out of the locker and shutting it. “I’ve got Bilbo and I have to study for that Spanish test from last week when I get home.”
“You had Bilbo yesterday! What happened to Eddie doing his fair share?”
“He has Hellfire tonight and when we went through our plans, I told him I would take the doll when he had his club. He swapped Sunday so if you aren’t hungover from the party, we can get breakfast or something.”
Steve wrapped his arms around Nancy’s waist, pulling her tightly against him as she breathed out heavily.
“Fine,” she grumbled, “but you’re picking up the tab.”
“You’re really going to study for a Spanish test on a Friday night?” Steve asked, brow quirked and judgmental.
“Tell me, Steve,” you shut your locker, “with Halloween and all of my other homework on Sunday, when would I have time to study for the test? Some of us do study and I know that might surprise you.”
“Ouch,” he winced, pouting as Nancy tried to wiggle from his grasp, “You’re being mean. I blame Munson. He’s corrupting you.”
“Blame away,” you began walking backwards from the two lovers as the clock ticked rapidly toward the end of passing period. “I rather like the person I’m turning into.”
“Have you thought about your costume yet?”
As you stepped out of Clay’s calculus class, Eddie snatched the homework (that the teacher had been passing out not a moment before) from your hands.
He had left Click’s history class five minutes early to catch you before Nancy drove you home. To make frivolous conversation, he asked about calculus and joked about you getting a tutor which left him burned when you told him he should get a tutor too—for all of his classes.
A few hours earlier, he had seen Nancy and Steve snug as a bug beside your locker as the hair’s arrogant attitude turned two faces sour. Eddie had observed it in passing; walking out of the lunchroom with the rest of the Hellfire members he shared it with only to pass your locker without you noticing because the two lovebirds held your attention.
The look on your face then was different than it was now. Relaxed, gratified. Another week was completed and Halloween was tomorrow.
“So…?” You waved a hand in front of his face. Eddie was staring into space; the kind where you don’t realize it because your thoughts are running either a million miles per second or not moving at all.
“Hm?” He asked, standing a bit straighter after realizing he hadn’t answered your question.
“Have you thought about your Halloween costume yet?” You questioned again as you slipped another notebook into your backpack.
“Got it yesterday, actually,” Eddie’s grin made your stomach flutter. He had that devilish smirk that made the football players angry as he stood on tables and jeered at their dull ignorance of being jocks.
“And it is what?”
“A surprise,” his eyes flicked to the pictures in your locker and this time, you caught him looking. Backing up a bit, the hand that wasn’t holding your backpack by its handle traced the edges of the pictures and plucked them off one by one from their spots.
“This one is from the Fourth of July last year,” you motioned for Eddie to take it and he did. “Nancy’s mom had us take all the kids to the fireworks at the fairgrounds.”
“Ah, the fireworks,” Eddie recalled, “pretty sure last year I graffitied Mayor Kline’s garage door the same time those were going on.”
“You didn’t,” you put the other picture in your hand up to your lips, hiding your mouth in bewilderment that he would openly admit to that. That shit made the news.
“Oh, but I did,” Eddie declared in a whispered excitement. The way he scrunched his nose at your disbelief made you beam from underneath the picture. “In big fat letters: if you repeat a lie enough, it becomes the truth.”
“In protest of Kline’s decision to build that mall? He was going to sell Forest Hill’s land, right?” You removed the picture from your mouth as the reality of his act of political artistic expression came to full realization. Eddie didn’t do things like that just to get a rise out of people. He did it because he hated the guy and without protest, who knew where he would be living at the moment.
“Yes, ma’am,” he held his chin out proudly, “saved the people of the trailer park. Local hero and all…” he boasted with a smile before handing back the first picture.
“So, you and Wheeler have been friends for a bit?”
“Since we were little,” you nodded your head and stuck that picture back onto the metal locker. Eddie took the second one you offered. “Our parents went to school together and I guess they’re not in the same tax bracket anymore but Karen Wheeler and my mom still get together every Sunday to talk shit about Nancy’s dad.”
“Not yours?” Eddie snickered.
“No,” you dropped your backpack on the ground and faced him fully, “my parents get along just fine. But these little dweebs,” you pointed your finger at the boys in the photo, “are the same ones from the car the other day.”
“This one,” he pointed to Mike, “is Wheeler’s brother.”
“Mike,” you gave him an ‘uh-huh,’ “and this here is Will Byers—who I don’t babysit,” you looked up at him, “and these two… these two are the worst offenders of them all.”
Eddie hardly doubted that. Two cheeky smiles hanging onto your shoulders as your arms wrapped around theirs. A curly haired Han Solo and a grinning Luke Skywalker.
“Dustin Henderson and Lucas Sinclair. I’ve babysat them since I was like… eight.”
“You’re good with kids then?” He quirked a brow, genuinely asking.
Every second he could spend getting to know you better he grasped tightly.
“I guess,” he looked back at the picture and saw the joy on those kids faces. They were happy to be there; they were happy to be in your presence and he couldn’t blame them in the slightest. “It’s as good as a job as any but I don’t know if I’ll ever want my own. Maybe if the right circumstances present themselves I’ll change my mind.”
“But they’ve got nothing on Bilbo, right?”
“Oh, no,” you laughed and grabbed the picture back, “Bilbo runs circles around them. Doesn’t talk back, does his homework on time…”
“Are you going to bring Bilbo to Tina’s? Not really sure Sandra Dee would be seen carrying a baby.”
“My dad offered to make sure any tantrums would be dealt with. We are free to live our lives as childless parents,” you joked and Eddie imagined this Halloween but also a hundred more. “You can pick him up when you drop me off.”
Childless or not. A part of him couldn’t imagine it without you.
“You have,” Eddie cleared his throat, eyes darting around the hallway before landing back to you, “you have really nice parents, by the way.”
“Thanks,” taken aback by his honesty, “I mean, I think they’re just like everyone else’s but yeah, I guess they’re nice.”
“Not everyone’s parents would have let me stay at their house all afternoon,” he shoved his hands into his jacket’s pockets and leaned against the lockers with a slouch. “Some of us drew the short straw in that department.”
Eddie never talked about his home life. You knew of Wayne because he worked at the plant with your dad, but no one ever really talked about it. In sixth grade, he was out for a week because his mom died. The teacher passed around a card for you all to sign yet no one said a word when he returned.
“Well,” you shrugged to pretend it wasn’t as heavy as it seemed, “the families we’re given don’t have to be the ones we choose. These kids,” you pointed to the picture you just put back, “are my family even if we don’t share any blood.”
“You know,” Eddie gazed at you with tender eyes that you wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t in tune with your own emotions. “You’re a little too smart for your own good.”
You laughed, grinning from ear to ear as you leaned down to grab your backpack again. “Not at math, though.”
“No,” Eddie shook his head. He ducked his head, feeling the heat creep onto his neck until it found its way on his cheeks. His hair hid what you couldn’t see. You grabbed your science textbook and Bilbo before closing your locker. When he willed the tint away, he watched the way you adjusted the bag on your shoulders with one hand as you held Bilbo in the other.
“I guess not math.”
“I’d rather have the emotional intelligence anyway,” tossing your head in the direction of the door, Eddie animatedly sprung himself from the lockers and back into the emptying hallway. Two cheerleaders nearly ran into him and he lifted his arms like he had been caught for murder.
Emotional intelligence. If you had stronger, clearer emotional intelligence you would have taken the initiative to ask Eddie out. You would have realized your crush on him was firm and unyielding enough to warrant an actual date.
But the “not date, date” of Tina’s Halloween party loitered between the two of you. Neither had mentioned the “not date” besides the costumes you were going to wear that wouldn’t match.
As you navigated the halls together to exit the building, Eddie walked beside you and every so often, his arm would brush yours. Not on accident.
“Dustin and those kids, they’re in middle school?”
“Eighth graders…” just the thought that next fall they’d be in high school made you feel really old. “They’ll be coming here next year.”
“I’ll have to tell Gareth about them,” he said, “maybe when I’m gone he can recruit them for Hellfire.”
“You gonna graduate on time, Munson?” You smiled, knocking your shoulder into the arm that kept grazing you. As dramatically as Eddie could, he stumbled and rubbed his arm like it hurt.
“That’s offensive, you know that?” He feigned insult. “If I don’t, I’ll just welcome them myself. The lost sheepies are the ones that are easiest to catch.”
“Lost sheepies,” you repeated softly. Eddie pattered his way back beside you.
“They’d probably like you a lot,” you told him when he returned. “Will would take a minute to warm up to you but I think Dustin would cling to you. He likes the… weird ones.”
“First I’m not gonna graduate on time and now I’m weird?” Eddie threw his head back. “You’re killin’ me today with this defamation.”
Defamation. ‘Where the hell did that come from,’ Eddie thought to himself.
“I don’t think you being weird is a bad thing, Eddie,” Eddie. Not Munson or anything else. It was something he’d never tire of hearing. “You just embrace it. Weird is cool—even if Billy or Tammy or Carol don’t think so.”
“You’re pretty weird yourself, mama.”
The end of the hallway was quickly approaching and Eddie jogged forward, opening the door for you and holding open.
“Thanks,” you told him, “for both the… compliment and the door.”
“It’s what fellow weirdos do for each other,” at the end of the walkway, Eddie realized he was going in one direction and you the other.
The end of Friday had been reached. Only the Halloween party was left.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, yeah?” He asked as if the answer wasn’t clear. You nodded, head giving an enthusiastic bob you’d be thinking over later.
“How will I know what to look for if you don’t tell me what your going as?” You shouted as he walked toward his van. There wasn’t a part of you that cared what other people thought anymore.
Carol and Billy get fucked. There was only one life you’d remember and you’d be dammed if Eddie wasn’t a part of it in some way.
“Don’t worry, mama,” he turned around and kept walking backwards. A smirk playing on lips like it always belonged there. “You’ll recognize me.”
“Okay,” Nancy came trotting back into her room from her mother’s closet, “here,” she tossed a small red scarf into your lap as you sat on her bed.
“What’s this?”
“The ascot I said I’d give you,” she said like it was obvious. Nancy fiddled with the black tie on her shirt in the mirror above her dresser.
“Nance,” you called over to her, catching her eyes, “have you ever seen Grease?”
“Of course I have.”
“Then you’d know that Sandy doesn’t wear an ascot… just red shoes.”
“No,” she objected, “she definitely wears an ascot.”
“Tell that to Olivia Newton-John,” you got up from the bed and went straight to her closet, pulling it open to reveal a small stack of VHS tapes at the bottom. Grease was the fifth one down and on the back, Danny and Sandy at the senior carnival fun house was plastered on the back.
You handed it to her on unsteady legs as the red heels you wore were beginning to become unforgiving. One night, just one night.
“See,” you told her, “no ascot.”
“I swear to God she had one,” Nancy looked in wonder before handing it back to you. “But you’ve got the shirt and leggings and belt. That’s good enough.”
“No jacket though,” you sat back down on her bed.
“Maybe there’s a reason you couldn’t find it,” she giggled to herself like a schoolgirl.
“Oh, yeah?” You questioned. All this dancing around… you didn’t want Monday to arrive and end with Eddie never speaking to you again. Wishing upon a shooting star, whatever confidence you could muster tonight would have to manifest itself into reality.
Project Parenthood was not going to end on your watch without you asking Eddie Munson out on a date.
That was what you came to terms with Friday night.
You just hoped he didn’t think you a fool for believing he might actually say yes. You also didn’t take Eddie to be the kind of guy who’d be embarrassed that a girl asked him out. What if he wanted someone to be forward? What if he liked confidence and strife over classic gender roles being challenged?
The guy was as non-conformist as a person could get.
“Well, maybe Billy Hargrove would lend me his,” you joked and she dropped the tube of mascara she had just picked up back on the dresser.
“Billy Hargrove?” She spoke in a harsh whisper as her hand searched for it again. “What the hell—“
Nancy took one look at you and saw the mischief all over your face. It was a joke. You were joking. You wouldn’t let Billy Hargrove touch you with a ten foot pole.
“I think if Eddie Munson heard you say that he would keel over.”
“I think if Eddie Munson heard I had a big fat crush on him he’d keel over.”
Nancy thought it was nice to hear you admit that.
“Die from excitement or die from embarrassment?” Nancy laughed as you fell back against the bed. Her pillows sounded a “poof” as you laid against them.
“Hopefully not that latter.”
“I don’t think he would die from embarrassment… if my opinion means anything,” she returned the wand to the tube before sitting down beside your reclined figure on the bed. Nancy took your hand in hers and squeezed it.
“Eddie is the strangest, weirdest person I think I’ve ever laid eyes on but if he can make you happy, then that’s all I want for you.”
“Even after what I said about you and Steve the other day? You still want me to be the one to ride off into a sunset?”
Nancy shrugged, looking down at your hands entwined. “Sometimes the truth is hard to swallow. Maybe Steve just isn’t the one.”
“But he’s the Joel to your Lana.”
“Tonight, yeah,” she sighed, patting your hands with her free one, “but the bullshit has to stop. I just don’t know how to tell him.”
“Nance,” you fidgeted your hand out of hers and sat up on your elbows. Nancy’s room full of cream colors and pinks was juvenile while her experiences and feelings were far from it.
“It’s true though, isn’t it? It’s been two years and sometimes I feel like I don’t know him at all. Where his mind is at, concerns… I try and get him to open up but he just won’t. How am I supposed to be a good girlfriend when all he wants to do is party and hang with friends on the weekend?”
“This has to be your decision,” you told her candidly, “and perhaps after tonight you’ll feel differently.”
“We still on for breakfast tomorrow?” Nancy got up from the bed and went back to her dresser. “That way I can tell you all about it because Eddie’s taking you home.”
“Yeah, we’re still on.”
“And then you can tell me all about how Eddie is actually, surprisingly, a good kisser,” she laughed as you stuffed your head into her pillows.
“You really sound like Barb; you know that?”
“No, no,” Nancy shook her head, putting up a finger in the mirror, “Barb would say, ‘you really think Eddie Munson would be a good boyfriend? Don’t you remember when he hotboxed weed in his van at lunch last year and Chief Hopper had to tape off the parking spot because little kids were accidentally given a second-hand high?’ That’s what she’d say.”
“And then she’d ask if he made it to second base,” you grinned, turning over to stare at her ceiling. “Only to be followed with a very loud ‘eww, I can’t believe you did that!”
“I miss her,” Nancy said fondly, “she wasn’t the biggest fan of Steve but she’d want me to be happy. She’d want you to be happy to so,” she gave you that knowing look, “you’re gonna put on some red lipstick and drink a couple beers and by the time Eddie Munson knows what’s hit him, he’ll be so in love no other girl could compare.”
Overwhelming.
That was the first word that popped into your mind when you thought of the scene around you. It was nine-thirty, there were cars parked sloppily on the grass and students scattered everywhere. The music was blasting from Tina’s stereo so loudly it might burst your eardrum by the time the night is over and it helped none that the one thing you wanted to find was missing—somewhere in the house or the yards but not beside you.
Third wheeling with Steve and Nancy wasn’t fun when they argued on the ride over.
You sat in the back of Steve’s BMW wishing to be sucked into the seat only to never be seen again. Nancy’s attitude shifted from excited to upset and Steve was just being an asshole about the whole “parties are fun and we’re going to stay the entire time” conversation that started the argument. Those feelings lingered when the car parked, when the three of you made it inside, and then when you found yourself stuffed into a corner beside a curio cabinet.
“Oh, God,” Nancy mumbled when Billy Hargrove—alongside Tommy Hagen and the rest of the goons who couldn’t separate themselves from the freshest meat—clocked the three of you standing away from the entry way’s makeshift dance floor. “Don’t start anything,” she told Steve who looked in the direction she stared.
Besides the crushing weight of the party on your shoulders, stepping out of your comfort zone in a Halloween costume that Nancy picked out for you made your hands shake with tension. The confident thoughts of earlier running out of your mind the second everyone started looking at you like a fish out of water. A couple guys whistled, the girls judged. There was no happy medium at a place like this.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new keg king, Harrington,” Tommy gloated as Billy challenged Steve. He pulled off his sunglasses and Nancy turned around to you.
“Let’s go get a drink, yeah?” She asked with pleading eyes. You glanced at the group of hot-shot boys—their gazes watching you and Nancy like pieces of meat for taking and it made your skin crawl.
“Yeah,” you let Nancy hook her pinky through yours as the two of you trekked past groups of your peers quickly getting drunk and eating scattered snacks in the kitchen. A couple, whom you didn’t know, were swapping tongues beside the stove.
On the counter beside open bottles of booze, a bowl fitted with dry ice and a ruby liquid sat being consumed by a boy in a toga. He chugged a red cup down before filling another one and doing the same. That was ‘pure fuel’ or the one drink that could send anyone to that drunken bliss with so much as a sip. Nancy peered into it like a mysterious lake.
“Do you want any?” She picked up two red solo cups, offering up one for you but you looked around for the fridge instead. Behind you, next to the two making out, the fridge was left cracked open.
“No,” you walked the small space to the fridge and grabbed a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon out of it. It was a party; Tina was going to buy the cheapest beer she could. “And I wouldn’t suggest you drink a ton of that either.”
“Why?” Nancy contested, swiping the cup into the bowl. “Aren’t we supposed to have fun? Get drunk and make stupid mistakes while we’re young? Just be stupid teenagers for one night.”
She was still pissed off at Steve.
“If you’re going to drink that,” you cracked open the can in relief when one of your nails didn’t break, “try to know your limit, alright? I don’t want to babysit you over the toilet later.”
“Deal,” she chugged the cup over the bowl as Steve rejoined the two of you. He began protesting her actions immediately and she replied by using his words against him—the same ones he used to argue to stay at the party. Nancy filled her cup again, slammed it, and wiped the excess of her face before leaving the two of you in the dust.
“You say somethin’ to her?” Steve turned to you with an accusatory glare. “She’s been weird all week.”
“She’s been weird or you’ve been ignoring her?” You countered unexpectedly.
“I haven’t been ignoring her.”
“I’ve seen you with Tammy Thompson more times than I can count this week and every day when Nance takes me home, you don’t kiss her goodbye.”
“We’re partners, remember?” Steve scoffed. “You should know that more than anyone. Where is the freak anyway? I can smell the weed; I know he’s here yet he’s not with you…” He was mad too. Steve and Nancy both angry at each other made everyone else in their paths feel the scorching ire of their pain.
“He’s not my date, Steve… He’s my partner, remember?”
Rolling your eyes, you brushed past him and left him in the kitchen alone. A quick escape through the door that led to the backyard let the cool breeze meet your face and the sting of Steve’s words fell from you. It was a rather nice October night. It was just cold enough where jackets could be enjoyed but the Midwestern urge to remain strong in the breeze left many without one. There was a bonfire raging in the back and friend groups scattered on the lawn.
Katie Yang was sitting around the bonfire when her eyes caught the door to Tina’s house open and close.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her skull—not from the smell of weed surrounding her, but from the fact that Eddie hadn’t been lying.
An hour ago, Eddie rolled up to Tina’s with a backpack full of drugs yet that wasn’t what everyone talked about as the fast murmured rumors made their way through crowds of students like tidal wave. With the three other members of Hellfire that had been invited because they were seniors, the whispers surrounded them first before someone had the will to approach them.
“Shit,” She didn’t know their name, “did you hear about Munson?”
“What about him?” Katie asked them and they threw their head back, hair going a wild as they screeched.
“He’s dressed as fucking Danny Zuko! And not the cool one!”
“Danny Zuko…” Katie trailed off, furrowing her brows as she tried to place the name. “From Grease?”
Eddie was musical, yes, but he didn’t like a ton of musicals.
“You’re joking,” one of the members of Hellfire said before moving through the living room crowd and peeking out through the blinds of the closest window.
“Holy fucking shit!”
He stuck out like a sore thumb. He was wearing the classic all black, tight jeans with a white cardigan sweater embossed with a red ‘R’ sewed into the side. Eddie’s hair was pulled into a ponytail and while he didn’t wear the look often, some of the drunk girls in the yard were ogling him like they’d jump his bones in an instant. When he came inside, the students gawked before realizing their weed had arrived and while they jested with Eddie, their words didn’t hit him. Katie could see the way their words brushed off his shoulder and he kept looking at the door.
So, an hour after that she saw you walk out of Tina’s house dressed as Sandy, Katie had to bite back the first remark that came to mind. She picked a couple blades of grass off the ground as Eddie rolled papers next to her on a tree stump—the glow from the bonfire lighting his work.
“Why’d you decide to go as Danny?” Katie proposed, watching you lean against one of the columns and drink the rancid PBR like it was water.
“Why not?” Eddie replied but focused solely on the ratio of weed to paper in his lap. Every time he put a rolled one down next to him, someone would swipe it, light it, and disappear before he could complain.
“Didn’t take you for a man who’d grovel for a lady, that’s all.”
“I don’t grovel, Yang,” he quipped and she smiled, folding her arms over her bent legs and laying her head on it.
“Besides, you see me crawling now?” Eddie motioned to the papers in his lap. “Little miss Mary Jane is the priority right now.”
“You sure about that?”
Eddie heard the way she crooned, her eyes flicking from his own to the house. His heart skipped a beat. The knowledge that if he looked now, he’d see you there—perhaps not even looking in his direction—but available for him to admire for a time. Since the moment you told him you were going as Sandy, he dreamt, daydreamed, about what you’d look like. How the vision he conjured was nothing compared to the way you’d embrace every part of yourself in an outfit like that.
“I can roll, if you want,” Katie suggested as he contemplated throwing the weed on the ground and forgetting all about it. He did admit once that he’d consider going sober for you. Before he could even object, she took the baggie from beside him and put a hand out for the papers.
“Gareth told me all about it,” she admitted. Eddie couldn’t even be mad. “Go get that girl, Munson. It’s not every day your dreams come true.”
All he could muster was a tight smile for her.
There were a lot of people in the yard. Every face blurred the brighter the fire got; some littered in the grass, others standing, a few on stools or stumps. Your feet were aching as you gripped the banister to relieve the pressure. A half drank PBR clutched in one hand as you stared down at your feet. Eddie sauntered over to the house as you shifted your feet. His quiet steps against the grass not alerting you that he had been sitting in the backyard at all.
Eddie planted himself a foot away from the deck in front of you, swallowing his fears and trying to embody the voice of surprise that mimicked the exact moment in the movie. A little accent, a little bit of the ‘ol greaser swagger.
Just a guy, seeing a girl, and absolutely smitten in the way in which she looks.
“Mama!?”
And only Eddie could get that smile to creep onto your face.
The not date, date was simple.
It had taken you an entire hour to find Eddie on a property no bigger than the Wheeler’s and the moment you heard his ‘surprised’ voice, you knew the evening had changed for the better. For two hours, you sat beside one another and just talked. He talked about his hobbies and joked about his nerdy interests while you detailed your own and he listened as intently as you had for his. In his stupid letterman cardigan and his stupid ponytailed hair, Eddie sat beside you on the deck—backs against the railing as you sat on the wood floor—and admitted that he hadn’t ever planned to wear a costume in the first place.
“So,” you knocked your heeled foot against his converse, “where in the world did you manage to find that sweater?”
“This old thing?” He pulled at the lapels, “I have a bunch of them in my closest. What? You’ve never seen me wear these before?” He lived for the giggle that left your lips. Painted in a candy red, it was hard not to look right at them.
“Oh, yeah,” you faked support for his lie, “all the time, Eddie. It’s your best look obviously.”
“That’s what I said!” Eddie cackled, drawing a can of beer to his lips. “Gareth helped me. His sister used to watch Grease all the time so he had a pretty good idea of what I was looking for.”
“I’ll have to thank him then,” you moved your hands to sit in your lap, fingernails making a small clicking sound as they met before looking over at him.
“Why?”
You leaned your head in as he would have done. “Because he helped you pick out those jeans.”
For a second, Eddie was stunned silent. His lip quirked, eyes sparkling and wide with utter fascination that you had just explicitly flirted with him when he had been planning to make all the moves on Halloween. It was his moment; his situation that he grasped tightly and ran with because if it wasn’t him, he felt it would slip through his fingers.
But you had just given him hope that his feelings may have not been one sided. That your kindness and acceptance of him wasn’t misplaced in pity but instead in attraction.
“Well,” he said lowly, “then I guess I have to thank Wheeler then, too.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because she told you to dress like this and I think you just walked out of a fantasy I didn’t know I had.”
The surge of butterflies hit your confidence like the wolf blowing down the house made of sticks—wavering for a second before standing tall again. Eddie had a blush dusting his cheeks yet he didn’t hide from you; a tightrope growing thicker for every word shared, every sentiment revealed and accepted.
“I guess I should dress like this all the time?”
Eddie nudged you playfully, appreciating that you reciprocated it and swayed back toward him. “I think I like the way you dress everyday a little bit more.”
“Yeah, me too. Kinda miss those rings… you're not ‘Eddie’ without them. Or the vest, leather jacket… any of it.”
He looked down at his ringless hands only to agree. There was a nakedness to his appearance without them. He had his necklace, but no bracelet, no rings, no chain, no handcuff belt, and it felt different even if it was just a costume.
“I am surprised you chose this Danny to dress up as.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” you nodded, “I guess it’s ironic for me too.”
“Ironic?” He questioned. “How?”
“When Danny and Sandy realize they like each other,” you spoke carefully to find the right words. From the time you’ve spent with Eddie over the last week and two days, he listened to everything. He remembered much more than he let on and he read people, their emotions, and their words with caution; “they change themselves only to fall back to who they were because no one has to change to be loved.”
“Do you remember when I said you were too smart for your own good?”
You laughed, glancing at him for a second too long before biting your lip. “You don’t have to stop being ‘Eddie’ for people to like you. I’m more than content with Eddie Munson “rockstar” than I am Eddie Munson “letterman Danny Zuko.”
“Wow,” he said, drawing out the word slowly, “did the girl next door just say she liked me?”
Only Eddie would joke about it. And only Eddie could make you feel good about admitting it.
“Well,” he said when he let the thought process through him, “you should know that you don’t have to be “hot girl Sandy” for me to like you either. I am more than content with “head in a book” and “Bilbo’s mama” than I am “leather bound in red heels.” And as he did whenever he wanted to invade your personal space more than sitting close, he leaned in, down to your ear, “but before you run off and never wear this again, indulge me?”
You turned your head at his words. He was so close. The smell of his cologne mixed with two cans of beer, one joint, and three cigarettes right beside you—arms touching, head barely two inches from yours. If this was a fantasy and he had begun the conversation two hours before with one of the most iconic lines from the film, all you would have to do is embody her like Nancy had told you and reply in kind.
Eddie could see the cogs turning in your head. Thoughts on how to go about it racking every part.
“Come on,” he leaned back, scrambling to his feet so quickly he almost knocked over his can. Eddie extended a hand, helping you stand before leading you back to the closest end of the deck. He let go of your hand and held them out in front of him as if telling you to stay before backing away.
“Okay, wait, wait, wait!” Eddie dug into the pocket of his white sweater and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Tapping one from the pack, he held it up as an offering with enthusiastic eyes.
“Trust me, alright?”
You nodded, hands laid out along the railing of the deck on either side. The temptation was biting at him; the way you were effortlessly drawing him in. Closer and closer until he couldn’t breathe because he was so consumed by you that all he needed was one… little… taste.
He lifted his hand toward his face, showing you what he wanted. Eddie had the unlit cigarette between his pointer and middle fingers, pulling it away from his lips untouched.
“Open your mouth a little bit,” he said and watched as you followed his direction with no complaint.
Eddie stepped closer, hand going over your right arm that was outstretched to lift the cigarette toward your lips and inching the filter forward. You watched his eyes drift down, taking in the way your lips looked so different yet all the same coated in that red lipstick.
“You ever smoke before?” He asked lowly; voice an airless buzz against your face.
“Once or twice,” you admitted and he nodded, hair pulled back in a ponytail by a black scrunchie you could barely see. The sounds of Bon Jovi’s Runaway playing loudly around you.
“Then indulge me in this,” he replied as he let the filter land between your lips and let his fingers go. The cigarette teetered there between the red as they held it; Eddie not pulling back as he dug into his pocket again and pulled out a lighter.
“Still alright?”
You hummed around the stick and his knees nearly buckled at the sound. But he had to keep his cool. Eddie had to be suave; Eddie had to be tempting.
His thumb sparked the fire and it burned bright between you. The reflection of the blaze shining in both of your eyes and captivating, if only for a moment, the seconds before the brink.
Eddie held the flame to the other end and when it lit, he backed away quickly. He bit down on his lower lip, nodding for you to do it and briefly, you felt a little ridiculous as the scattered students of Hawkins high disappeared around you. Their presence not important compared to the one dressed as letterman Danny Zuko.
The butt sizzled and flashed its angry red. You had yet to breathe it in. Eyes watching his every gesture as he stood there, waiting expectantly for you to make the move. He made his, you make yours, and then he would have to go again. A game of chess with two idiots in love.
Your demeanor changed when you breathed in the stick for the first time. Once or twice his ass, Eddie thought as you didn’t even lift your hands off the railings to grab it away from your lips—just held it there between them as the smoke escaped from the sides.
‘If he can make you happy, then that’s all I want for you,’ Nancy’s admission playing loudly in your head that balanced the rapid thumping of your heart.
If you hadn’t known Eddie held a candle for you before, the way he was looking at you now was enough. If his admission wasn’t enough, his eyes were. Utterly captivated by the way you stood—confident and seductive. Hip slightly jutted out, your heeled feet helped bend one leg and the image was perfect. Seared into his brain forever as the moment he realized that you were the one in his dreams.
A fantasy where he was the strapping Aragorn—a hero, courageous and strong, with his Arwen—timeless and headstrong, kind and forgiving.
Your eyes broke away from his stare and out to the yard. The cigarette’s smoke left your lips again. Eddie rose both of his hands into a prayer position; fingers meeting and resting against his lips right under his nose. The anticipation was killing him.
In an instant, your eyes returned and what he saw sent him to an early grave. He met his maker and was cast away like Icarus as you adjusted the way your posture presented you from the top of your head, out your fingers, and through your toes.
Sandy to Frenchie to Rizzo be dammed. You embodied something greater than them all and he was lucky enough to be at the receiving end of it.
And then you said it.
You indulged him in a fantasy he didn’t even know he had until you told him what you were going as.
“Tell me about it,” manicured fingers took the cigarette away from your lips and the smoke billowed into the night, “stud.”
And like Sandy does in the film, you dropped the cigarette and put it out with your shoe, arms going back to the decks railing and looking back at Eddie. Checkmate.
However, Eddie couldn’t have you get the checkmate. He couldn’t have you be the one to end up on top when he had been planning this for days. Since the moment he shrieked outside of Gareth’s window that he had a crush on you—fully formed and not a silly grade school one that made him want to tug pigtails and call you names. Eddie shook his head, dropping his hands from their position and drew close. He caged you into that spot and with the permission in your eyes, one of his hands grazed your side.
A brush of knuckles along the fabric of your shirt, belt, then pants, before his palm became certain. Running along the same track his knuckles had just traced before settling on your waist.
“Indulge me one more thing,” Eddie’s breath barely hitched when you rested one hand on the arm he had around you and the other gripped his sweater. He took his other hand and rested it on your jaw, thumb caressing a spot as his fingers gingerly held your head.
“Let me take you out. On a real date where I can bring you flowers,” he smiled the same time you did, “and your dad can tell me to have you home by nine but I’ll have you back at nine-o-five because I can’t stop kissing you in my shitty van.”
You pulled him closer, hand clutching his sweater tightly to keep him to you. “You beat me to it.”
“Yeah, mama?” He smiled, eyes consistently trained on your red lips. “You gonna ask me out?”
“I can’t,” you could barely function with the way your heart leapt, “I’ve already got a date.”
“So, that’s a yes?”
“Yes and are you gonna kiss me, Munson? I don’t think I can—“
Eddie didn’t let you finish. He pressed his lips to yours and you accepted them eagerly. His gentle touch a haven as the deal was sealed. Your hand that rested on his forearm moved to his hair, tugging out the scrunchie because if you were going to kiss Eddie, all of him had to be part of it. He reveled the feeling of your fingers weaving into his hair; lips threatening to grin as he got his girl and you got your boy. Nervousness subsiding, all that was left was the tenderness of being two people in love.
No longer two idiots in love; no longer two fake parenting partners.
But a pair fit like two puzzle pieces made for one another.
And when Mr. Allen collected the dolls on Monday, he revealed that each had a floppy disk inside their plush bodies that recorded the number of tantrums and minutes passed between them until soothed. As it turned out, you and Eddie had the best times in the class and in all of Mr. Allen’s years of teaching, Eddie Munson was the first one to prove him wrong. The ‘A’ on top of his assignment sheet at the end of that week became his most important achievement at the time.
Not because he managed to care for a fake baby, but because in the end, he walked out of the class hand and hand with you knowing that everything—no matter what would happen in his life—would be okay.
[Mario Bonus Round Sound: Oh, Baby, it’s Real]
The early morning sunlight trickled into the room from the breaks in the blinds. Everything was sterile; light woods and itchy fabrics, the bed wasn’t comfortable but it was better than the chair. A bag sat in the corner unzipped and its contents unflatteringly pulled out of it. There were fast food wrappers on a tray table with empty cups sitting on the windowsill ready to be basked in sunlight.
Eddie had never been more tired.
The chaise was a second option because he couldn’t have the bed and he would never ask to have it anyway. The chair had grown increasingly unworthy of his attention after sixteen hours of pacing and sitting, pacing and sitting. He could barely keep his eyes open. The kind of tired that Eddie was feeling made everything sluggish; his body laid out on the green piece of furniture, his hand skimmed the cold tile floor as the sounds of a tile cleaner passed by the closed door.
If someone asked eighteen-year-old Eddie Munson where he thought he’d be at thirty, sitting here, in a hospital in Los Angeles would not be his first assumption.
Mega rockstar? Hot-shot guitarist with the best hair? Those were more probable than this.
But he let the whirring of the machine act as white noise. However, in the life that he wouldn’t trade for anything, quiet never lasted long.
“Mr. Munson?” A hand shook his shoulder, nudging the sleep he wished for into the back of his mind to be dreamt of another time.
“Mr. Munson,” the voice called again. Eddie cracked an eye open and saw the nurse give him a small smile, pity for the obvious tiredness that drooped from his face. “I’m sorry to wake you but there are visitors outside and I didn’t want to bring them in because of…”
She didn’t need to say it. People posing to be friends or family just to get a picture or a story. It was something he had to deal with, yet never got used to. It wasn’t natural nor normal to have to hide pieces of a person’s life because people felt entitled to every piece of them. The price of fame was high; the balance of privacy and publicity was a difficult seesaw.
Eddie sat up, the nurse pulling back and waiting for him at the door. She had seen many people walk through these halls, sit and stay by their partner’s side during the most life changing moment they’d ever have and Eddie was no different than the best of them. As he past the bed, he rubbed a foot covered in a yellow blanket and hospital grade sheets gently before exiting the room.
“I put them in a room down here because they were adamant that they were family,” she told him, her glasses swinging on her scrubs and hair graying at the roots. “One young man was particularly vibrant in his language… Claims he’s her brother but I don’t think they look anything alike.”
Eddie chuckled, squeezing the woman’s shoulder as she pointed to the door that she had huddled them all in. “I think I know exactly who that is actually.”
“If you bring them in the room, have them try to be quiet. You don’t see much silence up here and I’d rather give the opportunity for peaceful rest.”
“Will do,” he said but deep down, he felt that silence wouldn’t last if the gaggle of people he believed to be beyond the door to the other room turned to be true.
“Congratulations again,” she said and left him in the hall.
Eddie could hear the chatter beyond the threshold; bickering and the distinct sound of plastic wrap around flowers and balloons crinkling through the air. His life had changed so much from 1984. Each year more difficult and challenging—unprecedented and terrifying but here he was, an established adult man with his life (sort of) put together. Everything was clicking into place and most of it stemmed from the moment Steve Harrington and a girl named Lisa drew two names out of Mr. Allen’s bowls from home.
He walked through the doorway and saw fifteen smiling, giddy faces beaming back at him with balloons, bags, and flowers in their hands. Dustin was holding a teddy bear, El, Max, and Lucas were carrying bags of food for everyone to eat for lunch.
“Surprise!” They shouted in scattered exclamations of excited cheers.
Eddie had never been so happy to have a family—one of his own and one of his choosing.
Dustin was the first to barrel into him, throwing his arms around Eddie and hugging him tightly. It set off a chain reaction in the room. Arms and bodies squished, Eddie couldn’t tell if it was Hopper, Wayne, or your dad who rubbed the top of his head like he was a dog. Either way, the love was felt; the love was absorbed and it spread further into the hospital than just that little room. Fifteen connected souls bonding over something new.
“Congrats man,” Steve extended a hand, grasping Eddie’s with a firm grip as Robin hung off his shoulder. “Never thought I’d see you like this. But it also confirms that you and Y/n do the deed and I don’t like thinking about that.”
“Yeah,” Eddie chuckled tiredly. They could see how drained he was. Only the older ones in the room could relate to how Eddie was feeling. “I didn’t think I’d ever be here either.”
“But you know what?” Nancy piped up from beside Steve. “I never had a doubt that you’d be a good dad.”
“Thanks, Wheeler,” hearing that from Nancy meant a lot. Dustin popped up again from beside Nancy, tucking himself in between her and Eddie. He still had that bear clutched in his hands.
“Can we meet him?”
El looked excitedly at him, “can I hold him!?” It was her first time doing something like this.
“Only if you keep your trap closed,” Eddie warned Dustin, face serious as it could be. “That nurse will kick my ass if you throw a rager in there, alright? So keep the volume low…” Eddie stopped, thinking on it for a second. Fifteen people all at once would be like running a race on a Hawkins street with a million other people. “And we’ll go in groups. Grandparents first, then godparents, then everyone else, ‘Kay?”
“Eye-eye captain,” Dustin saluted him but kept on Eddie’s heels as everyone exited the empty room to transition to one with two. The door was left cracked open, the quiet nature of the room wanting to be left undisturbed had to be broken.
They had traveled all this way for this moment.
“Let me go in first,” Eddie told them, the older adults giving him fond smiles because he was taking it as seriously as they hoped he did. Maybe that project parenthood assignment had left a lingering impact on him. Maybe Eddie Munson had just matured into the person he always wished his parents were and wasn’t going to screw it up because life could be unkind sometimes. “I’ll come get you.”
Fifteen people who hailed from Hawkins were left in the hallway as Eddie re-entered the room. He tried to keep his footsteps quiet but in the end, it was useless because the second he turned the small corner that blocked his view of the bed, you were sitting up with the television remote in your hand. Across the way, Grease played silently on the screen.
“What’s wrong?” You asked him as you tried to keep your voice low. “Did something happen?”
Eddie shook his head, walking straight over to the side of the bed where he took your hand, kissing the back of it before rubbing his thumb against the back of it.
“We’ve got a party bus of visitors from Indiana,” he said, looking over you to the plastic bassinet that was positioned beside the bed. Wrapped in a white blanket—in a perfect swaddle—was his little boy. “They’re all waiting outside the door and won’t take no for an answer,” he joked.
“My parents out there? Wayne?”
“Mhm,” he hummed, thumb still running across the back of your hand. “I think your mom has already cried. Her eyes are kind of puffy.”
“Don’t tell her that,” you muttered, taking your own look at the little bundle. On the sticker behind his little head, one last name, un-hyphenated, was written in black ink behind him. One family, one unit.
But his name wasn’t Bilbo.
“Can they come in?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, “just tell them to be quiet.”
Eddie smiled at you. Even in his tiredness, he could never hide the joy in his eyes. He was proud, eons beyond it in reality, but you had given him something he’d never dreamed of. A family. He would always have Wayne but now he had your parents, he had the kids, he had friends beyond Corroded Coffin and the people he worked with.
“I love you. You know that right?” He ran his free hand over your forehead, brushing the hair there and bending down to leave a kiss.
“You tell me every day,” you smiled, “and I love you too.”
“Then I guess he should meet his grandparents, huh?”
And when Eddie brought in your parents, Wayne, Hopper and Joyce, the sight brought you back to the first time Eddie ever stepped foot in your house.
How your dad watched reruns on the T.V. while you peeked out the blinds for him. He had known it then that Eddie was your forever. An arm wrapped around the man he considered to be the closest thing to a son he’d ever have, your father smiled at you the moment he saw the look in your eyes. Your mother skipped you completely and cooed at the little boy.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered at his chubby little face, “you have the best parents in the world.”
Tag List (Closed):
Thank you all for reading and supporting this fic series. I hope you enjoyed the last part and will stick around for any other Eddie writings I may do in the future. If you have been tagged in the tag list, I would humbly ask that you like and reblog to support but I also love reading and interacting with comments! I just love to hear from everyone so chat away—I want to know your thoughts.
Summary: You and Eddie raise a baby… only you aren’t a couple and the baby isn’t real–but now it's the first week and things evolve.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader [WC: 8k]
Warnings: Idiots in love, language, Billy Hargrove and Carol Perkins are assholes, only getting a part 3 aka “Halloween” if people want it (comments and reblogs help!)
Quick Links: Masterlist | Part One
Mr. Allen's classroom was a sound box of squabbles and chaos when you walked through the doorway Monday morning.
Tommy Hagen was throwing his doll across the room to Billy Hargrove in the far left corner as girls giggled in gaggles at their desks and Steve was trying to plead with the teacher at his desk.
It was like walking into an inferno without any water.
Bilbo was clutched into your chest; falsely protected by the notebook and pencil case you carried. The doll was swaddled the best you could manage that morning and surprisingly, quiet for the last few hours.
"Would everyone please take a seat!" Mr. Allen called from behind his desk but Steve did not leave and the disorder did not quell.
As you dodged the flying baby, you walked down the aisle of desks and attempted to find yours except it was already occupied. Carol Perkins was sitting in it; her doll placed on top with a stain of spaghetti sauce in the middle of its onesie.
"You're in my seat," you told her, raising your eyebrows as she popped her gum loudly with arms crossed. She peered over to you with flippant eyes, cocking her head to the side, and sticking her neck further out. Carol was no better than Billy, Tommy, or the rest of them.
"What?" She ran her tongue teasingly over her lips and jostled her shoulder with a wink. "Don't wanna sit by daddy?"
They had all heard Eddie's joke in the cafeteria last week. Mama. It was harmless in Eddie's eyes compared to their own. Their minds were far from it—dangerous and begging for a way to make their tiny hearts feel better by putting others in situations they'd never want to see themselves in. No one called people ‘daddy’ unless they were quite literally five and talking to their father, so the sentiment behind it was crude and unwelcome.
You sighed, motioning to your desk, "Can I sit down? This is my desk."
"Sorry," She pursed her face with a comedic frown and the girls sitting around her laughed. Their high-pitched chuckles made your skin crawl. "See these," she waved her hand at the surrounding desks, "are for people who aren't freaks… you know which corner they sit in."
You stared at her, mouth slightly agape and processing what she had said. The problem with girls–high school girls–was that the image of who you grew to be mattered most to them.
"What are you talking about?" You scoffed, furrowing your brows at her. "This is literally my seat, Carol. You can't just kick me out of my seat–" you turned toward Mr. Allen, not wanting to be the person who tattles about menial things, but you didn't want to get in trouble for not sitting in the one assigned to you at the beginning of the year.
"You gonna tattle on me, little miss perfect? No wonder you and Nance are such good friends," Carol fluffed her voluminous red hair, "It doesn't surprise me that you get on well with Munson after she became friends with Byers… maybe you can go on double dates to the cemetery and listen to his pathetic band play at a run-down bar."
"You're such a b-"
You couldn't get the words out to defend Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie, or yourself because Eddie had walked into the classroom as she fluffed her hair. Before you could spit out the insult, he put a hand on your lower back and pushed you forward. The feel of his hand sent a jolt through your spine, your head turning to look over your shoulder only to find him shaking his head with pleading eyes.
"Don't play into that," he said as he sat down at the desk in the right corner. Eddie hooked his foot around the one beside him and positioned it next to his–out of order with the rest of them five rows forward. "Believe me," he rose his eyebrows knowingly, "they just want to get a rise out of you."
You slid into the seat next to him and laid Bilbo between the crease that connected the desks.
"They're assholes. All of them," you mumbled to which he responded with a nod, crossing his arms across his chest and observed the room before him. Mr. Allen looked like he wanted to pull, what little hair he had left, out of his head as Steve tried to persuade him to cut the assignment short. The baby flinging between Tommy and Billy looked ready to lose an arm.
Glancing over at him, Eddie had a cigarette tucked behind his ear that pushed his hair back. He was wearing a black leather jacket and an inconspicuous red t-shirt underneath. The same ornate jewelry he adorned every day littered his figure–a black hair tie on his right wrist. You were reminded of your father's comments from Saturday, looking away and focusing your attention elsewhere.
"I think I cracked it, the code on how to care for Bilbo," you said quietly. Eddie looked at the doll all swaddled in its yellow blanket and recognized it had been washed. The fabric was fluffy and begging to be touched.
"Yeah?"
"The swaddle helps, sure, but it's like… it can sense stress or something. We just have to be gentle and the tantrums won't last as long. The way you touch it has to be gentle."
"That's it?" Eddie appeared unconvinced but the conversation died when Mr. Allen got up from his chair, slammed the door closed, and told everyone to sit next to their partners. You met Eddie's eyes with the question lingering between you–how did he know you'd have to sit by one another?
Eddie leaned over, unintentionally making goosebumps erupt on your skin. You were thankful the weather was changing and you could wear long sleeves.
"Katie Yang has Allen before us. Told me that everyone complained and he makes everyone talk," he whispered.
Katie Yang was a savior. Katie Yang made Eddie's impulsive escape plan valid without reason. The senior Hellfire member had never even spoken to you before, but she had your back and didn't even know it.
"We will have to give them all our secrets?" You smiled and he caught himself glancing down at your lips as they grinned. "I'd rather they all have to walk through Mordor than come home to the Shire."
Oh, Eddie was fucked. Royally and utterly fucked.
"So," Mr. Allen clapped his hands together eagerly. He was excited to hear the tales of the weekend because for once, each one was connected to his assignment.
He gazed around at the pairs and saw the life draining from many of the eyes. Steve was still angered at his refusal to cut the project short, a couple of the girls were picking at the doll clothes, and the many of the guys kept to themselves.
"Who wants to share first?"
Allen paced at the front of the room. He knowingly prepared to choose the first set of eyes that diverted from his and those eyes were Tina Nicholls'.
"Tina!" He exclaimed happily and everyone looked toward her. "How was the first few days of parenthood?"
"Horrible, like everyone else says," she began twirling her hair like something out of a mean girl flick. Tina was too busy planning her Halloween party to care about the project.
"And Peter is your partner?" he pointed to the football player next to her and she nodded.
"Do you think it's horrible, Peter?"
"I mean," he sounded like he was strung out on cocaine, "it's fine, I guess."
"Any tips you'd like to share? How are you able to care for the baby if feeding and hygiene aren't options?"
Steve turned his entire body to face them. He was so far lost that he had no clear plan. For once, the entire room was void of wailing or gurgling or giggles and it was peaceful.
"We just kind of let it cry," Peter admitted, not sure if there was any other answer to the question.
Eddie tipped his head toward yours and you could feel the ends of his hair brush your shoulder.
"Bad parents," he scolded and you bit your lip to prevent the smile that was threating to overtake your face. It was so easy to smile at everything he said.
"Do you think letting it cry it out every time is a good strategy?" Mr. Allen asked in response and the two shrugged their shoulders.
"We're not parents, how would we know?" Tina retorted.
"First time parents don't know what they're walking into either. But, in the end, they make it work," he narrowed his eyes, "sometimes."
"But this baby is fake and only half the work of a real baby," Peter added and Allen nodded.
"Exactly, Peter. If you think this is hard–with a doll that's unpredictable–then imagine being real parents at your age. Many of you are adults or going to be adults within the year and just because you are eighteen, it doesn't mean you're ready to be parents."
Carol laughed from your former seat. "Could you imagine any of us as parents?" She garnered a few chuckles from the ones that follow her around school. Billy Hargrove in the other corner smiled at her when she turned around to look around the room.
"No, I can't," Mr. Allen shook his head at her, preparing to ask another group their experience.
"I mean," she shifted her body to swivel in the chair in your direction, "I don't want to be a mother because it would mess up my body," a whistle left Billy's lips and it perturbed you.
“Think of Hargrove as a dad!” She cackled and Billy let her joke. “That kid would be as buff as Arnold by the time he’s two!”
The way she looked in your direction made Eddie tense up beside you.
"Could you imagine miss perfect and the freak having a baby?"
It wasn't even two days ago that you realized you were attracted to Eddie in a romantic way and here the popular kids were, drawing attention to nothing more than an assigned partnership like it was a choice. You couldn't help the way your face fell. The laughter from the peers you had known since kindergarten invading every sense and it was new.
For Eddie, it wasn't. Hell, he had been crushing on the girl with her nose stuck in a book since the fifth grade and if he was going to let a group of nasty bullies prevent his dreams of sweeping you, that girl, off her feet he’d never forgive himself.
"You know, Carol," He steeled his face as he looked at her, feeling your eyes watch his every movement, "you've been fuckin' Tommy since the seventh grade. I'm surprised an 'accident' hasn't happened."
There was a brief second in time where Mr. Allen's classroom had become a vacuum in space. A pin could be heard dropping in the three seconds of silence that followed Eddie's words and the teacher himself was stunned into a wordlessness despair.
"Holy shit," Billy erupted in laughter and set the whole room off.
"Mr. Munson, Mr. Munson," Mr. Allen breathed in heavily but Eddie wasn't paying attention to him.
Eddie met your eyes and saw the twinkle return in them. He smiled not at his words that defend you from her attack, but at the way you looked at him. He prayed to those metal Gods that what he saw in them wasn't a fallacy; that maybe, somewhere in the glint, there was the spark that illuminated his fire.
"Mr. Munson, please don't use that language in class." Mr. Allen scolded him, looking away from the now red-in-the-face Carol as Tommy high fived the guys around him.
"Sorry," Eddie replied to him half-heartedly because he was still looking at you.
That response was the talk of Hawkins High for an entire week.
Eddie took Bilbo Monday night and returned him Tuesday morning, departing from you with a small 'good luck tonight' leaving your lips as he debated skipping science.
That brief, four-minute conversation centered around Bilbo and his gig at the Hideout lingered within him for the entire day. As he drove home, when he left in his van, as he drove up to the bar, and when he sat tuning his guitar with a stupid, lovesick smile plastered on his face—all of his thoughts were consumed by you. Little parasite.
"What's wrong with him?" Jeff asked Gareth as the other guitarist sat beside the curly-haired boy fiddling with the symbols of his set. Gareth glanced at Eddie with the answer to the master’s knowing grin.
"You ever been in love, Jeff?" Gareth questioned quietly and Jeff choked on air.
"Love? Eddie's in love? With who?" Jeff openly gawked with surprise finding its way onto his face. The junior had seen Eddie flirt with girls, even go on a few dates but never, in his life, had he seen Eddie Munson be a man consumed by love.
"Y/n L/n," Gareth snickered at Jeff's face.
"They're partners for that baby project! He's not in love."
"He scared the shit out of me on Saturday where he admitted it to my face. Spent the whole day with her and you notice him at lunch?" Gareth challenged Jeff. Eddie had been himself for the most part, however, as Jeff reflects, his attention was always being pulled away. Eyes diverted, head turned toward another table, not fully engaged beyond talk of D&D and the new Maiden album Aces High.
"He's half there and half in la la land."
Jeff wanted to play into it. "Hey, Eddie!"
Eddie stopped tuning, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall above the door before looking at his friends.
"What?"
"How's the baby project? Make you wanna be a dad?"
"No," Eddie cackled, "but it's fine. A lot better than last week."
"And Y/n?"
"What about her?" Eddie's eyes left Jeff’s for a split second to see Gareth smiling beside him and the secret, his secret, was out in the open. He should have never said anything. Eddie had just panicked in the moment that evening. "Seriously, man?"
"Sorry!" Gareth giggled holding his hands up in defense, "you were smiling like an idiot and he asked!"
"You gonna ask her out or just watch her every day at lunch?" Jeff joked and Eddie felt the guitar pick between his fingers become a bullet. He tossed the pick harshly in Jeff's direction but the boy dodged it.
"I don't watch her at lunch."
"Yes, you do," Gareth backed Jeff up. He got up from his stool and picked the pick off the floor. "You've been staring at her since Friday and yeah, you talk at school and spent one afternoon together but that's not gonna help you sway her interest. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure you’ve stared at her table the entire time I’ve know you!”
"Who said I was trying to sway her interest?" Eddie questioned, narrowing his eyes and leaning his head forward as he gripped the neck of his guitar. "What if I just want to be friends?"
"I'm sorry," Jeff stood up, shaking his head, "you blasted Carol Perkins in Allen's class for what? We get shit on all the time and you don't defend us like that! You did, however, defend her and if you wanted to be 'just friends' you would have laughed it off like it was nothing."
"I was being nice!"
"Yeah, nice to get in her pants!"
"Hey!" Eddie defended again, not realizing Gareth and Jeff were pulling the admissions out of him like stealing candy from a baby. "Don't say that!"
"It's true, though. Isn't it? She's a pretty nice girl… you know what they say about the quiet ones…" Gareth looked at Jeff conspiratorially.
Eddie bolted from the chair he had been sitting in and got in Gareth's face. His face angered and serious, the two knew Eddie played into the palm of their hand. Eddie teetered the line between social strata and confrontation—working for no physical confrontations so long as his jesting was allowed. He had been socked one to many times to know that a concussion would put him out of commission from doing what he enjoyed most.
"Don't fucking say that shit ever again."
"You love her, man," Jeff put his hand on Eddie's shoulder, drawing him back from Gareth, "or at least like her a lot."
Gareth provided a tight, hopeful expression in support. Eddie looked at both of them before turning around and pacing the small room.
"I doubt she would even say yes if I asked. Why would she go out with me? People at school are making fun of her because of this goddamn project so can you imagine if I somehow managed to date her? She'd be a social… pariah!"
"Oh, big words," Jeff mumbled.
"I can't put her through that! What kind of person would I be if I caused her to lose friends or have girls write rumors about her in the bathroom stalls?"
"If she lost friends by going out with you, those people weren't really friends," Gareth concluded.
"You see what's happening to Nancy Wheeler because she's hangin' around Jonathan Byers?"
"He’s zombie kids brother?"
"Zombie kid? Yeah, but that's not the point!" Eddie swiveled back to face them. "Wheeler has like three friends and ever since Barb Holland died it's like the world has gone crazy! If I asked Y/n on date, the world would simply implode."
"Then don't ask her on a date," Jeff sufficed. "Just use the guise of the project as a way to hang out. You did it on Saturday when you went to her house and now do it again but go somewhere else. Take her to the diner, or… or to the park or something!"
Eddie thought on it for a minute. It wasn't a bad plan, per se, but he didn't want his motivations to seem fake. He wanted to spend time with you, get to know you, and if you'd let him, wine and dine you until you realized he was a good guy and you'd give him a chance. Tomorrow was Wednesday and Tina had asked him in the hall that afternoon if he could supply her party on Saturday.
So, he had tomorrow after school; Thursday after school; and Saturday before time with you would run out.
He couldn't guarantee that you'd ever be partners again or that, depending on the grade, you'd be inclined to speak to him after project parenthood was over.
Eddie had to take the chance.
Eddie never showed at your locker Wednesday morning to collect Bilbo from you.
In Allen’s class, you had to discuss alone how the last day and a half had been by yourself because he missed third period, and by the time lunch rolled around, he wasn’t at Hellfire’s table. Every time you glanced at the table out of curiosity as to why, five heads whipped in the opposite direction.
They had been staring. Their gazes fixed upon you like a brilliant gem—the golden statue at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
“Why do you keep looking over there?” Nancy broke the silence that settled between the two of you as lunch took hold. She had that same lunch as before, picking off your tray when she got bored of her own food.
“Eddie’s not here,” you shot a look at her then the baby doll beside you. “He was supposed to take Bilbo.”
“Jesus,” she mumbled, “you sound like a real parent, you know that?”
“Well, Barb did always call me the mom of the group.”
Just the mentioned of her name was saddening.
That’s what brought the lull in the first place. Nancy mentioned that she and Steve visited the Holland’s last Friday and, conveniently, forgot to mention it. There was something in her eyes—guilt or sorrow—that existed ever since that night.
Everything felt like one big secret lately.
“Yeah, she did.”
“But I’m kind of pissed about it,” you glanced back at the table and this time, met Gareth’s eyes before he could turn away. “And they keep staring at me too. Do I have something on my face?”
“No,” Nancy snorted a laugh, “maybe they’re concerned about having your attention.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” you scrunched your face in thought as you turned back to her. Nancy had a little smirk playing on her face.
“What?”
She didn’t say anything. Nancy just sat there, smirking into her food like a mad woman.
“What Nance?” You chuckled from pure nervousness. That feeling had been bouncing around inside of you for the last few days and the thought of its reasoning was excitable fear. You couldn’t stop looking for him when he wasn’t here.
“Nothin’…” she trailed off as she tilted her head onto her shoulder. Her big, stormy blues looking at yours with mischief. “There a reason you keep looking over there, though? Never did it before.”
“I told you,” you tried to keep your face as flat and firm as possible, “he’s not here. I have to spend extra time with Bilbo without prior notice and if he had any sense in him, he would have at least called and said he wouldn’t make it in today. I don’t think it’s fair, to be frank, that I have to allocate more of my time with—“
God. You were rambling.
“—Bilbo because that means he isn’t doing the same share of work.”
“And you’re sure it isn’t because you have a huge, fat crush on Eddie Munson?”
Nancy was far from quiet and the girls at the end of the table perked their heads up. Your heart skipped in little beats like a jumping horse.
“I-I don’t like Eddie in that way. He’s my partner,” you defended.
“Mhm,” she hummed, turning her own head to look at the Hellfire table and her investigative instincts told her she was right the moment she caught them all in the act. “The more you tell yourself that, it makes it more true. You’re just denying facts.”
“Nance! It’s not!” You cried, flashing your eyes at the girls at the end as if trying to convince them you weren’t hopelessly in love with the metal head. It made no sense for you to be the one defending your feelings to a girl torn between two very different boys and who also happens to be a year under you.
Why did she get to wear the big girl pants when you squandered in a rain puddle?
“Did something happen? Is that why they’re staring?” She questioned. Nancy was enjoying the way you squirmed because it reminded her of the gossip sessions Barb, you, and herself would have at sleepovers.
“No!” Your eyes blew wide, “nothing happened! I swear—Christ! What is wrong with everyone this week? First, Carol was a straight bitch in health, no one will stop talking to me about what he said to her, and two, you! Why do I have to be in love with someone to care about where they are?”
“So, you are in love with him? Who knew…”
And like fate, you were saved by the bell.
“I’ll take you home, alright?” Nancy stood, zipping up her lunch bag as everyone began to prepare for their afternoon classes. You still sat down, hands gripping the table to the point where your fingertips hurt.
Why was the admission that you found Eddie to be the perfect mix of charming and attractive so difficult?
“But we have to wait for the boys because I have to take them all home too.”
“What? Jonathan can’t?”
“Sick today. But you would have noticed that if you paid attention. Too bad,” Nancy smiled, “Eddie Munson is corrupting your mind.”
“Seems like Steve’s really blowing you off.”
Nancy’s car was actually her mothers. Borrowed for the week because Steve was entirely too consumed with Tammy Thompson, Nancy hadn’t even appeared jostled any time they were seen together. Sure, Steve still snuck up on her in the hallway and planted kisses on her rosy cheeks when he had a second, but the hair had stressed himself out to the point where he and Tammy were tied at the hip.
It did not help the situation to know that Tammy Thompson had heart eyes for the brown-haired beauty.
“He’s just busy,” Nancy leaned against the car with her arms folded across her chest as the two of you stared at the middle school.
Classes for the day had just been let out which meant within fifteen minutes, the smattering of little middle school boys would come bolting out of the school with backpacks barely zipped up and start a fight over who got the window seats. Bilbo was shut inside the car in the passenger seat. Just the sight of the doll made your mind filter back to the fact that Eddie never showed and you were stuck with the doll.
You didn’t want to believe that he had left you scorned when he promised to make this project as equal as possible. But the world wasn’t perfect and pretending that Eddie Munson wouldn’t flake on you halfway through the assignment appeared to be wishful, premature thinking on your part.
“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s spending all his time with Tammy? It’s bullshit if you ask me.”
“It’s for the project,” she bore her eyes into yours, “what’s the difference between Steve and Tammy and you and Eddie?”
“Steve’s your boyfriend, Nance, not Tammy’s.”
“Thank you for that reminder,” Nancy deadpanned, “I didn’t know I had a boyfriend.”
“I’m just saying,” you looked back to the middle school and no kids were coming down the walkway yet.
Maybe it wasn’t your business, but Nancy was your friend. Steve was a halfway decent guy most of the time and while you thought she could do better; it was her decision in the end. You hadn’t meant to put doubt in her mind, yet she gnawed on her bottom lip anxiously in the minutes that passed.
“Do you really think it’s bullshit?” She asked quietly as two sophomore girls passed the bumper of Karen Wheeler’s car. A bell sounded in the distance signaling the end of another day.
“Nance,” you sighed, putting an arm on the top of the car and letting your head fall into the hand that prepared to rest at the top of your head. “I didn’t mean anything by it… I just thought it was rude of him. It’s like you’re not a priority.”
“It’s been like that a lot lately,” she admitted to the ground; eyes downcast to her shoes. “He’s so,” Nancy let out a frustrated groan, “caught up in all of that,” she waved her hand in a circle at the high school building.
“That’s kind of the point of senior year, I suppose,” you shrugged, “but I know you, Nance, and I don’t think you’re happy. I know with everything that happened with Will and Barb and what not screwed a lot of things up…”
“I know, I know.”
“Don’t dwell on it, alright?” You felt guilt wash over you. Nancy’s face was drawn and sad when the thought of the weekend almost there and Halloween just on the other side of Friday should be exciting. “You still going as Joel and Lana?”
Risky Business. Her favorite movie.
Nancy nodded her head and gazed off into the distance. Little ant like shapes began to descend the walkway from the middle school. “Yeah and that reminds me,” she opened the driver's side door and fumbled in her bag for a second before pulling an orange slip from it.
“Tina was handing these out after class. Not sure if you got one,” she handed it to you and you read over the information quickly. “You should come. I know Halloween isn’t like, your favorite, but it could be fun. And if Steve’s an asshole I’ll be happy to have you there.”
“Oh?” You quirked a brow at her, “You want me to be a third wheel to the Stancy show?”
She laughed, a small smile threatening on her face. “No… it would be good for you.”
“To get plastered and smoke a little weed? My dad would lock me in my room if I came home smelling like that.”
“You can stay at my house,” she offered. Mike Wheeler’s loud yelling could be heard twenty feet away.
“What in the world would I go as? It’s a little late to be thinking of a costume now.”
“I don’t know…” she pondered and saw the group of kids barreling toward the car. “Maybe you could go as Sandy, you know, from Grease.”
“Yes,” you rolled your eyes at her as Lucas Sinclair’s feet came thudding toward the two of you and he tapped the trunk of the car first. “Because I look exactly like Olivia Newton-John…” you joked.
“Halloween doesn’t mean you look like them. You just have to embody the character. Get some leather pants… maybe a jacket too and I can get a red ascot for you.”
“Nance,” you complained but Dustin, Mike, and Will quickly followed and slapped their hands on the trunk behind you.
“What are you talking about,” Mike asked out of breath, hands clutching the straps of his backpack.
“Halloween but that’s none of your business,” Nancy told him and tipped her head toward the car, “get in. I have homework.”
You opened the car door for the boys because you had been leaning on it. A scramble of thank you’s, you forgot Bilbo was tucked in the front seat.
“Shit!” Mike laughed loudly and Nancy rolled her eyes, “Whose baby?”
“Y/n’s baby,” Nancy winked at you before slipping into the car and shutting the door; the conversation inside went silent for you. As you shut the door for the boys and walked around the side of the trunk, an eruption of metal music began to invade the parking lot of Hawkins High.
Eddie. Eight hours late to first period.
Groups of kids rapidly moved out of the way as the van sped into the lot. It nearly tipped on itself when the wheel hit the edge of a low concrete planter in its first turn. The sight of it peeved you. The entire day you spent hanging onto Bilbo when it wasn’t your job. Eddie left you hanging onto hope and didn’t help with the climb.
You opened the passenger door the second he pulled into the spot erratically next to you. His window rolled down, the music ceased with a press of a button.
“Don’t leave! Please, don’t leave!” Eddie begged but didn’t get out of his van. You folded your arm over the top of the car door and looked at him. You were still holding the orange invitation to Tina’s party. He had slight bags under his eyes like he didn’t sleep; his hair was barely brushed [per usual], but he had his entire body turned toward the window as he leaned out of it.
“Why shouldn’t I? You said you would take this seriously and it didn’t even take a week before you flaked!”
“I didn’t mean to!” He defended himself, voice a higher pitch than he would have liked. “I was hungover and there was no way I was going to stay awake the entire day so I stayed home. I meant to call but by the time I got up it was already eleven.”
“Who’s that?” You heard Lucas ask Mike as Lucas was the lucky one to get the window seat behind the passenger side.
“I don’t know. Maybe Y/n’s got a boyfriend now.”
“He’s like… dirty,” Lucas cringed and Dustin slapped the back of his head.
“I think he looks cool!”
“You got drunk on a Tuesday night?” You asked him, baffled he had the audacity to do such a thing but he had come to school stoned before—it really wasn’t out of the realm of ‘Eddie.’
“We had a few drinks after the show last night and it got away from me.”
“Well,” you grumbled, “it sounds like you have a problem there, Eddie.”
“I don’t have a problem! It was an accident, I’m sorry!” Never, in his eighteen years on the planet, had Eddie ever apologized to one of his peers. “I’m sorry, Y/n. I promise it wasn’t intentional. I know this project is important.”
“You sure have a funny way of showing that,” Eddie hated the attitude that slipped out with every word. It made the plan he spent all night mulling over feel less and less plausible.
“How’d you even know I’d still be here?”
“Lucky guess. If you weren’t I would have checked your house and if you weren’t there, I’d check Wheeler’s.”
You pursed your lips. “And you know where she lives because...?”
“Well,” Eddie snickered, “someone has to t-pee the rich kids every Halloween.”
Nancy’s head perked up at that.
“Let me make it up to you?” He looked hopeful and that bit away at your anger. The way his eyes pleaded, the frantic way in which he tried to show you that it truly was just an accident and he meant for none of it to happen.
“Maybe it is her boyfriend,” Mike said to Lucas who smiled cheekily.
“He looks so cool…” Dustin followed the comment as Will hummed in agreement. Through the windows of Karen’s car, Eddie could see Nancy Wheeler eavesdropping and a bunch of middle schoolers staring back at him.
“Those kids,” he pointed at them and they all looked away as if he hadn’t just made eye contact with each and every one of them, “they’re the ones in your locker.”
“What?” That hadn’t come out exactly right.
“The picture, in your locker,” Eddie clarified, “the Star Wars kids.”
“Oh,” you nodded, “yeah I babysit some of them.”
“We’re not babies!” Mike yelled at you from the back and Eddie laughed, his smile shooting an arrow through your heart. You hadn’t even noticed he saw the picture in your locker, let alone remembered it.
“So,” he cleared his throat, “You free right now?”
“I have homework… you know, from school today.”
“Then let’s do homework,” Eddie opened his door, hopped out of his car and extended his arm toward the front bench like a prince opening the carriage door for a princess.
“See! Look at him! Freaking wicked!” Dustin laughed and while you weren’t looking at him, you bet that toothless grin was adorable. Nancy shushed them but it didn’t stop Lucas from peering again.
“Is he new like MadMax?”
“No, I’ve seen that van before,” Will commented quietly. Nevertheless, you could still hear them. “I think he’s a drug dealer.”
Will wasn’t wrong—in the slightest—but before the boys could get any more curious about Eddie, you grabbed Bilbo off the seat and slung your bag over your shoulder while looking at Nancy.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Mhm,” she hummed, keeping her lips together knowingly, “don’t do drugs.”
“See!” Will said and Dustin leaned back in his seat. You looked back at them and they went silent. Through the passenger window, Eddie was hanging onto the door with one hand and the other tucked itself into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“He your boyfriend, Y/n?” Mike questioned, “Nancy said you’ve been acting weird.”
“Oh my God,” you looked at Nancy again and she shook her head.
“I never said that.”
“Keep your noses out of my business, ‘Kay, twerps?” You scolded them to which they nodded, but Dustin’s devious smile meant it would never end. You shut the door as Eddie extended his arm again.
“After you, mama.”
For the first few minutes, Eddie didn’t even turn his radio back on. It was quiet—like the lingering silence that had fallen between you and Nancy not twenty minutes before. The only difference now was that it was just you and Eddie.
Just you and Eddie.
It wasn’t as though the silence was completely silent; the kind that made your ears ring and made you feel like you were underwater. The van itself was loud, in need of a tune or two, and his fingers tapped on the steering wheel and open window too. Bilbo laid between you on the van’s fuzzy seats. It smelt like cigarettes and weed, but the little tree that hung from the rear view mirror smelt like pine.
“So,” you watched the forests beside the school pass by quickly, “where are you taking me?”
He looked over, the hand that was resting out the open window came back in and ran over his chin. “You really wanna know?”
Pondering for a second, you decided that a surprise wouldn’t be so bad. Eddie was harmless—as harmless as a doe-eyed drug dealer could be—and never struck you as a guy that would intentionally put you in any danger. He was apologetic and soft spoken when he most needed to be.
“No. It’s fine.”
“You and Wheeler babysit those kids after school or something?” He asked to keep the conversation alive. He didn’t want the ride to the destination to be silent. Eddie wanted to know everything about you and silence defeated that purpose. “I see them ride their bikes to school sometimes.”
“Two of them I do,” you responded, watching as he nodded his head slowly and took in every piece of information you gave. “Nancy has a little brother, Mike, and the other one is Will Byers.”
“Right,” He felt a little embarrassed by the fact he had referred to the kid as ‘Zombie Kid’ to Gareth and Jeff even if you would never know of it.
“They’re good kids. They’re the ones who play D&D,” Eddie recalled your dad mentioning that, “Mike’s the DM.”
“You know more about D&D than you let on there, mama?” He smirked, stopping at the stop light like he was supposed to.
“They try to teach me every time but I can’t grasp it. I’m more of a monopoly kind of girl.”
“Monopoly girl…” he ticked.
“I think Bilbo has taken after me that way,” you joked and smiled. He loved the sight. “Pretty sure he’ll be a monopoly kid.”
“Over my dead body,” Eddie mumbled quietly, “I thought you said he wouldn’t grow old? Would never have memories?”
“Changed my mind…” you diverted your eyes to the front and watched the light. “You really were hungover?”
“As much as the kids at school like to brag about theirs, I wouldn’t openly admit that I was… still am a little bit,” Eddie laughed but knew the lingering effects of his overconsumption were long gone. “I didn’t mean to leave you high and dry there.”
The sincerity in his voice was hard to escape from. Like before, as he half hung out the window to convince you he was truly sorry, Eddie wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t pretending to gloat about getting drunk after one of his shows and being a show-off by not coming to school the next day. It was a tone you had been catching often in his voice when he spoke to you. The same could not be said for the way he interacted with Hellfire or the rest of the lot at school… it was nice and non-combative against the world shaming him for being who he was.
“I believe you,” you told him as the light turned green, “Sorry for being a bitch about it.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Eddie scoffed in a second of disbelief, “you should be mad. I broke a promise that I made to you and being upset about it isn’t wrong.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you had a drinking problem or anything…”
“Hey,” you looked over at him. Eddie shook his head, eyes telling you it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s fine.”
You still felt bad about it because the comment wasn’t something you meant. People upset by things beyond their control often say things they don’t mean and the last thing you wanted Eddie to think about you was that you thought he was a burnout—one of those stoner drunks who would never graduate high school.
“Well, I still didn’t mean it.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. In his mind, he wondered if he should admit why he had even taken up the night that way. Gareth and Jeff had gone to school perfectly fine yet there he was, blocking out the sunlight with his sheets as it burned his eyes. The thoughts that ran through his mind pounded harder than the alcohol he gladly chugged.
But by some unimaginable force, you mentioned the two first.
“At lunch today, your Hellfire table kept looking at me.”
“O-oh?” He stuttered knowing the reason they were looking. In his drunken stupor, Eddie had engaged in some… flower-y language to describe his feelings about you.
“Do you know why?” A part of you wanted to think he did. That maybe he talked about you to them and what you saw in your mind wasn’t an illusion of your own making.
“Why they were looking at you?” Eddie stalled. He focused on the road ahead of him and was very thankful that the park Jeff had suggested wasn’t farther away. You nodded and gave a gentle hum.
“No, not really… maybe they thought you’d be mad I wasn’t there.”
“That doesn’t constitute staring at me for a half hour.”
“I’ll tell ‘em to knock it off tomorrow. You don’t have to worry about Gareth’s eyes drilling a hole through the back of your pretty little head anymore.”
Pretty.
It was passive but it was there.
You settled with his answer but a pit grew. There was no longer a part of you that wanted him to admit that he talked about you and their curiosity was what caused them to keep looking. All you wanted was that. Not a little, not some, but all of you. The rest of the ride was quiet and when he pulled into the small parking lot beside Hawkins Memorial Park, he grabbed Bilbo and opened his door.
“We have arrived,” he lowered his voice dramatically.
“The park?”
“No, it’s the Shire.”
“Funny,” you panned, grabbing your bag and getting out of the van where fresh, unpolluted air filled your senses. Eddie walked ahead of you and while your mind traveled to the idea that everything was awkward now, Eddie was thinking of how he was going to slap the shit out of Gareth when he dropped you off later. He stopped at a picnic table in the middle of the park beside a giant tree and set Bilbo down on the top.
“Tell me,” he said as he sat down, “How was the dear little Bilbo for you? He say he miss his dad because I missed him.”
He was trying to break that tension again. By doing so, it only made your heart feel more giddy. The effort; Eddie was trying.
“He talked a lot about you,” You followed his movement and sat across from him while unzipping your bag and taking out your calculus homework. “In the last twenty-four hours, he learned how to speak and sign at the same time so, we’ve got a pretty brilliant little guy right there.”
We’ve.
“And what homework did Clay assign?” He picked up the sheet as soon as you set it down. You didn’t complain when he took it.
Eddie technically had already taken the class. It was one of the only subjects he considered himself to be a true fan of—and it was probable that D&D played a large part in that. All the calculations and fanfare that surrounded it… it made classes like math easier.
“Chain Rule…” he trailed off, brain racking itself to remember what it was. He was rather good at math and English—it was science and history that always caught him in a fix.
“I’m lost in there,” you laughed, embarrassed that calculus was beyond your skill set, “I can’t tell which lines are which or where the graphs are supposed to go… it’s like the numbers flip the minute I see them.”
“Do you need help? I think I can manage this?” Eddie returned the sheet and touched the textbook that didn’t set aflame the moment his fingers skimmed the cover. His ring clad hand searched for the pages on the unit and he let out a “voilà” when he found it.
“Have you taken this?”
“A year ago but I’m not as bad at math as everyone thinks.”
“I never said I thought you were bad at math.”
Eddie glanced up from the book. The wind was blowing slightly, the leaves changing their colors around the two of you and it was picture perfect; straight out of a movie. John Hughes should have teleported there because you’d look amazing as the subject of his next film—not that Eddie would ever admit he had seen a Hughes film before. Only Rocky Horror and Evil Dead for him.
“Actually,” Eddie swallowed hard and you could see the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, “I had the privilege of sitting next to Harrington for that class.”
Steve too was good at math. He had taken it a whole year before you did. You remember him complaining about Clay when he asked to see your schedule in September.
“He hasn’t changed a bit.”
“No,” you shook your head, “still the same old hair. But not the best hair.”
“Don’t let Steve hear you say that,” Eddie laughed, two little dimples on the sides of his smile forming. “Who is it then? Who has the best hair?”
“You,” the moment it left your lips you couldn’t regret it. It was the truth. Eddie Munson had the best hair and it drove you insane. All you wanted to do was run your fingers through it and brush it carefully away from his eyes. “You have the best hair.”
He hoped you did not see the way his cheeks went red. Eddie never blushed, he was never flattered but it worked on him. Instead of letting it simmer inside of him, he dramatically tossed one side of his hair over his shoulder.
“Me? You’re just sayin’ that so I do your homework,” words that he had never said before.
“No,” you chuckled and the sound opened his heart. Cracked it right open. “It’s true! You do have very… nice hair for a guy.”
“For a guy…” he whispered and looked at you again.
“Yes, for a guy. Obviously dear little Bilbo has the best hair,” Bilbo left the spot on the table as you picked him up; jokingly caressing the plastic black hairs on its plastic head. Eddie rolled his eyes and tapped the textbook.
“Yeah, Yeah,” he said, “You wanna finish your homework by the time the sun sets or what?”
He didn’t want the sun to set and neither did you. When daylight ran out, it meant the day was over and even if you had only a few hours together because he missed the day, it would never be enough for what you both wanted.
It would simply have to do for now.
The clunky van parked in your driveway long after the sun had set. Eddie promised he’d take Bilbo for the night and the rest of tomorrow before leaving you with him tomorrow night. The doll hadn’t made a noise all afternoon and it turned out to be a miracle.
“Thanks for the ride,” you smiled gently at him as the only light that trickled into the van was that of the two sconces that sat on either side of your garage door. “And for the homework help.”
“Never thought I’d hear anyone say that,” he leaned his head back against the headrest and you gripped the door handle but didn’t pull.
“And thanks for sticking up for me the other day in class… I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he said quietly. Eddie didn’t know what washed over him. He had slept all day and wasn’t overly tired, yet he could just close his eyes there, knowing you were next to him and not afraid of his presence. Even with the knowledge that your parents were just beyond the walls of the house was comforting. He was content. Maybe for the first time ever.
“But I do…” you murmured. His eyes scanned over you, your bag. He saw the little orange slip that you had been holding when he rolled up to Hawkins High earlier. Eddie knew it was the invitation to Tina’s party because she had handed one to him yesterday with the promise about dealing. No one talked to him outside of his circle unless they needed something. He only agreed because he needed the money, but now an idea sparked in his mind.
“You going to Tina’s party on Saturday?”
He saw your eyes flash surprise, “Nancy’s making me go. Third wheel to her and Steve.”
“And you’re going as…?” He wondered and you looked at your house as if you didn’t want to tell him.
“It’s stupid,” you said.
“I’m sure it’s not stupid.”
“Nancy picked it out.”
“Well,” he squeaked, “maybe it is stupid then but I won’t know unless you tell me.”
“Sandy, from Grease. It was her idea and I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m not even Sandy material.”
Eddie scoffed, head lolling forward in the direction of the house before turning back in you. His head was still flush against the headrest. “You are the epitome of Sandy, mama. Girl next door…”
“That’s Nancy,” you breathed out, “I think I’m a Frenchie who wants to be a Rizzo. Are you going?”
“Mhm,” he hummed, nodding his head in a defined manner, “Don’t know what I’ll go as.”
“Think about it, let me know. We can laugh at ourselves before anyone else can.”
“Yeah, okay,” he replied with the reminder you claimed to be a ‘third wheel’ at the front of his mind. “You don’t have to be a third wheel though.”
“No?” You rested the top of your head on your backpack as your arms wrapped around it. You could sit here for hours just looking at him like this. “You know something I don’t?”
“I’ll be there so you can hang out with me.”
“Ah,” you let out a light gasp, “no more third-wheeling?”
“Nope.”
“Is that your way of asking me to go with you without wearing matching costumes?”
You don’t know where that question came from. It weaseled its way from the back of your brain and straight out of your mouth. But like he did with Jeff’s suggestion, Eddie took that question and ran with it.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, “I’ll be going with Nance and Steve but you can take me home so long as you don’t get too high or get too drunk.”
He would go sober if it meant having you by his side for a second longer.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, mama.”
Nearly a week after Gareth was scared shitless by Eddie Munson knocking on his window at an ungodly hour, he kept the blinds closed to relieve himself of the embarrassment that it may happen again. Eight-thirty on a Thursday evening, he was reading his English book when three knocks sounded on his window and made him jump out of his skin.
He lifted those blinds with a fury and scowled at Eddie who was outside of his window once again.
“What the hell do you want this time?” Gareth screeched in a whisper at him.
“You’ll never fuckin’ believe it, man,” Eddie laughed as he gripped the windowsill with antsy fingers. “I think I’ve got my shot.”
“What? She actually agreed to go on a date with you?”
“Kind of, yes!” Eddie couldn’t really believe it. Neither could Gareth.
“You’re shitting me. No way did she say yes to you. She looked like she wanted to bolt from the lunchroom every time I looked over there.”
Eddie shook his head at Gareth, not caring if the kid believed him or not. “Oh, yeah, about that?” He rose an eyebrow and grew serious quickly. Gareth’s face fell.
“Don’t do it again, yeah? She caught on and thinks you guys are creepy. Don’t stare.”
“If she thinks we’re creepy, then why in the world did she agree to do anything with you?”
“I’m not the creepy one, Gareth the Great,” Eddie bounded off the window and spun around like a love sick fool with unsteady legs. “But I’ve almost got the girl and on Halloween, I’m gonna ask her on a real date. Like all that fancy shit and stuff… a real date.”
Part Three Here
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Summary: You and Eddie raise a baby… however, you’re not a couple and the baby isn’t real.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader [WC: 7k ]
Warnings: takes place at the beginning of season 2, language.
Quick Links: Masterlist
"And this," Mr. Allen walked up and down each row with the most serious face. Everyone else, all the students, were plagued with potential trauma at the preface of the assignment; "this is your only priority for the next week—including this weekend and the next."
You felt a cool breeze waft as he walked past your desk, continuing on forward as Steve Harrington audibly protested his instruction. The supposed "King of Hawkins High" wasn't impressed with having to take care of a child… well, a plastic one at that.
"Mr. Allen," he began from his spot in the second row from the door. All you could see was the brown poof of hair that he had become notable for. "I don't see why we can't just start this on Monday. We've got plans… there's a football game tonight!"
There were a few agreeing hums, mostly from the said football players in the room, but it wasn't as though they would be taking part in the assignment when they were on the field. Their partners would be left alone to deal with an unpredictable toy while they tossed pigskin for three hours for fun.
"And besides," Steve continued as Mr. Allen walked back to the front of the room, setting the baby down on his desk and grabbing two plastic bowls he had scavenged from home, "Halloween is next weekend! I bet we all already have plans…"
Steve turned around in his seat and looked around the room. He saw his peers watching him carefully, some in support and others in vague concern that he would get them in further conflict by having the task take up the whole month instead of a week and a half. He glanced over you hoping that being Nancy's childhood friend would spur a call within you to support him but alas, you would not give him the satisfaction.
In the back of the room, Steve's eyes landed squarely on one sole person. He chewed on his lip before turning around.
"Hell, I bet even Munson's got plans. You know we're all busy when he's actually doing something."
At that same moment, Eddie Munson had been sitting with his legs extended through the empty chair in front of him and his arms crossed against his chest. Even if he didn't want to be there in the slightest, Steve Harrington going on a tangent in the middle of senior health class intrigued him. And when his name slipped past the hair's lips, Eddie's face contorted. Eyes narrow and slightly offended. The new kid, Billy Hargrove, laughed as he twirled his pencil. He had been there for two weeks and had swept Eddie’s weed supply clean in a matter of days.
Eddie actually didn't have plans other than Hellfire on Friday, but he couldn't say that out loud. In fact, he didn't say anything. He had an inkling someone would call him to deal at whatever party everyone was going to, but unless it happened, he was staying in and getting stoned himself.
Everyone's head turned toward him and he forgot the real reason he didn't skip that hour. They were all judgemental. He was an oddity to them. You even glanced over your own, three rows in front of him and to the right.
When he caught your gaze, you were the only one to look at him like a real human being, a person, not a freak. Just simple curiosity because everyone else had. You gave him a tiny, empathetic smile before turning back around and he found himself staring at the back of your head after it happened. It made his heart skip a beat.
"Mr. Harrington," Mr. Allen placed one of the bowls he was holding onto Steve's desk, "Nothing's changing. I've conducted this role-play for ten years and it is not changing because you, or anyone else in this class, has plans that don't fit the lifestyle of what it means to be a parent."
He pointed to the bowl before placing the other on a girl named Lisa's desk, "Steve, you pick the boys and Lisa here will pick the girls," he turned his attention back to the room as Steve ran a frustrated hand through his hair. A couple of the girls around you groaned, whispering to one another that the system was rigged because they knew they could no longer pick their partners.
"No picking partners. I'm letting the magic bowls choose them for me. No debating, no arguing. I don't care if you think your partner is bad or not, you will complete this task together. Who knows," he laughed at the looks of the students, "maybe you'll find a new friend through all of this."
“Go ahead, Steve,” he ordered, leaning against his desk with ankles crossed and an amused smile playing at his elderly lips. Glasses perched near the end of his nose, Steve huffed at him and tucked his hand away into the bowl and ruffled the slips of paper.
And like luck, Steve Harrington pulled his own name first. Eddie smiled in satisfaction at that–knowing that there was a chance Steve would most certainly be paired with someone he didn't want after he called him out in class. He hoped Billy would have the same fate too. Hell, everyone who looked at him like he was a fucking Martian from planet Mars.
The irony that Hargrove listened to the same music, smoked the same dope, and drove his car just as recklessly but remained at the top of the food chain at Hawkins High hadn’t escaped Eddie. Girls liked Billy; he played basketball, gave them cheeky smiles, and certainly did not play a fantasy game for fun. He was the antithesis of Eddie’s existence–but a bully and raging asshole too. Billy Hargrove was a piece of shit and it had taken Eddie two days in class to figure that out.
“And Steve will be paired with…” Mr. Allen waited for Lisa to mimic Steve’s draw and she unfolded the paper.
Lisa drew Tammy Thompson's name which could have been worse for Steve. It took 3 minutes for Steve to pull Billy Hargrove's name who was then paired with Kennedy Walker, the school's future valedictorian. The look on the poor girl’s face was sadly hilarious. Hargrove winked at her and she turned such a shade of red that she looked like a balloon. But before Eddie could ponder what an interesting pair that made, Steve sighed and pulled another name from the bowl.
Steve crinckled the thin strip of paper in his hand before tossing it onto his desk, "Munson," he looked at Mr. Allen who nodded as he did with each name.
"And the lucky partner?" Mr. Allen had to have been joking except there wasn't an ounce of teasing in his words. Lisa picked the name out of the bucket and unfolded it with her candy red nails. Then, she laughed. Her eyes crinkled at the side from what you could see as she sat in the first seat beside the door. She looked over her shoulder, directly at you in her line of sight and smiled like a wicked wench.
"Y/n L/n." Shit.
A few of the girls giggled, a couple of the guys whistled which had bristled the compass within you south. You didn't care that you had been paired with Eddie because of what people thought of him–the primary reason they were all bemused with the pairing–but rather at the possibility that he couldn't give two-shits about the assignment. It may have only been October but you had already caught him before two different classes being chastised by teachers for not doing his work. If he kept it up, they said, he wouldn’t graduate with his class.
"Off the hook, ladies," one of the girls on the cheer squad laughed, "Y/n's got him."
Lunch could not have arrived fast enough.
You rushed to the front of the line, grabbed your tray, and made a straight shot for the table you had taken an unassigned assigned seat at. Nancy wasn't there when you arrived so you just picked at your food, rolling the grapes in the small section they had been dumped into and watched the entrance like a hawk. Your leg bounced under the table with a tinge of nervousness, but the aggravation of failure was starting to eat you alive and it had only been an hour since Mr. Allen screwed over your grade. Slowly, the lunch room came to life and Nancy held her calculus book in one hand and purple lunch bag in the other.
Even she had a sour look on her face. Lips pursed and brow furrowed, her hand tightly clenched around the bag as the small gold promise ring from Steve shined in the harsh lighting of the room.
"You'll never believe who Mike gave my number to," Nancy huffed as she sat down; her lunch bag filled scarcely with a peanut butter and jelly and a bag of Cheetos. She had four sticks of cut up celery that you gagged at, not understanding how she could enjoy the stringy vegetable for fun.
"You'll never believe who I was partnered with for Allen's baby project," You stopped pushing around your food and she looked at you with heeded interest, her eyebrows drawn together and her wide eyes concerned.
"You first," you pointed a finger at her as she shifted in her seat. The others at the table started to sit down and engage in their own conversations–you had totally forgotten about watching the doorway to the lunchroom. "Keith?"
"From the arcade! The one who always," she scrambled her hands in front of her in frustration before letting out a groan, "he's always got his dirty fingers on the buttons and offers the kids soda way past a normal time."
There was not a day that went by where you did not think that Nancy Wheeler lived with the silver spoon, nay, stick, up her ass.
"All because of someone who broke Dustin's record of Dig Dug. Who does that!?" Nancy unzipped her bag and sure enough, a PB and J with a bag of Cheetos as a side with sticks of celery tucked in a plastic baggie.
"Maybe he's just playing matchmaker…" You stabbed a grape and popped into your mouth with a smile. "Steve was being an annoying shit in class today, so maybe, just maybe, you should be searching for someone else."
"When isn't he like that?" She laughed, "He's Steve Harrington for God's sake."
"Well, I think he's to blame for the luck I had in class today."
"Luck? You were just on the verge of complaining," she glanced quizzically at you, looking over your shoulder when a paper ball went flying in the direction of the table. "left," she said and you tilted to the left as the wad went flying past both your heads and ended up by the science club's table. It was a daily occurrence. "So, who's your partner?"
"Eddie Munson."
Nancy stopped trying to open the bag of Cheetos. "What?"
"Be glad you're not a senior yet, Nance… this project is going to be the death of me, I swear," your head found a home in your hands as you pushed the tray away from you.
"I'm going to fail it! There is no way I can get an A without a capable partner and then what? Will I have to repeat senior year because I failed health? HEALTH?" You exclaimed.
"You won't fail," she conceded. Placing the snack onto the table, she reached out and patted the side of your arm. "If it really gets bad you can always ask Steve."
"He's partnered with Tammy Thompson. There is no way he'd help me with what Allen said about these babies."
"What did he say? Where is the doll anyway?"
"Eddie's got it. Maybe I'll never see it again if I'm lucky," you removed your hands from the table and folded them in your lap as you told her the assignment requirements and what Mr. Allen had said to expect about the baby. As you talked, she picked at her food and the fruit off your tray as some of the girls from newspaper filled the seats around you.
"At least it doesn't actually, you know, pee or anything."
"But the sensor doesn't know that it isn't real. I don't even know how he got dolls so advanced… I had a flour baby when I was a kid and this is as close to a real baby as possible except it doesn't blink."
"Creepy," she mumbled before picking the bag back up.
"Very," you agreed and took a second to glance around the room. Some of the partners were already facing their first challenges. A few were trying to quell the crying, a couple sat together planning their week out so they could work together and have equal time, but when you looked at the table that normally held Hellfire, Eddie wasn't there.
"They all laughed when my name was called," Nancy's head quirked back up at you, "I don't care that he's my partner; that's not why I'm complaining, but this isn't going to be an easy week."
That was the truth—you didn’t care that Eddie was your partner because as a person, Eddie was not as bad as everyone labeled him to be. He was actually, in an admission that you’d take to your grave instead of tell Nancy, fairly handsome and interested the hell out of you. It was the work ethic and motivation that concerned you.
"People are just mean, Y/n," you nodded in agreement, "you just need to focus on the assignment and if you're lucky, like you always are," she peered into your soul with that jealousy, "everything will go swimmingly."
Nancy Wheeler knew she spoke too soon when the doors to the lunchroom flung open with flair. She jumped and turned around in her seat when she saw your soul escape from your eyes.
"Hey! Mama!"
Jesus Fucking Christ.
He was holding the doll by its back leg, letting it dangle from his hand as if it were that black, metal lunchbox you convinced yourself had drugs tucked away in it. Eddie was looking directly at your table as though he had been searching for you for hours.
“Did he just—“ Nancy cut herself off as she watched him make his way toward the table. A group of preps flipped him off on the way and he gladly returned the bird with glee.
“He just called me ‘mama.’”
You put an arm defensively covering your face, shielding your eyes away from him as the Hellfire table furthered his amusement by cackling at him. Nancy whipped her head back around to you and felt the embarrassment roll off.
“It’s only a week,” she reminded you, “only about a week.”
Eddie’s feet landed at the end of the table and the girls at the end went silent. He was standing there, holding the doll by its hind leg, and quirked his head to the side. His eyes were entertained at the way you had blocked yourself away from him. The call of ‘mama’ making your skin crawl and elating him from far away. He could push a few buttons without feeling bad about it.
“You embarrassed of me, L/n?” He feigned hurt, “what’s our kid gonna think when he learns his parents don’t get along?”
“It’s a doll, Munson,” your hand that had been blocking your face hit the table hard. “It has no memories and will certainly, never, ever, grow up.”
“If Allen heard you say that he’d give us an F,” he walked around the table and took a seat beside you, legs spread as they caged you in from the side and he plopped the baby on the table with a thud. Its head face down on the table as its poorly drawn on strands of hair faced the ceiling. He was wearing double denim. A jacket filled with pins and patches, a chain hung from one loop of his pants to another and the red flannel he wore underneath it was left open to reveal a t-shirt for a band you had never heard of—holes littered the neckline that sat beneath a silver chain.
Across from you, Nancy sat rigid as she watched the way Eddie’s eyes watched you. A small smile playing on his face as one of his hands found themselves in his lap and the other elbow perched on the table beside the doll.
“We should probably talk about this, huh?” He asked, surprising you by actually wanting to talk about the assignment. You turned your head and looked at him, eyes bemused by his willingness to do so. Eddie recognized that, scoffing and reaching inside of his jean jacket to grab a pack of cigarettes before tapping one out. He slipped them back in and stuck the one he plucked from the pack between his lips.
“You know,” he glanced at you, then Nancy, then back at you, “when a teacher tells us we have to work together, I don’t expect to do all the talking.” He lit the cigarette with a puff and the girls at the end of the table began to complain. No one was allowed to smoke in the cafeteria—only the teacher's lounge and well, that was reserved for teachers.
“How do I know you actually want to talk about this?” You countered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn in an assignment before.”
“You been takin’ notice of me, L/n?” He smiled wide, grabbing the cig with two fingers and tapping it onto the floor. “If you wanted to talk to me you could just do it, ya know? Don’t need to stare at me.”
“Wheeler,” he looked at Nancy who drew her brows together, the tight contortion of her face judging him without words. “You know your friend has been watching me? Should I put an ad in the paper for a bodyguard to protect me from my stalker?” Nancy didn’t reply because she had never held a conversation with Eddie before. She didn’t understand his humor, let alone the levity of his words as he blew smoke in her face and sat next to her best friend like a suave Casanova.
“Eddie,” you sighed, letting your gaze drift around the cafeteria and caught a few interested stares along with way. One teacher, Ms. Kirch–the freshman biology teacher with a hard-on for students willing to press her buttons—was walking around the perimeter on the other side. If she saw Eddie smoking, they’d both make a scene.
“I know you think school’s a joke but I’m not failing this just because you don’t want to do it.”
“Who said I don’t want to do this?” He furrowed his brows, shaking his head at you as he put the cigarette back to his lips. The red burning as he breathed in.
“Oh I don’t know… your attendance record, report cards, all previous group projects that I’ve never seen you show up for.”
“Those are all Ms. O’Donnell’s,” he defended, pointing a finger at you, “She’s a bitch and has it out for me.”
“I just want to know for sure that if we do this together, I won’t be left to do all the work at the end.”
Eddie saw the honesty in your eyes as you admitted it. He never truly understood what it meant to be an academic because it felt superficial. The attachment to good grades and praise that he never got, so, naturally, he never comprehended. You were a good student—a good person, rather. When he heard your name called after his and the snickers that followed, Eddie was reminded of the fact that you didn’t treat him like a ‘freak’ but a person. And hell, there was a first time for everything when he wanted to try something new. Completing a project because his partner didn’t treat him like dirt? Eddie could at least try it out.
“Why do you think I’m here?” He tapped the cigarette and the ash fell to the floor again. “If I’m going to graduate, I’ve gotta get this done too.”
You nodded slowly in observation. Eddie did not appear to be lying. That blasé attitude he had walked in with gradually decreasing the more you talked. Glancing again at Ms. Kirch who was directly across the room from you beside the table of jocks, the details of the week would be limited to a few seconds before she came charging over and causing a scene. You turned to the small stack of one notebook and history textbook that laid next to your tray. Ripping a paper out of it, you stole the pencil from Nancy’s stack and wrote down your address on it.
“Here,” you handed it to him and he looked over it with a smirk, “that’s my address and phone number. Kirch is going to bite your head off in a minute and we don’t have time to go over all the details so if you’re free later, stop over after school and we can divide everything out.” He knew where you lived. Three doors down from Gareth—his friend and band mate and also, another one of Hawkins’ finest on their way to repeating their final year of school and he was only a sophomore.
“Your parents aren’t gonna beat my ass or anything when I get there? I know I have a bit of a…” he clicked his tongue, tipping his head to the side, “reputation.”
The shrug you gave did not ease his concerns right away. However, the comment that followed made him realize that actually attempting to complete this project with you was a good thing. Maybe luck was finally giving him a chance.
“Not everyone in this town thinks you’re a freak, Munson,” you gave him a small smile, pointing your own finger to one of the buttons on his jacket, “besides, my dad’s favorite band is WASP. I think he’d like someone to talk about it with—even if just for a second.”
He smiled and Nancy Wheeler was taken aback by the scene in front of her. Seven minutes ago, you were in distress with the idea that Eddie Munson was going to be the worst partner imaginable and the cause of failure in senior health class. Now, you were offering him kind smiles and an invitation to your home with so much as his own words being enough to convince you that he wouldn’t leave you high and dry with an unpredictable doll.
Eddie grabbed the doll by its leg again, ready to escape before Kirch made her way but you could already hear her footsteps coming barreling your direction.
“I’ll take it now and bring it over later,” he nodded, sticking the cigarette between his lips again and letting it dangle there, “we should probably give it name instead of referring it as an ‘it.’”
“Mr. Munson!” That shrill voice made him cringe.
“Think about it. We’ll talk about it later, yeah?” He rose his eyebrows at you as if asking you to agree. You nodded, giving a small ‘yeah’ in response before he shot out of the seat.
“Mr. Munson, smoke outside if you must! Do you not understand the rules of this school?”
Behind you as he stood, Eddie turned toward Ms. Kirch. He let out a puff of smoke between his lips as her hand batted the fumes away from her face. The doll hanging on its one limb and swinging left to right as Eddie taunted her.
“Ms. Kirch,” he swooned, a few amused giggles sound from the tables around you as your head tipped over your shoulder, Eddie’s eyes flashed to yours as he played into her hand. “If you wanted to compliment my ability to break those so-called rules, you could at least have sounded excited to say it.”
“You put that out right now or you’ll be spending after school in detention and it’s going straight onto your record!”
“On my record!?” He laid his free hand on his chest, slowly backing up from where he was standing. Eddie was going to bolt because the old woman wouldn’t run after him. “Ms. Kirch, you know how much I respect my record,” he shook his head dramatically, hair vibrating with the shake as the bud sizzled again. “But, I have plans tonight so…”
The cigarette fell to the floor from his lips, cooling against the white tile as she went to protest. Eddie’s shoe squished it, extinguishing it, and once his foot lifted from the flattened cig, he ran. Ms. Kirch walked no more than two feet as brief laughter erupted in the area—sure they all made fun of Eddie and ostracized him from normal high school life but hell, if he didn’t bring a bit of joy to them when he pissed off the old lady that watched them all like a hawk in their freest period. A chuckle slipped out of you and she turned to you with a glare.
“Do you find this funny, Ms. L/n?”
She smelt like stale flowers and her lipstick was pearled in some spaces on her lips. Kirch was haggard and growing older every day.
“No, ma’am,” you shook your head at her and turned back around. Nancy was sitting with wide eyes, scared of the woman who lingered for a moment behind you before running off to find a janitor to clean up.
“Shit,” Nancy muttered quietly.
“What?”
“He’s deranged, Y/n. Deranged.”
“It’s only about a week, right, Nance? Only about a week.”
And that week would be the most interesting week of your life.
Eddie came over as he said that afternoon after school. At your kitchen table before your parents got home from work, you both devised a plan on how to go about taking care of the doll—and as Eddie had asked, you tried to think of a name but that was harder than it proved to be. He said the first thing that popped into his head and that was unfortunately, Bilbo.
Bilbo. A doll named after Bilbo Baggins from The Hobbit was the baby you had to take care of together.
It did not even matter that the doll was plastically formed with female anatomy because he said: “What’s in a name, anyway? It’s just a doll.”
So, Bilbo it was.
And Eddie offered to take it for the night because he had Hellfire on Friday’s when you had nothing, therefore you could swap in the morning and you’d go about the plan when the weekend arrived. The plan, however, was more than what you had originally believed needed to take place for the assignment. Nancy called you Thursday evening after Eddie had left to complain that Steve would be spending all of his free time helping Tammy with the doll and was blowing her off until Halloween—a whole week later. You hadn’t fully realized that what you and Eddie had planned to ensure that you’d both pass health this semester was essentially spending all of your time together [sans Tuesday when his band played at The Hideout and Friday when he had Hellfire].
You slept well Thursday with those thoughts lingering in the back of your mind. Nancy’s concerns were her concerns. She had confided in you that she and Steve were having issues anyway, so one more nail in the coffin did not appear to be as detrimental as she complained it was. If Steve and Nancy were on their final string, the end was imminent. When you woke on Friday, the first thing on your mind was how the night had gone for Eddie and if what Mr. Allen said was true about the babies, had he had an absolutely awful night being a ‘parent’ for the first time?
That question was answered rather quickly as you entered the hallway at seven-thirty.
“Mary! You can’t just leave me with the thing!”
“I am not taking it tonight!”
“It wants food and there’s no way to feed it!”
There were ‘couples’ fighting at every turn. As you passed Tammy Thompson’s locker, Steve looked like he wanted to pull his hair out.
“I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” He complained to her as he held the baby on his hip. It was a sight. Steve in his tight jeans and blue jacket, striped polo, to have a doll perched on his hip like it was real. Everyone was taking it seriously which made the entire situation feel less awkward and daunting.
You reached your own locker, twisting the combination while trying to snoop on Steve’s conversation five lockers down on your left.
“This thing never shuts up! I got no sleep last night and I don’t think I’ll even be able to go to the game tonight because I’m dragging ass!”
“Steve, come on…” Tammy trailed off because she had to sing the national anthem and could not bring the doll with her. But she should have—the doll could probably sing better than her.
“It’s not fair, Tammy!” Steve’s voice began to dwindle as he looked around and noticed people staring at him. He locked eyes with you over Tammy’s shoulder and sighed heavily.
Suddenly, the textbooks and folders in your locker became interesting—far more interesting than all the arguing going on in the hallway. Mr. Allen had made everything difficult intentionally. Splitting up groups so one person cared for the doll at a time before each group realized they couldn’t do it alone. The tactic was good, great even. The responsibilities of childcare and parenting obvious to those who had terrible nights and to those who hadn’t had realized it yet, the feelings were inbound.
As was Eddie. Charging down the hallway after barely hitting a gaggle of kids heading to the middle school in the parking lot and the doll, Bilbo, once again hanging from its hind leg as it swung. He called out your name so loud that even Steve had shut his mouth and stopped talking to Tammy. Eddie had one of those bad nights too. He strode right up to the side of your locker and had a crazed look on his face.
“What the fuck!?” He exclaimed, bags under his eyes. You couldn’t answer the question because you weren’t sure what had gone on.
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’!? This thing,” he held it up like a captured possum, “kept me up all night with its relentless screaming and I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off!”
“I don’t think you can turn it off,” you commented, grabbing your science book and folder as your bag hung from the hook. “That’s not the point of the project. The point is to learn how to care for it, not turn it off.”
“Well,” he laughed cynically, “we were given a devil child. Literally the spawn of goddamn Satan because it doesn’t want to be cared for.”
“I thought we weren’t calling it ‘it’ anymore. Bilbo, remember?”
“Bilbo is too kind of name for this thing. It’s Lucifer… fucking… Sauron!”
“I can’t get on-board with Sauron,” you bit back a smile at his suffering, “But your duty is over now, right? Just leave Bilbo with me and we can meet up tomorrow and swap.”
“You’re not going to be able to do it alone,” he said it honestly, like he was terrified of the watermelon sized piece of plastic. You glanced around the hallway and saw all the partners having conversations similar, but all the same different, like the one you were having with Eddie. He was having an internal battle with himself—realizing that he actually had to do this and that when looking back on his own life, if this is what having a child was like, he could not imagine how his parents got through high school having him at sixteen. He had just turned eighteen and could barely keep it together and it was a doll named after a character from a children’s book.
“Do you not believe I can?” You questioned him yet he shook his head, taking note of the things in your locker instead of looking at you.
“That thing is a monster and if it’s not waking you up, it’s eating away all your free time. If it’s not eating away at your free time, it’s taking up all the time spent doing things that matter. It sucks the joy out of life without even taking a real breath.”
“Those are harsh words, Munson,” a sigh left your lips as you gripped your locker door. He was looking at the two Polaroids that were stuck on the door with tape. You and Nancy on the Fourth of July and then you with a group of little kids a few Halloween’s back dressed as character’s from Star Wars. You were hugging a curly haired Han Solo that had no teeth. “But maybe you just don’t have the parental touch that it needs.”
“What are you saying?” He narrowed his eyes, “That I’m neglecting Bilbo’s needs?”
“Maybe,” you shut your locker, “But either way, you have Hellfire and I agreed to take ‘em off your hands today so,” you grabbed Bilbo from him and perched him like Steve had perched his doll. Something stuck inside Eddie in that moment. It was a goddamn doll and he was sleep deprived, so he conflated his bubbling feelings of whatever the hell spurred inside of him to that. You looked cute holding the doll like that.
“We can talk about it tomorrow, alright? If anything needs to change, we have time to discuss it. Don’t get all worried.”
Eddie shook his head, running both of his hands through his hair and over his bangs before bringing them back down.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, mama.”
And then he walked away. You didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, but, certainly it couldn’t be as bad as he was making it because sometimes, people could be dramatic—and Eddie Munson was the dictionary definition of the word. Always had been, always would be, and maybe, he was playing with the truth.
For three hours it had gone swimmingly. Bilbo made no noise.
But the minute Mr. Grosso put the Spanish test on your desk, the doll wailed so loud it made a girl scream from the other side of the room and you missed the test because it cried for thirty minutes in the bathroom before you could calm it down.
You swore you could hear the popping of his muffler three miles away. The blinds on the living room window comically split into two by your fingers, you peered out in anticipation you had gone to sleep feeling. Not quite butterflies but a nervous, anxious energy that kept you tossing and turning through the night. Along with Bilbo—the baby had kept you tossing and turning to the point where you felt crazy.
When you got home, you realized that the doll had smelt like weed and cigarettes but the distinct smell of Eddie’s cologne tried to cover it up. He had sprayed that doll with so much liquid that it had become ingrained into its clothes and soft body. You ripped off the onesie it was wearing and dunked it in the laundry immediately. And again, for the first few hours you managed to get your homework done for the weekend without much interruption until your parents got home.
They were utterly amused with the project and kept repeating that it was good for “skill building and responsibility.” You rolled your eyes and told them what Eddie had said about his night, expecting the same for your own and sure enough, it was like walking through the pits of hell.
Bilbo’s journey, Frodo’s journey… neither of them had the same horror of the screaming baby doll sitting on your comforter at two in the morning. Hour after hour, all you wanted to do was cry because it wasn’t responding to any of the tactics you had used when you would babysit. No rocking, no shushing, no gentle strokes, and just as the others complained in the hall, you couldn’t change its diaper or feed it. The solutions to ease its complications were non-existent.
Eddie rung you at eleven thirty saying he’d be over ‘in a bit’ and you stood at the window in your living room while your dad watched TV and your mom cooked lunch. The doll laying quietly on the sofa beside him for the first time in a half hour.
“So,” your dad cleared his throat as the program changed at noon, “what’s Eddie Munson like as a partner? I know his uncle Wayne from the plant.”
“He’s fine thus far,” you muttered, not tearing your eyes away from the window.
“You know this doll smells like a skunk.”
“It’s weed, dad,” you said so casually his eyebrows rose, “and it’s Eddie’s, not mine. And no, I don’t smoke.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” he laughed but he would have. Not that he cared in the slightest if you did, that was all mom. Mom cared about reputation and manners and whether or not you’d have yellow teeth by the time you’re fifty. “But is he treating you alright?”
“What do you mean?” You looked away from the window and back at him, “We’re not really a couple, you know. It’s just a project,”
“I know, I know,” he clarified, waving you off like you had taken the comment too seriously, “as a partner. Not making you feel uncomfortable or anything?”
He might know Wayne, but the label of ‘freak’ extended beyond school. Eddie Munson flew around town in his beat up van playing his metal music at the highest level, smoked and loitered outside of stores, and very frequently, jested with the people of Hawkins to amuse his merry band of oddities.
“Eddie’s a good guy, dad,” you lamented, “so what if he likes metal and plays D&D.”
“D&D?”
“Yeah,” you furrowed your brows at him, “what did you think he did? He literally named the doll after Bilbo Baggins.”
“I thought Hellfire was…”
“What the mothers at the grocery store say it is?” You scoffed and turned back to the window, Eddie’s van turning the corner at the end of the block. “It’s a D&D club. I told him he’d probably get along with you too so try not to accuse him of worshiping the Devil, ‘Kay? That’s like… the furthest thing from the truth.”
He just nodded as you defended Eddie, a little smile on his face because he knew you so well. You were a good kid, a smart kid, but oblivious sometimes. If Steve Harrington had been your partner and he inquired about Steve’s role as a partner, you would have rolled your eyes and ended the conversation there. Eddie pulled into the driveway and you grabbed the baby off the couch, marching to the door. Opening it wide, he hadn’t even exited the van before you were standing there. Split between the wooden door and the glass one, pumpkins littered the small deck and a wreath rested on the door behind your head.
You had a cute house. It was simple and friendly, something his trailer was not. Eddie saw you standing there with a flat face and Bilbo in your hands and he laughed in his car. You could see his elated face burst with laughter; it irritated you but you couldn’t help thinking the sight was special. How often he had been smiling and laughing in your presence and a little butterfly sprouted in the pit of your stomach.
Eddie tossed the keys between his palms as he lazily approached the door, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Looks like someone had a rough night,” he commented a few feet from you as you unlocked the glass door and propped it open. “Didn’t believe me when I said it was Satan?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, putting on a face for him to prove you could handle the stress of taking care of a plastic doll. “Bilbo was a saint. Slept through the night.”
Eddie reached the door, holding onto the silver handle so you could let go.
“Yeah?” He questioned, “tell that to your face, sweetheart. You got no sleep and you look like you walked through Mordor.”
“Do you always reference Lord of the Rings or is it just to prove you read?” You squinted your eyes at him.
“One, I do read,” Eddie entered your house and stood across from you in the small doorway. The doll separating you, he looked down, you looked up. “And two, Bilbo likes it when I talk about familiar things,” He gave a wide, toothy smile before grabbing the doll out of your hands and moving into the entryway.
“You know, this kind of feels like how I’d imagine kids of divorce feel.”
“Like being pawned off by their parents every other day because rules told them to?” You shut the door behind you, pressing it closed with the thud. You pointed to his shoes and directed him to take them off to where a mat sat beside the wooden table with a mirror hanging above it.
“Mhm,” he hummed as he slipped them off. He was wearing matching socks. “Poor ‘lil Bilbo Munson-L/n… separated by the rules written on the back of Mr. Richard’s history test.”
You scoffed, walking past him and down the hallway as he struggled with his right shoe. In a matter of seconds, his socked feet patted against the wood flooring and caught up with you.
“My parents are home so don’t be weird or anything,” you muttered and he caught himself nodding at the direction instead of responding with the sarcastic remark because of the way you said it. ‘Don’t be weird or anything,’ as if he was not already labeled that way or saw himself as ‘weird.’ Yes, Eddie was unique and full of a million things you weren’t sure fit a narrative of ‘normal,’ but it didn’t mean he was weird. He was just Eddie.
You rounded a small archway that revealed a living room and an older man sitting on the couch watching the tv. His eyes left the screen and met Eddie’s—who was immediately more reserved than he had thought he’d be. He was nervous, suddenly. Standing in your home, with your father in one room and mother in another, with the task of caring for a baby together looming over his head like a cloud. It was ridiculous and confusing but all the same exciting and challenging for him.
“This is, um,” you glanced at Eddie to put him on the spot. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out at first. He was holding the baby like a real baby and moved it to extend his hand to your dad.
“Eddie. Eddie Munson. Thanks for letting us use your house,” he said as cool as he could. Your dad looked at his hand, taking not a second later to grip it strongly and shake it.
You noticed the way Eddie’s eyes lit up at being welcomed. His hesitancy dissipating as your dad asked him a question, yet all you could do was watch him. The feeling was odd. Watching Eddie interact with your father was like watching a significant other be terrified to meet the parents for the first time. It was terrifying how quickly that idea not only came to your mind, but felt normal.
Conversations between the two of you before being assigned partners had been totaled at three.
And now Eddie Munson was talking to your dad about their shared connection to Wayne Munson in the middle of your living room.
And for some reason, the sight of it was something you wouldn’t be mad about becoming a normal occurrence.
“I hear you play D&D?” He asked Eddie who glanced at you, already looking at him, before nodding and turning back to your dad. He hadn’t expected you to have talked about him at all.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“You know,” Rising from the couch, “She babysits some kids that play it. They’re quite the rambunctious bunch but have nothing on that… what did you say its name was?” He asked you, but Eddie answered at the same time you did.
“Bilbo.”
He laughed, repeating the name as he turned toward another archway that led to the kitchen and tipped his head in that direction.
“We never had to do a project like that but I think it’ll do you both good.”
Your mom was standing in the kitchen making grilled cheeses and stirring tomato soup on the stove. She turned her head over her shoulder and gave Eddie a smile. He returned it as his eyes flicked all over the space. He took in the pictures on the wall, the types of plates your family used, the way the sink had a window overlooking the backyard and there was a dog outside on a leash laying on the brick patio. Eddie didn’t have this life. He walked to the patio door and looked out at the yard.
“You gotta pretty nice house here, L/n,” he mumbled as you came to stand beside him. His fingers digging into the plush body of Bilbo as a bit of his hardened shell began to tell him he was out of place.
“It’s nice, yeah,” you admitted, “but it’s a carbon copy of all the houses in this neighborhood.”
He hadn’t put two and two together and noticed the layout was similar to Gareth’s down the street.
“You con your parents to be nice to me too?” He glanced at you as if looking for a conspiracy. That somehow, nothing in his life was this easy. That there was a superficial reason talking to you came easy; that there was a mysterious reason your parents accepted him even if he wore a leather jacket and Motörhead t-shirt and a spattering of rings on his fingers. You weren’t necessarily friends in any way, but he felt comfortable. He looked into your eyes and felt secure because of what? Kindness? The noticeable attention of a girl finally making him soft?
“No,” you said honestly, “just told them a bit about who you were. That’s all. Are you going to stay?”
“Stay?”
“I just thought,” you felt your mouth go dry with his question. Perhaps you were being too forward or not thinking clearly because the sight of him being domestic with a doll had awakened a sleeping giant inside of you. His big, brown, cow-like eyes scanned over your face as you stuttered. “I just thought it’d be easier for both of us the longer we did it together.”
“Oh,” was the sound that escaped between his lips and you immediately began retracting your words. Your parents watched the two of you from the other side of the counter with knowing looks in their eyes.
“It’s fine!” You laughed nervously. “You don’t have to stay. I was just shooting the shit; you know? I’m not trying to keep you from your plans or anything… my mom makes a real mean gc and—“
“—I’ll stay.” Eddie cut in and you stopped rambling, letting the words fall from your lips as he nodded. “I want to stay.”
“O-Okay, um,” you looked into those brown eyes a second longer than you should have before peaking past him and to your parents who tried to appear occupied with cooking. “Eddie’s gonna stay for a bit, if that’s fine.”
“Yeah, hun,” your mom kept her back turned to you and stirred the pot. “He’s always welcome.”
Always welcome.
He had to have hit the lottery with this one. A good, pretty partner and a space to escape to that welcomed him without judgement? He was either in the first circle of Hell or ascending to peace yet his feet were planted on the ground—not a foot from your own.
Eddie spent the entire afternoon there. When the sun fell and the moon rose high, you yawned on the floor of your basement and he knew that it was far past a normal time to spend sitting around, laughing and trying to sooth the unexplainable outbursts of Bilbo. His face hurt from the stupid smile that he couldn’t wipe from his face once the two of you had figured out that the doll had sensors under its arms and swaddling helped stop the crying until another unexplained outburst required attention.
When he walked to his van with the doll swaddled in his arms like a real baby, he turned back as he opened the door and shot one last look to the house where you were still standing to bid him goodbye. Eddie didn’t want to leave. He felt his heart squeeze when you gave him a small wave, illuminated by the yellow lighting of the hallway behind you. Shit. He got into the van and sped off before pulling into Gareth’s driveway and pounded on the door.
You shut the front door and with a lock, your dad turned off the tv in the living room before walking into the hallway to meet you there. Both headed to bed, he put an arm around your shoulders and squeezed.
“We gonna talk about that or no?” He asked.
“About what?”
“That!” He laughed as you felt your face heat up. Rising on the Kelvin scale, you felt a spotlight shrink itself onto you. “You gotta little crush there, darlin’ and to be frank, I think he might too.”
“Dad!” You complained, jostling out of his grip and walking more quickly toward your bedroom. “I don’t like Eddie!”
“Yeah, sure you don’t,” he chuckled as you pushed opened your bedroom door and slammed it closed in embarrassment. “But really, you do.”
Eddie pounded on Gareth’s door for three minutes but no one was coming to the door. Desperate, he put his ear to the wood and heard the distinct thumping of drums echoing throughout the house and contemplated for a moment. He could keep knocking and draw the attention of the neighbors and get the cops called on him for suspicious behavior, or, he could go around to the back and knock on Gareth’s window in hopes that it was closer and louder.
He jumped off the stoop and made for the window. Inside, Gareth was head banging as he played Iron Maiden on his drums and had a literal lava lamp reflecting off the symbols. Eddie put his fist to the glass and waited for a break in the beats to thump. Gareth jumped, a scream emitting from his mouth as his sticks went flying across his room and Eddie waved a hand at him from the other side.
“What the fuck, man?” Gareth opened the window and nearly shivered at the cool, October air. “Why are you here? The cops after you?”
“I just spent eight hours in Y/n L/n’s basement taking care of a goddamn baby and eating her mother’s food.”
“Shit,” Gareth laughed, “that sounds like a fuckin’ dream if you ask me.”
“It’s a nightmare, Gareth. A fucking nightmare.”
“Why?” The floppy hair Gareth had been sporting fell into his eyes as they contorted in confusion. “She’s a nice girl. Her old man helps mine when the cars busted.”
“Of course he does!” Eddie pushed off the windowsill and put his hands above his head, breathing in deeply.
“What? He threaten you or something?”
“No, they were,” Eddie’s face scrunched as if it pained him to say the word, “perfect.”
“Then…” Gareth motioned with his hand for Eddie to continue.
“That’s it! They were perfect! She’s perfect, man!” Then, he let a slew of curses leave his mouth and disappear into the night sky. Gareth laughed, letting a long ‘ahhhhh’ direct itself toward the guitarist.
“Eddie Munson,” he leaned into the bedside table by the window, “in love with the girl next door.”
“FUCK!” Eddie yelled with his hands in his hair.
And he still had a week left to take care of Bilbo with you.
Summary: Eddie Munson made it big. Now, when he returns to Hawkins for a hometown concert with his band, he is reminded of the girl he's been in love with for the past 6 years when Steve Harrington calls.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader WC: 13.6k
Warnings: 18+; Minors DNI; smut; piv; language; rough sex; bathroom sex (unprotected–wrap it before you tap it babes); some dirty talk; this is a whole ass fic. This is porn WITH plot besties.
Quick Links: Masterlist
“You’re a pervert, Eddie Munson,” You laughed, he smiled.
“Well, can you blame a guy? Look at you.” The way his eyes trailed. He was hunting and you were perfect prey.
“I can’t really… but you can.” Your bottom lip passed through your teeth quickly—barely grazing it as the top of your shoe ran along the inside of his leg. He was fucked.
There were more than five drunks inside of The Hideout.
The last few years had brought out a different side of Hawkins, hell, Indiana to this little bar in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. It wasn't often that there were empty seats, that the bar wasn't overwhelmed with patrons, or that everyone inside hadn’t flocked to the dive for a taste of metal.
Corroded Coffin had made it—in a… regional success type of way.
Every year, the band returned to Hawkins after moving to the city to get more gigs. It acted as a reunion of sorts––bridging their past and present into a three-hour concert inside of a small bar where they had originated outside of Gareth’s garage. And much to their surprise when they had returned for the first time a few years before, the entire town had wanted in. For the first time they had felt accepted—but only because they had garnered some fame, not because they were cool, good people.
And Eddie always felt that superficial fanaticism seep through the walls that separated the band from the crowd because the only people he believed truly cared for him and his music rarely came. Steve, Nancy, Robin, the gaggle of kids (they will always be kids to him) from Hellfire, and you. Separate ways had led to a hundred different paths and rarely, if ever, did he see one of them lead back to Hawkins.
He had been completely and utterly enamored with you the moment he saw you stab a horrid, rabid bat straight through the eye. Eddie always wished it had been a more romantic story, but he had to admit it, you had never impressed him so much.
And then you graduated. Went off to college and kept in scattered contact with everyone.
But you never left his mind. As much as he wanted to move on from what he called a “silly crush” in retrospect, Eddie thought about you more often than he should have.
And no girl could compare. He always pondered the ‘what if’ and he’d be lying if the songs that dealt with unrequited romance didn’t have anything to do with you. He was stuck. So incredibly stuck and didn’t know what to do. Eddie believed he would never get the chance to see you again.
Until he got a call from Steve Harrington three days before he traveled back to Hawkins.
It was out of the blue. Eddie wasn’t even sure how Steve had his number because he was always on the move—half the time he and his bandmates slept in their bus because it was one destination after the other. Nevertheless, Steve had managed to reach him and the conversation had been replaying in his mind non-stop.
“Hey Eddie!”
Jeff was standing at the pay phone outside of the Dayton club they had been playing in. Corroded Coffin had begun to make their way to Hawkins slowly over the past month and they were almost there. The set was half completed, and they were in the middle of their break when the pay phone rang as if they were in the middle of a horror film. They were all drenched in sweat and their limbs were killing them, the crowd was absolutely blustering. Their gigs had become what they had always dreamed—a metal rave of sorts.
Eddie had been sitting on an overturned bucket smoking a cigarette when Jeff called out to him, hand over the transmitter as if his yell was going to change the mind of the caller.
“What?” Eddie replied, letting out a puff of smoke that blurred Jeff for a second.
“You gotta call! You’re gonna wanna take this one.”
He made it sound as though the President was calling… not that Eddie would ever answer that call. So, Eddie got up off his bucket and let the cigarette dangle from his mouth as he shooed Jeff away from the phone. Holding the phone in one hand and lifting his other to lean against the glass, Eddie sighed and answered.
“Yeah, this is Eddie.”
“Ah! Guys I got him!” Was what he heard in return. There was a scramble on the other line and Eddie furrowed his brows, confused at the excitement. No one was ever calling him unless it was Wayne, a groupie he had made an empty promise to, or someone looking to book them.
“Hello?” He asked more impatiently.
“Yeah, yeah, hold on man!” He knew exactly who it was. It had been 6 years, not a lifetime.
“Steve?”
“Woah oh! Mega Rock Star remembers me? Woulda thought you’d forgotten about us in Hawkins.” He imagined Steve was a little drunk, smiling widely into the phone as the sounds of shuffling made its way through the receiver.
“I don’t know if I’d classify us as ‘Mega Rock Stars’ but I’ll take it from you, Harrington.” Eddie grabbed the cigarette from his mouth.
“So why you callin’ me?”
“I heard your band is coming to Hawkins on Tuesday and we were wondering if we needed tickets or something to get in.” Steve sounded more distant, as if he was trying to get others on the call or at least let them have a chance to listen too.
“We?”
“Hi Eddie!” Robin’s voice was distinct, deep, and excitable through the static.
“Eddie! You really made it!” That was Nancy. She was always a little more reserved than Robin, more than Steve, but still kind to him.
Eddie moved the phone away from his mouth and chuckled. He couldn’t believe it, truly. He hadn’t expected to hear from anyone who he considered to be friends, who went through so much alongside of him, and helped him in a time of need but there, on the phone, were three people who had.
“So you all wanna come? Is that what I’m getting from this?” He asked and all of them replied at once. Each along the lines of “yes” but scattered types of replies.
“And if we could, I think a few others want to stop in too.”
He hoped Steve knew what that made Eddie believe.
“These others… they’re not just bottom feeders looking for a good time?” Eddie proposed instead. He felt a shot of nervousness surge inside of him. God, he felt like a teenager.
“No, no…” Robin laughed into the phone, “they’re friends, Eddie. You’ll be glad to see them. Some are even traveling home for this so you better put on a good show.”
Eddie knew Dustin and Lucas had gone out of state for college. He had sent them two records as presents and received a group call the next day in thanks. Eddie knew that’s who it had to be but Robin still said some. He was still holding out a little hope.
“Hey Eddie! Come on! Time to go!” Jeff called out from beyond the pay phone. He was the last to walk back into the venue as the door opened to loud amps shaking the building.
“Listen, guys,” Eddie said quickly, trying to use his final seconds wisely, “I’ll um, I’ll call the place after we leave tomorrow and get you on a list.”
Eddie watched Jeff disappear through the door and knew his time was almost up.
“I gotta go but just go to the bar and they’ll bring you in. I’ll put you at a table so you don’t get ambushed by anyone.” Considerate.
“And drinks are on the house too.”
“Fuck yeah!” Robin screeched and disconnected her line.
“Sounds great, Eddie. We’ll see you on Tuesday.” Nancy said and disconnected herself too. Steve remained on the line.
“Awesome, man,” Steve replied, surely nodding his head in approval. Eddie felt something lingering there but didn’t push. However, he did need the names.
Eddie looked around him, trying to find someone who could help his pen-less situation but couldn’t find anyone. He patted down his jacket, the pockets of his jeans but nothing. And perhaps he waited too long, but Gareth came back out, looking at him exasperatedly.
Eddie waved him over quickly. The dude always had a pen. He put the cigarette back in his mouth.
“I’ll need the names, Steve,” Eddie said over the phone and shoved it between his ear and shoulder. Gareth ran over.
“I need a pen. You got one?”
Gareth summoned a pen from his pocket as though it were the one ring.
“Names, Steve,” Eddie repeated, slightly muffled by the cigarette he tried not to lose.
“All right, all right,” Steve fumbled. In his childhood home in Hawkins, Steve, Nancy, and Robin all stood around the phone counting the people in the party.
“Me, Robin, Nancy, Henderson, Sinclair, Jonathan…” Steve trailed off and Eddie felt his heart sink.
“That all?”
“Um,” Steve was listening to the two women rattle off names, “Max, and Vicky… oh and Y/n.”
“Y/n?”
Eddie felt Steve was dangling a prize at the end of a fishing hook.
“Yeah. She’s coming in from Indianapolis.”
Indianapolis.
“She work there?” Eddie couldn’t help but ask. Gareth gave him a look.
“Yeah teaches now… English or… History or something.”
“Oh,” Eddie answered and finished writing the names on the inside of his forearm. Gareth watched him write your name last, so clear, and careful. He knew now why Eddie was acting the way he was. “I didn’t know she moved.”
“Yeah… somethin’ about wanting to be closer to the city or whatever… a part of me thinks she was trying to find you.” Steve laughed. Eddie didn’t.
“What?” Eddie’s response had come out as a whisper of words and Steve hadn’t heard it.
“So we’ll see you Tuesday, yeah? Go play your heart out, dude.”
Then Steve hung up.
And it was the phone call he had been waiting for hear after all these years.
He played that Dayton show with so much excitement he made a girl faint in the front row… and it was all because of a stupid little phone call from a state away.
The station wagon was packed full of a palpable energy no one could explain.
It was strange; venturing off to a new adventure that wasn’t filled with danger together, but it was new, and above all else, nice. The memories that Nancy’s station wagon had held were far more interesting upon reflection than they had been at the time. And you listened to each story from the middle section, squashed beside the window between Steve, Dustin and Jonathan as Max and Lucas took the back and Vicky, Robin, and Nancy sat in the front.
You couldn’t stop tapping your fingers against your knee.
Robin was droning on about a Halloween party a few years back that you hadn’t gone to when you accidentally tapped Steve’s leg instead of your own. You shot a sorry look at him in a rapid response.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” he reassured you, watching you look out the side window in return. You had been wearing a sparkly black dress––one Robin had swooned over in the kitchen with Vicky.
From all the years he had known you, you were never a 'sparkly little black dress’ kind of girl to Steve. Except tonight you were. And he smiled at it. He turned his head forward and caught Robin and Nance’s eyes in the mirror because they were all on the same page.
Eddie Munson had been infatuated with you for as long as they could remember and you, as personable and charismatic as you were, couldn’t pluck up the courage to accept the same about yourself.
“Nervous or something?” Steve knocked your shoulder. You didn’t tear yours eyes away from the window.
“No, I’m fine.”
“You’re a little jittery.”
“I pregamed.”
“Where?”
“With Robin.”
“At my house?” Steve looked knowingly. You hadn’t touched a drop at his place.
“Sure.”
“Are you listening to me? What’s wrong?”
You turned and looked at him, eyes a little spaced out from the present inside of the vehicle and saw not only Steve looking at you, but Dustin and Jonathan too. You knew the others were listening.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Everything was wrong. Your stomach was in tumbles. You hadn’t seen Eddie in the flesh for 6 goddamn years and the last time you saw him all you wanted to do was jump his bones. So, how, in good conscious, could you look at the man again and think you wouldn’t feel the same.
Surely he was still the same Eddie you had liked before… just a little older and a bit more sure of himself. The self-certainty was what you were afraid of, however. You didn’t know if you could get yours back.
“If you’re going to lie to me I’d rather it be about something stupid.”
“I’m not lying about anything,” you defended, eyes going stern, “I’m fine.”
“She’s nervous about seeing Eddie.” Max spoke up from the back as she leaned her elbows in the small gap between Dustin and Jonathan. You narrowed your eyes directly at her, willing your mouth to open but no sound came out.
“It’s okay, Y/n,” she reaffirmed your unvocalized feelings without hesitation, “things just got in the way last time.”
“Yeah and I’m sure if he’s still the same old Eddie we know he’ll be head over heels for you,” Lucas supported her belief and you felt your head go hot. You couldn’t believe they were airing your dirty laundry in the car like this. 6 years passed and they still read you like their favorite children’s book.
“How could he not? She’s still a fucking smoke show,” Robin laughed, to which Vicky agreed. Nancy tried to hold in her giggle but the eldest Wheeler smiled so widely you could see the lines from her eyes from your position in the car.
“Listen,” Steve piped up again, “they come to Hawkins once a year… you don’t live here anymore, neither does he, and maybe, just maybe, there is a reason for everything to come home.
“You sound like a horoscope, Steve.”
“I was a matchmaker in my other life. I thought you knew that?” He narrowed his eyes teasingly, trying to make you feel less anxious about seeing him again.
“If he is anything like he sounded on the phone, Eddie still holds a candle for you.”
Steve hadn’t told you he talked to Eddie. This outing had been planned for weeks without so much of a word that anyone had still talked to him consistently—besides Dustin. Dustin certainly pestered Eddie over the phone about his Sophomore college problems. Eddie never knew how to properly reply to his concerns in turn.
“You talked to him?” Dustin furrowed his brows at Steve as Robin turned around in her seat to listen, “when?”
“A few days ago,” Steve was sheepish. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know he had extended his arm asking for a favor.
“About what?” Dustin lamented.
“Just about the concert, man,” Steve sighed, pointedly not looking at you.
“And did he say anything of importance?” Robin pushed Steve as her hand knocked against his knee in a slap. He shifted uncomfortably. She had been on the call for 20 seconds, maximum, and didn’t hear what had been said once she hung up.
“Well,” he started, “we talked for a bit and Nance and Robin were on the line too—“
“For a second!” Robin interjected.
“—and then he asked for the names.”
“That’s all?”
“That can’t be it,” Robin made a face, “you were still on the phone when we left the room.”
“He asked about you, okay?” He gestured to you, closing his eyes in defeat. You stopped tapping your fingers and looked at him with serious eyes.
“It isn’t!?” He folded his arms across his chest the best he could, “you listened to ABBA and Journey and all of a sudden in college you got real into metal and we all thought it was strange!”
“I was expanding my interests!“
“To get him!”
“People experiment in college, Steve. In more ways than one.”
“You’re telling me that you moved, changed interests, and then faltered back to the plan you had since you were five in the span of a few years? You went out there hoping to run into him because you didn’t know how else to approach him.”
“You’re just being mean now,” you scoffed, turning your head back to the window. Robin and Steve glanced at one another before Dustin nudged him to do something.
“Y/n,” he sighed, “we can argue about the past all we want but we are ten minutes from seeing him again and I don’t want to watch two of my friends, our friends, dance around their feelings again. For all of our sakes, just say something to him.”
“Steve, just let it go,” you mumbled quietly and began chipping away at the nail polish you had applied hours before.
They all felt a little defeated in that car.
“Fine, fine,” he said and threw his hands up in exasperation as the others watched in a necessary pity. It wasn’t easy being open. It wasn’t easy being willing to show a vulnerable side of yourself that you’d been holding onto for years.
“But if you do end up needing to pound one out together, there’s a great bathroom at The Hideout.”
“Steve!”
The Hideout and surrounding businesses were packed. Never, in all your years living in Hawkins, had seen it so busy and the thought that Eddie and his bandmates had brought this many people to a little bar made you happy.
He had made it like he always wanted to.
Steve had taken the lead once you had arrived and the bouncer at the door led the group of you to two booths just off the left side of the stage they had assembled for the band. It was already claustrophobic inside but the idea that you all had somewhere to go was comforting—quelled your nerves in the slightest.
Jonathan and Steve had taken the liberty to gather drink orders and the group was split into two. The ‘kids’ in the booth closer to the front and the ‘adults’ in the one behind. It was easier to designate it that way even if everyone was an adult now. You sat squashed between Nancy and Robin, Vicky letting her eyes wander the room beside Robin.
“You all right?” Nancy asked, her big eyes sincere, “Steve was kinda being a dick in the car.”
“It’s fine, Nance. Really,” you played with the hem of your dress under the table. Suddenly, you threw up your hands and let your head fall into them on the table.
“I don’t know why I’m so fucking nervous,” you exclaimed muffled in your hands, “it’s like my confidence jumped out of a goddamn plane.”
“Being nervous isn’t a bad thing, babes,” Robin told you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. She looked at Nancy for support but she was lost on what to do. You had it down bad. “We all get nervous around people we like.”
“That’s the problem, Robin,” you said, pulling your head out of your hands and looking her dead in the eye. “I think I’ve been in love with him since I was in high school.”
Well, shit.
“I’m sure he’s got roadies and girls willing to do anything for him and I’m nothing like them… I literally have a stack of papers to grade tomorrow even though I know I’m going to be hungover. He’s a-a rock star or at least on his way to becoming one.”
“Bon Jovi’s wife was his high school sweetheart,” Nancy mentioned and Robin nodded her head. Sure, but that was a single case. A single case.
“It’s just not the same as it was.”
“Jesus, Y/n… could you be any more of a downer?” Steve returned with Jonathan in tow carrying a mix of beverages for everyone. “You need to get drunk because I cannot stand another second of you moping around like the world is ending. We’ve been there, we’ve made it out, and we’re going to have a good night and enjoy watching Eddie rock his fucking ass off like we knew he always would.”
Steve sat beside Vicky and passed you your vodka cran.
“And if you don’t want to get drunk, at least get some liquid courage to look the guy in the eye.”
He lifted his glass once everyone had received theirs.
“Henderson!”
Dustin looked over the wall of the booth, making eye contact with you as if he was expecting something else but saw Steve’s raised glass and the others stood obnoxiously on their seats.
“To old friends and finding the courage to get what we want.”
“Cheers!”
You downed the glass in one take.
You stopped at 2.
The drinks were strong and you still wanted to know what was going on by the end of the night and the moment the house lights went a little dim, the want to drink disappeared.
When he walked onto that stage your heart nearly imploded in your chest.
Everyone at the two tables squealed and cheered, their smiles contagious as they watched the crowd react to the band they had become. It was chaotic and full, filled with loud singers and louder instruments but everyone was having a good time. Drinks were flowing, the air was cloudy from smoke, and no one cared what anyone else was doing.
You had never seen him so in his element. So confident in his abilities that you wonder where your own had went over the last few days. He played like his life depended on it, fully immersed in the music surrounding him.
When he picked up that guitar and ripped the first chords, it was as though God had reached a hand into his soul and told him, play.
It was intoxicating. Just the images seared into your mind as his fingers played deftly on the board and the way his smile could light up the room. He knew exactly where you all were and every now and again, he’d look over, intentionally, and you swore that every time he looked, there was more than just simple joy swimming in your direction.
Slowly, you calmed. The anxiety began to wash a way as time went on and after an entire two hours of non-stop metal, there was a break. 30 minutes and the scene around you was still electric.
Nancy finished her beer, snacking on some mixed bar nuts as she watched the water from the melted ice drip down your cup. No one checked back in on you, but they felt a shift in your air. It wasn’t tense or anxious, you had finally settled into the woman they knew—maybe with a little fear still lingering.
“You wanna go with me to the bar? I want another,” she pointed to her beer as she leaned into you. You didn’t see why not, missing the glance she shared with Robin and Robin then shared with Steve.
The trip to the bar was like walking through a maze. There were people everywhere and when there wasn’t a person, there was a table or a chair. You swore halfway there a piece of a girls hair touched your mouth because the pungent smell of hairspray was worse being consumed. And in all honesty, the bar wasn’t any better. It didn’t help that there were tall men trying to flag over the three bartenders or that some girl had half of her chest out to get free drinks.
But who were you to judge? Everyone was just having a good time.
“What do you want?” Nancy asked you as she grazed the taps just behind a few bodies blocking the physical bar top.
“I-I don’t know, Nance, ah, um, I’ll just take whatever you’re having,” you replied, not really paying attention because of the people bumping into you from behind.
Nancy, in her abundance of smartass behaviors, pushed her way to the front and after a second, a little gap opened up. She took the stool she could see and you stood next to her, your hands gripping the bar tightly.
“You better now?” She asked with an eyebrow raised.
“Jesus Christ…” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
“You’ve seen him, you’ve sat there for two hours and everything’s fine. Just like we said.”
“That doesn’t change how I feel on the inside.”
“Well…” Nancy’s back perked up. You saw her eyes gleam, the smile on her face breaking across every feature, “Better boost your confidence, girlie. He’s coming this way.”
Before you could question anything, you felt a hand on your lower back. You felt almost weightless. Like the room had paused and you’d remember that feeling of his hand on your back.
“My eyes aren’t deceiving me, are they?” His voice was a little worn. The kind anyone would get if they spent too many nights singing along to songs or screaming into a crowd. “Nancy Wheeler and Y/n L/n here in the flesh.” He still hadn’t removed his hand.
Nancy smiled wide, happy to see him again after so long. She hopped off of her chair, brushing beside you best she could to give him a hug. He removed his hand from you and hugged her tightly, giving her a friendly kiss on the cheek.
You could see some of the other women in the bar. Their eyes lingering on him. They knew who he was; waiting for their turn to pounce.
You felt the ugly bug of jealousy begin to grow.
“Look at you!” Nancy leaned back, taking Eddie’s look in with all her excitement. “You did it!”
“Not quite yet but I’ll take it,” he laughed, removing himself from her and she quickly realized she made a mistake getting up. Her seat was gone. Eddie looked at you.
God. He had a smile plastered on his face. His cheeks were red, his hair sticking a bit onto his head from sweat, and he was wearing a worn Ozzy shirt under a new, perfectly tailored leather jacket. You wouldn’t have known that he was putting on a brave face. That his heart was hammering against his chest seeing you there.
“It’s good to see you,” he started, his eyes wandering no differently than they had in any of your earlier encounters. He was quite shameless when it came to checking people out. “I wasn’t sure if Steve was telling the truth that you’d actually be here.”
You tried to play it cool too, “and miss Gareth on the drums?” You smiled, unable to not match his own, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
And as if it were second nature, Eddie pulled you in for a hug too. Different than Nancy, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and you around his torso. Your hands splayed across his back, feeling the distinct texture of leather underneath your finger tips.
Instead of kissing your cheek, he kissed the side of your head. Right where your forehead ended and hair began. You didn’t see him close his eyes to savor it. He felt you squeeze the back of his jacket.
Nancy felt like a third wheel. But a giddy one.
“How long has it been?” He asked you specifically, barely pulling away. He still had his arms wrapped around you and you him. “Six years?”
“Sounds about right,” you replied, gazing into his brown eyes that could swallow you whole. The creases along the edges—smile lines, per se—were more prominent but he was one who couldn’t help but smile when he was happy. He was amazed by so much.
You felt his fingers graze the spot where your neck peaked out from the dress.
“That’s a little too long.”
“Yeah, well…” you couldn’t help but glance down at his lips, “we’ve all got different things goin’ on now.”
He repeated what you had done with your own eyes. It made some of the fears begin to wash away.
Nancy looked sheepishly at the ground, biting back a smile. She took a second to look around the room and saw Robin standing above everyone else from the booth’s seat. That sneaky shit. Robin began waving frantically, calling Nancy back to the table in a haste.
“Oh!” Nancy said rather loudly, pulling you away from the bubble you hadn’t realized you were sucked into. You let go of Eddie, pulling away and leaning back into your spot at the bar.
“I forgot to ask the others what they wanted!” She said almost as though she was reading a script unnaturally. You frowned knowing they all brushed you two off.
“I don’t—“ you began but she was gone before you could get a sound out. She was playing matchmaker too. You sighed, shaking your head before turning back to Eddie. He was already looking.
“So, are you getting something or looking for the rest of them?” You asked, “they’re all at the first two booths over there.” A finger pointing in the direction of the booths led you to see a pop of hair disappearing from above everyone else.
“I was gettin’ a beer,” he responded with a nod but a man clapped him on the back before he could continue.
“Great show, man!”
And then another, “Fuckin’ rocks, dude!”
Followed by others beginning to realize that the man standing beside you was one of the members of the band they had come to see.
“Can you sign this?”
“We saw you in Chicago last year. It was great!”
“I managed to drag my girl to one of your shows and she’s loves you now! I don’t know how I can compete!”
Eventually it had become one after another and you wondered if he got this reception everywhere. You turned back to the bar and waved over one of the bartenders, a female, and was happy she could get you something. She put down a napkin in front of you.
“What can I get you?”
“Two Blue Moons, tap please,” you ordered and she nodded, eyeing Eddie behind you as he graciously thanked each person and tried to break free of their incessant badgering. He only had 30 minutes.
“You know him?” she asked, pulling a cup from the wooden slats and grabbing the hose. Her head tipped in his direction.
“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, “old friends.”
“You’re lucky,” she laughs and hands one of the beers over, “everyone wants to be friends with him.”
You turned over your shoulder and saw a gaggle of girls hovering. Their faces were bright and flustered. One put her hand on Eddie’s arm, which he took back quickly. He wedged it between you and the patron sitting next to you, leaning onto the bar so they didn’t touch him.
But his arm was touching you. He was barely leaning into you, but you noticed. Your body was on fire any time he was close.
His fingers gripped the bar tightly as if he was trying to disappear through it. The rings on his hand were less familiar but you recognized the pig that glinted in the light.
“So they do,” you looked back at her and she smiled, “how much?” For the beers. She shook her head.
“On the house,” she pointed at Eddie.
“Thanks,” was all you could say in reply.
Both glasses in your hand, you turned back around and nudged his arm that was leaning on the bar. His head immediately turned to you—hair still frizzy and wildly falling around his face as you held one out to him. The girls behind him miffed from the lack of attention.
“Here,” you motioned for him to take it with his free hand but he shook his head, face going a little sour. You furrowed your brows thinking it had something to do with the beer except he tipped his chin to the bar.
“Put them on the bar,” he said sternly, feeling the grabby hands of those girls on the arm that was free. The space was so confined he knew it wouldn’t end well with a beer in his hand.
“Eddie!” One of them called and you could see it in his eyes that it was the last thing he wanted to do. He didn’t want to pay any attention to them.
Eddie was learning the boundaries of fans and signing things. Saying hello, taking a picture were fine but the moment they invaded his space, the moment they put people he cared for in any kind of danger, he drew the line. Something inside of him told him it was building to that.
“Eddie! Can you take a picture with us?” They had their camera ready, a guy, maybe one of their boyfriends, was holding the camera for them.
He looked at you apologetically. Who were you to prevent him from making a fan(s) happy?
“It’s fine, go on,” you told him with a nod, hoping your eyes conveyed that.
They wrapped their arms around him. They held on tightly while he barely touched them. When the flash went off and nearly blinded you from the back, more people noticed he was standing there and you felt the situation was just getting worse. You wanted to stay here with him but not at the expense of your comfort. If you went back to the booth now, no one would notice.
Scattered thank you’s from the girls were audible over the light tunes from the stereo that broke through the talking amongst the room. Some guys followed their picture by shaking his hand.
“Hey, listen man,” Eddie started when another came up to him, “I only have so much time so if you don’t mind…” He felt he got lucky when the man understood.
But good barely lasts long.
Eddie turned around, looking you dead in the eye and you could see the drain it had on him. People were badgering when it came to seeing someone remotely well known. They were a new band, growing every year. It would only get worse the more popular they became.
He made his way back over to the bar a couple steps away. His one arm resumed its place beside you and the other reached around you from the other side. For a moment, he had caged you into the bar and the courage and confidence you had always had didn’t waver. Your heart was beating so fast.
He pulled back just a little, returning his arm in front of him and you realized he grabbed his beer.
But he smirked. He was teasing you.
“Blue Moon, huh?” He asked, savoring the taste of it on his tongue, licking the top of his lip as he observed the cup.
“Well if I knew it was on the house…” you told him as a joke. He smiled and it met his eyes, those lines defined on his face.
“You can blame Steve for not telling you. I told him it was free.”
You hummed, looking behind him as that same group of girls remained.
“You have some… fans…” you weren’t sure you could call them that. Eddie dipped his head, you heard the defeated sigh and he shuffled his feet, tapping on the bar with his one hand. The unintentional shuffle brought him an inch closer. You could feel the edge of his jacket—the zipper dangling freely—meet your arm.
“They’re groupies. Well, groupies without the love of music.”
“Yeah I can tell,” you met one of their eyes briefly before looking away. You couldn’t meet his eyes after the stare that girl was giving you. It made your skin crawl. “Do they always do this?”
“Some are less aggressive,” he took another drink of his beer. You had forgotten about your own. “But they’re all on the same spectrum I suppose.”
One of them moved and you didn’t know if you could take being berated for nothing by a girl who just wanted to get in his pants. She hadn’t loved him for years, you did. You grasped the part of his jacket that had been closest to you. Instinctively, he leaned in closer, nearly cocooning you into the small space.
“How much time do you have?” He glanced at the watch that was on the wrist of the hand with the beer.
“10 minutes or so. Why?” He searched your face, never missing your lips as he shot his eyes around.
“Because that girl, the one with the blonde hair and yellow headband is coming over here and gave me the goddamn death glare when I looked at her.”
Eddie’s hair fell from his shoulder and hung beside him. You could feel the edges of it meet the side of your face.
“You have a dressing room or something…? I don’t know what kind of things bars have,” you were holding onto him so tightly.
“Yeah they gave us a room…” he put his beer on the bar and stood up straight. He held out his hand to you.
Six years. Six years you had waited for him to hold out his hand to you in more than a friendly way. There was something about the air, the tension you felt when he looked at you that told you this was the moment you had been waiting for.
“Come on,” he tipped his head toward the back of the venue. You grabbed his hand without a second thought.
You made it halfway. His hand had covered yours, holding on tightly and occasionally swiping his thumb across your fingers in comfort. You could see some of the people looking. You pretended they weren’t whispering about you. All you were thinking about was the perfect way his hand encapsulated yours when you were jerked to the side and his grasp broke.
“Wh—“ he didn’t take two steps to know you were gone and at once turned around to see that girl with the yellow headband was closer to him than you were. You were apologizing to a table of fans as one of their cups had tipped over, the liquid dripping onto the floor onto your shoes.
“What the fuck?” He barely whispered as he watched the scene before him. Eddie walked back to you, trying to avoid the girl when she cut in front of his path.
She gave a big, cheesy smile, “you gotta minute?” Her gum popped in her mouth.
“Wh—no, no, I don’t have a minute…” he brushed her aside and went to you, assuring the table they hadn’t done anything wrong.
“I’m sorry, God,” you were apologetic for something you didn’t have control over, “I didn’t mean to do that. Let me get you—“
“It’s on the house, guys, just tell them I said so,” Eddie grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the table before they could wrap their heads around what happened.
The girl was still standing there as you passed again and she tried to grab your arm. However, Eddie was more than prepared to defend you—the only person he’d be willing to make a scene for. He pulled you close, turning to point a finger accusingly at the blonde-haired woman with a sneer.
“Don’t fucking touch her! If I see you near her again I will throw you out myself, got it?”
The girl was speechless and so were you, for far different reasons nonetheless.
“Got it!?” He yelled at her and the people chatting in the area around you quieted. You put one of your hands on his stomach as the other one was clutched in his own. Your palm spread; it was telling her he was already taken.
“Come on, let’s go,” you urged him. And because he knew it was the right thing to do, he led you behind a brown wooden door and the bright, fluorescent lights of the hallway to the dressing rooms was never so greatly welcomed.
Eddie didn’t know how one moment years in the making could change the course of his personal life.
From the time he left Hawkins with Corroded Coffin to make it big, his mind was jumbled; lost in differing aspects from friends he had been leaving behind and a system of systemic poverty that had failed him. Somewhere inside of The Hideout Eddie felt his luck shifting. Maybe it was your hand in his being strung along the bright hallway, or maybe it was the fact he had grown into his confidence and could stick up for himself and you without fear of retaliation because he was no longer at the bottom of the food chain.
It was a redemption of sorts.
“Eddie, Eddie,” he heard his name being called but blood was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t believe the audacity of people when they didn’t have a relation or acquaintanceship with someone. You see people on TV or hear them on the radio and suddenly, it’s as if they’re not truly a person anymore. It was the downside, the absolute bottom of the barrel feeling, when it came to pursuing his dreams.
“Hey, hey, Eddie, wait a second,” your voice was firmer, a light pull back on the grip he had on your hand, and he stopped. He had always been good at keeping others’ comfort at the top of his list and he wasn’t going to stop just because he was a bit angry.
“Just wait,” you breathed, finally catching up to him and staying so close.
“It’s fine, okay?” You were concerned. He could see it in your face. This isn’t how he planned to see you again. In fact, he had been so nervous he smoked two blunts instead of one before the show. He was surprised that it didn’t mellow him out more.
“I’m fine, you’re fine. Just let it go.”
“She had no right to touch you like that,” if your voice had been firm, his was unmoving. It was steadfast in leveled anger that boundaries were breeched and it could have gone a lot worse than it had.
“She didn’t hurt me if that’s what you want to hear.”
Eddie didn’t know what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that you were fine; he wanted to hear that you were happy; he wanted to hear that what he did was fucking hot and maybe, just maybe you would give him a chance if he took it. Eddie Munson wanted to hear the reason why you hadn’t reached out to him for six goddamn years while life continued to turn.
He had so many question and he had been overthinking them for days.
He ran a hand through his frizzy waves and held them intertwined above his head.
“Steve told me you moved to Indy to find me.”
If you were a ghost, now was the time to disappear.
“Is that true?”
You put your hands on your hips and looked anywhere but him.
“Y/n, if it’s not true just say so and you can go back to them but if it’s not, tell me. Please.” You never thought Eddie would be one to beg. But here he was, standing in front of you, begging, for you to tell him.
The dance between you two had been a long and winding road. Stolen glances, touches that lasted too long, and the palpable tension your friends felt was enough to shoot off fireworks between you. It was electric, sizzling, majestic. There wasn’t a day that you didn’t think about what he was doing, who he might be with—and it was no surprise that Eddie often wondered the same of you.
“Is that why you asked about me on the phone? Because you thought I had followed you out there?”
“No,” he shook his head, dropping his hands.
“I asked because I wanted to know if you had a reason for never contacting me. I thought we were friends, at least friends who would keep in touch.”
“I never knew what to say,” you admitted as your head dropped to glance at the floor. Beer was still shining up at you on your glossy shoes. “I feel like there was almost too much that no words would come out.”
Eddie nodded—knowing well you had not answered his question. “Did you think I wouldn’t remember you or somethin’? I can tell you that would never happen.” He laughed at the thought.
“That wasn’t it… I don’t really know how to explain it,” you knew exactly how to explain it.
‘Eddie, I’ve been in love with you for years and I was afraid you had moved on to other women because they were your style.’
‘Eddie, I would do anything for you but I’m scared of my feelings not being validated.’
“Well, you’re here now,” he proposed with a rather hopeful look on his face, “you still smoke or is that too metal for you now?”
“How could I? My dealer ran off to be a superstar.”
“Well, I’m here now and got a bag of weed in my case. What do you say to that?”
“I say it’s not going to smoke itself.”
The dressing room was small. Littered with equipment and travel bags. A dirty mirror hung on the furthest wall from the door and each member of the band was crammed inside. Eddie opened the door with a push as an unknown stickiness had caught the seal. Each guy looked up at the intruder.
“Hey, we were looking for you,” Jeff said and reached for water on the table. “We go back on in five.”
Eddie nodded mindlessly as he opened the door further to let you slip under his arm and into the room. The two that you had gone to high school with smiled widely––having known that Eddie was absolutely soaring on the inside. The band had found two other members you didn’t know after they had escaped the grasp of Hawkins’ hell and they sat chatting on a sofa.
“You’re shitting me right now!” Gareth said, getting up from his stool and grabbing his glass that sat on the table beside Jeff. “I thought you said she wasn’t coming!”
He had talked about you. Recently.
“I said I wasn’t sure!” Eddie corrected him and led you to the corner where he stored his things. You hopped onto the vanity and felt like a spotlight was on you from the bulb of lights. “Besides, it’s none of your business anyway,” Eddie occupied himself searching through one of his cases for the weed.
“We go on in five minutes, man. Did you not hear Jeff?”
“I heard you, I heard you,” Eddie mumbled and grasped a tin with certain fingers. It was an old snuff can that had become so worn down that the branding was gone. Eddie opened the lid and pulled out one of the rolled joints he had stored inside. He lifted it to his lips before turning back to Gareth.
He took a second, glancing over at you as you picked at your nail polish and walked over to Jeff and Gareth instead. The other two outside of the circle knew not to get in between the lifelong friends. You couldn’t hear their mumbles but Eddie was rather animated in his movements.
“Listen, I just need like… a half hour. Give me a half hour and I’ll owe you big time. Just give me this.”
The two wanted to argue. They wanted to be a band that didn’t have members who caused issues but they saw the look in Eddie’s eyes. They knew how much he liked you and with how much he talked about you, they couldn’t not give him the chance. The band came to Hawkins once every year and who knows if Eddie would get the chance again.
Jeff checked his watch. They had to go.
“Half hour. If you’re not out there I will come and get you, I don’t care what situation you’re in.”
Eddie patted them both on the back.
“Shane, Mickey,” Jeff called over to the other two, “let’s go. Eddie needs a minute.”
And Eddie watched them leave the room with the blunt still hanging out of his mouth. When he turned back to you, the air changed too.
You sat, cross legged and leaning on top of the vanity like a muse. Sparkly dress with shiny lips and glinting eyes, it was intoxicating. He grabbed the stool Jeff was sitting on and placed it in front of you—just close enough where his knees tapped your leg as he spread out; unashamed that he was man-spreading right where you slotted between him. He drew a lighter from his jacket and lit the blunt. With a puff he passed it to you.
“They willingly accepted your disappearance?” You questioned, blowing smoke off to the side in the most glamorous way he had ever seen.
“Only for a bargain. You know them… always looking for a steal…” he watched your lips purse around the stick—plump and inviting. “Besides, they had a good enough conscious to let this one slide.”
“Why? Because it’s just silly ol’ me?” You fluttered your eyelashes, smiling at him with perfect poise before passing back the blunt. His fingers grazed yours.
“It’s never just ‘silly ol’ you’” he repeated, “you fuckin’… light up the room when you walk in. So, no.”
You tried to hide your smile, but it was hard when he was so blatant.
“You know I was nervous about tonight,” you admitted sheepishly, “felt like you had forgotten about us now that you made a name for yourself.”
“I told you that would never happen.”
“Yeah, but the mind has a funny way of playing tricks on us like that.”
“There could be a million people in a room, and I’d still find you right away, Y/n,” Eddie’s eyes were filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Kindness and sincerity aside, the man was not quiet about his wants or needs. You just hadn’t allowed yourself to accept them because you were scared about letting someone in. Someone that you liked a lot and someone you knew could make you happy.
Happiness made people vulnerable. Vulnerable people got hurt.
“So you did ask about me? Wanted to know what I was up to?” You inquired.
“Did you move to the city for me?” He asked instead.
“It was part of it, yeah.” It was the answer he wanted.
“Why didn’t you call?”
You laughed, taking the blunt back, and taking a minute to think of a comprehensive answer. “I didn’t call because I was scared of being one of them,” you pointed to the door and he understood that you were referencing those girls.
“They hounded you like you were Bruce Springsteen…how was I supposed to compete with that or be something different?”
If he hadn’t known for certain that you held a candle for him as he did you, he did now. He was relieved in a sense.
“I think it’s funny,” he watched as you unfolded your legs, the dress hiking up in the slightest as you moved forward on the vanity. He also felt the choice to man-spread before you were beginning to be a mistake if anything went wrong. He wouldn’t be able to hide anything. “That you’d think you would be like them… you’re nothing like them.”
“And what am I like?”
Your confidence had returned. A flirtatious smile played at your lips when you swung your leg just enough to let the outline of your shoe rub against his pants. The blunt was still burning between your fingertips.
Eddie knew it was now or never. So he let loose too.
“What are you like?” He looked inquisitively at you. A finger tapping on his chin as if he was deep in thought for a moment. “I think the obvious is smart and pretty… but not school girl kind of pretty.”
“No?”
“No…” he shook his head, “the pretty that doesn’t think she is. The kind that is too kind to accept a compliment but should know she’s more than that.”
“More than pretty?” Your face was hot. You could feel the fire burning within you. Eddie Munson calling you pretty as he spread before you and shared a blunt while the beginnings of his bands second set began to shake the room.
“Beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous?”
You repeated the words slowly. He couldn’t help the smile on his own face. His cheeks were red, the hands folded in his lap were sweaty but he would never admit that.
“The mostest.” You laughed at his grammar. It was technically true, it just sounded awkward.
“Fucking beautiful.”
You didn’t repeat that.
“You, Y/n, are the most fucking beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life and I’ve thought that for six years.”
“Six?”
“Since you jumped into the water at Lover’s Lake to save Steve.”
God, it felt like yesterday.
“And do you know what?” He questioned, not expecting you to respond, “I have thought about you ever single day since.”
“Every day?”
“Each one. And when I was on stage, I looked. Hoping maybe you’d show up one day. I thought about you when I was alone… when I had company…”
“You’re a pervert, Eddie Munson,” You laughed, he smiled.
“Well, can you blame a guy? Look at you.” The way his eyes trailed. He was hunting and you were perfect prey.
“I can’t really… but you can.” Your bottom lip passed through your teeth quickly—barely grazing it as the top of your shoe ran along the inside of his leg. He was fucked.
“I can. I do.”
“Why has it taken this long to admit it?”
“Time wasn’t always on our side…” he sucked in a breath when you put the blunt out right on the counter top. It made a sickening sizzle, burning black onto its white finish. He would probably be charged for that but in the moment he didn’t care.
“But we’re here now…” you proposed. You moved forward again, barely touching him until you got to your feet and stood in front of him. “Time can stand still for a little while…”
You were waiting on him to make the move.
He stood from the stool, pushing it backwards with his foot. He was close again, just as he had been at the bar but this time there wasn’t anything stopping him. No one in his way and for the remaining minutes he had been granted, he had only you.
Eddie’s hands cupped your face.
“You’d never be one of them, baby,” you just about fell over, “you’ve always been my number one girl.”
“And does that come with a prize?”
“Only the best.”
His eyes never left your lips as he caressed your face gently, savoring the moment before both of your bodies gave into what they had been craving for half a decade. Eddie’s breath was hot, already staggered as he breathed in one last time before pulled your face to his and planting his lips to yours. You imagined it was what heaven had felt like if something like that existed. He tasted like beer and weed; lips a little chapped from days on the road but a pillow compared to others. He cradled your face with care—almost afraid that if he had gone in too hard the first time it would all be a dream and disappear.
When he felt your hands creep onto his forearms, he knew he wasn’t dreaming. It was real. You were here, kissing him back in a dingy dressing room at The Hideout on a Tuesday evening. The walls rattled with a metal sound.
Eddie moved his hands from your face to cradle the back of your head as he pushed himself further into you. Another hand wrapping around your waist tightly. You could feel him clutching onto the fabric of your dress, his fingers digging into the skin of your hip. With nothing to grab onto now, you enveloped his shoulders with your arms and tangled your hands into his hair.
There was nothing holding him back, nor you, in that room. His hands wandered and groped, he sounded small grunts when you rubbed up against him just right or tugged on his hair just enough. You felt him hard against you, telling you without words that what he had said was the truth.
You wanted this. You wanted it badly.
The vanity behind you was digging into your lower back, pressing, and pressing with every movement and the world came back to you with the realization someone could walk in, and you weren’t about to stop if Eddie wasn’t.
“Eddie,” you broke the kiss, murmuring his name as his lips found the sides of your mouth, your chin, following a path down your neck. “Eddie,” you said again with a pant, “someone could walk in.”
He let go with an audible 'pop' and nudged his nose to your chin before looking at you. He was so close, breathing heavily as his tongue swept over his lips.
"Yeah…" He huffed, the way his arms caged you in against the counter, "so what?"
“I’d rather not give them a show if you know what I mean?”
Eddie acknowledged that with a nod of his head, glancing in the mirror as he peeked around the room for a door that had a lock. The bathroom. The bathroom had a lock. He had found the solution, placing a delicate kiss on your lips—miles different than the one he had started with.
“Bathroom good?”
You brushed a piece of his hair back and he just about melted. “Bathroom’s perfect.”
You weren’t even sure if he had locked the door before he had his hands and lips on you again. You hit the back of the stall hard but it didn’t matter because Eddie Munson was prepared to give you the time of your life in a dirty, more than likely unsanitary, bar bathroom years in the making. He was taking no prisoners in the way he felt you up—hands acting as a way to stake his claim from everything from your breasts to ass and you swallowed what you could take. Each moan he gave, every sound that levied on a whimper from you. It felt natural having him close. Having him give himself to you in the same passion that you were to him.
When he went back to assaulting your neck—sucking at the skin to where your nails were making crescents on his shoulders through his jacket—you stuttered a breath.
“I-I met a few girls who said they met you,” you admitted as he bothered not to stop, “they claimed you’re a real… freak when it comes to this kind of thing.”
He thought you sounded adorable in the most sexy way. Nervous with a tinge of shakiness in your voice. Eddie didn’t care anymore what people thought of him. What girls said or what they tried to claim about him. All he wanted was to know what you thought, what you claimed of him. He had been waiting for that for six years.
“They said you used handcuffs,” that made him stop.
"Is there truth to it?" You couldn't take your eyes off his lips and you could sense he was jittery. Like he had 12 cups of coffee. His finger tapped against the side of the stall impatiently. “It’s a little different from the Eddie I know… one who liked D&D and honeycomb cereal.”
“I still like that cereal,” he laughed. Eddie shifted his head to the side of your face, letting his mouth kiss your ear lobe tenderly. He still loved D&D too.
"What kind of freak do you want me to be?"
You tipped your head to the side slightly, running your hands over his chest and feeling the fabric of his rough t-shirt ride upwards.
"I want," Your hands ran higher and met their position at the base of his neck. Finger nails disappearing beneath his wild hair and running along his nape, "one that will fuck me in this bathroom until I can barely walk… can you do that for me?"
Eddie was nearly speechless. Nearly.
“I could fuck you four ways funny and sweetheart,” he ran his tongue over his lips again, pulling back and looking down at yours, “you wouldn’t be walkin’ after the first one.”
He was so close, his breath hot and brushing against your face. All the water seemingly drained from him as the need for what you were offering, sweet and plump, had become the perfect meal. Eddie’s right hand slid down the stall door to where it could barely graze your dress at the hip.
You had already told him what you wanted. But he needed permission. He drew himself closer, pressing into you and you felt how hard he was in his pants.
“You gonna make me wait forever, sweetheart? You gonna tell me what to do?”
“I told you what I wanted,” your voice was breathy, deep. He could barely stand it. He could cum right there from just knowing he was finally getting the chance to fuck you.
“You told me what you wanted,” he clarified, grasping your side tightly and taking the second you gasped to stick his head between his other arm and neck. His hot, panting breath on your neck now was all you could think about.
“You didn’t say I could.”
“Fuck me, Eddie,” you tilted your head to the side, letting his lips lightly kiss the skin there. You clutched one lapel of his jacket and reached up to intertwine your fingers in his hair with the other, giving him enough order to suck as he had been doing before. “Fuck me the way you played out there tonight. Like it’s your last goddamn night on earth.”
He still had that wild hair. However, it was no longer in spite or rebellion against the system but a piece of his image. Only a man so engrossed in the sound and space of what it meant to be a metal, hard rock band could pull off the attitude and aura he exuded.
He lifted up the skirt of your dress to your waist and let his torso hold it in place as he put both hands to your hips and pulled your panties down. Your breathing was staggered, half excited and half anxious to get him inside of you. He gently tapped your knee to lift.
When he got them off he shoved them in the back pocket of his pants.
“I’m keepin’ those.”
The dress had fallen back down but as he rose to his feet, his fingers painted a path to its edge, driving it upwards and this time, there was nothing restricting his path to you.
“Baby, you been hidin’ this perfect fucking pussy all these years?”
Fuck. You felt a fire ignite within you. You knew Eddie Munson had a flare for theatrics; that he was eccentric, and maybe a little insane, but the second his hands touched your body—you felt the satanic panic infiltrate your soul.
“Eddie,” you whined as one of his hands grew closer to your center and the other kept guiding your dress up. “Stop with your goddamn teasing and fuck me.”
He would never deny a command from a lady like you.
Eddie let his fingers descend, pressing his lips to your neck then chin as your breathing hitched right at the precipice. His entire hand cupped you with pressure that made your toes curl.
“Sh-shit…” you gasped. His smile on your neck was rewarding.
“Shit is right, Y/n,” Eddie’s fingers spread a bit, two fingers threatening to enter while the others pulled apart your folds. His thumb worked to find your clit without guidance of his eyes. All he needed from you was to tell him when and it took him little time.
You jolted into him, lolling your head into his chest, and breathing deeply and his lips lost their traction on your neck. He could feel your trembling fingers holding onto him. If he had been 16, he would have came in his pants at the sheer desperation you were giving. The music of heavy metal mixing with the sounds of your pleasure were dizzying. Eddie guided two of his fingers into you.
“Jesus Christ…” you blurted out as your head pulled back from him and went back against the stall. He was watching you with such precision that you felt hot under his gaze. His fingers were moving swiftly, feeling every part of you as he watched your chest heave and face go slack.
“You’re so fucking wet, sweetheart. God damn.” He pushed his fingers further into you, curling them the best he could to get you there. He wanted to fuck you but couldn’t tear his eyes away from your wanton face. Eddie’s free hand gripped the base of your neck. His thumb running along the length and applying pressure. “So wet for me, huh?”
Your eyes were clouded with delirium. He had taken you there with a simple touch. You didn’t know how you would last if he truly took the time to worship you. Eddie could send you to an early grave and you’d say ‘thank you for a fantastic time.’
“Always for you,” you whimpered carelessly, “I’ll always be for you.”
“You really—“ he grunted when your hand tangled in his shirt and nicked the necklace he was wearing. It pulled on his neck. “You really want me to fuck you here?” He flicked your bud making you cry out. “Bend you over like the dirty fucking girl you are?”
You pulled his shirt, the necklace too, and let his body lay against yours. The only feeling of his hand continuing to pleasure you and his hard dick in his pants reminding you that you wanted something more. His forehead met yours and it was soft in the hardness of lust.
“Bend me over that sink,” you told him, no longer fuzzy with ecstasy, “I’ve thought about you on lonely nights starring at me through a mirror as you fucked me.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat that formed with your admission.
“Show me that I’m not one of those girls, Eddie.”
He didn’t need to romance you to show you that.
Eddie removed his fingers with no warning and guided you to the sink with a quickness you had only seen in movies. He was strategic and defined, letting your hands grasp the edges of the porcelain sink that stood alone in the flickering bathroom light. You watched him through the mirror concentrate on undoing his belt, zipping down his pants and pulling himself out of his black jeans. For a second, you wished you had turned around. Wanting to see him hard and leaking for you but you also knew there was no way this was a one and done deal.
Eddie would wine and dine you; he would take you to a physical bed and make love to you before he’d leave this planet.
And he still had on his leather jacket.
“You sure you’re ready for this, baby?” He asked, meeting your gaze in the mirror. “We only got so much time so I’m not going slow.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” your fingers had gone taut against the sink; gripping tightly and trying to support yourself as your excitement made you shake. No man had ever had the same effect on you.
“You tell me to stop and I will, got it?”
And there were few men confident enough in their abilities to extend kindness in the heat of the moment.
“Yeah, I got it,” you barely got that out because he grabbed his cock with one of his hands, leaning over you to hold your hand down on the sink—his larger hand covering yours almost completely. He ran the head over your folds and you felt your legs shake.
“All right then, let me fuck you like I’ve been waiting my whole life to.”
And he was right, he didn’t stop. Eddie pounded hard and fast into you as if it was exactly that. He hit every part of you, stretching and filling you with a sweet sensation of adrenaline laced possessiveness that had grown throughout the evening. Every time he glanced at the table, the moment he saw you at the bar, the way you held onto his hand as he carried you away from the crowds just to have a second to unwind everything he had felt for you. As he gripped your hip and remained holding your hand against the sink, you could barely say a word for what he was completing in you.
It was like a puzzle piece finding its home.
“Motherfucker…” Eddie husked as he picked up the pace, watching himself disappear within your glistening cunt every time he thrusted back and forth. He wasn’t even letting you do much work at this point. He had taken every ounce of himself and poured it into what he had been waiting to do. Eddie Munson was beating to the course of his own drum, not the ones that rattled the walls and swelled through the air ducts to sound off the tile in the bathroom.
You kept your eyes on him through the mirror even if the pleasure threatened to close them. He was in a zone; concentrated and using his body the best way he knew how.
“Fuck–” He let go of your hand and slotted it in between you down your front. He brought his middle finger back down to your clit and your breath hitched, stuck inside of your throat. Your fingers were unstable. The grip on the sink wavering with every pounding step he made and the sounds of your wet slick combining with his force was an epiphany.
You looked again in the mirror. Eddie’s forehead was resting on the skin of your shoulder as he continued to thrust.
“Eddie,” you breathed out, “look at me.”
Your words were jumbled. You didn’t know if it came out that way or if you just heard the voice in your head say it correctly, but he didn’t respond.
“Eddie,” you tried again, “look at me.”
Look at you–he did. He had. For four goddamn years because that's all he could do was look. Staring like a loser school boy who was infatuated with his unattainable teacher but in reality, the two of you were neither. Just a freak and a prep. The popular girl who was loud and funny but could never spare a glance to him until you had. Until circumstances beyond his imagination had brought him a group of friends that supported him, saved him, from the secrets Hawkins hides.
His brown eyes blown wide and full, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead as your glinted on your collarbones and the part of your chest he could see.
“You’re so fucking perfect, Y/n...” He mumbled and laid a kiss on your shoulder. His eyes met yours in the mirror and he was close. The fantasy of the moment he had been waiting for beginning to catch up with him, the ideas you had planted in your mind for days reeling in reality. But you didn’t come here to get fucked and finish by looking at him in the mirror.
“Turn me over,” you panted quickly, “I’m close.”
He did as he was told. His cock slipping out for a second as he gripped both sides of your hips and turned you around. In any other situation, he may have been embarrassed about how much he was worked up, but this wasn’t a regular occurrence. This was an endgame for him. Some final quest that would lead his life beyond it with pride and a feeling of content. This was his one shot as much as it was yours. He guided himself back in, feeling you clench around him and lifted one of your legs to wrap around him. Eddie held it with his hand to help ease the strain.
“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” you managed to get out with labored words. Your shaking hand cupping his face as he brought it close to you. Intimacy was no longer divided between a mirror. This was as close to making magic as it could get in a place like this.
“It won’t be,” he reassured you with a kiss, “I’m not letting you go again, baby.”
The goddamn pet names. You’d never tire of it.
He felt you clench around him again, your face fighting the resolution with everything you had left because you didn’t want it to end.
“Come on, baby,” he murmured against your lips, “come for me, sweetheart, come for me.”
Eddie put his hand on your neck again, relishing the way your eyes fluttered closed as his lips egged you on with kisses and his hand with a bit of pressure. He would have time to show you what else he could do; to find new things together but right then, all he wanted to see was you fall apart by his own doing.
A few more thrusts and he had sent you there.
He had sent you to euphoria–the dazzling electric dance of fire that had been sitting, waiting to be awakened. Your eyes were shut tightly, hands gripping his jacket, and your mouth was agape, a strangled sound of pleasure finding its way out as he followed through with his actions as your orgasm had reached its top. Eddie wished he had a camera because there was no one else who could beat the way your orgasm made him feel.
He was so lost in the moment staring at you that he had reached his own in a subsequent fashion. You heard him moan, something so many men had been conscious not to do because it was vulnerable, but you grasped him harder as he stilled. You were both breathing so heavily that you couldn’t hear anything else.
All either of you did was stare at each other––knowing that what had occurred changed the course of not only the evening, but your lives as they were.
“Holy shit,” Eddie whispered, feeling himself soften inside of you as your fingertips lightly ran through his hair.
The music from his band was still thundering.
“Yeah...” you repeated, “holy shit.”
And he smiled, so you did too.
“They’ll come looking for me any second,” he said knowingly. Jeff and Gareth let him have his time, but he still needed to play. He didn’t want to leave.
You brushed his bangs away from his face gently. “Well, a band always needs their star...”
You thought he was a star. A star.
“Well, a man needs his muse too.”
“His muse will be out there... cheering him on from a booth with both of their friends.”
Eddie bit his lip, not wanting to go but knowing that he had to. He nodded, almost warning you that he was going to pull out and it still hadn’t hit either of you that a condom had gone forgotten. He tried to ignore the small wince you let out when he eventually did, stuffing himself back into his pants as you pulled your dress down and turned to face the mirror again.
“Sorry,” he said both in response to the soreness he’s sure you felt, but also for the marks he had left on the skin exposed due to the design of your dress. You examined them in the mirror.
“Here,” Eddie pulled off his jacket and was thankful he did so because he was sweltering in it, “take it and when the shows over, you come back, and I’ll take you for a drink.”
A date of sorts.
“You sure?” You caught his eyes in the mirror as he opened the jacket, placing it on your shoulders and holding his hands there.
“There’s no one else I’d rather see wearing it out there.”
“I don’t know if I could pull it off as well as you,” you laughed, your head shaking at the idea of you–someone who had never worn a leather jacket–wearing his. “I don’t know if I’m the type.”
“Of course, you are,” Eddie moved to the side of the sink, letting your hands turn on the faucet and let the water run, “you’re a rock star’s girl so I need you to show it off. Besides...” he trailed off, hearing the door to the dressing room open beyond the bathrooms, “you could wear nothing and be the best dressed person in there.”
A knock sounded at the door, followed by a wiggle of the handle but thankfully, Eddie did lock the door.
“Eddie?” it was Jeff, “Time’s up, man. I know you wanna, well, you know...” he sounded embarrassed, “but they know you’re missing.”
“Be out in a second!” Eddie shouted through the door and the handle went still again.
“You should go,” you pumped soap into your hand once the water was warm, “you have fans waiting.”
“Promise me you’ll wear it?” His eyes were hopeful. He had finally snagged the girl of his dreams. He didn’t need to define it to know you were committed too. “Please?”
“I’m wearing it already, aren’t I?” You smiled at him, nodding your head to the door. “Go.”
He started off toward the door and just when he was about to unlock it, he turned around, meeting your eyes in the mirror and coming straight back to you. His hands grabbed your face and pulled you to him, his lips meeting yours in a searing kiss. It had been the lingering feelings of love unspoken that had told him to do it. He pulled away first.
“I’ll be looking for you out there.”
“I’ll be watching.”
The bar was as you had left it.
Eddie made it to the stage by the time you had cleaned yourself up and became satisfied that your look was a bit different to the one you had begun the night with. The music was still loud, the people were still excited, and the two booths remained filled with your friends. You stopped at the bar on your way back for a glass of water and the same woman as before served you.
There were still a hundred bodies lingering around the space, but a single open gap led you to her. She smiled at you.
“You left your beer on the bar,” she said as her eyes narrowed, looking at the jacket you wore. You played with the cuffs as the people around you listened to the music. “Want another?”
“No,” you shook your head, “just water please.”
She nodded her head and grabbed a glass before filling it with ice.
“Just friends, huh?”
You shrugged, a small smile playing on your face.
“Maybe a bit more than that.”
The bartender gave you a wink as you left the bar to make your way through the maze of guests. You didn’t mind the water falling onto your hand as the people danced and forced your cup to move, thoughts filled with Eddie and the future of the evening ahead.
“Hey!” You barely heard their calls, “Y/N! Over here!”
Dustin’s screeching was the loudest, but you saw Robin standing with Nancy on the booth and their grins were huge. You reached your table and sat beside Steve. Robin and Nancy sat back down but no one said anything. You wouldn’t meet their eyes as you sipped your water. Steve nudged your shoulder twice before you mustered the strength to look at each one of them.
“That jacket’s new,” Steve commented, and Robin could barely contain her excitement. She hid her mouth behind her hands.
“It is,” you replied with a curt nod.
“So are those hickeys,” Jonathan stated, looking around the venue after he said it and his cheeks went red. Nancy slapped his arm.
“Got anything to say?” Steve inquired.
“Nope,” you popped the ‘p’ dramatically, “not really.”
Steve hummed, grinning like the rest of the fools at the table. You looked over at the stage and saw Eddie playing once more, catching him once looking over at the table and he beamed.
“You know, Steve,” you called out to him but didn’t look at him, “the thing you said in the car, about the bathrooms... you were right.”
The table erupted in delighted cheers. Steve patted your knee proudly.
Six years felt like forever, but you knew, looking onto that stage at The Hideout as the man you had been pining over played his heart out, that it was nothing compared to the potential of the future. The clock reset. You were only counting the time starting now... well, the time that started 30 odd minutes ago.
You ever read something about fictional characters you love so much it has you going ‘I wonder how they’re doing’ as if they exist outside the confines of this post? Me with this. Bad. It’s bad. I love them down fr.
I think I read this before but I couldn’t remember everything so I reread it and I’m feeling so many feelings I can’t begin to pinpoint one. I need the therapist feelings wheel.
Him standing up for her and thinking she’s the only person he’d ever make such a scene for. My heart is soaring.
The thing about them in the bathroom being as close to magic as one can make in a place like this hello Shakespeare sit the fuck down.
The paragraph after she pleads for him to look at her and we learn that he’s always been looking at her. The four years feeling like a crushing school boy. He’s been here for 10 years at this point then. That’s real love baby.
The thing about Bon Jovi and his wife- see I’ve always thought about that because ain’t no way he stayed loyal. And that’s not just pessimism, those rock stars all cheated. Like look at gene Simmons- he famously cheated on his partner who’s now his wife of like decades. I’d love to think Bon Jovi didn’t cheat but if you watch concert footage you have to know. All this to say- I know eddie wouldn’t cheat . Nuh uh, not for all the riches in the world baby. He’s been pining after her for 10 years at this point that’s his lady, man. That’s his girl.
Twirling my hair kicking my feet at the rockstar and the teacher. Him wanting her to wear his jacket and pleading with her to.
Him telling her he thought about her alone and when he was with companyyyy. See that’s the only way you could get me because it’s unrealistic, but if he’s like I’ve been pining for 6 years and thought about you ever day I’d still be thinking of the groupies he entertained. But for some reason it’s fine if he thought about me while with the groupies because at least I can get behind that. Because objectively he’s not gonna be celibate for 6 years in the hopes that their paths cross lol.
Anyway I wish I could get a Christmas card from these bitches like I wanna know what they’re up to. Does she tour with him? If not, how does he feel about the space. They can call but it’s not the same. Does he feel a load off when he gets to come home to her? Is he counting down the minutes to marry her? What are his vows? What are her reactions to the songs he’s written about? What’s his reaction to her getting into metal music just to try to be someone he’d want? What does that teenage ‘freak’ who pined after the prep think about that prep moving to a city and trying to learn his music taste just to get close to him? Is he open about his love for her? Is he a wife guy? Does he exist only to say my wife this, my wife that?
The ending of this about counting down the minutes to forever more is so beautiful I think it’s what solidified my need to know them. Like it doesn’t need a sequel but god do I want to know them.
I’ll miss you bitches when I scroll. Love you, always thinking about you two.
The highest form of flattery is that in which someone spills their entire thought process into a reblog on tumblr and I. Fucking. Love. It.
I wrote this… oh my nearly three years ago and my Eddie fics are still my crowning achievement. Like you, I also have a very deep appreciation for the authors who take what little they gave us of him and evolve him beyond the screen. Who is Eddie? What can Eddie be in the minds of us feeble fans? He’s ours now, I suppose.
I almost don’t want to answer your hypotheticals pondering what becomes of them. I feel, even though they’re kind of mine(?) (fanfiction ownership claims aside) I don’t necessarily want to write them beyond the space because maybe my idea of what’s next is so unorganic that it messes everything up.
But maybe…
I can see them visiting each other as much as possible, making up for all that lost time. I imagine Eddie is utterly devoted and is a total “my wife” kind of guy. He wants to change everything he saw between his own childhood and the adulthood he imagined, so he tries his damndest to be authentic and real and vulnerable and loving to someone he knows not only deserves every bit of him, but who will do the same back. I can imagine holiday cards being send with cheesy catch-phrases and a J.C. Penny’s style photo shoot. And I think maybe he snuck in a line about having sex against a sink in the bathroom into one of his songs and the memory is woven into him forever.
Also, your “hello Shakespeare sit the fuck down” is maybe the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.
Thank you bunches—you don’t know how much a writer like me loves to read these kinds of reblogs.
Summary: Years after Hawkins was saved, Nancy and Steve’s wedding draws everyone back together and with it, you are reminded of the love you lost at the price of fame.
[Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader; WC: 17.4k]
Warnings: language, exes to lovers, mutual pining/yearning, frightened lil beans in love, heavy angst.
Quick Links: Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist
What is it like to be loved?
There was something in that room that made you question it. The palpable, sudden feeling that permeated around it like a fog; a special dance that so many would be able to feel, yet it seemingly evaded you.
Her dress was beautiful. An ivory lace with sleeves that covered her soft skin. The brown of her hair so vibrant against the spring flowers she held as the chapel’s old stones warmed with the feeling reverberated with the words of the priest.
He was tall and stoic; filled with a slight fear that his true colors would show in his dark suit and dotted tie. He was joyous; he was a radiant boy filling his father’s suit and marrying the girl of his dreams.
Nancy and Steve.
For a moment, while the priest held everyone’s attention in a moment of prayer, it was quiet enough to imagine love physically filled the space before you. Head lightly dipped, the bouquet in your hand distracting you from the eyes of every person in the chapel.
A silence was asked for and responded to with grace. The silence of baseless words washing over the room in a wave of down-turned heads and folded hands. However quiet, however peaceful the room had become, that floating feeling hung from the rafters. You felt your heart sink. That heaviness of sorrow that plagued beautiful moments from a pain buried in your bones that you weren’t even sure really existed. Love. A tragic thing.
All you could ask was:
What is it liked to be loved?
Maybe it was the wedding that made you teary-eyed and soft hearted. You weren’t a hopeless romantic. You weren’t searching constantly for Mr. Right because he didn’t exist. They had shown you that, he had shown you that. Not some Marilyn Monroe waiting for the next man to sweep you off your feet and carry you into a raging bloody sunset in Los Angeles. No. The cards were dealt with precision and meaning; each turned over when the time allowed and burned when the bells tolled.
Love brewed and bubbled; love ached and pained; love existed and diminished; love stood in front of you screaming to break free but the cries fell silent—dead on the cold, stone floor.
Steve’s eyes called to Nancy like a ship lost at sea. The tears that brimmed at the corners whispered to fall after years of trauma and resolution. But they were relieved and elated and somehow, Nancy returned the sentiments with eyes elated. And it hurt to see your closest friends happy when you couldn’t be.
‘And from this day forward they would walk hand and hand into everything that You have destined them to be.’
The words echoed and echoed. The priest as happy to say them as Ted and Karen Wheeler nodded as if it were true from the pews. Steve’s parents had actually shown up too, along with hundreds of other people. Friends, coworkers, and the guests each of them brought.
‘We give our hearts and beings to You now in adoration.’
People like you didn’t give their hearts willingly. Not like Robin, not like Nancy. You weren’t sure about Max or Eleven, but perhaps they gave theirs willingly enough too as they stood beside you up on the alter. And you wanted that. You wanted to give it willingly. As their heads hung and their eyes diverted from above, there was a calling. Probably not from some higher God you weren’t sure even existed, but something—a gut feeling. One that simmered and bristled against negativity and anxiety; the same one that painfully squeezed that arduous organ in your chest. That feeling told you not to bow your head. It told you not to close your eyes and whatever it did, it made you shift your head in the slightest.
The groomsmen were just across the way beside Steve. Dustin helmed them, walking you down the aisle and reminding you that as they embraced adulthood, you were also getting older. Over one age milestone of established adulthood and half of the kids you babysat as a teenager were closer to marriage than you.
Angled perfectly with your shoulder—bare from the design of your green gown. The shape of your nose and chin and the style of your hair falling sleekly into a perfectly haloed outline as though a magician had cast their greatest spell. And when it turned just enough, where the platform was illuminated by the rays of the sun, one other head remained as perfectly crafted as yours, looking back as though the universe said: here it is.
This is what it feels like.
Those butterflies? Love. The heart bursting panic that set off inside you? Love. The painful realization that you could have it and you could nurture it with passion? Love.
It existed.
And it did so in the cruelest of forms.
Because the sheen of your eyes from the beautiful wedding and the widely spoken words of the priest meant more when staring back at the one thing you had always wanted. It was one feeling, one person, and that’s what you swore you couldn’t have.
He had chosen that for you. Six years ago in a tiny apartment on the west side of Chicago, he decided his career was more important.
He was him. He was a brilliant, foul-mouthed metal rock star with impeccable hair and sense of style that made your heart leap for quiet bursts of love. He was complicated and corny and filled with a truth you hadn’t been able to recognize because everyone else clouded life. What life could be and what it could hold.
Eddie Munson was a rock star. Eddie Munson was one of the most famous musicians in the world. Eddie Munson was a friend, a hero, and Eddie Munson was the man who broke your heart and it could never heal itself.
And yet love remained deep down.
It’s regretful nature resurfacing because love was tangible in the chapel in Nantucket.
It was love. It existed. It was real. It was palpable in that room, in his eyes, against the prayer, across the aisle and in all of the pews.
‘And we welcome Your Holy Spirit amongst us. Amen.’
And the chorus filled the room. The pews creaked and heads returned upright. You lost the sight as Steve and the others lifted their heads, but the feeling remained. It sunk to the pit of your stomach where the realization remained.
“Hey,” a hushed whisper sounded near your right ear as your body jolted minutely from the call. Robin’s head tried to follow your direction but couldn’t find the destination. There were hundreds of people in that room. But she should have known. She should have known.
“Everything alright?”
Her concern was evident. Had you been that rigid the entire time? Was the look of love one of fear? Were the tears in your eyes truly that clear?
“I’m fine, Rob. Really.”
It hadn’t convinced her but you returned your attention to the ceremony instead. Robin waited, glancing over your shoulder again and again to try to find her answer. The sentiment of conflict appearing much faster in times of clear disruption than she remembered. The feeling of the world tilting on its axis for something you couldn’t control.
Her eyes looked for the answer. Searching the crowd with an unfathomable hardened gaze until it landed back to the groomsmen and she felt everything click back into place. You had reassured Nancy and Robin that everything was fine; that you were friends. That there was no animosity nor tension remaining over the years but it had. They just wanted to believe the best, yet all the signs were there.
The way you stood so still; scared of yourself as emotions took their hold.
Six years of separation meant nothing. Its degrees scorching the earth every moment not together, bound by the universe yet torn apart by wants, not needs.
They had all believed you. They believed Eddie’s lies that he had moved on—the woman looking straight out of a Vanity Fair magazine in the fifth row the one he brought to prove such a tale.
No.
They had all been wrong.
The two of you had imploded the meaning of love because if it couldn’t exist between the two of you, it couldn’t exist at all.
Steve and Nancy wed on a Saturday in March.
The morning had greeted everyone with golden rays. Sunlight streaming in from the curtains of the Wauwinet’s rooms waking its patron’s with a sprinkle of joy. Early morning glow; warm and intoxicating on a day such as that.
You couldn’t see the beach from where you laid; the white comforter covering your shoulders high, eyes peeking out from the space between the blankets and your pillow. High above on the second floor, the sky reflected its yellow and pink hues until they faded to blue. Not a cloud in the sky.
The two days you had spent on the tiny island thus far had been a reflection of that sunrise. An excitable shimmer of beauty and grace only to fade into a familiar blue–a melancholy gloom that you hadn’t expected to feel. You stepped off the plane only to be greeted with every feeling that ran in its opposite direction; Robin and Nancy clung to you with joy, Steve and the boys, who you should probably call young men now, hugged you tightly.
And then a cloud formed.
The cloud was ugly, gray, and filled with matter you had buried deep. Years of pretending everything in your life was going smoothly–that you were exactly where you wanted to be–lingering above you like a joke. Laughing, jesting you with the past as happiness was rubbed into a wound like salt.
He had a smile plastered onto his face the first time you saw him that weekend–the night before the ‘I do’s.’ He was sitting in the wine cellar with Steve, reminiscing about the past as the future was gently placed on Nancy’s finger; sparkling against the shine of the hotel’s lighting as night had long fallen on a Friday evening.
As the thoughts lingered in your mind as the sun began to rise, it hadn’t been seeing Eddie for the first time in years that had thrown your world off its axis. The woman, clad in the most casual New England fashions, who sat beside him with her arm resting on his, did.
A petty, jealous feeling at the sight rose within you rapidly.
You felt there was no right for you to feel that way.
Six years. Six years had left an open season for both he and you to find new people to love, hate, and screw, but the idea that there was a reality that existed where Eddie no longer loved you was jarring.
The fear of it became engrained in your bones. Tattooed onto skin that was untouched and permanently stained with words that hurt and stung and ultimately resulted in the reason you had come to that wedding alone.
Eddie had scarred you–in a beautifully tragic way that you’d never be the person you were at seventeen when he asked you to go see Temple of Doom at a theater two towns over. It was a shame you’d always tie him to that film… because you really fucking liked the movie but all you could think about was how Indy left Marion in the dust and hell, you felt like Marion sometimes.
He just sat there. A gorgeous woman on his arm and smiling at Steve as though not a day had gone by. He looked older, more sure of himself, and dare you think it, had a bit more style than he did before. Nice, in a ‘formal but not too formal’ kind of way.
They were all sipping on some hundred-dollar wine. He could afford it now. Red-soled shoes, a jacket with no fringe, and a bottle of wine that cost as much as your monthly rent.
Nancy had been perched on a stool at the high-top beside Steve. The two had been going over the rehearsal that Eddie conveniently missed as well as the dinner from hours before. From what Robin had divulged, he had a show in Boston and would make his way out to Nantucket after it was over.
You didn’t think Nancy ringing your suite for drinks would mean he’d be there too.
The thunder from the cloud above you rumbled when Nancy caught your eye in the entryway.
Everything, from the clothes you wore to the company of the room, felt out of place. Like you were looking from the outside and into a world that was completely yours but never one you recalled. The people in it–sparingly familiar but strangers all the same.
Nancy had taken a sip of her wine, swallowing quickly as she perked up and waved at you. The attention drawing each eye away from Steve and to you, unwelcome and afraid of familiarity. Two looked happy, one looked curious, and the other looked like the whole world had stopped.
A moment in time paused. No calm waiters tending to guests, no heads turning toward him because he was identifiable; it was blank. Two worlds gone completely still because for the first time in six years, you and Eddie had finally converged to one place.
Some expensive hotel on Nantucket Island for a wedding between two people you both held near and dear to your hearts. It took nothing to imagine that if things had gone right, perhaps it would not be Steve and Nancy meeting at the alter tomorrow afternoon.
In the stillness, a reunion is not bound by the trivial “it’s good to see you” or “its been too long.” A mind playing funny tricks and sending you back to years before–the way his entire person disappeared beyond the bedroom door only to be followed by the slamming of the front one. An apology sputtered at the end of a fight that had been brewing for weeks.
The last time you saw Eddie Munson he had come home from a tour with no direction but up. Up to a new place, to a new life, and one that kept the past behind. Questions of love, home, and loyalty tested two people who were holding onto a fine thread before it snapped.
Now, its lingering shreds brushed together with an easterly wind.
You don’t know what he was thinking when the words stopped fumbling from his lips.
“Hey!” Steve cheered happily from his spot as Eddie went quiet. “Come on, join us!”
You felt like a fool standing there idle. Feet glued to the floor, eyes trained on Eddie a moment too long because as soon as the fifth second passed, the woman by his side asked:
“Who’s that?”
Steve said your name, waving at you the same way Nancy had, “She’s Ed–“
“My Maid of Honor!” Nancy cut in, giving the woman a smile in reassurance that it was the description most accurate to who you were. Nancy didn’t know why she cut Steve off like that; the side-eyed glance she received from him as Eddie stared back at you should have told her everything.
Not friend, not best friend, not former classmate, but Eddie’s ex-girlfriend. What a label to have.
Your planted feet begged you to move. The awkwardness of standing still for lingering seconds in time drawing eye after eye, raising questions as to whether or not you were having a medical emergency or just plain stupid. Your feet took those commands and walked, before your mind could even process that the night had continued to move forward without being truly ready to interact.
“I told you she’d join us,” Nancy hit Steve’s shoulder lightly with the back of her hand, “Can’t spend the last few hours of us together as an unmarried couple without those who brought us back together.”
Steve gave her a smile, hand squeezing her kneecap under the table because in reality, there wasn’t an ounce of a lie there. Not that any regular person would understand, but Steve had always dreamed of this moment: the night before he went to sleep one last time as an unmarried man, sipping chilled wine in an expensive hotel with his bride-to-be, his closest friends, and the reason he and Nance were at this stage.
One piece of that puzzle had gone mute, silent as though they never heard him talk. As you approached the high top that was tucked into a corner by the windows that looked out to the Atlantic Ocean, Eddie couldn’t form words. He had prepared himself for this moment for years and yet his mind had gone blank. Emotions barren from his chest like he was an empty, cavernous being and not a person. He felt nothing–like the world had been obliterated and there was only him in space; alone and helpless to save his sanity.
And if it hadn’t been so long since he last laid eyes on you, perhaps he could have recognized the same emotions bleeding out of you. That the wound had never truly closed and there was much unsaid floating around the two of you that the air was hard to breathe.
But against it all, it was you who offered the closed smile and a small:
“Hi.”
Eddie’s relief that the first words weren’t “fuck you,” or “I still hate you.” Just a simple “hi” that replayed in his mind as the seconds transpired and the ball had fallen into his court.
But those words were hard for you to even muster.
“It’s good to see you,” he settled on, not leaving his chair to wrap his arms around you or whisk you away to hear how your life has been since he left. He sat there, as still as you had in the entryway, and let you take the spot beside Nancy because it was the furthest away from his own that you could take.
Eddie had completely forgotten about the woman to his right.
No one had thought anything of the interaction. In two minds, it played out differently because the truth existed somewhere between two people unwilling to face it. For people like Nancy and Steve, there had been one story that had been told yet no one questioned the absence of the other on specific holidays, birthdays, or more.
“We broke up,” that was what you had told Nancy and he had told Steve. Word for word, the same story. “Distance was getting too hard and we thought we’d take a break. It’s better this way and we’re still friends–we we’re friends before everything so…”
For every truth, there were two lies.
Nancy flagged down the waiter, tapping on her glass and holding up two fingers. You shifted in your seat as one leg crossed over the other and glanced at the woman to Eddie’s right.
She wasn’t familiar at all. Still hanging on Eddie’s arm and fiddling with the cuff of his jacket. In all of your years together, you had never seen Eddie wear a dinner jacket.
And against your feelings, you extended your hand over the table toward her. Eddie didn’t know what to think of that. You introduced yourself.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he knew the voice. It was the kind someone would use on the telephone if they were talking to a co-worker or boss, not a friend.
“Veronica,” she lifted her hand from Eddie’s arm and graciously shook yours over the wine glasses; a tiny set of flickering candles beside a small relish tray beneath it. “I hear you’re the Maid of Honor?”
“As much as one can be,” you told her, eyes looking over her face and form. Eddie could see it now that you were comparing yourself to her, an unfortunate circumstance of choice. “The other bridesmaids have helped a bit with planning and what not… it’s not easy work,” you scoffed, tipping your head at Nancy and the bride shook her head with a grin.
“I promise I’m not one of those crazy brides,” Nancy jokingly defended herself to Veronica who admired the friendship before her. She knew you all of two seconds and could see how comfortable the two of you were.
“Yeah, sure…” you trailed off as the waiter returned with two new glasses of wine. You thanked him and took a long, needed sip as the white wine’s bubbles barely had time to settle.
Steve cleared his throat as you drank, glancing at Eddie before turning to you. “We were just catching him up on what went down at the rehearsal. Told ‘em that Robin tripped down the aisle so he’s gotta hold onto her tightly.”
You snickered at the memory. Robin Buckley couldn’t walk in heels even if she tried to. Nodding your head, you didn’t make eye contact with Eddie to reiterate the sentiment.
“She’ll topple over if you don’t.”
“Will do,” Eddie replied quietly, differently than he normally would have and Veronica put her hand on his arm again, rubbing it up and down as if she knew. For once, he just wished she would stop.
“We’re going to–“ Steve’s voice drowned itself out as he rattled on about the plans of tomorrows festivities.
Every now and again when you’d catch a word of Steve’s, you couldn’t help but look at Eddie. Those eyes still telling of his emotions rather than the words he spoke; wide and pupils blown from both the environment and alcohol.
You weren’t shameless about it when he caught you looking. He couldn’t help it either; it was as though he was drawn to a magnet that kept pulling him in. Just as you had observed him, everything was familiar yet strangely different. The way you held yourself, the clothes you wore, makeup and hair just enough having changed to make him notice that he didn’t know you now as he had then.
However, he still felt that hand on his jacket.
Yet he was looking at you. And he felt like a coward for thinking he’d rather have you cling to him like that then her. She, Veronica, didn’t deserve to have a man think that of her.
“Are you still in Chicago?” He blurted out over Steve’s talking. Like walking in a path of quicksand, Eddie did not want to drown before his life truly began. Steve stopped and glanced at Eddie as though his friend had a stroke.
“Mhm,” you murmured over the lip of the glass Nancy had secured for you. “Still in California?”
“Yeah, near Bell Canyon.”
“Is that…” Of course you wouldn’t have known exactly where that was. It wasn’t like you had a map inside of your brain or tracked his every movement. Based on the question on whether or not he still lived in California, he wondered if you read anything about him at all.
“It’s near Los Angeles… like suburbs of it.”
“Ah, alright,” you met his eyes briefly before taking another long sip of your wine. He could see the way you practically folded in on yourself; anxiety and fears bubbling within you the same way they used to.
“And you still live…” he trailed off in a veiled hope that the implication went unspoken. ‘At the apartment, our apartment.’
“No,” you shook your head, “I moved a few years ago… have a nice view of the lake,” the thought of it brought a small smile to your face. It was nice. It was nearly perfect.
“No more of the ‘L’ ruining your sleep?”
He saw the hint of smile play on your lips.
“It’s pretty quiet now,” for a multitude of reasons he could think of.
“That’s good,” Eddie nodded, glancing at Steve and Nancy who provided no support to make the situation any less awkward.
“So,” Veronica began with a perky voice for eleven-thirty at night, “Eddie said you all went to high school together?”
The model wore these big, curious eyes. She was kind, in a doxy kind of way but her sentiment’s with her words transcended through each of you. This woman, a date, hadn’t been a steady, familiar thing to Eddie. Anyone who knew him as close as a formal, long-term partner did, would have known about the crew from Hawkins.
“Yeah,” Steve answered as a savior, “But we weren’t all friends then… that took some time. We were all pretty different.”
Nancy hit his arm playfully, giving a scowl as Steve quirked his eyes at Eddie. The latter had simply taken the labels he was given and ran with them–a transformative play for the man with a lengthy petty crimes list and could out smoke Pablo Escobar.
“It doesn’t matter what we were like! We’re all friends now and those three–“ Nancy gestured her hand over Steve, Eddie, and yourself, “were in the same class.”
“Oh!” She beamed. “How cool! I don’t really talk to anyone from my class so it’s nice to see it works for some people.”
Everyone just gave her tight smiles. Having friends from childhood didn’t make you less of a person. It meant stronger connections and the fact that no one could say why you were all bonded so closely made things more difficult.
“And the rest of your friends?” Veronica turned her face toward Eddie who shrugged.
“In their rooms, I’m guessing. I think we got here a little late,” he chuckled.
“They know you had a commitment,” Nancy reassured him. “Besides, Dustin and the others will be just as thrilled to see you in the morning.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “After the bachelor party, I didn’t think half of us would even make it here so it’ll be a nice surprise.”
Thank God for Steve and his stupid jokes. It broke some tension, a smile actually cracking Eddie’s face again and one that reached his eyes. The brown, doe-eyed ones that Robin once said made her sad were recalling that party like it was the funniest thing he had ever experienced.
‘It probably was’, you thought, ‘Steve Harrington always knew how to party.’
“So,” Veronica interjected, pointing a finger between you and Nancy, “the bachelorette party wasn’t anything to write home about?” Quick judgement.
“We went wine tasting in the Valley,” Nancy’s eyes lit up at the memory, “and then we went hiking… which in retrospect wasn’t something any of us liked.”
It was the end of summer when everyone could get together and the heat ate at each of you as the sun rose higher, the drinks flowed more, and the guides took in their amusement of each woman.
“Went to some museums, ate too much food…” you said additionally.
“El learned she was allergic to pears and Max got stung by a bee,” Nancy interjected, “and our heroes Lucas and Mike came to save the day when we got stranded in the middle of lake because the engine died on the boat we rented.”
“I think we’ll stick to spa days and cooking classes next time,” you picked up your glass, a side-eye to Nancy as she quickly agreed. Veronica perked up, still clutching Eddie’s arm.
“Who’s getting married next? You?”
She meant nothing by it. Her eyes were friendly and voice high pitched, interested in the conversation to just be a part of something more than a two-person bubble. You choked on the wine, the question startled you because it hadn’t been something you thought of in a long time.
You put the glass down as your hand went to your mouth, wiping it dry and you, unintentionally, looked from her to Eddie. Steve noticed, Nancy didn’t.
“No!” You replied a bit too loudly. “Sorry,” shaking the embarrassment from you, “I just–no. Not me. I would put money on Dustin and Suzie once they’re done at MIT… He’s loved her since he was in middle school.”
She smiled at the idea of everlasting young love. “That’s cute! Sometimes, if you know, you know, right?” And she squeezed Eddie’s arm the same way her hand squeezed your heart at the sight.
Eddie dropped his arm into his lap after her grip loosened. Her hand fell onto the table and whether she realized it or not, the rejection she felt showed on her face.
“How did you two meet?” Nancy picked an olive with a toothpick from the small dish on the table. Veronica peered at Eddie to answer but he wasn’t going to.
“At an event for our agency a couple…three? months back.”
Three months.
“Cool,” Steve mumbled as he followed Nancy’s lead and took one of the pickles from the tray. “So what are you? An agent? Model...?”
“I model for magazines, yeah,” she nodded and focused her hands at the base of her wine glass. You watched Veronica tap her white nails on the table cloth before bringing them back to the foot. “Sometimes do commercials or videos and stuff.”
Steve sat back in his chair; a thought pondered in his mind as he watched your eyes divert from the table and out the window to your left. It was dark, you couldn’t see anything beyond ten feet. The arm that had been taken off the table now sat at Eddie’s side with his hand in his lap. He had taken his thumb and twisted at the ring that rested on his ring finger–the one with a dark stone he had worn since forever.
The groom reflected back to his bachelor party, three weeks ago, and how Eddie made no mention of Veronica but very drunkenly admitted something he didn’t want to see the light of day.
Buried; six feet deep with the memories he had locked away in Pandora’s box. There was key to unlock them, let them fly away and spread like stars in the sky but it was booze and a little bit of weed that truly let them sing.
Steve wasn’t sure if Eddie realized what he had told him that night.
The way he was twisting his rings made him think that if he didn’t, Eddie was at least thinking the same thing now.
“You know,” Steve crossed his arms as he leaned back, glancing at Veronica first before allowing his eyes to wander to you, then Eddie. “If you asked me a few years ago if I thought that Eddie, Eddie Munson, would be dating a supermodel… I would have laughed.”
Veronica chuckled, a light blush forming on the balls of her cheeks as Eddie shook his head. It was Steve’s tone that made you turn to him.
“Not really your type, dude,” Steve said and the woman’s face went flat. The chuckle cease and Nancy forgot how to breathe for a second. Maybe Steve had too much to drink, maybe he was done for the night, and if she whisked him away now, he wouldn’t be hung over for the wedding.
“Come on, man…” Eddie shifted his head to the side, glaring at Steve to knock-it-off before things crossed a line he wasn’t prepared for. Eddie thought himself a jackass sometimes but he never wanted others to feel uncomfortable.
“No offense, Veronica,” Steve held out his hand as if saying ‘I don’t mean anything by it.’ “It’s just…” He clicked his tongue, “you want the best for your friends, right? And for the last decade or more I’ve never seen you fawn over the looks of a model.”
“Steve,” you interjected, providing the same look Eddie had given him because he was trying to open that box. “Stop being an asshole.”
You turned to Veronica, “he’s just a little drunk, that’s all.” Nancy supported it with a smile and put her hand on Steve’s shoulder.
Steve laughed at your words like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. “That’s kind of rich coming from you.”
“I think we should–“ Nancy began but Steve leaned forward on his elbows.
“You like Lord of the Rings, Veronica? Or ever go to a thrift store and absolutely wreck the clothes you bought? Play D and D?” She looked confused so Steve stopped, “Dungeons and Dragons? Like the game? No? How about drugs? Do you do those?”
“Steve! Fuck man…” Eddie hit Steve’s shoulder, “I think we’re a little past a buzz, huh?”
“Tell me, Eddie,” Steve took the whack to his shoulder in stride, “You’re not thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
“I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ about.”
“Okay,” Steve drug the ‘a’ out of the word, “fine!” He looked to you, “are you thinking what I’m thinking then? And when I said it’s funny, I meant in you defending her when–“
“Jesus Christ, Steve!” Eddie said loudly, “would you just shut the fuck up for once! I was so worried about us getting into it,” he threw a hand up and motioned between the two of you, “but you took that and ran right the fuck away with it!”
As Eddie argued with Steve, you turned to Nancy.
“I think you better take him to his room,” you saw how mortified she was, “or I can call up Lucas and Dustin to come get him too?”
“I’ve got him,” she took your hand and held it tightly. “He’s just up-“
“—OH!” Steve’s voice cut through hers, “like you’re not giving ‘fuck me eyes’ to each other! Goddammit! It’s like living with divorced parents! No wonder you switch off holidays!” Steve pointed at you, “was that your idea? I bet it was.”
“Wait,” Veronica cut in after Steve’s ‘divorced parents’ comment, “did you two date?” her eyes flicking between Eddie and yourself. Her question went unanswered as Steve continued his tirade.
“And Dustin reassured me there wouldn’t be an issue!”
“There wasn’t an issue until you brought it up!” Eddie said pointedly. You downed the rest of your wine in one gulp and Nancy hopped off her chair as people started to go quiet at the surrounding tables.
“Please!” Steve lamented, “you got fuckin’ plastered in Miami and told me and the boys that you wished it was you gettin’ married not me!”
“When the hell did I say that?” Eddie furrowed his brows, voice still loud and defensive. Nancy shrugged on her cardigan that was on the back of her chair, Veronica looked befuddled, and you felt like you blanched. Even if they couldn’t see it, you felt it.
“At the shitty strip club!” Not something he should have shouted in a place like this. “You got all weird and drank yourself to pieces because, and I quote,” Steve said crazed, “the wedding makes you fucking sad and you didn’t know how to handle it.”
“Oh fuck you, man,” Eddie soured, rolling his eyes at Steve as Nancy grabbed his arm gently.
“Steve, come on,” she coaxed him, “we better get going.”
“If you want to convince people you don’t still love each other,” Steve chided, “then maybe stop acting like the world will fall apart the moment you walk into a room.”
“Wait,” Veronica added again, shaking her head in misunderstanding, “still love each other? When did this happen?”
“We don’t love each other,” Eddie answered for both of you without a second to spare. “And it won’t fall apart! Look! We’re here now!” He motioned his hand between the two of you across the table again but didn’t look at the way you listened to every word like you had when you fought in the kitchen that horrible evening.
“Yeah,” Steve nodded as if he didn’t believe Eddie in the slightest, “Swear on Dustin? On your… shit… I don’t know, guitar!? Say that to her face and tell her like you didn’t just tell me you make a fucking mistake years ago.”
Mistake.
There were two paths of a mistake.
One, where his choice to follow his career without you was a mistake because it wasn’t as it seemed or it wasn’t complete without you; or two, that being with you entirely was a mistake because it clouded his wants for his future.
Eddie sighed, head bowing as he ran a hand over his face and through his hair before coming up again.
“Do you really want this to be how you remember the night before you get married?” Eddie asked Steve as the groom sat there with his bride clutching his arm in a pleading motion to exit the wine cellar.
“Do you want this to be how you remember the day you chickened out on being a man for once?”
Steve knew it cut deep. The wound open and bleeding for all to see as Eddie’s face scoured into the in-between of pissed off and irate.
“Go, Steve,” Eddie said flatly, “Big day tomorrow. Don’t want to be late.”
Nancy gave you a supportive, closed lip smile as Steve finally got off his chair and walked to the door. She let him leave first.
“I’m sorry about him…” She laughed with embarrassment, “He’s just overwhelmed with everything.” And Nancy wasn’t telling you or Eddie that, but Veronica.
“It’s alright,” she told her kindly in reply, “wedding’s aren’t wedding’s without a little drama, right?”
For that, Nancy was grateful. She looked between you and Eddie–still separated by the table yet the string still bristled.
“Be in the bridal suite by nine, okay?” She told you, “and I think the guys are getting ready at like ten so, don’t sleep in.”
“Got it,” from Eddie and a “yeah, okay,” from you.
“Sorry again,” Nancy apologized, leaving to go scold Steve as the table now sat quiet and awkward.
The flames flickered as the noises from other tables now filled the void of conversation at your own. Veronica tapped her glass, yours sat empty, and Eddie was still facing the empty seat where Steve had been.
“So,” Veronica pursed her lips, “you two dated then?”
You bit the inside of your cheek. It provided her the answers of why Eddie had been acting the way he had and the conciseness of dialogue that existed amongst you. The way he gazed, the way you diverted it; his own curiosity and knowledge of the sound of the elevated train that impacted your sleeping and the way the admittance that Eddie now lived in a suburb sent you the wrong way.
Even then, you glanced at Eddie to see if he’d answer. She was his guest, after all. He turned back around in his seat–back flush against the chair, shoulders slouched.
“Yes,” he treaded carefully, “we did.”
“For how long?” It may have been worse that she said none of it with malice.
Eddie flicked his eyes from where they were trained on the table top to you. And fuck, they sucked you right back in and spit you right back out.
“About eight years…” You told her, ready to flee.
“That’s a long time,” she nodded to reaffirm her words. “And you lived together?”
“Mhm,” Eddie hummed as if he didn’t want her to know every detail of his life. He looked down at the table. “For four years of it.”
“More like three,” you mumbled passively, pushing your wine glass forward on the table.
“Four,” Eddie said firmly and his eyes shot back up to you. Sensitive subject, you suppose. He remembered every word you had said to him that evening and the comments about his time spent at home stuck. “Four,” he reiterated.
“Tell me, when was the last time you were excited to come home?”
You didn’t forget your words either.
Your expression pinched; eyebrows shooting up for a brief second before your head cocked to the side with silent words. You weren’t going to embarrass yourself or this table any further by getting into a spat with Eddie over something as trivial as years spent in a shabby apartment in Chicago.
The wine glass was already pushed; two chairs empty as bed appeared to be the best option to end the night. A soft, hotel pillow to help you replay every image your mind could remember from what you had, what you lost, and what had just happened.
You hated that. But it was better than arguing with someone you didn’t want to argue with.
Breathing in a deep, sharp breath, you retracted your gaze from Eddie and gave Veronica the softest one you could muster.
“It was good to meet you,” you told her. It wasn’t her fault Eddie took your heart and ran away with it. “I hope Steve’s little scene didn’t scare you off. He can be a drama queen when he drinks.”
“All good,” she gave a tight smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Happens to the best of us.”
“So it does,” you replied, giving her a nod before sliding off your chair and letting the space return to two. Eddie’s sigh was loud; the way he closed his eyes in frustration hadn’t gone unnoticed.
As you passed on her side exiting the corner table, you put a hand on the table when your feet came to a stop. Veronica looked at you curiously and waited for another ball to drop on her toes but it didn’t.
“Don’t let him smoke a whole pack, alright? Won’t do any of us good if he does.”
And then you walked away.
Veronica had only been romantically linked to Eddie for three months. She hadn’t seen any side of him that resembled the man sat beside her before and from what she knew, Eddie was not a smoker. The only comment that had surprised her more than the outburst from the groom was when Steve admitted Eddie had become hammered from the booze and weed at his bachelor party.
But before you could escape the wine cellar fully, Eddie turned around in his seat and shouted your name across the restaurant.
In a full, obnoxious manner that reminded you of the boy you had fallen in love with in high school.
“I quit. Six years ago.”
When the sun rose to its blue hue and the reminder of the night before replayed in your mind like a fresh, unadulterated film, there was a conflict brewing within you.
The idea of love.
Love was precious; an almost a forgettable thing when the daily grind became too much for simplistic thought yet it was what people craved the most. To love, to be loved. On a day like that–where there was not a raincloud in sight and when two people were joining each other in matrimony bound by the tethers of love–it was hard not to think about how the feeling evaded you.
It touched you once.
It gripped its claws into your flesh and left fatal wounds in its wake, yet you desired it so. Love, the splendid little thing that meant mountains but fell to cavernous trenches.
You don’t know which part of Eddie you had fallen in love with first. Juvenile, childish love was innocent at seventeen. As you grew older and the complications of adulthood and circumstance of living in Hawkins transformed life, the reasons for loving him changed too.
It wasn’t always about how he could make you laugh or the way his eyes were so expressive; the comfort he brought or the way he helped you love yourself through him loving you in return.
It was doing the dishes together at the end of a long night. Falling asleep on the couch because making it to the bed after one of his gigs was too exhausting, but he’d wake up in the early hours of the morning and make sure you’d both end up there anyway. How Eddie made time for everyone and everything until life stopped allowing him to do so.
It was moments where you and Eddie would be waiting for the train at Clinton station and he’d link his finger with yours because winter gloves constricted full hand movements.
Those times made you hate what love often resolved itself with: pain and bitter resentment that life was cruel.
And the clock ticked away as you thought of it.
When Nancy put her veil on, Robin was the first to cry. Then Max, then Eleven, and Karen was close behind them all. You stayed for a few minutes before excusing yourself to the hallway because the sight painted you blue.
You felt horrid for feeling bitter when Nancy’s fairytale was not an hour away.
In the hallway, there was a series of doors that led to varying rooms. Ones that held the groomsmen and Steve, one for the flower girl and ring bearer’s families. It was decorated with seaside decor of light yellows, blues, and whites. A table down ten feet and across the way had a mirror hung above it cased in gold.
The woman in the reflection was one you neglected to see for a long while. The apparent dissatisfaction of your own circumstance on a day filled with joy riddled on every feature. A necklace clutched in your palm feeling the brunt of sweat and aggravation as Eddie filled your thoughts again.
You wanted to love him, to be loved by him. You tried to hook the clasp. Missed.
Why couldn’t you just move on and be happy with someone else? Again, the clasp dug into your finger. Missed.
Could you even remember what it truly felt like to be loved?
The clasp evaded you. It was mocking, laughing as you struggled in the hallway mirror and began to sweat the idea that you’d never be able to secure it. Heaving a deep sigh in the mirror, you clutched the necklace in your hand and leaned against the table with two fists.
“Get it fucking together,” you told yourself quietly.
Regaining your posture, you tried again, ignoring the sounds of a hall door opening and closing down the way. Your fingers trembled as the clasp caught air once more.
“You need help with that?”
You stared at your reflection and pretended not to see where he had stopped. Jaw tense, you shook your head and attempted the connection for the tenth time.
When you missed again, he scoffed.
“Give it to me,” he held out his hand palm up, ready to take it from your timid fingers and do it for you. “Come on,” Eddie egged on.
“I don’t need help,” you told him.
“Yes, you do,” he said pointedly. He could see the indentations of the small lever on your index finger. “Just let me help you.”
He wasn’t going to leave. Your eyes met in the mirror and he rose his brows expectantly. More hesitantly than he wished, you held out the necklace and let it ring into his palm. A nod from your head gave him the assent he needed.
In the silence of the hallway, you felt squeezed—both your mind and heart. Eddie moved to stand behind you and you could barely breathe; the simple gesture of helping you put on a necklace far more harrowing than previously realized. He was so close. So close. His fingers trailed to the back of your neck, brushing away the hair with his fingertips and letting it fall where it would not infringe the task.
You couldn’t bear to look at him. Focused on the sconces beside the mirror, you tried not to enjoy the feeling of his hands on you for the first time in half a decade. You tried not to remember the way his touch intoxicated you; every stroke and graze intentional as his eyes watched you struggle.
Eddie lifted his arms above your head and let the jewelry fall onto your collarbone. You wondered if his heart was beating as fast as yours.
“How does she look?” Nancy. His voice was low, quiet in the hall to not disturb the others getting ready. You hadn’t even taken him in yet.
The suits Steve chose were all black, form-fitting with ties instead of bow ties. The pocket squares were filled with a white handkerchief, and the shoes were a clean, shiny black. On his lapel, a single rose was pinned.
“She looks beautiful,” you replied but still wouldn’t look at him. You heard the clasp make it. The necklace sat firm but his hands did not move. They lingered, tracing the line of the back of your neck to the tops of your shoulders.
“You look beautiful.”
You didn’t want him to say that.
“Don’t say that,” you replied morosely.
“Why?” Eddie’s fingers brushed the necklace’s golden chain. “It’s true.”
The bottom of your lip trembled dangerously.
“Because you can’t say that.”
“But I did,” he sounded hopeful which dug into that wound a bit further.
“You brought a date.”
“Why won’t you look at me?” He whispered, fingers still gliding. He said your name softly, “look at me, please. Talk to me.”
You felt your heart constrict, sending a shuttered breath through you and your eyes blinked rapidly. There was no way in Hell you would let Eddie see you cry. He had moved on. He brought a date. A goddamn runway model that, in your opinion, ran circles around you in every way from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
“I need to go,” you stepped away from him, shaking your head and jetting off down the hall. “I’m sorry.”
He called your name once, twice, but you ignored him. You grasped the golden handle with a heavy hand, breathing unsteady as he stood in the distance in your peripheral. As though the world stood still again, Eddie felt that he had broken through. You would turn, talk to him, and let him relish in the company of you.
Yet, you grasped that handle tighter.
But, you did turn.
And when you opened the door back to the dressing room, it wasn’t only you whose memories transported you back to the night in Chicago that plagued your mind, but Eddie too. Straight back as he made his way to the men’s dressing room in the opposite direction.
“Stop being such an asshole!” You stood in the kitchen, hands clutching the sink as the anger seethed out of you. Eddie paced in the living space just beyond the island to your right.
“What do you want me to say, huh?” He threw his arms up in defeat. “For once in my life things are finally looking up and people just don’t get signed to a label and expected not to do—” he fumbled his words, “everything that comes with it!”
“I’m not asking you to give up music, Eddie!“
“Then what are you asking me?” He craned his head to the side, hands on his hips and breathing hard. “I can’t work from here. I have to go there and the least you could do is come with me.”
The least you could do. The least you could do.
You tossed the dish rag that had been strangled in your grip into the sink, focusing on the window positioned across from it and scoffed. A view of the goddamn ‘L’ train tracks you despised.
“Well I can’t just get up and move,” you said as calmly as you could. “Why is it so easy for you to ask that of me but when I bring up what I want, it becomes a problem for you?”
Eddie shook his head, hair mused as he ran a hand over it. “I don’t make it a problem, baby.”
“Yes, you do!” You laughed exasperatedly. “You just fucking said—“ a frustrated groan left your lips and you bounded off the sink and faced him from behind the counter. “It’s not like this is Hawkins; it’s goddamn Chicago and I’ll be dammed if there isn’t a music producer in one of those skyscrapers.”
“They’re not like they are out there. If we want any chance to make music–actually make music of our own that sells platinum records and wins awards–those producers are out there,” he pointed to the door as if it signified a world beyond this one.
“What? So, it’s all about money?”
“No! But hell, if that isn’t a major part of it I’d be lying!”
“And what about our home here?” You put your hands on the counters ledge and the nails on your fingertips motioned against it with rhythmic clicks. “Everything we’ve built here goes to shit because of one possible record deal?”
“It’s not just one deal,” Eddie groaned your name in frustration, “It’s the only deal and this… this here,” he motioned around the apartment, “was only ever temporary.”
News to you.
“Like Hawkins was. This isn’t really home.”
“Not home?” You furrowed your brows at him. “Then where the hell do you think it is? You bolted from Hawkins the second you got the chance and as far as I am concerned, this is my home. You see those pictures on the wall?”
You tipped your head in the direction of the wall that the couch sat up against. Above it was a collage of frames that held so many memories. From Nancy to Max, from Steve to Mike, everyone was on that wall.
“Those people helped us find this one.”
“Well,” he shook his head, “they can help us find another in California. There are people out there, baby. Real goddamn people that know just what we need.”
Not you, Corroded Coffin. What they needed.
“It’s not going to find us all the way out here.”
“Tell me, when was the last time you were excited to come home?”
He had been traveling the world with Corroded Coffin for a year and a half. In all of that time, he had come home for approximately two months. Eight weeks out of seventy-eight. This wasn’t the first fight about it; he had changed. The stronghold fame was suffocating him and was the very thing drawing you apart.
“Hm?” You hummed as he diverted his eyes to the apartment door.
“I’m here now.”
“That wasn’t my question, Eddie,” the ground rumbled beneath you. The way his eyes darted to the door as if it were calling him to leave. Foundation cracked and crumbled, fragmenting as the words threatened to tumble out. “Do you even want to be here?”
“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here, yeah?” He looked annoyed, lips nearly flattened. That’s how you knew he was angry. Angry at life, at you, at the world.
“Eddie,” you pleaded softly in one last attempt to salvage the broken platform, “stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are!” You breathed in deeply, thinking of the unthinkable questions that pondered in your mind. “I’m not asking you to stay because I don’t want you to follow your dreams—you twisted my words—but why can’t I be the selfish one and want to stay here? You’ll have more money, you can visit and we— “
Can work it out. It was already over when he said he had been signed that godforsaken deal.
He said your name dejectedly. It hung there in the air as if saying ‘stop trying.’ You felt a lump form in your throat as you looked him, already decided in what he wanted because he was going after his dream. Halfway there, this was his out.
The tears gathered at the sides of your eyes, “you don’t even try.”
Eddie always had something to say but he couldn’t form words in that moment.
“What?” You steeled your wet eyes on him, “can’t even say that you had? Or that you were? Eddie, I’ve been doing this alone for so long that I don’t even remember the last time you told me you loved me and you meant it.”
That set him off. He pointed a bitter finger at you. “I always mean it when I say it. Don’t play that card.”
“Card!?” You cried, “I’m not trying to guilt trip you into staying but you don’t mean it! Eight weeks! Eight weeks in a fucking year and a half and you expect me to get up and throw my life away for you?”
“I was on tour! Halfway across the goddamn world!”
“Exactly!” You exclaimed, turning away from him and trying to escape to the bedroom but you could hear his heavy feet following.
“Stop it,” he said your name over and over as you gripped the door and tried to close it. He pressed his palm against it with a hard slap and pushed it against the wall with a deafening thud. “Would you just stop!”
“For Fuck’s Sake!” You yelled, “I can’t move! I don’t want to move! I have a lease, a good job, and I want to stay here and build my future!”
“You can have that in California!” He yelled back.
His eyes were wide, trying to pretend the antithesis of the fracture was anything less than his career.
“No, I can’t!”
“Why not!?”
“Because of you! You don’t want what I do!” You screamed at him, voice breaking as you cried and realized that this was the end. Eddie would move out to California and you’d be left in a tiny apartment in Chicago alone.
“I want a family, Eddie. I want to raise kids here or in the stupid suburbs, and grow old here. You want to be a—” you swallowed hard, cheeks wet and eyes getting puffy, “—rock star and those lives don’t mix. They just don’t.”
He was only twenty-five. He didn’t really know what he wanted from life.
“You don’t want to be here. That’s why you haven’t come home and I get it, I do. The band is growing, you’re popular, you have a million women to choose from, but I can’t keep pretending that my wants have to be ignored for you to succeed.”
“Are you saying I’ve ignored you?”
“You tell me, Eddie,” you shrugged, “how would you feel if the person you loved most was gone for months only to be reassured that everything was fine by a phone call every few days?”
He let his head tip to the floor, eyes closed because although many of the cracks stemmed from his choices, this wasn’t what he wanted. Eddie wanted to be happy, to be in love and be loved. But he was at the precipice of being what he always wanted and decisions had to be made.
Callous and resentful decisions.
“Do you hate me?” Eddie’s eyes spurred something in him. A hatred for himself, a despised feeling growing that a part of him that had always been missing—family—was being ripped away for a dream.
“I don’t hate— “
“Yes, you do,” he looked up, giving you a knowing look as his bottom lip trembled.
“No, I don’t. But I’m hurt and I don’t think you see that.”
“So,” he cleared his throat, breath hitching in his chest, “this is it then? We’re just going to give up?”
“I didn’t give up, Eddie,” you needn’t say the rest to indicate that he had. “We just want different things.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do,” you shook your head, sitting down on the edge of the bed with your face turned away from him. “Right now we do and it’s not doing anything for either of us.”
It was quiet for a few minutes. Minutes. A thick fog fell over the room; marinating in every picture, the clothes folded away in the dresser, the shampoo in the shower, the two dinner plates half-cleaned in the sink. Domesticity wasn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough.
You weren’t sure how long it had been, but Eddie’s socked feet moved from the spot he stood in and approached the bed—carefully and freely. He knelt down, hands on the outsides of both your thighs and his thumbs rubbed the tops of them gently, the pressure soothing when it shouldn’t have been through your jeans.
“I want you to be happy…” he swallowed thickly as he chose his words gently. There was no point in trying to stop you from crying when he couldn’t do so himself. “I want you to have what you want, sweetheart… and if I can do that… someday… we’ll find each other again.”
“Eddie…” Your heart ached as you shook your head. Hope was the killer of it all.
Hope that perhaps one day you’ll find each other again; that you’d both be free to choose the paths that crossed while maintaining your own personalities and careers without giving one up. Hope that a future existed when the flame was extinguished on a cold evening in Chicago.
“I’m sorry,” he rubbed your thighs tenderly.
“Me too.”
“I love you,” he said softly as if were one last confession. The tears were quietly flowing when you leaned forward, cupping the back of his head with your hands and resting your forehead on his own.
Just to hold him one last time.
“I love you too.” He left the apartment an hour later and it was the last time you had seen him. No contact, no cards, and no one, in the group of friends you shared, brought up the other on purpose.
The reception was noisy.
Like a zoo full of animals that were awakened by a whistle only they could hear; sounds of song’s you hadn’t heard since high school played from the small band the Wheeler’s had insisted on just beyond the designated space for dancing. Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Will were losing it on the floor since the second a Michael Jackson song emitted its first few strings.
Steve and Nancy were hand in hand greeting guests at their tables as others made their way to the bar, dessert table, or chatted with drinks in their hands.
At the head table, El and Max were positioned at the end talking in whispers about the people in the room and you sat like a lone duck near the center of it. An abundance of flowers in white and yellow flanked the table before you, empty dishes and scattered bags and goods littered its table top. Mike left a pack of cigarettes in his spot while Dustin’s best man speech was crumbled in a quarter-fold beside his sweating glass of coke.
Time had left you behind; sitting solemn at your best friend’s wedding while everyone else put on their best smiles and grinned their way through the evening. And maybe that’s what observation had led you to believe, that you looked as though you were wallowing in self-pity for an absence of love in your life. Loveless at an event so full of it.
You fiddled with the necklace absent mindedly.
The room of excitable tunes slowed.
Couples–married and not, grabbed their partners for a dance. Robin and Eddie were standing near the center of the room beside the table that all the parents were at when Veronica slid next to Eddie, her hand slinking down his arm and into his palm as she nodded to the growing group on the dance floor.
Hours ago, you had looked back at him when he pleaded with you to stay. Now, as his hand was gripped by a woman he wasn’t sure why he had even invited, Eddie looked back from the center of the room and to the head table where you sat.
Veronica pulled him away before he could make a choice.
Robin leaned against one of the chairs, watching as Eddie trailed behind the woman in orange. She did not realize Joyce and Hopper were still sitting at the table she rested against.
“What the hell was that?” Hopper voiced, hand pointing in Eddie’s direction like a finger gun. He had a mustache that was perfectly trimmed and highlighted his frown well. Joyce crossed her arms with scrutiny.
Robin shrugged, sighing as she turned around and pulled out a chair to sit at the table. “Two idiots in love, I think.”
“Jesus,” Hopper scratched his forehead, “I knew it was a bad idea…” he mumbled as he watched Eddie pretend to be interest in what the woman was telling him as they danced.
“What?” Robin shook her head, “What was a bad idea?”
“Them breaking up!” He said as if it were obvious. “I got a call from one of the bartenders at The Hideout that there was a scuffle goin’ on one Friday night a few years ago and when I got there, Eddie was there just fuckin’ bombed on the sidewalk.”
Joyce nodded along to his words because she had heard the story before. Robin listened intently as Hopper continued.
“I couldn’t understand a word he was sayin’ so I put him in the truck and offered to drive him to her parents’ house because that’s where they always stayed when they came to town and he just… cried. Drunk and sobbing his goddamn eyes out in the front of my truck.”
“Was this recent or…?” Robin pondered.
“No,” Hopper shook his head, “years back but he was goin’ on about how he was a bad boyfriend and they broke up and he was moving to California in a few days… I just thought to myself ‘shit, man, I have never seen someone so bent out of shape from a breakup.’ Those two… If it weren’t Steve and Nancy gettin’ hitched, I would have bet money on it that it was them instead.”
“Every Tuesday he’d pick her up from Melvald’s and take her out. He had flowers for her every time,” Joyce recalled. “I asked her about it once,” she nodded and looked at how you watched Eddie with the other woman, “she said that he never had a good example of what it meant to be a good boyfriend. I guess his dad was a piece of shit,” Hopper hummed a knowledgeable assurance that she was right. “And he wanted to be the only example he could think of–be that good guy that she deserved.”
“I didn’t know that,” Robin said quietly.
“I told him he needed to fly back to Chicago and fix things,” Hopper added, “but I guess he was too beaten up about it; probably thought she’d slam the door in his face.”
“Doubt it,” Robin snorted, “I don’t think they’re idiots,” she corrected herself, “I think they know exactly what the other one is thinking but are too scared to get hurt again if it doesn’t work out.”
Hopper scooted his chair back, adjusting his pants and jacket as he stood from the table. “Well, then we’ll just have to make it happen–or,” he clarified, “get them in the same spot.”
Robin swiveled in her chair as Hopper rubbed Joyce’s shoulder as he passed behind her, heading straight for the head table and directly to you.
Jim Hopper wasn’t a man that could be missed in a crowd of hundreds. His bulky frame that towered over guests and moved about the room like a boulder in grass drew your eyes to the movement immediately. He passed by Max and Eleven at the end of the table, never missing the opportunity to pat the girl he raised into a wonderful young lady on the head.
It was a nice distraction from Eddie and Veronica swaying to a melodic tune.
“Hey kid,” Hopper pulled out the chair beside you labeled with a table marker for ‘Robin Buckley.’
You gave him a closed smile. “Hi Chief.”
“I guess I can’t really call you ‘kid’ anymore,” he groaned, chuckling as he sat down with an ache all older men his age did. “I blink and you all grow up… makes me feel like a real old man,” and then he gave you that sly, side grin that made you wish Hopper was your dad instead of the one you had.
“You’re not old, Hopper,” he managed to pull a small laugh from your lips. The dejected film washing away for a brief second in time.
“Well,” he cleared his throat as he put an elbow on the table and adjusted himself in the seat to face you, “that makes me feel a little better about my age. So,” Hopper gave a pointed look that answered the hundreds of questions as to what Robin was chatting to him and Joyce about, “what are you sitting all the way over here for? Don’t want to chat or dance?”
“Just tired,” you told him, “Nance didn’t pick the most sensible shoes.”
“Robin took hers off; I’m sure you can do the same.”
“And walk barefoot on this floor?” You snorted. “Never.”
He shared the amusement before turning his gaze to the groups of people beyond the tables as they danced. A goddamn direct view. ‘Cruel,’ he thought. And surpassing the stone of the church from hours before, the beach where it trickled rain as photos were snapped for scrapbooks forever, and the smells of delicious food filled his belly before reaching his mouth, Jim Hopper felt the love that filled the room.
It touched him, as it had you and everyone else on the wedding weekend of Steve and Nancy Harrington.
Joyce was attempting to occupy Robin in conversation but every time Jim’s eyes met hers, he knew they were both far too curious and nosey to not be gossiping about longstanding drama that befuddled even the most romantically inclined.
The woman that restored his faith in the prospect of love and devotion had witnessed the earliest of your own. Tuesday’s at the local mart, the way Eddie would hold the door for you and attempt to steal magazine’s off the rack just to get your attention. How Eddie drove you around when your car was in the shop and eventually, would take the little rascals of Hellfire with for soda and snacks before their campaigns began–but also because he wanted to see you if even for a minute.
Although people often judged the idea of love at a young age, Jim and Joyce both recognized its honesty between Eddie and yourself. It was pure, unadulterated, and basked in a light that only belonged to the longevity of companionship.
“You know, the moment I knew I loved Joyce, I thought I’d never get her.”
Hopper could see Eddie and his date having their own conversation, whatever it may have been, because a blank face melted from one of an increasing lack of emotion, to one of strife.
“And when I did, I thought she’d see a different man than the one I believed I was.”
“She would have been blind not to see the real you, Hopper,” Joyce smiled at you as you caught her eyes. “You always tried to help us be the best versions of ourselves and she did too. If that’s not a perfect match, I don’t know what is.”
“Are you the best version of yourself now?” He questioned, tapping his finger onto the white tablecloth of the table. “Weddings can be… sobering… but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person look as distant as you.”
“Flattery never was your strong suit, Hopper,” you grimaced, “and I’m fine,” you weren’t fine. “You didn’t have to come save me from myself.”
“So, there aren’t a million thoughts swimming around in that mind of yours? I know I’m not the most intuitive dad there is but believe me when I say I’ve been trained to know when somethin’ just quite ain’t right.”
“I have hundreds of thoughts racing through my brain. ‘Why is the cake so far away?’ ‘Rob and Joyce can stop staring at me any second now,’ and perhaps my favorite thought, ‘why does Jim Hopper care about my state of mind?” Combative. He knew the signs.
“Maybe Jim Hopper knowns that the girl deep down inside of you just needs to heal,” he said honestly. “But there is only one way to heal what’s been lost and let me tell you, it’s not going to come waltzing on down here as you sit and mope.”
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” You scoffed at yourself, “that this wedding has only made me jealous about what I don’t have.”
“I don’t think you’re jealous, kid,” Hopper deflated, “I think you’re realizing a mistake was made somewhere along the lines of your own life.”
Mistake. It was that goddamn word again.
“There’s been no mistake,” you shook your head at him, “everything has played out the way it was meant to.”
“And you really believe that?”
“There had been nothing in my life to prove me otherwise.”
“And lying was never your strong suit, kid,” he put on his ‘dad’ face. “You don’t have to talk to me, fine, but if I asked to be the first person to ask for a dance tonight, would you say no?”
How could you deny Jim Hopper, Police Chief and hero of Hawkins, Indiana? You couldn’t. Even if you were flailing for support in an ocean of heartache, sparing one dance for the man was cinch. He rose from the chair, holding out his arm in hopes that you would link yours through his and entertain him one dance as Steve and Nancy added themselves to the pairs on the dance floor and swayed gently to a new song.
His stature would block a view you’d rather not see.
“You may be the only person to ask me to dance,” you joined him on your feet. “I can’t say no to you, Chief.”
“That’s the spirit, kid.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
Veronica’s voice cut through the music as couples and pairs settled onto the dance floor with the melodic hum of a song playing through sets of speakers. Instead of dancing like an adult, she had flung both her arms over Eddie’s shoulders and linked her hands behind his head. He had no choice other than to put his hand at her waist; the fabric of her orange dress was coarse under his fingertips.
“I asked you to come,” Eddie replied. “I thought I told you that last night.”
Ah, yes. Last night; where Steve made a scene about Eddie’s lingering feelings of letting another woman go while she sat beside him with the best intentions.
Veronica did not know Eddie Munson–the guy who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks by fate, the one who had a strange group of friends that shared varying interests and ran in different social circles, or someone who threw everything he had into a career he realized wasn’t as glamorous as the cameras and magazines made it out to be.
He cursed those Rolling Stone magazines he scoured when he was a bit too early for closing time of Melvald’s.
“Yeah,” Veronica said as if that hadn’t mattered in the slightest, “and here you are, barely even touching me or sparring me a second look. You know I had to sit by some stoner guy for dinner and they didn’t believe you could bring someone like me.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes, taken aback by her comment. “What’s that supposed to mean? Those are good people. And I was a huge fuckin’ stoner once too.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she shook her head, “I mean, they didn’t see me with you. Not because of who I am or who you are, but because it wasn’t right.”
“You know,” Eddie lowered his voice when he caught the eye of Dustin dancing with Suzie not two feet away from him, “you’re sounding an awful lot like someone who’s about to dump someone else.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Her eyebrows quirked as she tipped her head to the side. “Why waste more time on me?”
Even if his heart raced in another direction, the sound of someone saying that to Eddie was bothersome.
“Please don’t say that,” he said, “you’re not a waste of time.”
“But for someone else’s love, I am,” Veronica’s lips extended into a thin line. “That’s not a bad thing, Eddie… It just means I’m not the one for you.”
The chords of the music sobered him.
Across the room, sitting desolate at the dinner table, his heart called.
“Afford me this dance,” Veronica continued, “and when the time comes, do what makes you happy, however difficult that may be. She may not run into your arms as she once did,” as the motions swayed the pair, she faced the table as Jim Hopper approached. “That doesn’t mean love doesn’t exist.”
She felt Eddie’s shoulder’s deflate from the tension he had been holding in the entire day–nay, two days–since the prospect of you had become a reality.
“I abandoned her,” Eddie admitted quietly to her, “like a fucking ragdoll for some dream that really isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”
Veronica did not know every detail. She did not know the exact history, nor did she fully grasp the levity of a near decade of love being tossed to the side for a pipedream. But she did know what it was like to leave an abundance of life behind to chase a want.
Yet the model had never seen a group so peculiar as the one he belonged to. The tightknit communal that leaned on each other like family even though many were from different corners. She had seen the binds of friendship like never before. She had seen a broken love bonded by pain from across a candlelight tabletop and wondered why she had ever been invited if that would always have been the outcome. It was as though two ships hadn’t sailed passed one another but docked; lengths of a life finally running out of individual ink before relying on two for competition.
“You both hurt each other,” she settled, “that is what separation does. But…” she chuckled, “I have been in love before and I’ve never witnessed such a feeling when being in the presence of the two of you–and I don’t even know her…”
“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie confided. “I tried, earlier today because she was on the verge of a breakdown over a necklace and she could barely look at me.”
“Don’t you think it may be because if she did, she’d fall all over again?”
The song was coming to a close.
“There is nothing wrong with pain, Eddie. Feeling pain, wanting to be healed, and being scared of that healing… and maybe she’ll need time. She loves you. I know she does because when women know, they know.”
Jim Hopper stood from the chair.
There was a comradery he felt in Veronica. Romance beside itself, the woman was a chakra. She had looked into a future he could barely imagine himself and pulled the heroic card before it was dealt. These cards overturned like quicksand settling between his toes.
“You know,” Eddie gave her a sly, friendly grin, “you sound an awful lot like those odd fortune tellers that sell their services on the strip.”
Veronica laughed; whole-heartedly, warmly. “Maybe in a previous life I was,” she played, “but in yours, there has always been one path and I guarantee you, from one romantic to another, loneliness was never an option for you. It’s what kids dream about–that ‘fairytale…’ Even if it is a little bit messy.”
You linked your arm with Jim’s.
“I’ve always been a little too messy,” Eddie said sheepishly.
“I can tell,” Veronica groaned, “You don’t have to be perfect for her. Imperfection seizes our hearts faster than perfection… it’s enough to haunt us when perfection tears that apart.”
“El isn’t dancing with anyone.”
Jim Hopper held one hand in his and the other on the upper half of your back. It was as though he was dancing at an elementary father-daughter dance than anything else, stiff in his hulking frame. The music did nothing to silence your rapidly forming thoughts that Eddie and Veronica were feet away; Eddie’s eyes caught yours as Jim helped you to the floor, an anguish in them acted as a puzzle waiting to be pulled apart.
In the eyes that watched Veronica rip the persona he had gathered for himself in the years past, Eddie could only imagine you. He waited for them to turn into your own, for her laugh to morph into yours, for her hands to run through his hair as yours once did, and the comfort of her presence to become you. Looking for that glimpse, Eddie found it inside of his imagination; searching every corner of it to find a home for his torment–self-inflicted and its mortal consequences bleeding life from him like a sieve.
“It’s those sensible shoes…” Hopper joked. “Her feet are killing her. A couple blisters later, she’s sworn them off forever.”
“I don’t blame her,” Lucas and Max joined the pairs beside you. The red-headed girl rested her head on his shoulder, eyes closed in the utmost content state she could be in. True love.
“How many dances do you have in your feet?”
“Why?” You questioned. “Am I a better partner than Joyce? She was always rather clumsy.”
“No,” he laughed but could not disagree, “I just think those boys won’t end the evening without asking you. I think Dustin’s always had a little crush on his former babysitter.”
“I don’t think,” you tipped your head at him, “I know he’s always had a crush on me.”
Dustin Henderson had always been a cute boy. His pure child-like imagination and motivation had inspired you to explore your own interests without fear. You had watched him from five until his mother decided he didn’t need you anymore, but you were lucky to call him a friend now.
“But he’s got Suzie,” you could see the two giggling as everyone danced around them. “And I can’t think of a more natural person for him. I think they’re next,” your eyes moved themselves around the room, “to get married.”
“Too many childhood sweethearts in my opinion,” Hopper’s gruff voice was certain in that. “Not everyone is meant to be with their first loves.”
“I think they are… just like Steve and Nancy, just like Max and Lucas.”
“And you and Eddie.” Not a question, a statement.
It was the scoff that left your lips that made his hopes for you feel weak. “That chapter ended, Chief. He’s moved on, so have I.”
“No,” he clarified, “you haven’t. You wouldn’t have been moping around your best friend’s wedding if you were.”
“I wasn’t moping,” you defended, “Jonathan was moping. I’m pretty sure he cried and had decent reason to but I was just… people watching.”
“Person watching. You were watching Eddie and there’s nothing wrong with it,” he asserted. “You love him. There is no shame in it.”
“Why is everyone so interested in how I feel?” Your face put on the mask of a scorned lover. Eyes drawn narrow and brows forming a crease in its center. “This is Nance and Steve’s wedding, their only wedding if they’re lucky, and I’ve had person after person question how I feel about something I no longer have.”
“Maybe it’s because for once we all see the truth of it all…” He had seen the truth as a washed-up Eddie cried in his truck. “That the pain of the past isn’t worth the loneliness of the future.”
“A true poet,” you mumbled, “but I’m fine. I promise you, I’m fine.”
“I’ve said it before,” Hopper chuckled, “and I will always say it to you, but you’re a terrible liar.”
“Lies be lies, Chief. But there’s no point in trying to make me feel better about feelings I can’t control.”
“No one is asking you to control them,” you turned your head away from Jim’s and clocked Lucas eavesdropping. He gave a strained, tight smile before resting his cheek onto Max’s head. “That isn’t what we’re trying to do… I want the kids I watched grow up to be happy and you’re not happy, he’s not happy. I don’t know if the answer to that equation is the two of you finding each other again but I’ve never been a man capable of understanding the love you had. And that sound ridiculous coming from someone as old as your old man.”
“I can’t even be in the same room as him without feeling like breaking down,” your voice was quiet, a mere whisper of what it was because the prospect of Eddie still having feelings for you was frightening. You didn’t want to end up becoming a ghost again.
“It’s like I’m a nobody in a room full of somebody’s and they can’t see me.”
“Someone will always see you,” his eyes were gentle. “He saw you when he couldn’t see himself.”
“Then why did he leave?”
And the way Hopper’s body stood taller, his gaze no longer meeting yours, and turning you cold told you the world was ending. This love, imploded if it couldn’t exist between the two of you, was bubbling to the surface like a volcano. Here, on the island of Nantucket, a tsunami couldn’t save you from emotional ruin.
“I think that’s a question you’ll have to ask him.”
Veronica’s hand extended into your peripheral vision. She held it out to Jim like a lifeline.
“Do you mind if I steal him?” Her body came into view and you needn’t know the conversation the two had to know she had led Eddie back to you. “I need to hear all about this ‘hero of Hawkins!’”
“I’m not the hero,” Jim said rather sheepishly. “That’s all him.”
You could feel Eddie’s presence in a room of hundreds of a room of one. It enveloped you into a cocoon against your fighting mind.
“Those are strong words coming from you, Chief.” His voice rung out against the music. Eddie had been on the poor graces of Chief Jim Hopper for many a year before the man had seen Eddie for what he was: a good, kind man with a fierce complex.
Jim looked to you. “You got this, kid. I’ve got another partner now, so do you.”
He took Veronica’s arm and linked it through his arm like an elderly man who needed help walking. He wasn’t that old. She took him away without a glance back at the one who had asked her to come.
“Now,” Eddie cleared his throat from behind you, “I could ask you to dance or,” he had put on that voice like there were more options than he had, “we can go outside, sit down, and maybe you’ll talk to me.”
‘Look at me. Why won’t you look at me,’ his words echoed in your mind.
When you turned around to face him, he got his wish.
Eddie looked hopeful, as if it were the permanent face he wore. His eyes were the smallest bit glassy, hands stuffed into his pockets, and the shine of his shoes to the wear of his tie was different than he had ever worn before. He was still him, yet so different all the same.
“If we talk,” you felt like you swallowed a frog, “no lies. I don’t want to hear any lies.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
The night was cold.
Springtime enfolded the shores of Nantucket; cattails and tall grasses billowing, soft sounds of ocean waves lapping muted the music from inside. Adirondack chairs lay vacant, pillows dewed and their wood smooth.
You couldn’t bear to sit down.
Allowing the night air to take you, Eddie shut the door behind him and felt the scene before him play at the edge of a cliff; every piece of you blowing away against a yearning to stay. He began shrugging his jacket off and you held out a hand in front of you.
“I’m fine,” the frost bit at your voice. “Keep it.”
“You’re freezing,” Eddie continued to remove his piece. “I’m not going to be an asshole and let you freeze to death because you’re stubborn.”
You scoffed. “I am not stubborn. I don’t need it, end of story.”
He tugged it off, folding it in his hands before tossing it on one of the chairs that separated the distance between you. His tie was long undone, the two buttons at the top of his shirt undone but the cufflinks remained. You wanted to take the jacket. You wanted to recall his scent and warmth but your stubbornness in protection vexed you.
“Fine,” he huffed.
“Fine,” You replied in kind.
Only the note of waves filled the stillness. You both looked at one another as though a million years had gone by in the blink of an eye. Not unlike the seconds passed in the wine cellar the night before, the world seemed to dissipate to a single existence of two former lovers. Two people, in spite of themselves, who haven’t felt whole since a single moment six years before.
Goosebumps raised on your skin, the jacket appeared delectable yet an item of fear as it sat, calling to say ‘put it on,’ only to be followed by a whisper of ‘forgive me.’
“I can’t imagine that small talk is what you wanted to discuss,” you started.
“I don’t believe it’s what you would want either,” he countered, “and we both know that would get us nowhere.”
“So, what?” You lightly shook your head. “You want me to ask how your life has been and catch up on all I’ve missed? There’s a reason I don’t read gossip magazines anymore… I don’t need to see beautiful women rubbed in my face or success showing me that my pain was worth something more.”
“A lot of those things are lies,” Eddie walked his icy path with steady feet. “You don’t need to read them, no. But I would hope you still cared enough to ask about me when you visit Rob and Nance, not to mention Steve never brings you up to me.”
“Oh, you mean the literal effort they all put in to never mention you around me?” You gazed at him as though the reason you never asked about him, or they never spoke about him, was obvious. It hurt too much. “It’s not exactly a cake walk, Eddie, to hear about your fantastic life when I could barely hold my own together.”
“It’s not fantastic and if you asked, you would have known that.”
“And it’s my responsibility to learn that? Did you want me to reach out, ask how you’ve been, and get lunch like you didn’t fucking break my heart?” You gawked. Eddie took his hands from his pockets and put them on his hips–a Steve move he had taken upon after establishing their friendship. “If I couldn’t talk about you, I don’t know how the hell I would have talked to you.”
“Then maybe I should have called,” like an easy solution, “and maybe instead of… what was it Steve said? Trading holidays liked a divorced couple, we could have been civil and spent time with our friends together.”
“Was that when you were traveling the world or recording records?” You pursed. “Or when you moved out to California and visited once a year? Tell me, Eddie, is a hypothetically cordial relationship something you really want with me? I can barely feel the world turn as it is when I’m in your presence, I doubt I would be able to have a good time with our friends.”
Eddie laughed savagely. “I didn’t know all the fun had been sucked out of you.”
You took a step back, careening your head out toward the ocean as you bit your cheek. He had gall. He was bold and unflinching, but his eyes told the truth. His own pain and suffering at the consequences of his actions had let the light leave him for so long. When pain overtook a person’s being, anger and callous language followed.
“If you’re going to be an ass,” you looked back to him, “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“It isn’t the truth, though? I’ve at least tried to have a halfway, goddamn decent time at this wedding and every time I looked at you, you’ve been nothing but bitter.”
“No one asked you to look at me, Eddie. You brought a date. You should focus on her.”
“How could I!?” A dam had broken inside of him. He couldn’t not look at you. “Every time I think I’ll give someone else a chance, it’s like seeing a fucking ghost in my mirror! I have to look at you. I need to look for you.”
“No, you don’t!” You exclaimed with as much passion. “You lost that when you walked out! I am sorry that I am so shitty for being sad at a beautiful wedding. I am sorry for wishing that this time, maybe it was me walking down that goddamn aisle. And for fuck’s sake, I am so sorry that I am fearful that you’ll finally move on and want to marry someone else! Jesus fuck! It’s been six goddamn years and I still think that you’ll come walking through the door and say you made a mistake but I don’t want to hear that tumbling out of Steve’s mouth. I don’t want it to be based in lies because you feel bad I am sad at my best friend’s wedding.”
“I love you,” he blurted out without reason.
“Don’t say that!”
“Why!?”
“Because it isn’t true! IF I was, you never would have left! You wouldn’t have asked me to throw my life away and follow you to the ends of the fucking earth! If I wasn’t just some body, maybe somebody would love me enough to stay,” You argued loudly.
“I do love you,” He argued back with the same ferocity.
“You did. You don’t anymore.”
“I do love you. I do. I haven’t fucking stopped loving you since I was seventeen and I don’t think I ever will stop. I will always love you, I have always loved you, and I know that when I am dying, I will die loving you,” he was breathless. Angered and pent up with emotions he had buried deep where his eyes were fiery and his tone was firm.
“You can’t say things like that…” Fuck the tears that loved to threaten to fall.
“Why!? Tell me why I can’t tell the truth. You asked me not to lie and I wouldn’t do that to you!”
“Becau–” you stammered the word as your mind racked itself for answers, “because it’s not fair to me! I can’t live another day knowing that someone else out there loves you in a way that I do. I can’t keep waiting around in my shitty, fucking life for someone who walked out of it for something bigger than me.”
“And it was a mistake! I will never forgive myself for it but please, even if it’s the last thing you do, please believe that it was. I never should have asked that of you, I was selfish. I knew what I wanted in life then because it hasn’t changed. It existed deep down but was scared to come to the surface and I needed to be pulled under to see that. I love you. I love you so goddamn much that every day without you has been the most unbearable few years of my life. I want you, and only you.”
“Don’t lie to me,” your lip trembled, face hot.
“I’m not lying,” his own eyes watery. “Please, I am not lying to you.”
“I don’t think you know how much you hurt me, Eddie,” you shook your head at him. “There are times when I don’t feel like myself because you took that away from me. I don’t depend on anyone; I’d never say that I lost everything when you left but you cracked me open, slaughtered me in the place we shared because of a dream. And believe me, really, that I am so happy you found that life but how can I know that my suffering was worth it?
“You don’t think I suffered too?” He exclaimed loudly at the sky. “I went to Hawkins, you know, after everything because I didn’t have anywhere to go.” You didn’t know.
“I got so fucking drunk at a bar that Hopper had to come scrape me off the sidewalk and from what I remember, I exploded in the truck when he tried to take me to your parent’s place. Do you know what he did? Let me sleep on the couch and when Eleven got up the next day, she held my hand and told me that I’d be okay and I haven’t been okay. I’ve never been okay without you and I’m not scared to admit that. You are my lifeline, sweetheart. I have tried to replace that feeling but I can’t.”
“Do you know how long I wished for you to walk through that door?” You pointed to the door you walked through as if it could transform itself into the one of the apartment you shared. “I sat there, waiting for you because I barely remembered a life where you weren’t part of it and that was hard enough to imagine when it slammed in my goddamn ears,” you huffed, eyes nearly ablaze as his committed declarations of love echoed through every vacant place inside of you and right back to the moment he left.
“There is not a day that goes by where I don’t question why you let it go so easily.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Eddie stressed your name exasperatedly, “nothing about that choice was easy.”
“You made it seem like it was.”
Eddie felt the grounding he had built in his mind with his vow of love was strong. He felt the ghosts of the past begin to grip his feet; haunting and pulling him to the depths of his former despair to face a choice chastened by ambition. On the cold, concrete sidewalk and the airy Nantucket patio, it ruptured in spouts.
Pain, longing, abjection tied to every word; you had tried in obstinate strength to keep the fortress from becoming invaded. That somewhere in your heart there was a knowledge it was stronger than the force of the man that had left you to bleed but it wasn’t. It felt his bullets like bandages. They neither wounded nor massacred its path forward, binding the holes left behind with attestation.
“When I said we wanted different things, why didn’t you tell me what you wanted?” You asked in a voice wavering. “I thought you wanted this life,” a hand painted his figure against the night, “he one with the glitz and glamor and women like Veronica. If you wanted what I did, why toss it to the side?
Eddie shook his head, backing away from you and throwing his hands on top of his head in a connected grasp. He looked out to the water so dark he couldn’t see yet heard. “You remember what I told you about my parents?”
After a second, he returned his gaze to you and in return, you nodded.
Eddie’s perception of self was deeply rooted in the disjointed childhood he had been forced to experience. Every feeling, every action questioned by himself as to whether the receiving party had viewed it as strange, difficult, or simply heartless. He kept his heart on his sleeve, however, he kept it tethered there. When someone tried to hold it in their own palms, Eddie pulled away.
It had taken years for him to be comfortable enough with himself to be willing to be someone he liked.
“It doesn’t just go away with time,” he sighed. “I will always doubt myself. I always fear that I’m one step away from becoming him even if I know I’m nothing like him.”
For a child of a loveless marriage, a brutal life, the most fearful thing they could imagine was not whether or not they could be loved later in life, it was turning into the people they hated most.
“It’s not every day that someone comes to your concert and wants to sign you without so much as a demo session… and that overtook me. I know that now, and I knew that the second I walked out the goddamn door. I will apologize for the rest of my life if it means you know how I feel.”
Eddie let that sit.
“You can hate me forever, I don’t mind. But don’t convince yourself I never cared enough about you.”
“I don’t hate you. I never hated you. And I’m sorry if I made it seem that way.”
Perhaps he would have to convince himself that you never hated him just as you would that he loved you.
“Even when I left?”
“There was not a piece of my body strong enough to feel anything more than empty when that happened.”
“I felt it too, you know,” his eyes shimmered in the lamplight. No joy, no hilarity–just hope that you knew the truth.
“I do now,” you told him.
“I’m not asking you to give me a second chance,” Eddie shrugged his shoulders lowly. In a nearly defeated sigh, he took the words he replayed in his mind for two thousand, one hundred and ninety days, “but fuck… I told you I’d find you again if the time was right and the minute I saw you in the archway I knew that was my shot… you’re the same but different… I loved you then and I love the you that you are now. And I’m sorry that it took me that long to realize it.”
“What did you feel in that church today?”
A cosmic connection, a fleeting moment he wished to hold onto forever.
“Eddie,” you took a step forward, closing the distance, “tell me what you felt.”
“I felt…” He paused. Breathing in deeply, it was not his admissions of love that proved to be most difficult. It was the regret of letting it go that scarred the deepest. “I felt… bitter.”
“Bitter?”
“Because I don’t have what they do,” he threw a lazy arm toward the door. “Or I did have that and I let it go because of a silly dream.”
“I don’t think your dream was silly,” you admitted, “it worked out of you in the end.”
“But at what cost?” Eddie took a step closer to you; the chair with this tuxedo jacket the space that separated you. “Why do those dreams take everything away to make them happen? I didn’t want to do that, this, alone. Not without you.”
“I felt helpless,” you disclosed. “In that church with the sun streaming in… like a fucking… higher power was saying to me that the way I loved you still existed inside of me. It hasn’t ever truly gone–as much as some moments I wish it was–yet it stays.”
“Helpless because you love me?”
“Helpless because I can’t have you.”
“And why can’t you have me?” Another step closer. “Why do you, the only woman I have ever truly loved, feel you cannot have me?”
“Because someone else does,” your eyes flashed toward the doors as if Eddie’s proximity and both of your vulnerabilities were forbidden. “Because someone else loves you.”
“She doesn’t love me,” Eddie’s fingers eclipsed your own. Fanning in a light flutter, it was discovering touch again. “She isn’t mine and I am not hers.”
He stepped closer again and every one of your senses went spiraling. Eddie leaned his head forward and rested his forehead on your own. Two sets of eyes closed at the sensation.
“You have all of me. Every part of me since the moment I saw you.”
“And what do you want?”
‘I want you to have what you want, sweetheart,’ his words were distant from the past.
“What do you want now?” you asked him, breaking away as your eyes shone to his. His free hand cradled the back of your neck gently, he rubbed his thumb over your cheek. “I know what I want, but I need to hear it from you. No lies.”
“No lies,” he repeated, a quick glanced down at your lips had him soaring. “I want you, baby. I’ll only ever want you.”
“Good,” you whispered, lips barely tracing his for the first time in six years. “Because we’re not letting this go this time.”
“Never.”
And he pulled your lips to his.
To answer the question the chapel had asked you, ‘what is it like to be loved?’, there is only one answer:
This is what it feels like. Pain, beauty, and joy. There is no bind without strife, nor is there passion without sacrifice.
And in the years in between said sacrifice, the tethers of a string brushed together until they found one another again on a little island off a blustery coast for the wedding of Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler.
A/N: As always, comments, reblogs are kindly encouraged. Thank you for reading!
P.S. from the future here! This is still one of my most favorite stories I’ve ever written. Thanks for showing it so much love over the last few years.
My main masterlist glitched, so I had to make a separate one for Dunk if I want to keep updating it :') He deserves it anyway.
◉ Fathach Caoin — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!Reader, wounded knight saved by a mermaid trope, mild blood and gore, virgin!Dunk, mutual pining, size kink, monsterfucking.
◉ Take It Easy On Me — (nsfw) Dunk x fem!Reader, modern AU, neighbours, love at first sight, mutual pining, rom-com, forced proximity, scent kink, size kink, penetrative sex, love.
◉ Voyeur, voyeur — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!widow!Reader, attempt at humour, mutual pining, dirty thoughts, voyeurism, need to be quiet, dry humping, coming in pants.
◉ My Moon, My Man — (nsfw) part one | part two | extra — Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!Reader, omegaverse, Alpha!Dunk x beta!Reader, impersonating a man, angst & misunderstandings, power play, all omegaverse nonsense (ruts, scenting, etc).
◉ Heartburn — (nsfw) MASTERLIST — Dunk x fem!Reader, modern AU, rom-com, unplanned pregnancy, friends to future-parents to friends-with-benefits to lovers, fluff, humour, angst, smut, the whole shebang.
◉ Venus as a Boy — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!travelling companion!Reader, sex pollen, mutual pining, synaesthesia, scent kink, praise kink, body worship, size difference, outdoor sex.
◉ Where Does The Nose Go? — (nsfw) part one | part two — Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!Reader, inspired by HCA's The Little Mermaid, medieval rom-com, love at first sight, mutual pining, first times, bittersweet ending.
◉ Much Ails Me — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!travelling companion!Reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, awkward flirting, jealousy, scent kink, body worship, sniffing, armpit licking, rimming, handjob, virgin!Dunk.
divider credit: @uzmacchiato, banner collage by me!
My main masterlist glitched, so I had to make a separate one for Dunk if I want to keep updating it :') He deserves it anyway.
◉ Fathach Caoin — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!Reader, wounded knight saved by a mermaid trope, mild blood and gore, virgin!Dunk, mutual pining, size kink, monsterfucking.
◉ Take It Easy On Me — (nsfw) Dunk x fem!Reader, modern AU, neighbours, love at first sight, mutual pining, rom-com, forced proximity, scent kink, size kink, penetrative sex, love.
◉ Voyeur, voyeur — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!widow!Reader, attempt at humour, mutual pining, dirty thoughts, voyeurism, need to be quiet, dry humping, coming in pants.
◉ My Moon, My Man — (nsfw) part one | part two | extra — Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!Reader, omegaverse, Alpha!Dunk x beta!Reader, impersonating a man, angst & misunderstandings, power play, all omegaverse nonsense (ruts, scenting, etc).
◉ Heartburn — (nsfw) MASTERLIST — Dunk x fem!Reader, modern AU, rom-com, unplanned pregnancy, friends to future-parents to friends-with-benefits to lovers, fluff, humour, angst, smut, the whole shebang.
◉ Venus as a Boy — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!travelling companion!Reader, sex pollen, mutual pining, synaesthesia, scent kink, praise kink, body worship, size difference, outdoor sex.
◉ Where Does The Nose Go? — (nsfw) part one | part two — Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!Reader, inspired by HCA's The Little Mermaid, medieval rom-com, love at first sight, mutual pining, first times, bittersweet ending.
◉ Much Ails Me — (nsfw) Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!travelling companion!Reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, awkward flirting, jealousy, scent kink, body worship, sniffing, armpit licking, rimming, handjob, virgin!Dunk.
divider credit: @uzmacchiato, banner collage by me!
contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!travelling companion!Reader, POV alternating, friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning (Reader is obsessed, Dunk is enamoured and oblivious), awkward flirting (Reader), jealousy, massive scent kink, body worship, sniffing, armpit licking, rimming (Dunk receiving), handjob, virgin!Dunk, Reader is implied to have some experience.
synopsis: Much ails you, and nearly all of it is Ser Duncan the Tall. After months of failed hints, stolen cloaks and increasingly indecent yearning, a small tourney prompts even the gods to decide enough is enough—and place you both within the same four walls.
word count: 13,3K
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @uzmacchiato + smooching @hextoken for beta reading! I KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS THINK. ERASE THAT SCENE FROM YOUR MINDS. Dunk is canonically very clean because that is how Ser Arlan taught him. He bathed himself in nice-smelling oils for the purpose of this fic ok. Reader is right where I would die to be she wants to be. And most importantly: happy birthday to my beloved @vekharious ✿
Much ails you. There are matters of earthly grievance: hair that kindles in late sunlight into a copper crown; shoulders so broad they ought to be enough for two men instead of one; hands strong enough to haul in a rope with three bodies pulling at its other end and careful enough to mend a tear neater than you could ever dream of doing. There is the throat as well, drawing tight round every bout of abashment until the cords stand out and the hollow at its base deepens into a little gutter, tongue-ready, or perfect for the selfish wedge of your nose. Long, brown lashes that lower whenever he thinks himself watched. A mouth soft at the corners and so thoroughly made for kissing that leaving it untouched begins to feel like neglect. And the eyes—large, clear, shamelessly honest things that hide naught from the world, even if lives depended upon their secrecy.
The matters less graspable torment you worse sometimes. His courage, for one, which has so little concern for the body housing it that it borders on stupidity. Let any lost soul catch at his sleeve and ask something of him, and he will go—into flood, fire, quarrel, whatever catastrophe has learnt to call itself need. Then there is the honour he clings to, admirable and aggravating in equal measure: the very thing that makes your knees weaken whenever he bows his head and gives his word, and, you suspect, the chief obstacle standing between your nose and the aforementioned well of his neck.
There are moments, too, when he is more boy than man. His smile breaks broad and slightly misaligned across his face, ill-arranged and fitted so precisely to your heart that the poor thing trips over itself whenever it appears. His voice is warm even when his words are plain; his laughter younger than the rest of him, loose and bright and wholly unguarded. Morning roughens him into a rasp that makes the simplest good morrow sound like something you ought to hear with your cheek laid to his chest.
He treats every beast as though the gods reached the height of their craft in making it. The noon sun may hang white and pitiless overhead, yet he will halt the whole procession to see a lizard safely across the road. Dogs trust him. Birds permit him closer than they should. Even rats seem to know there is no harm in him. His kindness made room for you in much the same fashion. You have since proved useful, certainly, but he had no knowledge of that when he shifted his stores, divided his food and offered you a place beside his fire. He had managed well enough alone before you. He would manage well enough without you still. He keeps you all the same.
And then there is his smell, the least merciful trouble of the lot. By evening it rises strongest from the skin at his throat and beneath his shirt: bread left to swell near a hearth, the sweet-bitterness of ale after the body has taken its sharpness and made it flesh, salt and wheat and the greenest ghost of hops. Beneath it lies something darker and richer, like earth newly turned after rain, black and plump and so full of life that roots would grow greedy in it. It is a smell made for putting your face into. For breathing until thought gives way to some older, simpler knowledge of famine; until you wish to bite him softly, burrow closer, and leave enough of yourself behind that he might carry your scent upon him too.
All this to say: much ails you, because Ser Duncan the Tall is abundant in flesh and heart alike, and either troubles you beyond what a common woman such as yourself knows how to manage.
You're watching him from your place by the curbing fire. He’s searching, scratching at the back of his head, most likely for the cloak you’ve stolen (again) under pretence of dainty female shivers, though the truth is considerably more depraved. It smells so thoroughly of him that the only thing likely to rival it is his enormous self. You pull it over your head and cover yourself entire, so that when he inevitably demands it back, some remnant of him might stay caught in the wool of your gown.
Resigned, Duncan comes back to sit beside you with a sigh and stirs the pot where the remains of supper have gone dark at the edges. After a moment, he glances sideways and catches the hem between two fingers. “Ain’t that mine?”
You make a face.
“Wee thing," he croons. "Ye cold again?” His brow pinches with concern. “I’ll fetch ye the blanket. This smells of a three-day horse.”
He begins peeling it from you, but you clutch both sides tight to your chest.
“I like it. I mean—” You swallow. It smells of you. Do not steal the one thing from me if you won't give another. “It smells fine,” you choose to say.
Duncan frowns at the cloth, then releases it. “We can wash it on the morrow. Stream’s near enough.”
“Oh, quit it, you," you quip at him. "It smells good enough. Ser Arlan made you clean beyond any man’s reason.”
He stares at you. Then at the cloak. Then back at you, with colour steadily gathering round his ears. Why being told he is clean should shame him, Duncan plainly has no notion. Perhaps it is the way you say it, wrapped to the nose in something that has spent three days against his body.
“Aye, all right,” he mutters, turning back to the pot. “If ye hate the blanket so.”
It unnerves him sometimes, those odd little ways of yours, though he tries to pay them no mind. Looking too closely would carry him into some country he does not understand and make a greater oaf of him than he is already.
If Duncan knew no better, he might call some of your glances interested. Lustful is not a word he would ever lay on a lady. Himself, though, he is lustful enough, and scolds himself for every thought of that sort. He knows what his own face does when his eyes disobey him and settle on a cleavage deep enough to slide an entire hand into, or, worse, scraped knuckles and knees that might benefit from ointment or kissing better; ankles poking out beneath a hem; wrists he could close his fingers round, for he has never met a lady who outsized him; necks with their napes dampened by heat; hair that would find its way into his mouth if he slept beside a woman, and which he thinks he would take the feeding of gladly. Noses too, and mouths. Large mouths and small ones, with lips pink or red or brown, glossed by licking or ale or wine or grease from a homemade meal.
Your mouth most of all. Always moving round him. Always saying things he does not understand.
Your cleavage, your knees, your ankles, your neck and ears too. He has stared at all of it. Caught you staring in return. He has put the whole matter down to teasing, since believing otherwise would mean presuming upon a woman who travels under his protection. Sometimes he thinks there may be some other world in which you could desire his huge, awkward, penniless self. It happens seldom. And it is less than thought, really. Hope, mayhaps, arriving when his mind is softened by sleep or one pint too many. Then, he must shut his eyes tight and drive it out before he begins believing the absurdities it whispers.
Next day he intends to enter the lists at Acorn Hall, and he is excited about it for many reasons. Coin, first. His purse has been light for some time, and though you make no complaint, Duncan is certain you dream of a proper bath that's not in nature's basin and a supper cooked by somebody else’s hands. A good showing might buy both, with enough left for oats and another week of road.
Then there is the proving of himself. You have seen him in tourneys great and small, seen him win cleanly and come off a horse hard enough to forget his own name for half a minute. Duncan cannot decide which he prefers: the brilliance of your smile when he carries the bout, or your hand pressing a cold cloth to his brow while you tell him he was marvellous regardless. The kindness never lasts. Once you are certain he will live, you begin recalling the fall in cruel detail, laughing harder with every telling until the laugh breaks into snorts. It cuts the wings from his pride terribly. He finds the snorting dear all the same.
A tourney also gives you cause to put your hands on him. You always volunteer to buckle his armour, lace his vambrace, mend a tear in his tunic while he is still wearing it. You spend too long at his waist sometimes, tugging the rope-belt this way and that, leaning close to make certain the sword sits soundly and will not slip when he needs it. Duncan can think of no other reason for such care.
You ask strange things during these little labours too. Once, after a thorn lodged deep in your palm, he sat with your hand cradled in his and worked it free with the point of a needle. You watched his bent head for a while, then asked, “Would you handle all of me so gently?”
“I’d not hurt you,” he said.
You pouted. “That was not quite my question.”
Duncan frowned at your palm and turned it towards the light, searching for some second thorn he might have missed. The question escaped him entirely. After all, he could not see why the rest of you should require handling when the thorn sat plainly enough in one finger.
When he cranes his head, he finds you asleep by the fire, wrapped so entirely in his cloak that only the crown of your head shows beneath it. One hand has slipped free. Your fingers keep a stubborn hold on the wool, as though even in sleep you expect him to steal it back.
By morning the cloak has been returned, folded into a neat square and set beside his bedroll. You are already awake and insisting you both make haste for Acorn Hall, so Duncan postpones the washing of cloth and body alike until the arrival.
He spends most of the road in silence, fighting his own eyes. Whenever thought idles and the reins hang loose in his hand, his gaze finds the shape of your buttocks cradled by Thunder’s saddle. Then he jerks it back to the road and scolds himself until the next time it wanders.
The tourney announces itself long before Acorn Hall rises through the trees. Carts crowd the verge. Pennons snap above patched tents, bright against the dust, and every spare stretch of grass has been claimed by horses, squires, cookfires and men hammering stakes into hard earth. The greater knights have gathered nearer the lists. Duncan takes you farther out, where the lesser tents thin towards a stream, and claims a place beneath an old tree with enough shade for the horses.
You seem giddy. He puts it down to the occasion. Tourneys mean crowds, merriment and stalls full of little useless things you like to handle and admire before remembering the weight of your shared purse. While he unloads the bedrolls and begins untying the feed sacks, you come close enough that your shadow falls over his bowed head.
“I mean to make use of the stream,” you murmur. “Will you keep watch?”
Duncan turns his head. “Aye, course.”
An invitation to join you sits ready on your tongue. So does the clarification that keeping watch ought to mean staring directly at you while you stand wet and naked in the water.
His face still holds some sleep around the eyes. Handsome all the same. When his mouth opens, likely to ask why you continue hovering over him, you smile and say, “Very well.”
The arrangement soon settles into its usual dullness. Duncan sits on the bank with his back to the stream, knees drawn up and arms laid across them, shoulders forming a wall between you and the camp. You wade in behind him and watch that wall sourly.
You wonder whether pretending to drown might bring him round. Whether he would plunge in despite your nakedness, or whether honour would keep him facing the trees while you sank.
The temptation is considerable. Distracting him before the lists would be vile, however, so you wash yourself properly instead. By the time you finish, cold has set your teeth jittering. You drag a shift over your damp back, lace your skirts and pad barefoot over the grass towards him.
He hears nothing. You bend low and breathe into the warm hollow beside his neck. “Did you look?”
Duncan startles so badly one knee slips from under his arm. “N-no.”
You narrow your eyes. “Not even a little?”
He looks genuinely troubled by the question. Then he rises, brushes the dust from his knees and turns to face you with defensive shade already crawling over his throat. “No, by the Seven. I gave ye my word.”
A deep, tormented sigh leaves you. You roll your eyes and start back towards camp.
Behind you, Duncan lumbers into motion. “What is with you?”
You throw your damp hair over one shoulder without looking round. “Ah, much ails me, Ser Duncan.”
He appears to have no useful answer. Only silence follows you, and the heavy sound of his steps.
You partake in the tedious labours while he washes his clothes and bathes, both begrudgingly, for despite your eager offer Ser Duncan the Tall has declared he needs no protection while naked in a stream.
You've seen him before, naturally, though only in pieces. A bare shoulder when he changes his shirt. The lean length of one calf. Thighs so disproportionately large they seem to belong to some more excessive creature, glimpsed when he crouches to mend a boot or wades into water with his breeches rolled high. Shards of him haunt you at night, most fiercely when the moon gathers itself low in your womb and turns every thought wet-edged and hungry.
There are many things you wish of him. Sweet things, first. For him to speak softly into your ear. To call you something fond instead of girl, your given name, or the stiff m’lady he reaches for whenever his composure deserts him. For his mouth to come near enough that you might nip it and feel his teeth clack against yours when he kisses you with all the ineptitude you hope for.
The less sweet longings may be more delectable. His hips slotted between your legs. His hands making themselves full of your flesh. He would need no knowledge of force to open you. His width alone would see to that, and though Duncan likely knows naught of violent delights, you would not mind teaching him the gentler shape of the same hunger. He is kind enough to make up for greenness. Wise enough where it matters, which is chiefly in the heart.
Another want you keep hidden, sometimes even from yourself. A gluttonous one. You want to taste him where no decent maiden ought to think of putting her mouth. To learn the salt of every private fold and hollow, to come away with the marrow of him shining over your lips and fingers. You want to wear his essence so plainly that any creature looking upon you would know there is one enormous place in this world where you belong.
If only he knew. No—if only he were willing to grasp the magnitude of your longing. It rivals his height, you are certain.
By evening it is Duncan’s turn to enter his name for the lists, so naturally you go with him. You slow him so badly he is near the last knight in the queue by the time you reach the trestle table beneath the striped awning, beguiled in turn by every merchant’s low promise and every display of bright cloth, ribbons, little silver charms and polished stones with no earthly use beyond being pleasing to look upon.
He grows sourer with every halt. When you dismiss the last merchant and hurry after him, you have to trot to match the length of his stride. “I was only looking,” you tell his shoulder.
He grunts. “The hour’s late.”
At the table, a narrow man with ink on three fingers asks Duncan’s name and standing. Duncan straightens, gives him Ser Duncan the Tall, hedge knight, and names the arms he means to bear. The man writes it down, glances past him, and points the feather of his quill at you.
“And her?”
“His slave,” you grumble.
Laughter breaks out from the men waiting behind you. The clerk bends over his parchment with his shoulders shaking. Duncan goes crimson so swiftly you are certain even his scalp must be burning beneath the hair.
He says nothing until the pair of you are well clear of the lists. Then he turns back towards camp at such a pace that you must trot after him again.
“Don’t go telling folk I’ve put ye in chains,” he says.
I wish, though. In chains, or rope, or merely tangled in the sheets with you, with my mouth full of your fingers, or—“’Twas but a jest. I am exactly where I wish to be,” you tell him. Then, quieter, “Well. Almost.”
Duncan glances down at you. “Almost?”
“It's nothing.”
He stops. Breath leaves him hard through the nose. “Ye keep saying half a thing and expecting me to know the other half.”
You stare at him, convinced you have been plain enough to make yourself understood by a blind septon at midnight. There can hardly be another way of telling him short of climbing him like a tree.
That night you lie beneath a clear sky with the camp settling round you in mutters, laughter and the occasional stamp of a horse. Duncan puts his cloak deep inside his travelling sack and ties the mouth shut. You take the theft personally.
The next morning Duncan wakes with his stomach wrung small and hard beneath his ribs. He forces down one slice of bread by chewing each mouthful to paste and washing it after with water. The second sits in his hand until you take it from him and eat it yourself.
You must see the pallor in his cheeks, for you are exceptionally kind. “You are going to be great,” you tell him.
“I’ve not even mounted yet.”
“And already you look very knightly.”
“I look sick.”
“A sickly knight, then. Still great.”
He has ridden in lists before, great and small, yet the nerves come quietly every time. They begin at dawn as a little tightness in the gut and work upward through him until, by the time he sits atop Thunder, blood pounds behind his ears like a war drum.
You help him into his armour. Tie the points, buckle the plates and lace him with your head bowed over the work. Your fingers tug and test each fastening twice. When you come to the straps near his waist, you spend long enough there that Duncan begins thinking on the shape of your hands rather than the men waiting to strike him from a horse.
It steadies him some. He is grateful for that, though saying so seems likely to make the whole thing strange.
At the lists, Thunder stamps and rolls the bit beneath him. Duncan lowers his visor, raises it again and looks towards the rail. You are easy to find among the gathered folk, bright-eyed and fixed wholly upon him. He keeps the look of you as a token of luck, lowers the visor once more and spurs forward.
He rides well enough to be called back on the morrow.
The first bout is clean. On the second pass his lance catches the other knight square and sends him into the dust. The next man holds his seat longer, but Duncan breaks more wood and takes the better marks. The third nearly undoes him. A lance strikes high and hard, wrenching his shoulder back while the brow of his helm bites into the skin above his eye. For one dreadful moment the world tips sideways beneath him. He catches himself with his knees, hauls Thunder straight and finishes the pass half-blind with blood.
His earlier wins carry him through. That seems a thin comfort when he climbs down with one arm near useless and blood working along his cheek, until he sees you pushing between two squires with a wet cloth already in your hand.
By early evening you sit together beneath some lord's open pavilions, where wine and food have been laid out for the entrants. Your fingers press the folded cloth to Duncan’s temple. Every now and then you lift it to inspect the cut, frown fiercely, then put it back.
“You rode beautifully,” you tell him.
“I near fell,” he mutters.
“But you did not.”
“Near enough.”
A beat. “That third fellow struck too high.”
“He struck where he meant.”
Your mouth frowns. “Well, I dislike him for it.”
Duncan smiles. He smiles often around you, though he does not always mean to. He wishes he had done better. A finer showing might have earned enough coin to buy one of the little silver charms you handled yesterday, or the length of blue ribbon you held beneath your chin before seeing the merchant’s price.
You keep praising him. Tell him how fine he looked when the first knight fell, how everyone shouted after the second pass. Your voice softens whenever you ask whether the shoulder pains him. He likes being touched by you, though bearing it is another matter. When he forgets who he is and what is expected of him, he wonders how those fingers would feel elsewhere. At the base of his neck. Along his stomach. Lower, where a lady’s hand has no business going unless invited.
He stares at your mouth while it moves round another kind word and fails to notice the young knight taking the place beside you until three cups land on the table.
Duncan looks up. The man is near his own age, perhaps a little older, dressed in green wool too fine for camping and fastened at the throat with silver. His hair has been combed since the lists. There is a narrow gold ring on one hand and no dirt beneath any of his nails.
“Ser Duncan,” he says pleasantly. “I watched your third bout. Fine seat. Most men would have gone down after a blow like that.”
Duncan shifts under the cloth at his brow. “My thanks.”
“Ser Martyn,” the man supplies, then gives the name of some small holding upriver. He nudges one cup towards Duncan and another towards you. “For the wounded knight and his diligent healer.”
You take yours with a smile. “That is kind of you.”
The smile Ser Martyn gives back is easy and practised. “Are you his lucky charm, then?”
Your hand leaves Duncan’s temple. The cold cloth remains balanced there by itself. “Merely his companion on the road,” you say.
Merely.
Ser Martyn’s eyes glint. “Then the road has treated him generously.”
You laugh. Duncan reaches up and holds the cloth in place himself.
The third cup has made the table feel crowded. Ser Martyn leans towards you when you speak and asks where you have travelled, what you thought of Acorn Hall, whether you mean to remain for the feast after the final day. You thank him again for the wine. He tells you there is more where it came from. His father keeps a hall two days east, he mentions, with a cellar better stocked than Lord’s Whateverhisnameis and an orchard that sweetens the whole yard in spring.
Duncan drinks and listens.
Ser Martyn knows how to speak to a woman without tripping over his tongue. He owns good cloth and a name tied to a place. There would be servants in his father’s hall. Proper meals. Clean sheets. A room that stays where it is put instead of being rolled and tied to a horse every morning.
Duncan has a bedroll, three beasts and a purse that grows lighter whenever he looks inside it.
Some sour little ache has poured itself into him, close to where the morning nerves sat. It worsens each time you laugh. He tells himself this is foolishness. You are free to speak with whom you please. A decent man would be glad to see you admired by someone able to offer more than road dust and rabbit stew.
Your first cup empties. Then another appears. By the time you finish the third, glass has sparkled your eyes up and Ser Martyn has drawn closer by the width of a hand.
Duncan sets his own cup down. Wine still covers the bottom. “I think I’ll turn in.”
You look at him over the rim of yours. “Already?”
“Aye.” His gaze shifts towards Ser Martyn and away again. “Ye do as ye please, though.”
He rises before either of you can answer and leaves the cup half-full on the table.
The horses are where he left them. Sweetfoot turns her head when he approaches, calm and uncomplicated in the deepening night. Duncan finds the brush, puts one hand to her neck and begins working the dust from her coat. A brush fits his hand. Sweetfoot asks no questions.
The moment Ser Martyn joins you, it occurs that this may be another way of making yourself plain. If Duncan wants you, surely he cannot sit untouched while another man leans close and smiles into your face. Surely some crude, honest piece of him will rise. A hand closing round your wrist. An arm about your waist. Perhaps he will simply pick you up and carry you over one shoulder to camp, deaf to protest and laughter alike.
The thought pleases you enough that you laugh too brightly at something Ser Martyn says. You allow him to refill your cup, then the next. When his hand finds your elbow in the press near the table, you leave it there a heartbeat longer than necessity allows.
Duncan grows quiet. You feel his silence beside you and tend it carefully, feeding it another smile, another swallow of wine, another turn of your body towards the knight in green. He looks miserable. That should satisfy you. Instead it draws a queer ache through the middle of your triumph.
Then he leaves, with no wrist in his hand. Only tells you to do as you please and walks away with half his wine abandoned behind him. The pang of it sobers you briefly.
Ser Martyn continues speaking. You remain because leaving directly after Duncan would make the whole little game too obvious, and because it is pleasant, in its lesser way, to be admired openly. Ser Martyn has pretty eyes and well-kept hair. He is handsome. Kind too, though his kindness is smooth and social, the sort that knows where to sit and when to pour and how long a lady’s gaze should be held. It is not the kindness you want.
You want the one that moves a lizard from the road beneath a killing sun. One that gives away half a meal and calls the smaller half plenty. One that sits with its back to a naked woman because it gave its word, no matter how bitterly the woman resents it.
The wine goes on working through you. Ser Martyn’s face softens at the edges. His voice begins arriving from farther away, though he has moved nearer. Your thoughts wander to Duncan with increasing disobedience: the split at his brow, the bruise darkening beneath his clothes, and his hands, and gods, his mouth.
When Ser Martyn brushes his knuckles over your skirt, you look down and realise with sudden, drunken clarity that they are entirely the wrong knuckles. You stand too quickly. The pavilion tilts by a small, treacherous measure.
“My thanks for the wine,” you say, catching the table with one hand. “And the company. I ought to retire.”
Ser Martyn rises with you. “Allow me to walk you.”
“N-no.” The answer comes harder than his offer deserves. You soften it into a smile, or attempt one. “Our camp is close.”
“You have had rather a lot to drink.”
“I have had exactly enough.”
This is untrue. He looks as though he knows it, but bows and lets you go.
The way back proves longer than you remember. The ground keeps changing its mind beneath your feet, rising to meet one step and falling away from the next. You mutter through the whole journey, carrying on the quarrel Duncan refused to have with you.
Do as you please, you mouth in a poor imitation of his voice. “Aye, thank you kindly, Ser Duncan. Most gracious of you. Perhaps I shall marry him too, since I am doing as I please. Perhaps I shall have twelve babies with neat fingernails.”
A tent-rope catches your ankle. You stagger free and point accusingly at nothing.
“And you would wish me well, would you not? Great stupid—great honourable—” You lose the end of the insult and hiccup instead.
At camp, you find him beside Sweetfoot. His head is bowed close to her neck, one hand resting there while the other draws the brush slowly through her coat. He is tending the horse, though there is something in the shape of him that looks more like he has gone to her for comfort.
You come nearer and sniff. He stills. “I thought I’d not see you till morning,” Duncan says without looking round.
Perhaps he should not have. Perhaps you ought to have gone with Ser Martyn and shut your eyes very tightly. His hands might have become larger in the dark. His hair rougher beneath your fingers. With enough wine and enough wanting, mayhaps you could have lied yourself into Duncan’s body for an hour.
The thought leaves you feeling foul. “I’ve no interest in that one,” you say.
Duncan draws the brush down Sweetfoot’s side. “Didn’t say ye had.”
“Would you mind if I bedded him?”
The brush stops. Only briefly. “It ain’t for me to choose,” he says.
“I know.” You sway where you stand and correct yourself with an unsteady step. “I asked if you would mind.”
Duncan says nothing. That is answer enough and still not enough. You watch the back of his neck while he resumes brushing, angry with the silence and angrier with yourself for begging meaning from it.
Sweetfoot noses at his shoulder. Duncan sets the brush aside, breaks an oatcake and lets her take it from his palm. Her whiskers tickle him. His mouth softens. “There’s a good girl,” he murmurs.
The words leave a sombre quiet behind them. You sigh so heavily your whole body seems to empty. Then you sit down hard in the grass. The earth gives a small jolt beneath you, and after considering the effort required to remain upright, you let yourself fall flat onto your back.
Duncan finally turns. “What ails you, girl?”
The stars have multiplied while you were drinking. You squint at them.
“What must I do so you’d call me a good girl?”
There is a small clatter. The bridle has nearly slipped from Duncan’s hand.
You might pretend you said nothing. You might pretend he failed to hear. The wine has carried both mercies well beyond your reach, so you prop yourself on your elbows instead and look at him. He has gone red to the ears, gaze fixed fiercely on the ground between his boots. You bat your lashes. “I can learn tricks.”
For a moment he remains petrified. Then his mouth tightens. “Aye,” he says. “That’s it.” He strides over, crouches and gathers you from the grass. One arm goes beneath your knees, the other round your back, and the ground gives way with astonishing ease.
“Where are we going?” you ask, hope brightening you despite every lesson learnt thus far.
“Yer drunk. I’m puttin’ you to bed.”
You settle more comfortably against him. “I had the thought sober.”
His throat clicks beneath your cheek. Duncan says nothing else.
He puts you down upon the bedroll and kneels to remove your shoes. You offer little help. One foot keeps slipping from his hand, and when he catches it you giggle as if he has done something clever. Then, he pulls the blanket over you, tucks it under your shoulder and tries not to look at your mouth.
Within moments your eyes are closed. He sits beside the fire.
His cock is hard enough to hurt, thick and trapped beneath his breeches from carrying you against him while you spoke such things into his throat. That is trouble enough. Worse is the part of him that keeps hearing the words in your voice.
What must I do so you’d call me a good girl? I had the thought sober.
Duncan presses both palms to his face.
He has spent months putting you down as strange. Fond of teasing. Careless with words. He has taken every look and touch and queer remark and forced it into some safer shape, because the other shape asked too much of him. Now they return without permission.
You wrapped in his cloak and refusing the blanket. Your hands lingering at him. Would you handle all of me so gently? The disappointment when he kept his back to the stream. Not even a little? The muttered almost after telling him you were exactly where you wished to be.
Even your slave jest changes its face under this new light, though Duncan does not know what sort of light turns bondage into courtship.
He looks towards the bedroll. You sleep with one hand near your mouth, lashes calm against your cheeks, wholly unaware that you have overturned every sensible thought in his head.
Mayhaps you do want him. The hope arrives large enough to frighten him. It catches in his chest and groin together, making his pulse beat hard wherever blood can reach. He imagines calling you good girl with your face turned up to his. Imagines your expression changing beneath it. Imagines putting the words against your ear while his hands—
Duncan grips his knees and stops there. You are drunk. Currently snoring. Whatever truth lies in the confession, tonight it can ask nothing of him.
He feeds another stick into the fire and remains beside it until dawn, watching the flames sink low while every old certainty burns down with them.
The following morning Duncan regrets his vigil. His knees have stiffened, and his wounded shoulder protests when he rolls it. Still, his stomach keeps its peace. That is something.
You wake with your hair across your mouth and no sign upon your face that you remember making a misery of him. Duncan knows better than to trust that.
“Good morrow, m’lady,” he says, far too carefully.
You peer at him through sleep, then scoff. “Good morrow, Ser Duncan.”
Neither of you mentions horses, tricks or the names one might call a girl if properly encouraged. Duncan becomes very interested in saddles.
He rides better for having no sickness in him. Two more bouts go his way, enough to carry him near the final, where a smaller knight with a cleaner lance catches him soundly and sends him from Thunder. Duncan lands hard on the same shoulder he bruised the day before and sits in the dirt a moment, dazed and deeply undignified, while you are already pushing past the rail and calling his name.
The loss troubles him less once the purse is counted. There is enough for the road ahead. Enough for oats, supper and an inn besides. Enough, most importantly, to give you something finer than another night beneath a tree.
“We’ve enough,” he tells you, still hot from the lists and aching wherever a body may reasonably ache. “A room for you. Hot water. Supper made by someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“And you?”
Duncan blinks.
“You look as though a horse sat on you.”
“It near did.”
You laugh, bright and mean enough to make the whole fall worthwhile. “To the inn, then?”
Duncan nods. The gladness of it loosens something in him. For a little while the night before recedes beneath coin in his palm, your laughter and the promise of clean sheets. He forgets to be afraid of what you may remember. The camp comes down swiftly. Bedrolls tied, sacks loaded, tack checked twice. Soon Acorn Hall is behind you, and the nearest lodging lies ahead with a roof, a hot meal and water heated by someone else’s fire.
It proves worth every bruise. Supper comes hot and plentiful: thick stew with onions cooked soft in it, bread still tender at the middle, cheese that has not spent a week sweating inside a saddlebag. You eat with such pleasure Duncan begins to suspect he has been starving you without knowing it.
Ale follows. Only two cups each, though yours seems to empty faster whenever he looks away.
The common room is crowded with men from the lists and folk eager to tell them where they went wrong. Duncan limbers gradually in the candlelight. Warmth gets into his shoulder and takes some of the ache from it. Ale does the same for the rest of him. He leans back on the bench, one arm stretched along the wall, and listens while you recount his fall with increasing cruelty.
“You sat there blinking,” you say. “Like an ox struck between the eyes with a turnip.”
“It were a lance.”
“The expression was the same.”
“You ran towards me,” he points out.
“To see whether you were dead,” you reply with your mouth full.
“Ye looked worried.”
There's a smirk. “I was deciding what to do with the horses.”
Duncan laughs into his cup. You smile over yours fully, pleased with yourself.
The talk turns to the other riders. The knight with the green plume who lost it on the first pass and spent the rest of the day looking somehow less noble without it. The squire who ran the wrong lance to his master and had to chase after him the length of the lists. Ser Martyn comes up only once, when you note that fine wool did not help him keep his seat. Duncan finds that funnier than he ought.
He watches you eat while pretending not to. Your mouth closes round bread, works slowly, then shines again when you take a drink. Candlelight catches on the damp lower lip. It is a very pretty mouth. Duncan would much like it nearer.
Near enough to learn whether you remember. Near enough to ask what you meant. Near enough to put his own against it and make a great fool of himself in some new way.
Yet the knight he is has paid for two chambers, and soon there will be a wall between you. A sound decision. An honourable one. He resents it bitterly.
Mayhaps somewhere along the road ahead he will find courage for a different sort of danger. The foolish surge that takes him when swords are drawn and some smaller man needs defending must live in him somewhere when steel is put away. It ought not be harder to ask a woman whether she wants him than to ride at another man with a lance levelled at his chest.
It is, though. Swords make plain what is required.
At the top of the stairs your doors stand opposite one another. Duncan stops before his. You stop before yours. Neither of you reaches for the latch.
His cheeks have colour in them from ale and the heat below. Damp has curled the hair at his temples, darkened it there with salt. He looks softer after food. Less like a knight carved for carrying blows and more like the boyish part of him has risen close to the skin.
You could tell him: Come bathe with me. Come to my bed. Lean down and let me kiss that sweet mouth. Call me a good girl while you do it.
His eyes remain on yours. Waiting, perhaps. Or only being large and sincere in the manner that has ruined your life.
“Sleep well, Dunk,” you say.
“And you.”
Then he disappears behind his door.
You enter your own chamber, shut it harder than necessary and throw yourself face-first onto the bed. The mattress gives beneath you in one blessed softness. You seize the pillow and bite into it until your teeth meet feather through linen.
It has always been unbearable. Somehow tonight has made it worse.
He had watched your mouth at supper. You know he had. His eyes kept dropping there with all the furtive dignity of a dog pretending it has no interest in the meat laid before it. Still, he has gone into a separate room like he was fleeing plague. You turn your face into the pillow and groan.
Misery aside, your stomach is full of something that is neither burnt venison nor bread hard enough to injure. There is hot water waiting down the corridor, and a bed that does not contain roots, stones or one enormous knight pretending not to dream beside you.
You rise and begin sorting through your things for what you need. Clean shift. Cloth for drying. The little pot of soap bought three villages ago and guarded more fiercely than coin. Your comb is missing.
You empty the bag again, though it has not grown another pocket since the first search. Nothing. Only folded linen, stockings, a ribbon and the small collection of useless treasures Duncan has allowed you to acquire along the road.
He must have packed it with his things while loading the horses. You cross the passage and knock at his door. No answer.
The bath chambers lie in the inn's bowels. He has likely gone there directly, too sore and tired to linger. You wait another moment, then lift the latch.
His room resembles yours, only larger by virtue of having less strewn across it. His sack sits open at the foot of the bed. You kneel and search without guilt. The comb is yours. You have not invented its disappearance merely to enter his place, however much your heart behaves as though you have.
The comb lies tucked inside the fold of one of his spare shirts, caught there when he sorted your belongings from his. “There you are—”
The door creaks open behind you. You turn, and it might as well be a lance taking you square in the chest.
Duncan stands in the doorway practically naked.
A length of damp linen is knotted low round his hips, the cloth darkened where it clings. Your eyes go there first. To the slant of him. To the deep-cut lines running from either side of his belly into the wrap, narrowing your sight towards the heavy shape beneath it. Even softened by bathing, even hidden, he is large like the rest of him. The linen gives enough away to make imagination useless and appetite vicious.
Then the whole of him arrives. No more shoulder glimpsed and stolen. No more calf, wrist, thigh, brief strip of belly gone as soon as you noticed it. He stands complete beneath the candlelight, sheened with steam from crown to bare feet, and every scrap you have gathered over months proves a poor accounting.
His shoulders look excessive without cloth to excuse them. Broad enough to crowd the doorway, rounded richly at their ends, built less like anything honed for display than something made to lift, bear and shelter.
The chest itself is softer than armour ever permits you to imagine. Full. Warm-looking. Hair thickens over the centre and thins towards his nipples, both drawn tight from the cooling air. A bruise from the lists blooms under one collarbone, wine-dark at its middle and yellowing round the edge. Another stains his ribs where the lance caught him badly. They ought to spoil the sight. Instead they make your mouth ache with the urge to tend and taste. You want to put your lips to every discoloured place and see whether tenderness might be pressed into him through skin.
Below, his stomach has none of the hard, starved leanness of carved warriors. It is strong and soft together, abundant enough to invite a cheek, a palm, teeth. The muscles sit under flesh rather than announcing themselves, shifting when he breathes. Water has caught in the shallow cup of his navel. A darker line of hair begins beneath it and travels down, straight and indecent, disappearing under the linen precisely where your gaze has already disgraced itself.
His thighs show below the cloth, enormous and furred, bruised along one side where he struck the earth. They make his waist seem narrower and the towel more precarious. His knees are scraped. His shins marked by old little injuries, some pale, some newly scabbed. Then his feet—long, broad, bare against the boards, toes reddened from hot water. Even those affect you. The naked ordinary weight of them. The fact that all this impossible male beauty still ends in wet footprints.
Steam follows him faintly into the chamber. Candlelight catches it and turns the damp over his skin to gold. His hair lies darker and flattened over his brow. One drop travels the long line of his throat, settles briefly in that beloved gutter at its base, then breaks loose and goes into the vellus hairs.
Your body answers so brutally you near sway where you kneel. Your mouth dries. Lower down, everything does the opposite. It gathers between your legs with a crude, immediate pull, so fierce that for one humiliating moment you think he must be able to see it happening through your clothes. Your fingers tighten round the comb. Your heart strikes hard.
He is beautiful in a way that seems almost biased. Too much man arranged into one body. Near caricature in his largeness, had every piece of him not been put together with such unfair harmony. A body made for work and violence, yet lush enough to make violence against it feel unthinkable. Inviting enough that restraint begins to seem like a personal failing.
You have spent so long making him from scraps. Building the rest beneath shirt and mail, fitting guessed flesh between the parts chance allowed you to see. The true Duncan is larger. Softer. Wetter. Infinitely worse.
He stops with one hand still on the latch. You remain kneeling beside his open sack, comb caught in your fist, staring so openly that even his usual blindness cannot mistake it for anything else.
"M-m'lady," he stammers. Fists the linen at his waist. “Found what ye wanted?”
“Aye,” you breathe. You set the comb down on the floor, rise and take a few steps that you try to keep steady, though blood pulses in your head so loudly the wood beneath your feet feels soft. When you reach him, you push the door closed. Duncan stands still. With your head bowed, for another look might kill you, you mutter, “Have you cleaned yourself proper?”
He sucks in a wet gasp. “What’s that meant to mean?”
"All of yourself?"
"A-aye," he says.
“May I check?”
“You—” Colour rises from his chest into his face. “Yer teasin’ me again.”
You shake your head. "No," you say. “I have not been teasing you for months.”
He turns to you fully. You turn with him, and now there is nowhere for either of you to look but straight at the other.
This close, with almost all of him bare, Duncan is intimidating. Not through any threat in him. Purely scale. His chest fills your sight. The linen hangs low enough that one careless movement might finish what your imagination has begun.
His arms drop to his sides. Both hands close into fists, then open again. He catches his lower lip between his teeth.
“Ye’ve—” He swallows. “Ye’ve had ale.”
“Duncan.” You hold his gaze. “I had the thought sober.”
A sound leaves him, low in his chest, as though he is bracing beneath weight. The muscles there jump. Your gums itch with the urge to bite them.
“What…” He clears his throat. “How d’ye mean to check?”
The answer had seemed simple in every imagining. In those, you were shameless and eloquent. You told him exactly where you meant to put your hands, your mouth, your nose. You made him understand the whole gluttonous scale of you.
Now he stands over you half-naked and waiting, and you feel small enough to fit beneath one of his palms. Worse, you fear that saying it aloud will make the want sound strange even to him.
“I want to…” Your voice belongs to some blushing virgin with no relation to you. “I want to touch you.”
Duncan’s breathing changes. “And?”
You look down. “And smell you.”
His face goes blank for a heartbeat. One of his hands twitches near the linen. “What should I do?” he asks.
You lift your eyes. “You would let me?”
Duncan exhales hard through his nose. “Girl,” he says, rough and helpless, “there ain’t much I wouldn’t let ye do to me.”
Your brows pull together. So you were right: beneath all the retreating and honour and maddening silence, he wants you. He is standing here and giving you leave, and the largeness of that kindness is wounding.
You take his hand. Duncan follows when you lead him farther into the room. At the bedside you stop and reach for the linen, then look up.
His eyes widen. He understands. His fingers come over yours, shaking badly enough that the knot takes him two tries. When it loosens, the cloth slips from his hips and falls in a damp heap round his feet.
You keep your eyes on his face. “Lie down,” you tell him.
He obeys.
The bed seems built for some lesser man. Duncan takes its whole breadth, shoulders near touching either side, and when he stretches out his heels pass the frame. The mattress sinks under him and lifts in small ridges round his weight.
Only then do you let yourself look. His cock lies half-hard against his belly, thick already, flushed darker towards the head. Beautiful enough that your first instinct is to bow straight over it and put your face there. You resist. Barely. You have waited too long to frighten him now.
You climb onto the bed and settle astride his hips. Duncan groans. His pelvis lifts beneath you in one blunt twitch, then drops back into the lumpy wool. His hands rise and hover beside your thighs, lost for somewhere proper to go. You catch one wrist and bring his hand to your face.
“Beg pardon,” he mutters. “I’ve never—” The rest folds under his embarrassment.
“That makes me glad,” you say.
It is not a kind admission. The thought of him beneath another woman turns your stomach so sharply you could drown in the bile of it. Some other mouth learning him first. Some other hands leaving their knowledge where you wish to be the only one.
You soften your hold. “I won’t hurt you,” you say. “And when you want me to stop, I will. You need only tell me.”
Duncan blinks up at you. His chest expands more heavily beneath your knees. “Aye,” he says. “Though I can’t see myself wanting ye to stop, girl. Oh—”
You press your nose into the hollow of his palm and draw in one long breath.
Gods.
Your eyes close.
Lavender clings faintly from the bath, clean and floral over the skin, but it has not taken him away. Beneath it remains the bittersweet warmth you know from his cloak: body's cloying, living rot, bread, the softened trace of ale and that dark, rich earthiness that belongs to him alone.
You nose lower. The scent thins over his wrist, where skin lies close to bone, then deepens again along the seam of his forearm. Your mouth falls open without thought. You follow with your face, breathing him in from wrist to elbow while the hair there grazes your lips. Duncan’s fingers flex beside your cheek.
At the bend of his arm you stop. Cradle the elbow in both hands. The hollow there smells warmer, private in some small way, and you sniff until his whole arm trembles under your grip.
“Lift them,” you murmur.
His arms are too long to lie straight above him without striking the headboard, so Duncan bends them and crosses his wrists over his head. The posture opens him terribly. Chest spread. Ribs bare. Every soft, hidden place given over.
You lean down and bury your face beneath his arm. A sound nearly escapes you. A stupid, girlish squeal.
“Oh, Seven fu—”
Duncan bites the curse off. His cock thickens hard beneath you, pressing up between your legs. Gods, he will fill you so snugly. Perhaps too snugly. Perhaps he might damage you a little, and by his hand you think you would take it gladly.
The hair beneath his arm is softer than you expected, damp still and curling against your cheek. You press deeper into the warm cup there, where the hard edge of his breast rises towards the shoulder and the thicker muscle of his back draws down behind it. The hollow held between them fits your nose as if his body had made the place in advance.
Bathing oils have hardly reached here. This is Duncan entire. Clean sweat beginning again under heat. Malt. Yeasted sweetness of his skin and beneath it the dark thing, fertile as black soil split open by a spade. Your lips brush the hair. Your mouth waters.
Duncan writhes under you. His crossed hands tighten round one another above his head. You chuckle low against him. “If you want me to stop, you’ve got to tell me.”
“No,” he says quickly. “By the gods, don’t—”
Your tongue slips out. You lick slowly through the armpit, following the deep crease between chest and shoulder.
Duncan whimpers.
You hum. The taste and scent climb straight into your head, dense and bodily and so male it seems to strike some old starving piece of you awake.
He smells like fucking.
You could never swallow such a mass of man whole. But Gods help you, Seven Hells take you, you want all of him.
It takes effort to tear yourself away. Even then you only climb higher, following the length of him to the side of his throat. The difficulty there is keeping your teeth out of him. His pulse beats plainly beneath the skin, quick and strong and made to tempt worse creatures than you. You nip him instead. Barely. Enough to feel a jump under your mouth.
He makes a strangled sound. His arms come down from over his head, hands finding your waist and stopping there as if they require further leave. You breathe him in once more at the place below his ear, then drag yourself higher until your face rests over his.
Nose beside nose. Cheek against cheek. Your mouth hovering near his, too close for either of you to pretend this is some innocent examination.
Duncan has gone deep red. Heat shines over his brow. Sweat has begun again over his chest despite the bath, and the knowledge that you have drawn it from him sends a pleased little shiver through you.
“You smell like life itself,” you tell him, drunk on it. “I love living with you. I wish it never had to end.”
He whispers your name. Shaky and brittle, as if it has grown too delicate for the size of him.
The sound emboldens you. “Call me darling,” you say. “Call me sweetheart.” Your nose brushes his when you shift closer. “When we’re alone, call me a… good girl. So much ails me when you don’t.”
“Sweetheart,” Duncan whispers. His hands tighten round your middle. “Gods, girl. What're ye doing to me?”
You smile against his lip's corner. “Checking.”
“And?”
“I’ve barely begun.”
Duncan believes you. His cock gives such a hard throb that shame ought to follow, but somehow it does not. He is awash in something else. Naught like this has ever been done to him.
He has been looked at and touched on occasion with gratitude, rage or pity. Hands have clapped his shoulder, swatted his head, gripped his arm and tried to tell him there were good things waiting somewhere beyond the bad ones presently happening. He has one stolen kiss in his ledger, and it was not Duncan who did the pilfering. An innkeeper’s daughter caught him in the stables and stood on a stool to reach. He touched himself to the memory more than once afterwards, because the feeling of somebody’s palms against his chest and a tongue inside his mouth had outclassed a full belly and a sound night’s sleep together.
What happens now is beyond accounting. There is a girl atop him. A good girl. His favourite girl. He is naked and thick between the thighs, while you smell him and hum over what you find as though every private part of him is worth discovering. He feels cherished. The knowledge swells so painfully in his chest that he wants to kiss you only to make certain you know you are cherished too.
His head tips towards yours. He finds your mouth and gives it one small, shy peck. Your lips taste of breath and faintly of him already.
Gods, Duncan is so swollen with it. He knows where the cock ought to go for relief, at least in principle, but you remain fully dressed and look far more composed than he feels. So he only presses his pursed mouth to yours again and stays there, uncertain of what comes next.
Your hand frames his jaw. “Like this,” you tell him. A little squeeze of his cheek. “Open.”
So he opens. The same tongue that licked him where he carries the sweat of road and work slides inside his mouth. Duncan grips you so hard his fingers lose their purchase on flesh and only stretch the cloth round your waist.
The first touch of your tongue is soft. Softer than he remembers a mouth having any right to be. It glides over his with a warm, wet pressure and retreats by a fraction, then returns as if testing whether he will follow. He does, though poorly at first. The movement feels too intimate to be so small when your tongue rubs his in the dark of his own mouth, tasting where nobody else can see.
It makes him feel sweetly filthy. You have had your face buried beneath his arm and now you kiss him with that same tongue. He can taste the lavender from his bath, the ale lingering on your breath. His jaw loosens. Your mouth opens wider over his, and Duncan has the dizzy thought that he is being let inside while still lying helpless beneath you.
The feeling begins round his lips and spreads viciously. Heat runs through his jaw, into his throat, then pours down his chest so swiftly he near mistakes it for fear. His belly draws tight. Even his feet answer with their toes curling and a tingling so sharp and absurd he would laugh if your mouth were not busy stealing the breath needed for it.
He had thought kissing belonged chiefly to the face. No one warned him the whole body could be kissed through one mouth.
He is still reeling from it when you begin to slide lower. Your hands go first, travelling his shoulders and chest as though guiding the rest of you down. Nose follows. Mouth after. Each part of you seems unwilling to leave him untouched.
At his chest, you stop. Duncan looks down through heavy lids and finds you nosing through the hair there. Then your tongue comes out and circles one nipple.
The feeling is stranger than it ought to be. Small, wet, almost ticklish at first, until your mouth closes round him and teeth take a broad bite of flesh with the nipple caught at the middle. You hum terribly, pleased deep in your throat. His back rises clean off the mattress.
“Ah—gods—fuck—”
Pain turns sweet before he knows which name to give it. His hands clutch at the bedding. His cock kicks against his belly, hard enough now that the pull in his balls borders on hurt. Then you kiss the place you bit, soft and damp, soothing him with the same lips that made him arch.
He barely settles before you move lower. You drag yourself down and Duncan twitches beneath every breath. At his navel you press your face there, wedging the tip of your nose into the little hollow and breathing him in.
A broken laugh jumps out of him. “Girl, what—”
Your tongue slips into it. The words die.
You lick the hollow once, then again, slow enough to make his stomach ripple. Duncan stares down at you, dazed. Nobody has ever paid mind to that bit of him. Nobody has ever made it feel like anything. Yet your tongue works inside the small fold of flesh and makes ardour spread in his groin.
“Sweetheart,” he gasps. “Seven save me.”
You only sigh. Your breasts press between his thighs as you lower yourself farther. Even through your clothes he feels the soft weight of them nudging close to his sack, and his balls draw tighter still. He spreads his legs without thinking. Makes room. Gives you everything.
His mouth stays open. Tongue resting stupidly against his lower lip in case you decide to climb back and take it again. You seem to have no such notion.
Duncan thinks he cannot breathe any harder, but then you reach there. Oh, right there, where he is his most shameful self. Where blood gathers and betrays him. Where every decent thought has failed since you first climbed atop him.
Your face comes down over his cock with cheek pressing him flat to his belly, firm enough that the pressure wrings a gasp from him. For one wild moment he thinks you mean to milk him so, squeeze the spending out through weight alone.
He is nearly gone when you lift away. Cool air touches the place your body had warmed. Duncan makes a low, miserable sound and looks down.
You are watching him from beneath siren lids, his cock standing between your face and his stomach. “Turn over,” you tell him.
Duncan stares.
"Onto your belly."
He's bewildered first, but eager always. Turning proves less graceful than he wishes it to be. He shifts around you, near kicks your head, then catches one knee in the bedding and has to adjust his hips twice so that his cock does not get painfully crushed. His arms go bent to pillow his head and his face rests turned towards you still. So he can watch, even if only with the corner of his eye.
"Is that what folk do?" he asks, surprising himself with how small he sounds.
"I do not know," you say, "but this is what I wish to do to you."
Duncan trusts you. And so, he lets you.
You've got some gluttonous mouth on you tonight. How you've stopped yourself from swallowing his cock eludes you, but now, with him offered like that, you feel you inner cheeks dampening at the sight. He's equally gorgeous front and back. There is a long shallow road of his spine cutting him in half, and each part works tremendously hard under the skin. Across one shoulder blade lay thin pearl strokes of scars, and a rounder mark ornates his ribs. Bruises you mean to kiss later. You anoint each vertebrae with your palm, down past the narrowest part of his waist to where his back gives itself over to the heavy rise of his arse.
Fuck.
There, you must kiss him there. Smell him, taste him, make him know the force of your adoring. Two great, full halves made for gripping, biting, resting your face upon. When you touch him, the flesh shifts under your hands. You spread your fingers over each buttock, warm and thick and far more yielding than his shoulders. Then, it is as though a boulder has been placed on your back, because there is nowhere else to go but down. You place one cheek on his.
He gasps softly, like he's been braced for another sort of impact. There, you stay a moment, listening to his breathing and feeling the warmth of him seep into your face. Soon, your nose begins to guide you again. You press it to the base of his spine, and breathe. Under your chin, he splits himself like a plum.
Warmer here, and darker too. Sweeter where his body has lain against itself in the bed. You nose lower, nudging into the deep line between his buttocks until Duncan's thighs tense under you.
"Girl," he groans.
He's not that green. He's got ears and has been around men, and men sing of such things when there is drink in them. He has heard of the three-fingered Alice and all the uses she found for herself, along with a dozen cruder tales told by those who claimed knowledge they likely never possessed. It does not astonish him that pleasure may live in a cryptic place. But hearing about a finger put into some nameless man in a tavern is one thing. Lying naked while you move towards his arse is another.
You kiss one cheek. Then the other. Slow presses, each followed by the little drag of your nose on the skin downy with fuzz. He goes taut beneath your mouth. Your answering thing is to laugh quietly, put your hands round him and settle your thumbs on either side of the cleft. You part him only slightly.
It is the most intimate sight of a man. Vulnerable and tender, and Duncan specifically is pinker there, hidden and soft. The small puckered place at the centre of him tightens under your gaze as though even that part knows it is being perceived. You stroke one thumb beside it. "May I kiss you here?" you ask.
He shifts suddenly. Props himself on elbows, shoulders bunching, and cranes his head back as far as his neck permits. Hair hangs into his eyes. His face is all flushed from throat to brow.
"Do ye truly mean to?" he whispers.
"I have not checked there yet," you tell him.
He stares at you over the great length of his own body. You can see the fear in him, but no disdain. More wonder than either. The same stunned disbelief he wore when you told him there was little you did not want. His eyes drop briefly to your hands holding him open. Then, he swallows. "Aye," he husks, rough and quiet. "Check there too."
The leave sends you under. Your nose comes to the deep groove where the cleft draws tight over the little knob of bone. Skin stretches smooth there with a thin satin lustre to it. You press further in. Sound goes. Heft of his buttocks closes warm over your ears. Your cheeks are caught between them, cradled and squeezed soft by muscle and flesh, and for a blink the world beyond him extincts.
Subterranean dim swells behind your eyes so you fold them shut. Here, everything gets severed. Cloak and throat yield lesser versions; this belongs to the chamber of him that anatomy itself keeps barred, and he had to spread himself and let you trespass. A terribly alive animal. A glossy, inward tang of the inside of a person held one thin membrane away. You imagine it living beneath the pelt before the body is opened. It all reaches you deeper than gut resides, as brine warmed into musk.
He smells like a man on the brink of becoming meat.
The intimacy of it turns prurient in your blood. Your teeth ache. Your mouth floods. Your skull fills with blood that stumbles darkly through the veins at your temples.
You breathe again. The whole of you leans towards the forbidden territory. You want to split him wider. Put your mouth to the most secret place on him and stay until he carries the shape of your lips there. Make him helpless, ashamed and adored together, made to understand that no hidden part of him can escape your yearning.
So you kiss him. Open-mouthed. Moaning. Not nearly gently enough to pass for devotion, though devotion is exactly what has debased you.
“Seven fucks—oh gods,” he gasps. It is the quietest thunder ever laid on him.
Your mouth scarcely moves, yet the touch strikes through the tight ring of him and runs white along his spine. All of Duncan argues with itself. His arse closes hard round your face. The movement seems only to trap you nearer. His hips read from the mattress, forcing himself deeper into the heat he has half a mind to flee. His elbows dig down. Shoulders knot. Belly hangs taut beneath him. Between his thighs, his cock swings heavy and weeps for you, untouched, depraved, wholly begging to be noticed.
Touch me. Take me. Keep going.
Your hand answers. It slips under his stomach and closes round the root.
Duncan gasps out: "Ah—good—good girl—"
The words have grooved themselves into him already. He heard what you asked. All Duncan wishes now is to please you, though pleasure currently has him half-scalded and half-drowned.
Then, everything stills. Your lips stay against him. Your fist keeps him full and hard inside it. A clear bead of spend swells at the slit, drawing long, then making its way to slip between your fingers.
He hears you swallow and feels the movement close enough that the shape of the question touches him. "Was that for me?"
He groans into his folded arms.
"Dunk."
“Aye,” he says, and realises his eyes are wet. His thighs quiver wide around you.
Your grip tenses once. Another pearl pushes from him and slides hot over your thumb. "Say it proper," you tell him.
"My—" Breath bottles him in the throat. He tries again. "My good girl," he whispers. Louder: "Gods, my good girl. Please, sweetheart I—" Another gasp. "I beg ye—"
And so your mouth settles back to its work. At the same time, your fist begins to travel. Root to crown, slow enough that he feels each ridge of himself drag through your hand. Your thumb passes beneath the head and presses into the tender notch there. Duncan's sight jumps. The blow lands inside his skull though your hand holds him far below it, and his toes rake furrows into the sheets. He's confused between thrusting into your palm and bearing back towards your face.
Then your tongue spreads bold across his hole. His flesh seizes round it. It grips, releases, grips, each panic tightening him harder. You lick over the ring of muscle once, and circle it with the tip until his hips begin making witless little thrusts into the air.
"Fuck," he mouths into his arm. Tormented in all his sensitive spots, and glad to be. "Girl—"
But you don't listen. Only go lower. You draw down the cleft and reach the seam of his sack. One slow lick follows it, then another. The weight of him settles on your chin, full and pulled tight, while the point of your tongue gauges the delicate skin along the centre. Duncan near leaves his body.
A thin cry comes out of him. His thighs spread farther. Belly's burning, knees keep sliding, opening room for your face until the strain catches him in the pelvis. He welcomes the ache, and anything that lets you stay there.
You keep stroking. The long pull upward gathers him tight; the descent twists with your wrist turning around the length as though you mean to wring every drop out of him by patience. He slickens in your palm so much that the next pass makes a lurid sound beneath his stomach.
And then, you're climbing up again. Same route, same feral mouth. What changes is one hand seizing his arse cheek and dragging it aside. His flesh stretches, air touches the wet place you have licked, followed at once by the hotness of breath. Duncan braces.
"Oh—" he gasps. Small enough to belong to someone three times lesser than him.
Your tongue presses on his hole. It holds firm around the blunt point. You push, ease, push again. Each small pressure sends a queer fullness into him, at first sharp, then warming, then deeper than the place itself has any right to reach. There's another hum, low and pleased, as if he were delectable. The sound enters ahead of your tongue and rolls through his belly. Goes swelling inside Duncan's chest and spreads through him with the loose, splendid confusion akin to the sweetest wine. His elbows soften, and face sinks deeper into the sheets until cloth cradles his mouth and cheek. The hips remain raised, bent over just as you have asked of them, with his back kinked and arse offered squarely to you.
The muscle yields little by little, when at last your tongue slips inside.
"Oh—oh gods—"
The breach feels small and enormous together. A wet nudge coaxing through where he's tightest, then curling past it, licking the tender inside of him in short little brushes. His cock leaps in your fist. You work him through it, pulling him away from his stomach, twisting round the crown, and dragging back down.
"Fuck—girl—" Duncan grits.
His arse closes round you, trying to hold what has entered, and the clench makes you more vicious on his girth. He shakes between both grips, while you invite yourself farther and farther. He's being opened gently, and when you retreat, he pulses around the emptiness.
Had he known the world kept a girl who would do this to him, he would have boxed his own ears bloody for every mile spent doubting you. If he had known a mouth could make shame feel cherished, he would have begged you sooner. You let him keep his body through the split, too—he's being tongue-fucked in his hole, hand-fucked on his cock, spread wide like a common whore and he feels most man he's ever felt.
All of this yielding makes him sob. Everywhere has gone wet. Sweat runs from his hair down his temples. Spit shines at the corner of his mouth. His cock weeps clear all over your fingers. Behind him, you mouth keeps him slick and gaping, until it feels as though every secret place in him has begun to cry. And Duncan doesn't know he's simply coming, because this rapture is unlike any he has delivered himself by the strain of calloused fist in the dark.
It begins in his throat, of all places. A hot thickness pours down him as if some healer has tipped a cup of balm straight into his open mouth. It slips behind the breastbone, coats the ribs, fills his belly, and when it reaches the root of his cock every muscle in Duncan bears down at once. His sack pulls tight. Then it gives.
The first pulse knocks a shout from him. The next sends his seed over your fist, thick and hot, and every closing of your fingers drags another measure after it. It coats your palm, slips between your knuckles, runs down the underside of him and onto his thighs. Duncan feels every spill leave its own path. Feels himself emptied in great, blunt throbs while your tongue keeps the most tender part of him beloved.
“Sweetheart—my good girl—oh gods—” His voice breaks louder than the room can take. “Keep—please, keep—”
He has lost the strength for quieter remorse. Cries leave him rawer, farther gone. Your hand eases him through another hard pulse, then another, until the pleasure seems to exceed the body meant to contain it. By the end of it he's so completely besotted with you, some kinder world reaches through the walls and takes him whole. For several breaths Duncan belongs there instead: soft, milked empty, held steadfast by you, with every foolish doubt burnt clean out of him.
His body steams itself spent. The locked places loosen one by one. Shoulders sag. Thighs shake themselves weak. His hips drop heavily onto the mattress, and the wet he has spilled presses warm between skin and bedding. “Oh gods,” he mumbles. “Oh gods. Girl—”
He never feels your hand leave him. He scarcely understands that you have moved until your weight comes travelling up the length of his back and settles there, a small warm ballast pressing him deeper into the bed. Your chin finds the crook of his shoulder. Breath touches the sweat-damp skin beside his ear. “You’re the most beautiful thing,” you whisper.
By the Seven, he is. To have such mass felled by your doings, to be let in and trusted so openly fills you with such bliss you could kiss him bloody for it. You nose at his cheek. You're ready to rest like this, pillowed by his body, when Duncan moves. He turns slowly until you slide off him. Keeps turning so that he can face you. You cannot look into his glassy eyes for long, because he closes them and claims your mouth. It seems he means to kiss you bloody too, because his teeth work at your lower lip and tongue with eagerness that is new. He must be able to taste himself on you, surely. He acts as though this is the exciting part.
Then, he stops with his nose pressed next to yours. "What is with you, girl?" he asks.
"Very little," you tell him. "Did you like it?"
He huffs a strangled laugh. "Aye." Looks at you long and slightly unsure. "Will ye—" he starts. Swallows. "Will ye let me do the same to ye? I want to—"
"Yes." There's relief in it. Not only he let you. Not only he did not flinch from your oddity. He means to match you for hunger. "Anything you want," you say.
“Anything?” Duncan asks. “Now?”
You stare at him.
He nods, shy only in the eyes, and takes your mouth again. One hand closes round your breast through the shift, vast enough to fill itself with you. His thumb catches your nipple, fumbles past it, then returns with sudden purpose. The other grips your hip and drags you flush against the heat of him. “What has got into you?” you ask, laughing into his mouth.
“So much ails me, my good girl. So much—” He kisses the rest from your lips, then follows your jaw towards the throat. “And yer the only one that can help me.”
You know the state all too well. So you tell him simply: “Undress me.”
contents (nsfw): Dunk x fem!Reader, Modern AU friends to lovers rom-com with pregnancy. Angst (but they talk), pregnant sex, light punishment, light fem-dom, hair pulling, angst somewhat resolved.
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MASTERLIST
next chapter -> (17/07)
synopsis: In which they reconcile. (Pregnancy status: 29 weeks, enter III trimester).
word count: 11,2K
a/n: Banner by me, dividers by @strangergraphics, proofread by @hextoken!
The week has been on the nightmarish side. Heatwave seems to disregard the natural order of seasons and has settled hard and sure on the first days of September. It only adds to the maladies. Where the second trimester had been kind to you, your body has caught up on all the missed opportunities to make you miserable. Now that your belly has made itself particularly prominent overnight, the symptoms have become proportional to its expansion. Duncan has told you the boy rivals a butternut squash, and you are suffering exactly the butternut squash-sized problems.
You have to pee somewhere between fifty and two hundred times a day. Food has become an enemy again. It doesn't smell quite as foul as it did during the first weeks, but every meal is a gamble between the baby accepting an offering and an hour-long session of doomscrolling while you are trapped, constipated, in the bathroom. You get headaches. Backaches, terrible ones, where your lower spine feels like a crushed can and pulses dully through day and night with no option to stretch it in embryo pose, because something that used to be an embryo is now in the way of folding yourself. Then leg cramps. Breathlessness, and a ridiculous one, too. It comes when you have to do so much as get up. The heat causes the already swollen joints to become larger, to the point of you being unable to leave the house because no shoe will host your enormous feet. Once, your stomach went rock-hard and uncomfortably tight in the spot above the belly button and the whole of your pelvis felt exactly like it used to on your period. You wanted to call Duncan, desperately. But the school year has started and he has been busier the last few days, and besides, you are quietly upset with him. So you called the doctor instead, only to hear that this shite is called Braxton Hicks contractions, and that it is normal and a sign of your body preparing for labour. To you it is unfathomable that there are at least ten more weeks until the nightmare that is labour, and you are already being bullied like that.
There are nicer things, too. They make you sadder, somehow, because it feels like every day there is something new and different, and when he is not there to witness it, it is as if you are making it up. Your nameless son moves a lot. He loves singing, you have learned. He stretches his baby limbs and your skin with them, and to think there is a foot or a hand below that roundness is still unimaginable and feels like a miracle. The proof of that lives in your body in the form of red glistening tear lines of stretch marks, and you try your best not to hate them. They have to be there, you tell yourself, and practice being the opposite of your mother, who would sometimes pull her shirt up and show you what you had done to her stomach and breasts.
Then, heartburn. At first it comes and goes, until it settles into something ever-present. Whether you eat or not, the acrid feeling below the throat is there, and you begin to wonder if it is not just some part of the soul aching, because you have been given a thing and then the very same thing has been ripped away from you a second later.
He said I love you. He said it once, cowardly, to the bump. And it might have been just for the baby, not you, but even to hear him form the sentence left you woefully clear on the fact that you would want one for yourself. It made you feel like you could tell him your side of things. That you think so too, genuinely. That he makes you happy and safe and oh, he doesn't even meet you halfway, just comes to your side and seems comfortable in there. That it feels right to have him beside you, inside you, and generally near, and the only wrongness sprouts when, for whatever reason, he is absent.
The other I love yous hurt significantly more. He had to be gone from his body to say them. They came out of him wrung, accidental, and for one second they did some violent little mending in you. Sutures in the split. Thread through the place where duty and want had been left to rot together for months. Then he came to, saw what his own mouth had done, and pulled them out again with shaking hands.
You are no fool. There is a part of you, reasonable and sick with itself, that knows. From the way he watches you move through a room, from the singing, from the key to his flat pressed on you secretly and under the guise of convenience, from every careful hand at your back and every grocery bag. Some lesser animal part of you knows too, which has made the denial feel worse. His fear has become indistinguishable from mistrust. You hope, fiercely, that at least one old stupidity has died between then and now: his conviction that you are built for ladders, always reaching for some brighter rung, and the darker thought trailing it—that your life ought to contain somebody better than him. That would be the sort of irony that brings people to their tragic ends in novels and films. To spend all this time wanting him while he mistakes the wanting for proof that you ought to choose elsewhere.
After all this, after all the body and blood shared though, he still looked at what was between you and flinched first. So your withdrawal came before pride or strategy or any clean decision. Skin closing over a burn. Hand pulled from heat. You went where pain told you to go, which was a little away from him.
In the bathroom that evening, you took your sweet time crying it out. Afterwards you slept with your back to him. His hand came over the belly first tentative, then heavy once he lost consciousness properly. Morning was well-acted by both parties and stiff all the same. You survived tea and the drive and the dry kiss near your cheek, then sighed with deep relief when you could shut the car door and lock yourself inside your own apartment.
You have told no one—too humiliating. You know some of what you think is unreasonable, pregnant nonsense, brain rot from heat and hormones and too many hours alone with mirrors, but knowing has done very little. You have got fat. Ugly too, by punishing mathematics of the bathroom light. What had been cute and rounder has turned enormous, and it has not even reached the full cruelty of its shape yet. Skin has changed colour in odd places. Your nipples, your inner thighs, the line running down from your navel. You look at yourself and feel translated badly. Woman into vessel. Lover into obstacle.
The after comes for you then, not as a thought but as a sentence handed down. You will give birth. Afterwards your body will remain changed. Your stomach will not flatten by itself, cunt will be strange to you for a while at least, no matter how diligently the physio promises salvation through breathing exercises and expensive little squeezes. There will be blood and milk and too much skin, too much laundry, too much need. Too much of everything to manage alone.
And it looks, hideously, as if alone is the most honest word for it. Alone with a mock-up husband who knows how to stand in the father-shaped space and goes pale whenever the rest of the house asks for him.
Even your want has changed. It used to be cleverer than this, more flattering than this. Now it is a gaping feeling, and shamefully domestic. You are horny for being held too long. For fingers in the arches of your feet. For someone making toast, then soup, then cutting fruit because the first two suddenly seem disgusting. For a voice saying you are pretty with enough conviction behind it that you might pretend to believe it for ten minutes. You miss him so badly it turns sour in you. Him from before that night. Unhinged, a little. Bashful after. Always looking as if desire had knocked a cupboard over inside him and he was hoping you had not heard.
You have learned, lately, that some things live better unsaid. Speech puts them under lights. Silence lets them keep breeding in the walls, and for months you had been feeding yourself on that hidden movement. Hope in the plaster. Now the wall has been opened and there is nothing mystical in it, only wiring and a small creature gone frantic in the dark. The hunger left behind is enormous. It hollows you down to the bone and still asks for more.
Everything seems to be an enemy today, even your own bed. It's much too warm. You lie on top of the duvet, trying to survive the heat and other things, when you notice your phone lighting up on the bedside table. Duncan's calling, and not for the first time. You seem to have missed three rings and a bunch of texts. Then, he calls again, so you pick up.
"Christ, there ye are." He sounds distressed. "Hi—I. Are you alright? I've been callin' ye—"
"Hi. Yeah, um, I'm just—sorry. Sorry, it's so hot I've barely done anything. Didn't notice."
He huffs. "Lassie, don't ye do that to me. You got me worried sick. The app said—"
"Dunk, spare me," you whine. "I'm barely moving. It's fucking suffocating and everything feels like it's having a go at me, I don't need you to join in."
For three seconds there's dead silence. Then, quiet: "I only meant—" A swallow. "I only meant to check in, lass. There's a warning to not go outside and I jus'—I haven't seen you in days."
You consider this gravely. Yes, it's been six days of texts and short phone calls. Which one of you has decided that it would be so, you've no idea. "I thought you'd be busy with the school starting," you say. "Didn't want to add to it."
"Sweetheart—" Duncan breathes, and you cringe on your end of the line. "You ain't addin' to nothing. If anything, yer missing. I will, uh… Can I come see ye? Can I, um. Bring ye something? Do ye need anything?"
He sounds so earnest it almost offends you. There's plenty that comes to mind. Yes, please, ice pack. Or an ice bucket. Peanut butter and peaches, or no, actually just cold water. Frozen watermelon. Fish fingers. Aloe Vera. Anything that has cold in the description. Or no, actually—bring me yourself, and ready to treat me like a wife, not just to be a dad.
Tears start coming, involuntary and hot like everything else today, and you try to hold back a sniffle but fail. "N-no," you stammer. "I'm… I'm fine. You c-can come if you want, but I don't want anythin'—"
His breath hitches in the speaker. "Baby—" he coos. "Talk to me, lassie. Please, I want to help."
You cover your eyes with one hand. Beyond cross with yourself too, because what is this downpour. It's like watching your own hand setting fire to something, but the hand doesn't feel yours. You persist.
"I don't need anything," you say, hearing yourself sounding like a three year old. It's a terrible lie. You know it, and Duncan most likely knows it too because he stays silent. "But you can come over," you add by the design of weakness, and hear him breathing out a laboured breath.
"Aye," he says. "Aye, I'll be there soon. And if you change yer mind text me, all right? I'll pop to the shops."
"Okay," you say. Then, you hang up before making an even bigger idiot out of yourself.
Duncan feels like he's been weighted with bags full of iron. He feels so guilty. He knows damn well what he's done, but it's troublesome to imagine the way you sound has anything to do with it. He's been pondering that stray I love you, or rather, the entire army of them, ever since they left his mouth. They were true when he said them, and that is the rancid part. He could've been mad with grief and desperate rutting misery, but none of that put falsehood on his tongue. Only a gate got loosened, and the words had simply been waiting behind it with their little caps in hand.
He’s thought back to that first night more than would be reasonable. Back when you spoke as though joy and love were spectacles made for other people, and all you had been allotted was the looking. Duncan found that unbearably sad. He wants to give it all to you. Because he does fucking love you. But feeling so and saying so are different kinds of beasts. He thinks of you all the time, especially when he finds a hair tie on his sink or a receipt gone soft in his pocket from whatever shite you craved and then hated by the time he brought it over. All ordinary objects get tender to the point of violence. He misses you terribly. Thinks of kissing you and feels his eyes prickle. Of holding you, and he has to stop whatever he is doing for a second. His teeth ache with it.
What he cannot get his head around is the other thing. The pulling back and the cowardice after. Some ancient skin on him went aflame with pins and needles of that same fear that made him shut down after he was almost adopted and then wasn't. It had grown into a well-oiled machine once he began to be a burden to his exes who gradually withdrew. So he must have seen the sentence and marked it as danger and debt and, plainly, another way to put himself where he might be too much. He just didn't expect it to be the case with you. He had tried to clean it off you while it was still wet. Spare you, he'd thought, give you room and choice. Instead he had left you with the worst version of him: a man who says the thing and then snatches it away before you can decide what to do with it.
You came back from the bathroom that evening with red eyes and slept with your back to him the whole night. Then he drove you home the next day and there was only a dry kiss on the cheek. And nothing solid. You said you'd see him later and later is now and in the time between then and later Dunk feels like it's been long years.
He'd managed to sort Egg out, somehow. After dropping you off he had picked Daeron to text, of all people, asking how things were. Daeron only sent him a picture of Egg in the arcade on the pier and then himself with a Diet Coke, and Duncan had thought, bitterly, that it proved naught, for all he knew there could've been booze in that bottle anyway. He decided to not spoil another good thing and left it as it was, texting Daeron a thumbs-up.
On Monday Daeron brought Egg to school before one of the last summer games and Duncan had to spend a very awkward three-quarters of an hour with him while they both waited for Egg outside the counsellor's office. She only came in because Duncan had asked her, but, thankfully, made no fuss about it.
To this day Duncan has no idea what was said in the room, but Egg came out seeming a few stones lighter on the soul. When Daeron left, Egg had told Duncan that Duncan had been promoted to Egg's first contact if anything happened at home and Maekar would be informed thoroughly of the whole timeline of events but was not to talk to Egg about it. It was Aerion and Daeron he'd be instructed to keep in line, so his brothers' lives would become more difficult so that Egg's life could become less difficult. The counsellor would visit Egg's house unannounced to take notes on the progress. All in all, the solution was crude, but seemed possible to work out.
Duncan wanted to tell you about it desperately, but had only brought himself to text you, to which he'd got no reply. He tried again the next day and you texted back with something mild. Then, the school year started in absolute chaos, because kids had been reassigned between classes. The memo somehow missed the parents, so wrong kids kept appearing in wrong rooms. Half of the pupils kept missing P.E. for the first two days while the biology class was running out of desks. Duncan offered to stay after hours to help sort the mess out, and it did two things for him: helped him keep his mind off you, and kept him away from you.
Since then he has only been sending you messages and calling sometimes, but the chats have been stiff. He knows you've seen Rowan once and that Lyonel has reached out, so all that has calculated itself into two days out of your schedule. Then more time has passed, making Duncan even more scared. The distance has grown gaping, and now it's been six days, and even though in the past Dunk would go on without seeing you for a month or even two, those six days feel like his personal failure.
The app has shown him an alert saying that in this kind of heat a pregnant woman nearly thirty weeks in should do her best to avoid the outside. So he's texted again. Called. Called again when you didn't pick up. He's managed to get himself all worried and full of scenarios where you've fainted at the mall, or worse, in your apartment with no one to know of it. Sweat has begun to soak his T-shirt and temples when he finally hears your voice, and Duncan doesn't think he's ever heard you sadder. Not even when you had a cold. Not even that night when he washed your hair for the first time and got himself into your bed by some benevolent miracle. He hasn't had you in his hands for six days and he feels withered with it. He's only smelled your scent on his shirt and hasn't washed it since.
So when you pick up, another guilt layers itself on top of the old one. He feels guilty of neglect. A decision calcifies in him because of that, one that you might hate, but blinded with remorse, Duncan sees no other option. He wraps up school quickly, sees the kids off and runs home to pack a bag. You'll most likely send him off and he tells himself he'll survive it, but before that happens he believes, firmly, in the righteousness of his argument. It is ridiculous to have to worry like this. If the last weeks are going to be difficult, he'd better be there whenever he can.
Then, despite no text coming from you, he stops by the shop and buys a bunch of things that make him look like he's troubleshooting a kindergarten birthday party. Biscuits, Tayto, peanut butter, various kinds of tea, two buckets of ice cream because he does not know if it's better to buy a fruit flavour or a creamy one.
He drives to you with all that makes him culpable drilling his chest, then shows up on your doorstep with approximately four bags. You open the door and Duncan gets hit with what woe looks like personified.
You are in one of his T-shirts, one of the monstrous ones that hangs too large even on him. On you it makes a tent of itself, mercifully away from the skin, though the collar has gone dark with sweat and sticks a little at the throat. Your hair has been gathered into something that used to be a bun before it got intimate with the pillow. Bare feet. Damp forehead. Neck glistening. Lashes clumped at the corners as if even blinking has become labour. You look so tormented he nearly drops one of the bags.
Then he sees the belly.
Duncan wishes, with immediate, turbulent ferocity, that he had missed it. Somehow it has grown, or shifted forward, or announced itself in a new way while he was away being a coward. A person meets someone after a while and notices their hair longer, their face thinner, some small betrayal of time. This is worse. You and the boy have crossed some border together and left Duncan standing on the wrong side of it. Six days. Christ. Six days, and the two of you have entered the next thing without him.
It's a knee-jerk to step in and reach for you. He puts the bags down, swings the door shut with his foot, and then his arms grow long and he has them around you, but before he gets to actually hold anything, your palms meet his chest. And push.
"No, don't," you say, making him wonder if one can bleed out from internal haemorrhage. "Sorry, I just—it's so hot. It's too bloody hot."
"A-aye," Dunk says. "Course."
You prop yourself by your sides and either to avoid his gaze or simply to get some conversation started, your eyes follow the bags he's trying to conspicuously stuff in the kitchen. "I told you I didn't need anything," you say.
"I know, I jus'—" he starts. Sorts things respectfully into the freezer, the fridge, and onto the counter. "It's all just in case."
There's a nod. Then, your foot nudges his gym bag. "What about this one?"
“That one’s mine,” he says.
Your eyes come back to him. “Yours?”
“Aye. I was thinking.” Duncan scratches at the back of his neck, then stops because his hand is damp. “I thought I might stay. Here. For a bit.”
“For a bit.”
“The last weeks, maybe. When I can. Most nights, if you’d have me.” He looks down at the bag, as if it might finish the sentence in a more sensible voice. “This… this is not good, lass. Ye being like this alone. I think it’s proper I’m close by. Reasonable.”
You roll your eyes. Properly, too. Tired and hot and fed up with him, and it is the first clean anger he has had from you in months. Horribly, some low part of him stirs at it. There you are, sharp and alive with him, and he is still enough of a bastard to feel it in his blood.
“Okay,” you say.
Duncan blinks. “Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Unless ye don’t want me here.”
“Dunk, you can do whatever you want.” Your hand goes to the collar of the T-shirt and pulls it away from your skin. “It’s your baby. Sure, you can stay if that gives you peace of mind.”
“Sweetheart, but I—”
“Please don’t sweetheart me,” you say quietly. “You can stay. It’s very kind of you. I can manage though, I am fine. I just don’t like the heat, that’s all.”
Duncan stands there with fingernails cutting into the meat of his palms. “What can ye manage?”
You look at him. Shrug. “Whatever I have to.”
For a second he cannot find a single answer fit to live outside his mouth, so he just stands there, stunned.
He has to tell you, he realises. No matter how much it will warp him in your eyes and how pitiful it could make him seem, he must tell you that there was no one in his life to teach him how to love people and not lose oneself in the process. But to do this, he needs to put on the skin of someone braver.
His feet bring him closer to you. When there's no flinching, Duncan takes both your hands and rolls them into fists. You're just looking at him, unsure. Then, he beats one fist against his chest. "Do ye need a punching bag?" he asks. "If you don't want help. Or anything to eat. What do ye need?"
You stare him in the eye with all the repulse of someone who's just got reluctantly perceived. "Don't do this," you tell him. "I don't want to hit you."
"All right," Duncan says. "Then come with me."
When you don't move an inch he takes your shoulders and starts guiding you to the bathroom. "What's happening now?" you ask.
"Yer taking a shower to cool off," he says.
"I don't want to take a shower," you huff and dig your heels into the floor so hard he almost tips you over.
"Girl, don't—" Duncan grunts. "Stop misbehavin'."
"Misbehaving? I think fatherhood has gone to your head a little, huh?"
"N-no, I just—" He sighs. "Ugh, why don't ye want to shower now? I thought ye were too hot."
"I am."
"So?"
Nothing. Just an insolent stare.
Duncan looks you over, trying to figure out a reason. Then, it dawns on him. “Do ye not want to be in there alone?”
The stare changes flavour. Still angry, still hot with it, but suddenly spoiled by shame. Your mouth tightens and your eyes go somewhere past his shoulder.
Duncan feels it in his own stomach. “I’ll come in with ye.”
“God, no.” You push the heel of your hand to your eye. “Fine. I’ll shower. Jesus.”
Then you start marching to the bathroom by yourself, which would be grand if he believed you for even half a second. He follows.
“Dunk,” you say without turning. “Go away.”
“No.”
You stop at the sink and look at him through the mirror. He has never found it so difficult to stand his ground. Women are scary, first of all. You especially, when bothered and barefoot. Second, he would sooner put his head through the bathroom cabinet than hurt you more tonight.
“Keep the shirt on,” he says, and reaches past you for the shower knob. “You can change after. This is only to cool ye down. Nothing else.”
The pipes knock in the wall. Water starts hitting the bath with a mean little rattle.
For a moment you say nothing. Your hands hang at your sides, then close badly in the hem of the T-shirt.
“What are you doing?” you ask, when his own shirt ends up halfway up his back. He peels it off and drops it by the laundry basket, then works at his shorts. Gets them to mid-thigh before the look on your face stops him.
“Only down to my underwear,” he says. “Promise.”
“Duncan.”
“Aye. I know.” He swallows. “I’ll keep my hands to myself unless ye ask.”
That seems to make it worse and better in the same breath. Your chin does something small and wounded. He hates most of all that manners have had to come back between you. He kicks the shorts off anyway.
You look away first, which is new and awful. Then you step into the bath, holding the curtain out with one hand and the wall with the other. Duncan is cross about it, but waits until you have both feet planted before he follows.
The first touch of water goes wrong. He reaches for the shower head, gets his thumb half over the spray by accident, and sloshes you across the front of the shirt. You shudder. “Sorry,” he says. “Ye want it warmer?”
“No. This is fine.”
Duncan leans over and turns the knob a fraction warmer.
“I said it’s fine.”
“Yer teeth are locked.”
You huff, but leave him to it. That is almost a victory, in the sodden country the two of you have entered. He draws the curtain with one hand and keeps the shower head angled down with the other. “Hold on to me,” he says.
Your hands move strangely in the wet air. Awkward, hovering, as if his body has become something requiring permission slips and sensible supervision. Duncan feels a tiny spark of temper. He puts the shower head back on its handle, takes both your wrists and sets your palms against his sides.
“Here’s fine,” he says. “Don’t act on me like I’m a stranger all of a sudden.”
You give him a terrifying look. “Look who’s talking.”
He scowls. You do not let go. So he takes the shower head again and starts at your legs, water running over your shins and feet and the floor of the bath. “That all right?”
“Yes. Colder, actually.”
He does as he is told. The next pass goes over your knees, then higher, careful round the hem of the shirt, and when you make no complaint he brings the spray over your stomach. The cotton drinks it greedily. Darkens. Starts clinging where the water weighs it down. Duncan looks very hard at the shower knob and nowhere useful. His face goes hot enough to defeat the whole enterprise. He shoves his glasses up onto his forehead with a thumb.
“Dunk.”
“What?” he says. “I’m only trying to be decent here.”
For a second, through the water and all the wrongness, he thinks your mouth nearly moves into something. Then it is gone.
He wets your chest through the shirt, your shoulders, the back of your neck. “Do ye want your hair washed?”
“No. Just wet it.”
“Aye. All right.”
He shields your forehead with his palm and tips your head back a little. The water goes into the messy knot of your hair and runs behind your ears. You sigh. The grip on his sides loosens by one degree, becoming less a thing you are doing under protest and more a place your hands have decided to stay. He registers it with the pathetic gratitude of a dog allowed on a rug.
When he is done, he jerks his head forward so the glasses drop back onto his nose. Regrets that instantly. You look gorgeous wet. Damp lashes, long and stuck into points. Brows mussed. Mouth soft from heat and water, and glossed over too. You stare at him, waiting.
“Right,” Duncan says. “Hang on.”
He steps out of the bath first, boxers dripping cold down his thighs, then turns back and offers both hands. You take them without looking pleased about it. He holds you while you step over the side, slow and careful, until both feet are on the mat.
“There ye are,” he says, wrapping the towel round your shoulders. “Better?”
Your eyes close. The breath leaves you heavily. “Christ, yes. Better.”
Duncan thinks, with pathetic hope, that maybe you hate him a little less now.
“Wait there,” he says.
He goes out to change into dry things and bring back another of his T-shirts. Then, after a brief and shameful detour into your underwear drawer, dry knickers too. He leaves his gym bag in the bedroom and returns with the clothes folded against his chest. You take them, then glance at him.
He turns round. “I’ve seen ye a million times,” he says to the bathroom door.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to see me today.”
That lands cleanly. Reasonable, even if it wounds him. Duncan nods, though you cannot see it. “All right,” he says.
On the way out he takes the hairbrush from the sink and the cooling lotion from the shelf, then follows you to the bedroom. There, he draws the curtains closed and puts on a fan. You sit on the edge of the bed. Your shoulders sag. He feels like he's the largest, the most awkward cat hunting a fly when he tries to get himself behind you. The whole mattress jerks and wobbles, and you with it, though you do not say a word to him. He takes a strand of your hair and starts brushing.
"Dunk," you mutter. "You don't have to."
"I want to," Duncan says, meaning he wants to do his atonement in service, but if you chose flogging, he'd go with flogging too.
"Fine," you say, defeated.
It's dead silent after that. He's careful with where your hair's so matted he's risking pulling at it. It drips a little onto the sheets. He reaches for a towel and soaks up the excess water. Then he keeps brushing. Slowly, because the heat has made some snarls stubborn and because your silence has a bite to it. He watches the movement of your breathing instead. Small lifts at the ribs, visible through the shirt. Calmer now and less trapped. It gives him something to believe in.
When the brush starts going through cleanly, he parts the hair into three. Behind the curtain of it, you almost scoff. “Are you braiding my hair?”
“Y-yeah.”
“How do you know how to do that?”
“I’ll have ye know about half my students are girls,” Duncan says. Then, lower, as he folds one section over another, “And I had girlfriends too.”
It comes out like he's reporting a previous conviction. He sees your throat move when you swallow. Hears it too.
“You braided their hair and they let you go?” you quip. “Unfathomable.” It sounds like you're trying, with all your might, to stab him some.
His ears go hot. “More like they told me to go.”
The room goes quiet again, but altered. Your hand moves behind you and finds his thigh. Rests there, warm on the border between hem and skin. “Dunk,” you mutter. “I’m... I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says, because that is easier than deciding what kind of sorry you mean.
He finishes the braid and brings it over your shoulder. It sits there thick and damp, darkening the front of the shirt. Then, he gets up and swaps the brush for the lotion. At your feet, he kneels and reaches for one ankle.
You jerk it away. “I’m better now. You really don’t have to do more.”
Duncan catches it back, more annoyed than gentle for one second. “Hush, girl.”
Your eyes sharpen. He starts rubbing the lotion into your foot regardless, thumb moving carefully under the pulpy arch. “Your feet are swollen.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
He groans. Cannot help it. His hand closes round your calf and he looks up at you, long and serious enough that your mouth loses some of its fight. “Listen to me,” he says. “I know I’ve hurt ye, all right?”
“What?” Your face pales. “What do you mean?”
“Stop it, girl.” He rubs at the muscle under his fingers, slow and firm, because if his hands stop he may lose the rest of himself. “I know ye think me dumb, but I ain’t that dumb. I’ll tell ye something. Something I should’ve told ye long ago.” His thumb passes over the knob of your ankle. “With the other thing I just... I need some more time.”
For a second you only stare. Then something in you gives. No sound at first, just your forehead knitting gives away the thread that has snapped in the middle of a normal task. Then the sob comes, wet from the start, and Duncan is up beside you before he remembers standing. You turn into him with one shoulder tucked hard against his chest, clutching at his shirt.
“Where have you been?” you mumble into him, and hit his chest with the side of your fist. “Why did you go for a week?”
“I thought ye didn’t want to see me.” His voice breaks. “I’m so sorry—”
“I didn’t,” you cry. “But you should’ve come anyway.”
Duncan laughs then, horrific and small, and feels his eyes dampening too. “Aye. That’s fair.” His chin wobbles. He holds you tighter and wipes your cheeks with both thumbs, pointlessly, because more tears come straight after. “There ye are, my sweetheart,” he says. “There ye are. I missed ye, you know that? Your belly’s got bigger and I wasn’t here to see it happenin'. I’m sorry.”
He lifts the shirt, gets the lotion on his palm, then spreads it over your stomach with one flat hand. You moan and lean your head into the pillow of his bicep.
“Will ye listen to me while I take care of you, hm?” he asks.
You nod with your eyes closed.
The skin of your belly feels cooler now from the shower, but still slightly too warm underneath. Busy with blood and baby and the labour of being lived in. Duncan rubs in slow passes. You keep your lids shut.
“Ye know how we never talk about our folks much,” he says. To that you squint at him, a little. “I know yours weren’t...” His hand slows. “Kind. The way they ought to’ve been.”
“Duncan,” you murmur.
“Aye.” His fingers drum once on the round of you, then stop. “Mine just. They just weren’t.” You say nothing. That helps more than it should.
"There's a place back home," he says. "Called The Home, mostly. That's what folk called it, anyway. An orphanage for kids like me."
His thumb finds a place where the lotion has not taken and works there. The words come easier when he has a task, though they still come poorly. "I was there until I was eighteen," Dunk says, feeling you inhale under his palm. "It weren't all bad. There were good people. I had um—Arlan. Uncle Arlan. He worked there, then he sort of—well. Looked after me more than he had to. Taught me things. Took me along when he could. Football, mostly. How to hold a drill. How to cook eggs and wash your own underwear, ye know the sort. Useful things."
Your hand comes up and rests over his wrist.
"He was the closest thing I had," Duncan says. "To a father, I mean."
The fan turns its head slowly across the room. The curtains move and settle.
“He wanted to keep me,” he says, quieter. “For a bit. Or I thought he did. Maybe he did. I still don’t know. Things happened. Money. Papers. People changing their mind. Folk always had reasons." His hand stops on your stomach. The boy gives one small movement under his palm. Duncan looks down at it because looking at you might ruin the telling.
"Aye, ye don't need to listen to that. I will never happen to you," Duncan murmurs. He smooths there anyway. "After that, I got strange about being wanted. Got worse when I got older. And then, well. Nobody wanted a grown up lad, so I stayed until I could go to school, and then life just sort of happened."
"Darling," you say.
He shakes his head a little, but leans into the word.
"I ain't telling you all that for pity, sweetheart," Duncan says. "I'm jus' thinkin' you ought to know me a bit better, is all."
When he looks at you, your eyes have gone glassy enough that he can see a warped bit of himself in them. You are not crying, though. He appreciates that fierceness, because his own cheek has gone wet and he has to wipe it with the back of his hand.
You lift your palm before he can finish and cup his face. Your thumb takes the next tear. "Thank you for telling me," you say.
Duncan sniffs. “That’s it?” Then, he snorts.
To see his teeth now is a blessing. It's been so long since you saw them. Wonderful crooked things, milky and large and making him look like a boy who doesn't have all those worries. No, there is more, you want to say. First, there is an overwhelming wave of sympathy in you that you try to not let tip into condolence. Then, kinship. He is careful because this is fragile. He needs more time because this is too large. Despite having a queue of phrases lined up, like telling him anyone who didn't want him was wrong, that all of his exes are wrong, like you ought to be loved, unconditionally, you chose to say nothing. Let him have this without pity and while being seen.
Your knuckles brush his cheek. "That's it," you tell him.
You both cradle each other for a bit. The heat eases off by a few degrees. After a while he turns his mouth into your palm, just briefly, and then tucks you back against him. His hand goes to your lower back and starts moving there. It is the sort of touch that asks for forgiveness by doing an ordinary job well. You let him have it. Your own fingers find the hair above his collar, still damp at the roots, and play there until his shoulders soften and lower.
At some point Duncan clears his throat. “Have ye thought of names?”
You blink against his shirt. “Oh.” Your hand pauses, then starts again. “Some. Have you?”
“Aye," he says. "A few."
He's sweet. Abashed with it. You lift your head enough to look at him. “Are we comparing lists?”
“If ye like.” He rubs the heel of his hand down the sore place near your hip and back up again. “Say one each, maybe.”
You glance down at your belly. “Are we giving him a brand new name?”
Duncan follows your gaze. His hand slows. “I’d like to. If you would.” He swallows. “Feels right, somehow. Let him start with his own.”
You take that in quietly. His own. It does feel right.
“I like Fionn,” you say.
Duncan’s face changes with recognition. “I've got Fionn on my list too.”
“You would.”
“It’s a good name.”
“It is.” You settle more firmly against his side. “What else?”
“Ciarán.”
“Okay, good one too.”
“Rían.”
You try it under your breath. “Rían. That’s sweet.”
“Senan too, maybe.”
“God, you’ve been busy.”
His mouth bends a little. “You?”
“Oisín.”
“Aye. Good. Pretty one.”
“Lorcan.”
“Strong.”
“Tadhg,” you say, and then say it again with a less confident mouth. “Tadhg?”
Duncan gives you a look.
“What?”
“No one outside of this sodden country will know how to say that.”
You pull a face. “Fair.”
A small laugh gets out of him. It comes rough, used poorly, but there are his teeth again. You feel absurdly grateful for them. After a few names you realise all of his have arrived from the same place. Irish, each one. Quietly chosen. You do not say that aloud. It feels too tender to put under lights.
“What’s your favourite?” you ask.
Duncan looks at your belly for a long second. “Aodhán.”
“Aidan?”
“Aye.” His thumb moves once over the side of you. “With Irish spelling.”
“Aodhán,” you say again.
He watches your mouth shape it.
“What does it mean?”
“Little fire,” he says. “Or born of fire. Depends who ye ask.”
You try it again. Aodhán. Aidan Pennytree. “I like it,” you say. "A lot."
“Yeah?”
You nod. “I love it, actually.”
Duncan goes still for the length of one breath. Then his hand starts moving again at your back, very carefully, as if the name has come alive between you. "So," he says. "We've got it?"
"I think so. Yeah," you say. "He deserves a good one like that."
He smiles. Nods. Looks you over and asks, "Would ye sleep some now? Are ye feeling better?"
"Yeah," you tell him. "Would you mind if I did?"
"I wouldn't. I'll get myself busy."
You only sigh to that and fall out of his arms onto the bed. Duncan watches you for a while, up until your breathing deepens and limbs loosen enough to lay unarranged. It's still warm enough that your forehead shines, so he makes a mental note to check in on you every half an hour or so.
He takes a small satchel out of his bag and goes to the baby's room. Aodhán's room. Pulls one of the blankets from the drawer and sits on the floor by the window. It's one of the useful things Arlan has taught him, how to mend a tear or stitch one's name onto a shirt so that everyone knows who it belongs to.
Nothing boastful, just a simple stitch, and a wonky one too, for Duncan doesn't really own a special needle or a proper hoop for embroidery. He pulls the material over his knees and picks out a thread that he hopes is blue and will go well with what he thinks is beige. Hums to himself while he does so.
The first letter comes out too large. Duncan frowns at it, picks the thread out with the tip of the needle, and starts again smaller. He has to slow down for the fada, absurdly careful with the tiny slant of it. The thread knots twice. He bites one loose, mutters at the other, then smooths the blanket and keeps going. There is something decent in putting a name where his own hands can see it. When he is done, the letters sit a little crooked and blue against the pale wool. He rubs his thumb over them once, then folds the blanket and puts it back in the drawer.
In the bedroom, you are still asleep. Or near enough to it. On your side, facing the edge of the mattress, one hand tucked close to your chin. Duncan crouches beside you rather than sit and make the bed lurch again.
Your eyes open heavily. He stays there, caught. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you say back, rough with sleep.
For a moment the two of you only stare at each other. The fan moves air over the room in weak turns. The pillow has pressed a line into your cheek.
“Are ye sad?” he asks.
Your mouth moves before sound comes. “A little.”
Duncan nods. His hand shifts on his knee, then stops. “Do ye want tea?”
You shake your head.
“Tayto?”
Another shake.
“Ice cream?”
There is a pause that gives him hope. Then your lips tuck down and you shake your head again.
He puts his hand on your cheek. Only that. “What do ye want then, girl?” he asks.
Your lips part. Duncan sees the answer arrive there before he hears it. A small working of the mouth with breath gathering. The lower lip catching for one tiny beat, as if the words have to climb over something sore. It is almost no sound when it comes.
“Hold me.”
The room tips a touch. He does not know how a whisper can take hold of a body his size, but it does. It gets deep and pulls him forward. Duncan rises slowly while trying his best for gracefully, too, and climbs over you to the empty side. Then, he lies behind you.
His arm hovers above your stomach, because permissions have to be re-learned. You take his wrist and press his palm to the belly yourself. Then you breathe in, deep, and his hand rises with it. He sets his face close to the back of your head. Wedges his free arm under your neck, but after a minute you swallow loudly and make a small unhappy sound.
“Too hot?” he asks.
“A little,” you say. Your fingers tighten on his hand. “But don’t go.”
“All right.”
So she shifts only to give you air. Frees his arm and props himself on its elbow to lift the braid away from your skin and lay it over the pillow. It brings him close to the place behind your ear. There, you're warm and fragrant. His eyes close, and Duncan pushes his nose in, and sniffs you in deeply.
“Ye smell different,” he says.
"To what?"
"To the usual," Duncan says, forgetting himself some. He splays his fingers on your head and rubs the lobe with his nose. "Usually it's biscuits. With clementines."
You breathe out. Your cheek rises in something he thinks is a smile. "And what is it now?"
"Hmm, yer wearin' my shirt," he hums. Mine. "More manly."
You chuckle, once and dry. It is an unlikely compliment for a girl who smells only of sweet things on her own, but to Duncan it's an improvement. He enjoys it tremendously, this humane way for you to wear his skin on yourself. He opens his mouth against the tendon in your neck and lets the soft inside of it rest there. His breath comes back damp from your skin, hand starts climbing your front by slow possession until the whole arm has your belly banked into it. The hold makes his head go quiet.
With your throat offered and head pressed to the pillow he has you set to him like supper. All the good of you gathered into the crooks of his body, and there is guileless romance to it, for Duncan loves necks. He loves them long and sweaty and corded with what the voice box withholds from light, and he loves the feeling that comes with making a girl's breath hitch. The ingenuous part is holding his son at the same time. It's confusing. He's a father and a man, and a hopeless inept lover that's afraid of the loving part, and finds himself perplexed by the accidental eroticism of servicing. When he cooled you the shirt stuck itself to your tits, water made your nipples harden, and Duncan had to remind himself that his excitement comes with your misery attached. Now you are pliable and balmy next to him and he's doing his best to remember there is misery still. That under his palm there is a baby whose mother is suffering in heatwave, and it better not matter how good her arse feels pressed into his groin.
It matters, though. It would seem that to Duncan salacity lives in the same country as domesticity. That what he finds sexy are things of mundanity and sincerity and he's guilty of corrupting them with the misbehaviour of his blood. Large T-shirts are pretty on you. His ordinary washing powder smells delicious when embellished with your scent. Domesticity makes his balls laden, and before he knows it, Duncan is afflicted with a love-boner making itself known in the meat of your buttocks.
He breathes you in again. His glasses press a dent in your neck. You shoulder lifts and fingers tighten around his wrist.
"Duncan—" you huff. "Too hot."
"Oh." He comes off you, blinking. "Sorry."
His hand reaches to brush some stray strands off your face first while all of him wishes to put his mouth back where it was. Your skin stands bare collarbone to ear. Duncan looks at it for too long, then bends and lays his tongue broad at the base of your throat. Then, he licks.
It draws a wet road on the overheated skin, from clavicle, through the notch, then higher to the below-ear again. Your head tips back, neck lengthening in his hand's shadow and the sound you make has sleep still caught in it. He lifts his face to see what he has done. The stripe is glossy, filthy and medicinal both. Duncan leans and blows over it.
"Oh—"
It hits you cold and exhilarating. For ten seconds the two square inches of you are relieved of burning.
"Dunk—" you moan. Then, your hand finds the jut of his hip and closes there, less tenderly than either of you has been behaving. The grip consists of short, decisive nails and a damp palm and fingers sinking where the bone sits hemmed into meat. It reminds you that he has bones, too. Long, white, breakable things, if the basher is dedicated enough. His breath snags over the wet on your throat as he tries to keep up an act of aiding you, but he's been reduced to a body already. A plain obstruction, thick through fabric, lodges hot against the split of your buttocks and proves that opportunity makes a mockery of kairos.
The conflict begins to present itself as friction in the muscles, and you both get stuck in the inconvenience of arousal. You're too hot and bothered to take him properly, but too unloved to ignore him, so you accept the prospect of getting fucked. He is too liable to ask but too confused between his father-hand and his lover-body sharing the same nervous system, so the hunger wins him over. Your ass presses into the bulge. A groan rattles the hinge of his jaw, then ribs, then causes his cock to give one swollen kick against you.
"Lass," he says, badly.
You grip the hip firmer and press again, which undoes the cooling enterprise somewhat. His mouth opens on your neck and stays open. Hand reaches to cup your forehead with enough pressure to keep your head lolled back. The arrangement ought to feel bossy but arrives instead as relief; your skull, throat, belly, all dreadfully overtaxed, get briefly supervised by a body larger and guiltier and more willing to be blamed.
Another roll comes, meaner and equipped with knowledge from the spine. A small spite within it, innate to a woman who's been lonely for six days and has found, behind her, the exact weight of remorse she prefers. His cock rides up against you, trapped and dense. Duncan makes a sound he's tried to disown in the past and got scolded for it, so now he surrenders the whimper right into your ear.
"Jesus," he breathes. "You're—"
"What?"
You swallow. The tendon under his mouth moves when you do, so his tongue comes out to follow the movement. "Ye want me then?"
"I think it's you who's wanting now," you say, despite the obvious, shameless yes being right there. Right between your legs, where your cunt grows heavy with thickening ache. You go damp, which is less a consequence of temperature and more a signature of desire. It annoys you, how swiftly he can do this. It comforts you too. Both facts occupy the same sore chamber and refuse to take turns.
"Aye, it is," Duncan says. "I always want ye, girl. My gorgeous girl—"
"Don't—" you wince. "Please don't. You can, just—don't talk like this."
"Like what?"
"I don't feel particularly gorgeous," you say as your hips stiffen.
Duncan pulls you back into him. "None of that," he says. "I don't want to hear it. You're the most beautiful girl and I always want ye." His palm slides from your forehead to cover your eyes.
The darkness is immediate and strangely kind. His hand smells of lotion and anything a hand would smell of. Everything he's touched lingers there, soap and metal of the tap, and your thighs. Through it, you hear him breathing behind you, disciplined to the point of pain. His cock seems harder for being denied, and when he angles your hips just so, his teeth close, softly, on the air behind your neck.
"Ye can be cross with me," Dunk says. "But not rude to yourself."
"Can I?" you ask. "Be cross with you?"
"Aye," Duncan says. "Are ye?"
You nod under his hand. It travels through Duncan with a low, almost formal finality, as if someone has stamped him guilty and handed the papers back across the desk. His free arm comes alive with alarming efficiency, abandoning the gentleness for something merely adjacent, while the gentleness waits for its name to be called again. He performs the work in hurry—hooks the waistband, tugs the cotton from the crease where it had sealed itself into skin. It all bares you arduously, with fabric rolling and elastic digging into flesh. His knuckles scrape at the top of your leg, hasty to learn how much of your anger has made itself liquid.
Fingers come. Checking. Inspecting. How cross, then. Door-in-his-face cross. Make-him-stand-there-and-take-it cross. Kneel-and-beg-for-forgiveness cross. He parts you, slides the pads through the slicked seam and comes away with answer shining on him.
The kind that has been sitting alone in bed for six days becoming cunt-wet and bitter and ashamed of its own appetite.
"Good," he says. Then winces into the back of your neck, stricken by his own wickedness. The smallest tremor shakes his thighs. He gives himself one more touch of you anyway. The roughness of his finger-pads drags over swollen skin, making your arse push itself out, eager. Eyelids flutter under the hollow of his hand. He lets you know it's been felt by losing a sweet little sound.
Then, he is gone. For one second, only vacancy. Your body, which has morphed itself into grievance, furnace and complaint, contracts round it furiously. Behind you cloth is being fought with, fabric rustles, his hip shifts under your grip. There is fumbling and an irritated sound on his breath. Finally, he returns, bare, and you are met with the head of his cock pressing between your legs. "I mean—" He swallows. "Show me then."
Your laugh comes out nearly soundless. Mean little thing. Hurt little thing.
So you show him. Take him in one determined swallow, pushing back despite the burn sparking through your womb. All of those months of him being ready for everything and glad of anything have roused a part of you that yearns to crush him, a little. Make him come too soon. Humiliate him a bit. Play in this depth, too vast for sweetness to keep its pretty face on.
It seems to empty him of speech. His hand clamps harder over your eyes. Cock slides home too fast for the tenderness he usually worships. Too full and sudden, together forming a gorgeous insult to a body already overrun. The ache pleases you with such violence that you nearly hate him for providing it.
“Ah—fuck,” Duncan chokes. The word breaks in two places. “Girl, Christ—”
You drive your claws into his hip.
His whole body jerks, held in place by the wound of your nails. There is a strange satisfaction in finding him breakable. In locating bone and hair and the mortal seam within him. Cowards, you think with a cruelty that has love’s fingerprints all over it, should be robbed of dignity. Pointed to their place. Made useful under accusation.
“Stay there,” you tell him.
"Aye," he groans. “Aye, sweetheart.”
“Don’t move.”
Another sound, lower. “Aye.”
Then his hand comes between your legs, and he obeys you by disobeying the rest of himself. Three fingers, crude and flat, take the whole wet mess of you at once: clit, lips, the slick place where his cock has disappeared and stretched you open. He rubs with a bluntness that ought to be offensive but somehow becomes thrilling. You clamp your thighs together and trap him there while he keeps working, and reach behind yourself seeking his hair. Your fist closes. Tugs.
Duncan hisses. It has pleasure and pain mingling, because he's been given the exact sentence he wants. He keeps himself buried while you use him by stubborn pressure. Have him spread you with each backward rut, expand cruelly against tissue made tender by warmth and pregnancy. Grace is unavailable, so your body invents another virtue: persistence. You move against his hand and cock and the slab of his thigh behind yours, taking what can be taken sideways, half-blind and sweating. He fits the raw place as well as he fits the intact ones. Acts as if anything you do could actually hurt him. As if some hair pulling and scratching can maul any part of his great body. Through the sealed darkness he becomes enormous and reduced: parts of him only—mouth, fingers and cock—all organised around endurance.
“More,” he grunts into your ear. Rolls his hips upward until he's deeper. Has you near bursting at the seams, that one, with how heavy and full of effort it feels.
"More of what?" you breathe.
His mouth drags along your neck, proving that the cooling game has been long since corrupted into selfish licking only. "Be mean to me," he says. "I can take it."
"Duncan—"
"I can." A breath. Then, right into your ear: "Sweetheart, I want to take it."
That almost gets under the anger and ruins its structure. He tends to do that to you—there is only so much of the pissed off energy in you until something that's an integral part of him comes to dampen the fire of vexation and stokes one of a different kind. It can be him pouting over something no grown man should pout over. The way he makes owning eyes into an art. The way his biceps fill out the sleeves of a T-shirt. And simply because he turns owning up to one's mistakes into something exciting. No matter if it's worth penalty or not, to your how to do you plead? Duncan would always say guilty, because it's not punishment at all if it's delivered by your loving hand.
You rut back, forcing his cock past the tender resistance so the head of him can rub where your body has gone overfull and foreign, and desperate too, though you'd rather not admit it. His fingers stay crass and jerky but it's the exact friction you need. A millstone turning in the pelvis until everything in you is meal. It's kind of him too—making a service of the same body that fled the words when they arrived too alive and bare to survive daylight.
"Fuck me harder," you say.
The grip over your eyes tightens until no light threads between his knuckles. Your fist answers that with a cruel twist. There's refusal in him still, the penitent. He only lets his hips quiver and gasps softly into your neck. Then, he gives you the first proper thrust, upward and inward, enough to have your neck try to wrench itself on its hinges and oh, thank God he's there to hold you.
"Like that," you tell him. Then tell him again, with hands, when his muscles waver with indecision. He seems to understand, or merely comply, because another thrust comes. Then another. Harder, because you've asked and better because he already knows all angles. He decompresses into the idea of anger being a permitted contact and that despite it, you don't want him away. It needs impact, a thing to burn through and out, and the more Duncan gets it, the more his care degrades into thirst.
He lets himself limber up. Finds a way, somehow, to carry cowardice and bravery on either of his shoulders, and absorbs the ire until it dims. It gives him a place to exist. While you fuck yourself on his brutish cock he tries to convey through hands what he can't by mouth.
That it is complicated, but he's not going anywhere. That if you trust him, he will break his neck over trying to be more valorous.
While he thinks, vigorously, all those promises, his palm loosens around your eyes. Cradles your temple instead. Your movement begins to flow less barbed, and he finds a caveat he can endure. He wraps an arm round your shoulders and holds them, and lets the fingers between your legs go at you softer. In his hair the grip sweetens until you're brushing through the roots and scratching his scalp. Duncan moans at that. "Yes," he says. "Christ, ye feel good, lassie. Ye are so pretty."
You smile. There is a shift of appetites. You start choosing pleasure over rebuke. Tenderness returns, changed and earned, with a limp in it. He fucks you and you fuck him back, and the lame reciprocity of it seems to settle him where finer assurances failed. His hips come up; yours come down and back. The arm banding your throat stays careful while the rest of him grows less so, and the fingers between your thighs are made clever by confinement. Your thighs have his wrist imprisoned and Duncan appears grateful for the inconvenience.
“How are ye?” he asks, voice torn small against your neck.
Your answer takes effort. “Close.”
That reaches him badly. His mouth moves to your ear. “Me too,” he breathes. “Will ye come with me?”
You only have a nod for him, but it's enough. By the end, it's purely him that nudges you off the ledge. His grunts, his breath, his chest, broad and safe, despite the thing inside it being so skittish. It's an orgasm by necessity. It comes as compulsion more than bliss, and when you lock your thighs together so hard his knuckles crack, Duncan surrenders to drowning in his own reprieve. He moans and chokes a little into your cheek. Buries himself deep and keeps jerking at whatever you are wrenching out of him. Worry, maybe. Or doubts, you hope. With whatever thing attached it comes, it feels good to be full of his warmth again. A new default, and you realise you've been angry about that being gone, too.
After a couple of laboured inhales, he starts shifting. Frees you from the yoke and makes space between his chest and your back. Air gets in there and due to everything getting so hot, it feels cooling on the damp cotton of your T-shirt.
"Don't go," you say, holding his thigh.
Duncan is quiet for a long moment. Then he readjusts: his hand returns to your stomach and fingers start combing through the hair gone damp and stray at your forehead. His nose finds its place in your neck again. He nuzzles there, then sniffs. “Are ye less cross?”
You consider it properly. “A little.”
Against your ear, his mouth quirks. His fingers slide lower to play over your face, and you tip your head sideways. Duncan leans forward a notch until the two of you can look each other in the eye.
He says nothing. Only brings his hand up and traces your mouth with his forefinger and the third, catches the corners, tugs them upward. When he lets go, your mouth drops back into its serious crescent.
“I can live in it, I think,” Duncan says. “Ye cross with me and ye want me here, aye? That’s how it’s done in here?”
You nod. “Yes.” Your hand comes to his cheek. “You’ll be cross with me too sometimes, and I won’t go either.”
“All right,” Duncan says.
He kisses your forehead, then lies back down behind you. His hand rubs over your belly and he begins to soften, inside and out. He grows heavier too, and stretches himself along the bed until your feet rest on his shins.
When you fall asleep, it's all inconclusive. Nearer to mercy than forgiveness, but more useful than either. The baby turns under your skin, slow and secretive, and Duncan's fingers spread over him, unconscious. The heartburn remains, awfully familiar, though for the first time all week it has to share the body with something larger.
whats that kink called that you get from reading too much fantasy lit as a child that makes you want to be tortured in front of someone who loves you so you can see the pleading desperation in their eyes and hear how much they love you in between the cracks of their voice and really truly believe they would do anything to save you. also you get to look so cool and brave and covered in blood and soooo able to withstand pain haha no just me? ok
contents (nsfw): Dunk x fem!Reader, Modern AU friends to lovers rom-com with pregnancy. Humour, some actual angst not just a smidge, mentions of child abuse (Egg), crying, pregnant sex (very desperate one), cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, crying during sex, ends angsty but will somewhat resolve in the next chapter.
<- previous chapter
MASTERLIST
next chapter -> (10/07)
synopsis: In which Dunk has a terrible day. (Pregnancy status: 25-28 weeks, II trimester).
word count: 10,6K
a/n: Banner by me, dividers by @strangergraphics, proofread by @hextoken! Winner Flow is a whistle used to train a breathing technique for labour that prevents tearing. I'm taking this moment of lucidity to update, tbh antibiotics take me out for full 4h blocks of naps so if I don't respond to something right away forgive me [*] I'll be back once my gut doesn't try to kill me :v
Duncan has no idea how to explain. There is no logic to it beyond the school rules, which state very clearly that a child may leave the grounds on their own and unsupervised, whether by bus, by bike or on foot, so long as their parent is informed. Then, with the same dull confidence, the rules state that a child cannot be released into the care of an adult if any of the teachers suspect that adult to be under the influence.
This had seemed perfectly sensible to him in staff training. Plain, even. He had sat through the safeguarding slides with his big knees wedged under a table too small for him, nodding along while a woman from the council talked about thresholds and procedures and duty of care. He had understood it then as something clean and written down.
Now Daeron is standing by the low wall near the school gates, one hand on the wet stone, asking him why his brother can walk home alone in the pouring rain but cannot walk home with him.
“Go on, then,” he says. The words drag slightly through the side of his mouth. “Explain it t'me."
Duncan keeps his fingers twisted into the strap of the equipment bag.
Daeron sniffs. His eyes are too bright. He has a damp, blown-open look on him like he walked too quickly from somewhere warm. “Why can’t we jus’ say he’s gone on his own, yeah? An’ I’ve happened t’meet him on the way.” His tongue catches on the middle of it. He swallows. “Tha’s all, isn't it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Dunk says.
Daeron blinks at him, then laughs once. “Afraid.”
The rain has been worrying at them for twenty minutes. It is the sort that looks thin from a distance and soaks everything through anyway. The summer training had finished late because Finn from 2B had skinned his knee and three other children had gathered round him with the interest of people witnessing a public execution. By the time Duncan got them packed up, the pitch had turned slick and the bags along the wall had begun to darken at the seams.
Most of the children had been taken away in the usual disorder. Egg had stayed sitting on the bench under the small roof by the changing rooms, and Dunk felt something was wrong then. He sat to wait with Egg and asked, multiple times, if Egg would like a lift, to which Egg had said no. Multiple times. It turned out that Daeron was supposed to pick Egg up and they were supposed to go to arcade on the pier.
Egg said it lightly, but Duncan heard the shape underneath it and stayed where he was. He went round collecting bibs and cones, then took too long putting them into the storage bag. He wiped down a ball, checked the lost property crate, locked the equipment shed, unlocked it again because he had left the whistle inside, then came back out and found Egg still on the bench with his feet tucked under it.
The rain came heavier. Duncan offered again. Egg refused again. This time the refusal had a hard shine on it.
“He said he’d come,” Egg said.
“I’m sure he did.”
Egg looked out towards the gate. Duncan did too.
Daeron arrived fifteen minutes later, though arrived might be too generous a word for it. He came through the main gate with his hood half off and his jacket open. His foot went on the loose stones by the driveway and slipped out from under him. For a second he seemed gone. His arms opened, his body tilted, and then some old drunken luck took over.
“Good!” Daeron called out, breathless. “All good.”
Egg stood. The hope went out of him so fast Duncan nearly looked away. Daeron came closer, smiling through the rain. “There he is,” he said. “C’mon, then. Pier’s waitin’.”
Egg looked at Duncan. Duncan stepped forward. “Daeron,” he said quietly. “Can I have a word?”
Daeron’s smile stayed where it was, though the rest of his face shifted beneath it. “Have one.”
“Over here.”
“I can hear ye fine.”
“I’d rather speak over here.”
Daeron stared at him, then made a loose little gesture with one hand. “Jesus. All right. Very official.”
Duncan moved a few steps away from Egg. Daeron followed, and the smell of drink came with him, sharp under the rain. “Have you been drinking?” Duncan asked.
Daeron’s face sank. The charm thinned, then the offence came through. “Ah, don’ start.”
“I’m askin'.”
“I know wha’ you’re askin’.”
“How much?”
“Had a pint.”
Now Daeron is looking away towards the road. His jaw works. Duncan just waits.
“Fine,” Daeron says. “More’n a pint. What of it? I’m walkin’, aren’t I? D’you see a car? There’s no car.”
“I can’t let him go with you.”
Daeron goes very still. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s m’brother.”
“I know.”
“I look after him.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.” Daeron points at him, but the hand does not hold steady. “You don’t know anythin’.”
Duncan takes that because there is nothing useful to do with it.
Daeron looks past him. “Egg. Come here.”
“No,” Duncan says.
Daeron’s head turns back to him. “No?”
“I need him to wait there.”
“You need him.”
“Daeron.”
“He can go home on his own, can’t he?” Daeron says. His voice lifts, then smears lower again. “Tha’s what he said. He told me. He can leave by himself if we say so. He can walk out tha’ gate on his own two feet in the pissin’ rain, but he can’t walk beside me.”
“It’s the policy.”
“The policy.”
“Aye.”
“The policy says he’s grand alone and in danger wi’ me.”
Duncan feels Egg behind him, too quiet under the shelter, and it gets to him. Egg has stood in mud all afternoon shouting himself hoarse over football, and now he has become careful as glass.
“I can call someone,” Duncan says.
Daeron laughs, ugly with hurt. “Listen t’you.”
“Someone Egg says is all right.”
Daeron steps closer. “Don’t you fuckin’ do that.”
Duncan lowers his voice. “I’m trying to help.”
“No, you’re tryin’ t’make me look like a cunt in front of him!”
“You’re drunk.”
“I had a bad day!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry at me.” Daeron wipes at his mouth. Wet hair clings at his temple. “Don’t stand there bein’ sorry like that fixes anythin’.”
Duncan glances back. Egg is watching them. His bag hangs from one hand. The rain has darkened the shoulders of his top. He looks younger than he did on the pitch, and at the same time far older than he should.
“Egg,” Duncan says. “Go inside for a minute.”
“I’m fine.”
“Please.”
Egg looks at Daeron. Daeron looks back at him, and for a moment something passes between them that Duncan has no part in. A whole life of this, maybe. A whole set of bargains and repairs and promises made in kitchens, on pavements, outside places where other children get collected by adults who arrive steady on their feet.
Then Egg turns and goes back towards the changing rooms. Daeron watches him go. The drink loosens his face in the wrong places. Shame comes up through it, raw and plain. He presses his fingers hard into his eyes and breathes out through his nose.
“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry, all right?”
Duncan says nothing.
“I’m late. I know I’m late. I shouldn’t’ve had anythin’. I know tha’. I do know tha’.”
“I can call someone.”
“No.”
“Daeron—”
“No.” His hand drops.
“I can’t release him to you.”
“Stop sayin’ release.” Daeron’s voice cracks on it. He swallows hard. “He’s no’ a parcel.”
Duncan feels the words hit and cannot move them out of the way. “I know.”
“You don’t.”
“I know he isn’t.”
“Then don’t talk like tha’.”
“Aye, all right.”
Rain keeps falling, and Daeron breathes through his mouth as if he is trying to pull himself back into his own body by force. “I’m safe,” he says.
Duncan looks at him.
“I am.” His voice goes rougher. “I’m safe wi’ him.”
“I can’t make that call today.”
Daeron gives a short, broken laugh. “You jus’ did.”
Duncan’s hand tightens on the strap of the bag. He has a sudden, sick thought that this might be where something breaks. Between Daeron and Egg. Between Egg and him.
Daeron follows his glance towards Egg and shuts his eyes. “Come on,” he says.
Duncan says nothing.
Daeron opens his eyes. The anger is still there, but it has gone thin. What is left beneath it is worse to stand in front of. “C’mon,” he says. “Come the fuck on, don’ ruin the kid’s afternoon. Summer’s almos’ over.”
And once again, Duncan says, “I’m sorry.” He’s truly sorry.
That's when it all goes bloody sideways. Egg comes back out, impatient. Daeron sways on his heels and pulls out his phone. Squints at it and presses the button.
"I'll ring then," he says, and pointedly puts the whole thing on speaker so Duncan, presumably, can be humiliated by one of Maekar's tormented sighs. The signal cuts into someone appearing on the receiving end, and Daeron slurs, “Father. The oaf of a, uh—” He turns to Dunk, eyes working hard to arrange him into profession. “What are you anyway? A coach? Games-man? One of those whistle fellows?”
"P.E. teacher," Duncan grumbles.
Daeron snorts. "Right, right." He licks his lips and goes back to the phone. Practically shoves it into his mouth when speaking. “The oaf of a P.E. teacher is refusing to give up your son because he… he has taken, mm, personal offence at the look of me—”
Dunk's ears are fuming. "That ain't the reason, you—"
Daeron puts his hand up. "Shh, shh, shh, big boy. Adults are—are solving the issue you've caused." He straightens his neck as if Maekar could see him, and clears his throat. What comes next is the most schooled, lordly little chant that turns Dunk's gut over. "I am afraid you need to collect Aegon yourself," Daeron says, "as he won't be given to me. Just make sure you are freshly bathed and in clean clothes, for the bouncer seems to measure the ability to escort by their personal hygiene."
"You insolent—"
“You are either very drunk, or you have us saved by our surname, which is somehow worse,” comes an amused voice from the speaker. “Or perhaps you’re simply an idiot. Hard to know with you.”
Not Maekar's. Aerion's.
“Lucky for you, I have a spare moment. Oh, and Daeron,” Aerion says, and it sounds like he’s smirking. “I’ll make sure Father knows you can’t manage a task as mundane as collecting a child from school for peasants. Wait for me,” he orders, and hangs up.
"Fuck," Egg gasps.
Duncan frowns at him. “Oi, you mustn’t,” he says, pointing a finger at Egg’s large forehead. Egg only pouts and frowns back in what is most likely supposed to look intimidating. It pains Duncan all the same to be looked at like that.
“Alright, change of plan.” Daeron clasps his palms together. “Look, professor—Mr, uh… Pennytree. Let Aegon come with me and we’ll save ourselves a little scene here. Come on.”
Duncan scratches the back of his head. "I've told ye already. I'm sorry, I can't—"
"Dunk!" Egg protests. Daeron looks flabbergasted by a child calling their teacher by the first name.
"Egg, I'm sorry. I can't," Duncan pleas, ignoring Daeron entirely. "I can't, you know this. I can't let you go with a drunk caretaker, I can't—"
"Dunk, Dunk, Dunk, listen, listen, listen," Daeron says, coming at Duncan with his hands spread wide. Then, he sets them on Dunk's shoulders. "Aerion will be sober but he's demonic. Can you give a child to someone who's purely evil no matter their state?"
"I… I cannot let him go with you. Call your father then. But I—"
"Duncan." Daeron gathers Duncan's shirt between his fingers. "Please," he whispers.
"I could lose my job," Duncan says, growing annoyed.
"I will find you a new job."
“I don’t want a new job!” Duncan snaps. He shrugs Daeron off. “Why do ye think you can be drunk and get away with everything? Why can’t you be a better brother to him?” He points at Egg, furious. “Why do you send him to school with cuts on his head and a bruise on his arm, ye think we’re blind here? From what I’ve gathered, he’s the best man your family has, and ye treat him like—”
“Mr Pennytree!” Egg yells. Squeaks, more like, in his little child voice, and it strikes Duncan enough, but what strikes him more is his last name being used. He looks at the boy whose eyes are large and wet and whose mouth is set tightly, bottom lip wrinkling. The rain stops abruptly, like someone has turned the shower head off.
“Enough,” Egg says, being brave and not crying at all. “We will wait for Aerion.”
"Egg—" Dunk crumbles. "Egg, I'm sorry."
Egg ignores him and goes to sit on the wet bench, legs dangling above the ground, face set hard towards the pavement. Duncan takes one step after him, then another, but Daeron only shakes his head.
"No use," Daeron tells him. "He'll come 'round."
Duncan huffs, frowns, and decides to just stand there with his hands in his pockets. He knows Aerion coming will not improve matters, but does not realise how severely the matters will not be improved.
The second son arrives on a motorbike so loud the birds startle three streets down, and Dunk near groans at the sky. The helmet comes off. Aerion swaggers towards them as if there is a log-like weight dragging between his legs, his face so smug and rotten with conceit that leaves go brown on the nearby tree and fall onto the pavement.
Egg, despite currently holding him in disdain, rises from the bench and hides behind Duncan’s frame. Dunk looks over his shoulder. Egg is close enough to touch the back of his shirt but does not. “You don’t wanna go with him?” Dunk murmurs. Egg shakes his head.
Aerion comes close enough for Dunk to smell the petrol and whatever sharp expensive thing sits in his hair. “Well?” he says. His eyes move over Duncan first, then Daeron, then the empty bit of air beside the bench. “Where is the little prince? Has he crawled under something?”
Behind him, Egg takes a breath. Dunk hears it. Small, hard, all ribs. Then Egg steps out from behind Duncan and walks towards his older brother.
Aerion does not look at Daeron at all. “There you are,” he says. “For a moment I thought the little monk had taken vows against being collected.”
Dunk’s face does something on its own. A twitch, helpless and outright pissed. Aerion sees it. His mouth widens. He lifts one finger and curls it twice. “Come here, bouncer.”
Duncan knows it is a bad idea. His feet take him there anyway.
Aerion cranes his neck with a look of bright disgust, opens his mouth, and blows a long hot breath right into Duncan’s face. Dunk blinks through it. Aerion laughs. “Satisfied? I'm sober. Now, give me my brother.”
“I can’t let ye take him on that.”
Daeron bursts into giggle form the bench. Soon, the giggle grows into a cackle that folds him forward.
Aerion looks at the bike, then back at Duncan. “Please don't waste my time. I grow ill amongst commoners.”
Duncan ignores the quip. “There’s no spare helmet for him.”
For one second Aerion only stares. Then he laughs too, sharper than Daeron. “Have you seen the head on him? The boy is a helmet.” He reaches out and smacks the back of Egg’s bald skull. “There. Listen. Industrial.”
Egg flinches. That is all.
Duncan goes livid so fast it feels quiet. The schoolyard, the bike, Daeron’s laugh, all of it draws back to one small white point behind his eyes. These people, he thinks, with a kind of wonder. These people have had Egg all this time. Egg with his lists and questions, Egg who says fuck once and then looks guilty about it, Egg who corrects Duncan’s dates and tells younger boys to tie their laces before they fall on their faces. Maybe it is childish insolence. Maybe a child born into evil only needs to point himself the other way and call it rebellion. Maybe that is how goodness starts in some houses. Or maybe Egg is simply good.
Duncan grabs Aerion by the collar and lifts him onto the balls of his feet. Aerion makes a strangled, furious sound and claws at Duncan’s wrist. “Get your hands off me.”
“No,” Duncan says. He is near spitting into his mouth. “I won’t give him to ye.”
Aerion’s face goes red in patches. “My father will know of this.”
“Aye,” Duncan says. “He will.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“I do. And if ye don’t go right now, the police will know of this too.”
Aerion gives a nasty little laugh through his teeth. “And what will you tell them? That I failed to bring a helmet?”
“Child abuse,” Duncan says.
That shuts him up for half a second. Duncan nods at the courtyard camera. “There. It saw ye hit him. It’s seen plenty, I’d say.” He lets Aerion go with a shove that barely counts as one. “Go now.”
Aerion smooths his collar. His hands are shaking with fury, which Dunk enjoys and hates enjoying. He looks at Egg then, really looks at him, and Egg looks at the ground.
Daeron watches all of this bleary-eyed from the bench. When Aerion turns for the bike, Daeron lifts one limp hand and waves. “Bye then.”
Aerion spits at his feet. Daeron giggles again.
The bike starts with a roar that makes every window in the school look suddenly thin. Aerion tears out of the pavement like he expects the road to thank him for it.
For a while no one says anything. Duncan stands in the middle of the yard with his fists still wanting something. Egg stays where he is, looking down at his shoes. “I’ll just walk home,” Egg finally says.
“No,” Duncan says. “I’ll take ye. Come on.”
Egg does not move. Duncan looks at him. Egg looks back with that same tight, wet mouth, brave enough to make a person sick. Duncan gives him a glare because softness has failed him for the minute.
Egg sighs and comes along. Behind them, Daeron lifts himself from the bench in instalments. “Can I come too?”
Duncan stops, closes his eyes, and sighs. Daeron takes it for yes.
When they reach Duncan’s car, Daeron whistles. It is clear the whistle is a mocking kind, for no Volkswagen Passat has ever received a nod of approval from a rich male. Duncan fixes Daeron with one glance, then lets the boys arrange themselves. Daeron takes the backseat, of course. Egg sits in front, fastens his seatbelt and stares ahead as if there is road already to stare at.
At first, Daeron mumbles and hums to the radio. Then his mumbles morph into heavy breathing, until finally they become snoring. When Duncan looks into the rear-view mirror, he notices Daeron has not fastened his seatbelt, and that makes Duncan scoff for the nth time today.
He wishes desperately for Egg to say anything. Keeps grunting and smacking his mouth every time he thinks Egg is about to start a conversation, and then retreats, seeing the boy frozen next to him with his eyes looking farther than the horizon.
The ride is not long, just twenty minutes out of town, though to Dunk, entering the area where landed gentry lives is like entering a foreign country. He begins to feel out of place when the grass becomes exceptionally green and households start keeping cattle for the mere pleasure of leading a fabricated simple life.
Navigation shows him three minutes away from Egg’s home and that, to Dunk’s relief, is when Egg decides to speak. “I did not like what you’ve done today,” Egg says.
Duncan nods. Bites the inside of his cheek.
“But I like how you’ve dealt with Aerion,” Egg adds.
To that Duncan nods again, but smiles. “Ye cross with me?” he asks.
“A bit,” Egg says. “I told you I don’t want you to say anything to anyone.”
“Aye, well,” Duncan says. “As much as you might not like it, I cannot have folk hurting you. Even your own kin. It is my job to keep you safe.”
Egg’s head turns towards him. His face has gone careful, which Duncan has come to dread more than sulking. “You can only keep me safe at school.”
Duncan drives another few yards before sense catches up with him. Then he indicates, pulls over by a low stone wall, and stops the car. Daeron snores louder.
“What are ye saying to me, boy?” Duncan asks.
Egg scoffs immediately. “Don’t you boy me now.”
Duncan cannot help but smile, though it feels awful on his face. “Sorry,” he says. “Egg. What do you mean?”
“I mean that at home you ain’t there to keep me safe,” Egg says simply.
Duncan grips the wheel. He tries, with some effort, not to turn round and throttle Daeron on the back seat as a form of setting an example. Though, looking at Egg’s face, he suspects Daeron is the least of the boy’s troubles. Or the loudest and stupidest of them, which is not the same thing.
He exhales through his nose. “Do ye need someone at home to keep ye safe?”
Egg looks out through the windscreen. The road ahead is empty and expensive. “Sometimes,” he says.
Duncan nods as if this is ordinary conversation. As if his heart has not just tried to climb out through his throat and do something actionable in the lane.
“Right,” he says. “Right. What if, on Monday, you meet the school counsellor?”
Egg’s mouth twists. “What good would that do?”
“Maybe nothing,” Duncan says. “Maybe something.”
“That is not a very inspiring answer.”
“Aye, well, I’m a P.E. teacher. We’re not known for poetry.” He glances at him, then back at the road. “You could talk to her. Get some of it off your chest, like. Without being ashamed of it.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Grand. Then you can be not ashamed in her office.”
Egg gives him a look.
Duncan clears his throat. “Or, if there’s something that needs doing, she can help with that. She can speak to your da, or to whoever needs speaking to, without you having to stand in the middle of it waving your arms about.”
“I do not wave my arms about.”
“No,” Duncan says. “You point. Very accusingly.”
Egg considers this with dislike. Daeron makes a snorting sound in the back and rolls his head against the window.
Duncan waits. He has the sense that if he pushes any harder, Egg will turn into a little stone beside him and stay that way until winter.
“Okay,” Egg says at last.
Duncan nods once. “Okay.”
He starts the car back up and rolls onto the road before either of them can make the thing too large to look at. The gates appear soon after, black iron and stone pillars and a drive beyond them that seems longer than some people’s streets.
Duncan stops by the main gate. “Ye still cross with me?”
“Yes,” Egg says.
“Will it pass?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Egg gets out and slams the door hard enough for Daeron to wake. Daeron snorts like a bear, rubs at his eyes, and looks around as if surprised to find he has remained alive through transport. “Oh,” he says. “Home.”
He unclips a seatbelt he has never clipped, fails to notice the problem, then leans forward and claps Dunk on the shoulder. “Cheers, mate. Five stars.” Then he gets out too.
Duncan sits there, squeezing the steering wheel too hard, and watches the two of them go through the gate. Egg walks stiff and straight. Daeron wanders beside him with one hand in his pocket and the other rubbing sleep from his face.
He drives a little way from the Targaryen estate. Then he pulls over again. For a while he just breathes. Badly. In and out, with a shudder in the middle he cannot seem to smooth away. Then he reaches for his phone and calls you.
You pick up on the second ring. “Dunk? Hi,” you say, smile all over your voice.
It warms him some. The sound of you alone puts a hand somewhere inside him and presses down. He sniffles, a little, or just sucks in a wet inhale. “You alright, luv?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Red rang me so we chatted for an hour or so, I’ve seen the physio, done laundry and now I’m reading,” you tell him.
Duncan closes his eyes and remembers things. Right, you are seeing a lady that tells you how to breathe properly with something called Winner Flow. It's a whistle, apparently, though it does no whistling. He's wanted to come with you once but you've told him no because it would be weird to have him around when the lady has her hand stuck up your fanny. There is a tight knot in his throat, mean as a fist, and he has to swallow round it twice. He tries for simple. Asks, “What’chu reading, hm?”
“Baby books,” you coo.
“Yeah? What about?”
“Did you know that newborns can recognise voices they heard before they were born? Like, properly. They prefer the familiar ones. So all your chatting and singing at him might actually do something.”
“Really? I—” His voice cracks. He brings a hand to his eyes and presses the heel of it there. “That’s so grand. I did not know that.”
“Duncan, sweetie, you alright?”
“Aye, aye, I’m just—” He sniffles again, then clears his throat again with more force than dignity. “Can I see ya, lassie? You busy?”
“Of course you can. I’m not.”
“Grand,” he says. “I’ll be there in thirty.”
“Okay. Good.”
Neither of you hangs up. He sits there with the phone against his ear and listens to the little living sounds of your flat. A page being touched. The washing machine doing something wet in the background. Your breath.
“Duncan?”
“Aye?”
“Can you get me Tayto?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Tayto.”
“Cheese and onion.”
“Best perfume there is,” Duncan hums.
“Don’t start. And maybe a Club Orange.”
“Aye, course. Tayto and Club Orange.”
“And don’t get the multipack if the packets are tiny. I’ll know.”
“Terrifying woman,” he says, and means thank God for you. “I’ll get the big one.”
“Good. Drive safe.”
“I will.”
He hangs up, starts the car, and sits for one more second with both hands on the wheel. Then he turns the knob of the radio until We Will Not Be Lovers by The Waterboys comes up, and drives back towards town.
The rain starts again. Duncan listens to the song. Turns on the windscreen wipers. The day weighs down on him badly. He has kept Egg safe. He has got something resolved. Still, he feels like the lamest loser walking, a big dull man who followed the code so blindly he managed to hurt two people with it.
He gives no single bollock what sort of bad day Daeron has had. He doesn’t. Still, there had been a moment at the gate when he pitied him, and now that pity sits in him as another wrong thing. He wonders if there had been some other way through it. Something less stern. Something that would not have left Egg so apprehensive with him, and the whole thing turned circus by Aerion spitting like a small yapping dog.
Then he thinks about tonight. How bad it might get for Egg. Whether Aerion will hit him. Whether Duncan will be able to still walk this earth if Egg comes to school with any sort of bruise on him. Whether he will be able to keep himself from pushing Aerion’s eyeballs into his skull. Whether you will forgive him and visit him in prison.
It gets ridiculous very quickly, and proportionate to Duncan’s despair. By then he is sobbing, properly, with big, awful, childless sounds. He's wailing and bawling his eyes out, and he wishes there were windscreen wipers for the eyes because he can barely see. He only wants to get to you, curl in your arms and touch the belly when it moves, and it will all make him better. At the shop he's certain he is the saddest man to ever buy cheese and onion Tayto and a Club Orange, because the cashier looks at him with exaggerated compassion and asks if he'd like a discounted Red Bull.
By the time he gets to your building, the rain has started coming down hard again. The walk from the parked car to the door is short and still manages to soak him near through. His hair is wet. His jacket is wet. The paper bag from the shop is hidden under it and pressed to his ribs with one arm, and it is also wet.
He lets himself in with the key. The flat is much warmer to what his bones feel like. He stands in the entryway and shuts the door badly, too soft the first time, then harder when the latch does not catch. Water drops from him onto the floor.
You come out from the bedroom barefoot, book still in one hand, and freeze in the corridor at the sight of him.
“Duncan.” Your face changes. “Duncan, sweetheart—what happened?”
He opens his mouth. He has so much to say. Too much. A lot has happened, and somewhere on the drive over he had decided he was going to be a man about it and tell you everything calmly, properly, one thing after another. But the second you ask what is wrong, all that resolve falls apart. What comes out is just a boy. A boy who starts crying the moment he is asked.
Then you are on him. The book goes down somewhere. Your hands come to his jaw, his neck, the soaked front of his jacket, gathering him in whatever order you can reach him. He bends because you pull, and because he has wanted nothing in the world so badly as this. His face goes into the crook of your neck.
“Oh, love,” you say.
It damages him some more. He breathes badly against your skin with one hand braced on the wall and the other still trapped under his jacket. Your clothes take the wet from his. Your arms go tight around his shoulders, tighter when he makes a sound he would rather neither of you heard.
“It’s all right,” you say, though you do not know that. “I’ve got you.”
The packet hidden under his jacket crinkles between you. Duncan drags in a breath. “You’re crushing your Tayto, luv,” he croaks.
It's funny so you laugh. The rest is entirely unfunny, even more so—you laugh, since it is the only way to not give into the fright.
He's been strange on the phone. Morose and hollowed in a way he goes when some gargantuan issue of life's simple ordeal takes a seat on his shoulders. Sorrow that size can only come from a debacle around something that's very dear to him. Raymun, or Rowan, or his school-children.
For a grown man this large Duncan cries a lot, and to you it's a deeply beloved part of him. He cries when he cannot contain his joy. He gets moved easily and completely by the most mundane elements of life. There have been big moments, like the baby turning out to be a boy and then the boy kicking. And then, well—things that would get anyone with the kind of heart Dunk has (which, in retrospect, is a rare thing to be burdened with). Once there's been a sports interview where the football player thanked his mam first. All of those ads that try to sell a product through portraying perfect families. A video of a dog recognising its human parent after months away. Quiet phone calls he sometimes has with Raymun that end with love ya, big man. You've no idea what they talk about, but during those rings Duncan goes from snorting, through nodding solemnly, to hushing his voice and telling Raymun yer doing good mate. I'm proud of you. And honestly, it wets your eyes a little too.
The current grief is of the inconsolable kind. His eyes are so red and swollen he looks like he's been crying all the way here. The rain on him does not do him any favours either. He's weeping softly into your shoulder and trying his best not to snot on your sweatshirt and it grudges you greatly that he thinks you'd mind. You wouldn't. You'd give him your clothes to blow his nose into them if that would fix the matter.
"Shh," you murmur, rocking the whole mass of him side to side. You've got one palm on his nape and the other on his cheek, thumb brushing the damp undereye. "I've got you baby. It's alright, it's alright." Then, you cup his face and lift it a little. "Do you want a cup of tea?"
Duncan nods, but says nothing. He sniffs, reaches under his jacket and pulls out Tayto, all crinkled, and a can of Club Orange. You take both from him, mouth a small, genuine thank you, and seek his palm. It's cold and heavy and makes yours disappear in it. Hand in heartbroken hand, he follows you to the kitchen, lets you sit him on a stool and take off his jacket. You shake some water off it and hang it over the chair. Brush his cheek again. Put the kettle on and prepare cups. Then, you take a clean kitchen towel and dry his hair where it drips, adding to deluge of his eyes.
He sighs deeply, still quiet. Your hand combs the strands off his forehead. "What do you need, sweetheart?" you ask.
Instead of saying anything, Dunk reaches out. He pulls your hips and, once you step between his knees, wraps his arms around you. His face comes to your belly, hands span your back. "Jus' this," he mutters.
You stay like that for a few heartbeats until the kettle whistles. Tea gets made. He stands up after you and takes both cups, waiting for instructions. You realise, then, that he has no idea what to do with this feeling. It has got too big for him and he is waiting, almost politely, to be told where to put it.
“All right,” you say. “Shower, or just dry clothes?”
Duncan looks at you. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “Just change,” he says at last.
“Okay. We can do that.”
He nods. Then gasps a little. For a second it looks as if words are coming, and then he loses it. His face tightens. He looks ashamed of that too.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Whenever you’re ready. If at all. Or just,” you add, softer, “point me to who I’m murdering, hm?”
That gets a tired huff of a laugh, hardly there, but there. He hums after it, low in his throat, and nods again as if he is agreeing to be alive for the next ten minutes. “Can we just—”
"You wanna lie down? Watch telly? And cuddle?"
"A-aye," Duncan says, relieved. "Aye, that'd be grand, lassie."
You nod. Take him to the bedroom. He changes to some previously abandoned sweatpants and a T-shirt that both happen to be clean only because you've been two garments short from a full washing machine, no other reason. Then the pair of you gets into bed and Duncan's limbs find you like you've both been married for a decade. He pillows himself on your chest, throws a leg across your calves and puts a hand to your stomach. Telly's on with some nonsense but even if it were the most exciting program in the universe, you'd still be focused on his breathing. It rattles in his chest and comes uneven with leftovers of sobbing. When you think he's disassociated completely, there's a smack of lips.
"Egg's cross with me," Duncan rasps. And then it just goes.
Arrives in absolute chaos of his oversized feelings, but you grasp the gist. He's had a bad day, he tells you. It's been muddy and kids were slipping on the pitch all game. And then Egg had been left behind and Daeron had come to pick him up reeking of booze. And Dunk couldn't give him up, even though Egg could technically just walk home, but not when Daeron was drunk and would surely follow and Dunk knew it made no sense but that's them goddamn rules written in the school statue and he ain't gonna discuss it with a drunkard in a cloudburst anyway. And he doesn't care about Daeron's bad day, not at all, but the man looked so sad and sodden Dunk had a moment where he wanted to let Egg go and he feels bad for it. And he thinks he's hurt Daeron some, even though Daeron deserves to get hurt because he doesn't keep an eye on Egg and cuts him on his head and had got drunk on the day when they were supposed to go to the pier. And it had all gone so bad, because Daeron had been close to crying but instead of crying he called his da, but he was so drunk he didn't notice he was actually calling Aerion. And Aerion is a real cunt and a scoundrel and miscreant and Dunk had almost bashed his teeth in and he's glad he didn't, but wishes he had some, too. Because on the way home Egg had told him he's not always safe at home and Dunk can't stop thinking about it. And there's a whole weekend between today and Monday and he's only thinking about this small boy with his evil brother and his drunken brother and his absent father and he doesn't know what to do. And he feels so guilty for not doing more earlier, because he saw it all and could've done something, and instead he'd been worried Egg would be cross with him and now he's cross with him anyway. And Christ, he's done so badly. He's done so badly and he cannot understand it, for the love of him, he cannot, how can there be a family with so much land, so much money, so much opportunity, such a name to them and such futures to be had and so little love in it, and for a boy who you can do nothing else to but love him. If Egg was his he'd love him so terribly. He'd be so proud of him, he is so proud of him and he loves him so, so much and he just wishes he could do better—
"Dunk, my darling," you whisper into his hair. "My sweet, sweet darling. It's not your fault. Oh, baby, you've done nothing wrong. You've done nothing wrong, I promise you."
"How come then—" he gasps. "How come it's just so… horrible."
You cock his head so he'd look at you. His glasses are useless with all the dried out salt on them. "Because you're worried. Because you're good," you tell him. "You'll sort it on Monday. Is there anyone you can text there? Egg even?"
"A-aye, I could um—I could text him. Or Daeron. Or Maekar."
"Pick one," you say. "It's good enough."
"Uh…" He cringes. "Daeron, I guess. But… tomorrow. I can't today."
"Okay," you say. "It's okay."
Duncan looks like he doesn't entirely believe you but he really wants to. He nods, then goes back to the shelter of your neck.
You let him stay there a little longer. There is no point trying to prise sense out of him while he is still clinging. So you keep combing through his hair and let him breathe against you until the breathing evens out by degrees. “Are you hungry?” you ask.
Duncan gives a wet little huff. “Always.”
“I made food before you came.”
He lifts his head enough to look at you. His eyes are still ruined, but his mouth twitches. “Is it a Tayto sandwich?”
You swat him on the chest. “No, you goof. I see you’re feeling better.”
“A little,” Duncan says. He looks at you for a moment longer, heavy and grateful and still too sad. Then his face softens in a way that makes your own chest ache. “Thank you,” he says.
You put your hand on his cheek. “No worries, Dunk. It’s nothing. I’ll be right back.”
In the kitchen, you warm the food and listen to him in the other room. The telly comes on louder. Then the low, familiar roll of sports commentary. You come back with the plate and find him watching it with the remote resting on his thigh. You huff, but let him have it.
He eats, though with less devotion than usual. That tells you enough. On any better evening he would clear the plate like he's trying to set a new record. Tonight he works through it slowly, one eye on the screen, and part of him elsewhere.
Afterwards he lies down on his side and looks at the screen. His hand rests on your thigh. Now and then it moves, twitching and rubbing a little, casual as sleep. Comfortable. It startles you sometimes, what you have become to him. You run your fingers through his hair again. Then you grip gently at the back of his head, enough to bring him nearer.
“Do you need anything else?” you ask. “Anything you want.”
Duncan looks up at you. The shyness comes over him slowly, boyish. He swallows. Then he rises enough to frame your cheeks between both hands and brings his mouth to your ear. There he hesitates. You feel the breath of it first. “Can I eat you out?” he whispers. “Please.”
It becomes clear that you can take care of him all you want and it will only fix a little, because Dunk metabolises distress through being useful. He finds a way, somehow, to make the filthiest request innocent and pure. Can I get my mouth between your legs because it's done no good all day and there it can do some good. You stare at him for a second, then nod.
It is only a permission, but Duncan takes it as an opportunity to thank you with his entire body. He starts at lips, the traditional ones, and you get hit—disturbed by your own lack of observance—with progress. He's got better at kissing, somehow. One hand is wedged under your neck, and either cocky (doubtful) or too consumed to notice, he slides it to your hair and closes into a fist. Tugs, a little. To that you moan, a little. So he tugs more, a little, until your throat straightens and spine arches. He does what a skilled lover would do with a mouth opened like that. Sucks on it and licks into it with his tongue broad and mellow and salty from tears. Rubs your back down to your arse and gropes there, and squeezes, and oh—gives you the gentlest slap. An appreciative one. It's pretty and mine, it says. Then gropes again and, briefly, you remember the night when he was too drunk to be considerate and delivered a scientific proof for his palms and your buttocks being made for each other.
You do your share of touching too. Your fingers crawl under his T-shirt to the belly. You start the scratching below the waistband, only to force him to give up some sounds. He surrenders them easily: first a sigh, then a raspy groan, then, "Girl."
"Yes?" you ask, raking up to his chest. The fuzz on his stomach catches under your fingernails.
"Yer distractin'," he says. "I wanted to—"
"I know, I just—" you say, wrapping your arms round his neck. "Kiss me some more. Please."
So he kisses you again, because saying no to you is not present anywhere in Duncan’s body. Not when you ask like this. Your mouth is warm and clean and easing on his sadness-bitten tongue, and he enjoys it like he would enjoy a jug of cold water on a hot summer day. You let him touch you and touch him back, exactly where he likes, which is anywhere. Grope him back, even. Your fingers sink into his chest and squeeze the pecs, then slide lower to abuse the flesh that hangs off his sides. The little puerile fat he’s sometimes insecure about, but when you touch him like this he forgets all about it. Only lets himself be fancied roughly, and it causes him a kind of inebriety, this closure of bodies in heat, because he bites you somewhat harder than he intended.
He does not apologise for that one. Instead, he takes off his glasses and starts sliding through your palms, and they stay, receiving his shoulders, then neck, then hair. He cradles your legs together and slips the shorts off them. Then wedges himself between your knees and lies flat on his stomach.
Your knees get knocked wide apart by the breadth of his shoulders and some tiny part, debased but alive in him because he’s only a man after all, enjoys your effort tremendously. Then the part that takes the most space in him, the one that feels guilty for his size most of the time, steps in and hooks your calves over his back, so that lovely effort can step down in favour of your hips relaxing.
You sigh for him some and caress the back of his head so he knows he’s done good.
Then it is just him and your cunt.
And he loves that cunt deeply. So much that calling it a cunt feels rude somehow, a wrong flavour of devotion, and he prefers to call it pussy. It sounds sweeter, especially when it comes with a his prefix. He might be a touch too sacrosanct about it, but today it is more than just a sweet thing to put his mouth to. At the risk of sounding sappy, to him it is shelter. Somewhere he can be useful and good to you and therefore proliferate some good into the world with his inept body.
He parts the curls at your mound with two fingers and, for a moment, just looks. You are clenching and it makes him feel smug. Seeping from the slit a little too, and that is even worse. You look like a fruit cracked open down the middle and Duncan thinks it is wildly accurate that pussies look like succulent, candied fruits, because that is what they are to him. And yours is his favourite. If somebody asked him what is the one meal he’d have for the rest of his days, he’d think your pussy first, then tell some lie to avoid making a complete pervert of himself.
He's thick and rigid at the base of his cock, and when he leans in to kiss off the dew from your clit, a pang of heat rattles his hips. They glue themselves to the mattress. The friction feels evil, almost. It scrapes his crown and suffocates him between his own thighs, but it is better than nothing. If he comes, at least there was something to come from.
Higher, he tries to focus. His mouth returns to you with the kissing still in it. He kisses first, because it seems rude to start with anything else, and your hips give a small unsure lift from the bed. That makes him set his palm low on your belly, holding you still with hardly any pressure, and lick where he kissed. You make a soft sound that goes down the back of him. He moves against the mattress and the scrape there turns meaner, sweeter. So he decides to stay put. Work has been granted to him. Better, work that makes you twist your hand in his hair and say his name as if the name has a handle on it.
“Dunk,” you whine while he can feel your feet moving on his back.
“Mm,” he mumbles into you, though there is no question.
He opens you with two fingers, careful and filthy together, and excessive too because he knows damn well he can make you come just on his mouth. But there is a growing need in him to slot himself deeper than his tongue can reach, so the fingers will have to do while his cock remains deprived. Greedy, you suck him in to the first knuckle and still want more, so he gives it, and puts his tongue to the place that makes your legs forget their sense. Slow at first. Broad. Re-learning the routes and the taste, though the latter he knows already and thinks knowing should prevent astonishment. It does not. You are slick enough that his mouth slips, and he makes an undignified chuckle against you because the slip pleases him.
Your fingers tighten. “There?” he asks.
You nod, he thinks, because the nod lives in the pull at his roots and the way your thighs close round his ears and deafen him for a second. He does it again. Same place. Less polite.
“Oh,” you say, thinly. “Oh, fuck—sweetheart—”
That is another ruinous thing. Sweetheart, while he is down here with his cock dragging itself sore against your bed and his tongue and fingers all stuffing your pussy. Sweetheart, as if this too is a kind of care. Maybe it is. Maybe care has rough skin and spit, and is man half-mad between your legs because the rest of the world has become unmanageable for him.
His hips roll once more. He grunts, annoyed by himself, and presses down harder, pinning the need under him. The pressure makes his breath stutter into you. You answer by pulling at his hair until his scalp aches. He likes it a lot. Hums, or chuckles, or grunts—he's undecided, but makes sure to let you know how nice it feels to get a little bullied by a loving hand. From above he can hear broken bits of don't stop, yes, oh darling, oh-something else, then oh and his name and soon it all becomes the only verity. He's got no plans on stopping, nor doing anything else. You are the law right now, so he works hard on obedience and on moulding his tongue into a shape that pleases you best. Spreads his fingers inside you and goes a little faster because by now Duncan knows that when you arch and tug him like that he can be a little rougher.
The bad day begins to peel off him like old skin from sunburnt shoulders. He's reduced from a teacher to a man, from a man to quick, wet boy, and from there he's just hot in the groin and slippery on the chin. He cannot save anyone from a house. Cannot repair a child's evening by force. But this he can do: stay here until you give up your tight little grief and spend on his mouth. Underneath him there is a shake and at first Duncan thinks it's only his body trying to get its share from the mattress when suddenly he hears your choked gasps and feels you clenching and riding it all out on his nose and cheeks while he's stuck between your quivering thighs.
His brain starts making offers, all of them bad. He could stay down and rut the rest of it out. The sheets have survived worse, even if barely. He could rise on his knees and take himself in hand, stroke and spend over your pussy like in porn videos he's watched exactly never, totally. It's hot, enough to kick his hips again, but something about it sits wrong tonight. Too lonely. Too much like being isolated in himself. Duncan has a one-body problem and wants, badly, to make it a two-body one.
He is crawling before a clear answer appears. His hand works at his pants to get his cock out and he comes back up to your face with your taste still on him, chin damp, breath all torn into bits. “I need ye,” he says. You roll to your side so he can kiss you. Sloppy and slow and wide-mouthed like he's saying look what you've done to me. You grunt and hitch your leg over his hip. Your arms go round his neck, locking him close.
Sweet lass. Good lass. His merciful lass, because now he is no longer left alone with himself.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry, I need ye. I need ye, sweetheart, ah—"
He slides inside and it's fucking tight, because of course, because you've just come. And you're warm and wet for him, and goddammit, he's just wanted to finish somewhere least useless, but now actually wants to fuck you some more. He sucks his stomach in and knocks your forehead with his and breathes some, one and two and three deep breaths, to get used to it. He will never get used to it. Absolutely never ever, not to your tits bouncing like that, not to his cock getting greeted inch by inch until his balls flatten against your buttocks and he just gets to throb inside you. Your arse too—he'll never reconcile with it. Despite being certain he knows you by heart, it hits him every time how right it feels to have his hands full.
He grabs you and moves you on himself slowly. Slow is a crueller invention than speed. Duncan learns this within the first three strokes and keeps choosing it anyway, because it lets him feel the whole spread of the agony. The head of his cock drags nearly out, catches at your slick lips, then sinks back in, and the bluntness of it shuts his eyes. The vein on his underside scrapes through the crevices of you, urging his hips to hammer. He forces them into a lazy grind, because poor behaviour is better than bad one.
"There," he mutters. "There, lassie, hold me."
Your arms tighten round the neck and a heel presses into the small of his back. Asking more. Somehow it is worse than begging and worse than talking, purely or dirty. He gives it to you with his teeth set, rolling in again, slow enough that his belly quakes before his hips finish the route.
“Ah, Christ. Sweetheart. Ye feel—” The rest dissolves against your cheek. “Good, that’s good. Let me—jus' let me—”
With fingers sunk hard where your arse is meatiest he holds and uses that hold to take you down on him by increments. That's hot too. Filthy and prurient and a little bit forbidden when he gets to be this possessive. He guides your body over the part of him that's gone dumb with want and the slide makes his mind scour blank. Hurt finds no room for itself when he is counting your cunt by inches.
You breathe his name into his mouth, and he kisses it out of you. "I know," he mumbles. "I know, I've got ye. Pretty girl, I've got ye."
He tries to mind his weight for the belly between you, but truth be told, he's full to the throat with you. Your cunt grips at him as if it owns the right, and God knows it does. He would sign it over with a clear head and decent penmanship if he had any of those right now.
He draws out too far and makes himself suffer for it. The crown of him stays caught, swollen and slick, and for a second he only rocks in that narrow hurt.
“Dunk—”
“Aye, I know. I’m sorry.” He pushes back in and the apology turns to a groan. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I need ye. Need ye so bad. My sweet lass, my girl—ah, fuck, I need—”
After that he gets less able to tell what he means. He's muttering, need you, want you, sorry, take it, please. It all keeps coming unbidden but necessary because he's all bloated with it. He's planting every word somewhere on you, wherever his face lands while he's focused on fucking himself out of his own misery.
“Right there,” he breathes. “Right there, sweetheart. Take it there. Take me there, aye, that’s it—fuck, that’s it.”
It gets rougher by accident, then with your help once you yoke him tighter. Grinding now. Careful lives where it must, where it makes sure you are not crushed and damaged around the parts that cannot take hurt yet, but the rest receives. Filling you and splitting and pinning himself in you as if depth might solve the terror of facing problems by his lonesome. It's near awful how a body can be used and become a place to hide. He had no warning for that.
"There," he says, feeling the head of his cock rub you mean. "Take it there. Let me give it to ye there."
He hears himself and feels filthy. Feels loved in the filth too, which opens a dangerous area. There must be a part of the brain that decides things outside of thought, and Duncan's currently in its custody. He wants to come, God, he wants to come. He wants rid of this. He wants with you. He wants to tell you. He can't tell you.
“Fuck,” he says, very softly, which is absurd because there is nothing soft in him. “Fuck, fuck, sweetheart—I'm gonna—can I—” A rasp of breath. Through the nose, loud and large, like him. "Can I come inside ye? Ah, please—fuck, sweetheart—"
"Yes," you breathe, sounding equally gone. Then, you pull him closer.
He rolls up and starts to shake before the finish even breaks. Orgasm climbs through his thighs with claws, into the hinge of hips, up where the marrow ought to be bitter and private, but feels like cloying sugar. For a second it's as if something has got hold of his spine and is wringing him out from the centre. It goes on long enough to frighten him a little, and empties him of everything until his bones seem hollow and Duncan realises he's weeping.
It is odd, getting used like that by him, though not unwelcome. You like it when Duncan forgets that he's supposed to act proper and lets himself be selfish for a few seconds. It only becomes scary when, in it, he forgets his own strength and grips you hard enough to make it burn some. Scarier still, when it's not in rapture but in abscondence. His jaw will do nothing but wobble. It rattles down through him and soon all of him shudders, then keeps shaking while he's still pulsing, spending inside you and higher he wets your neck with tears.
Then, laboured breaths become hiccuped ones. And then quiet crying becomes sobbing once more and he's mumbling some inaudible thing into your shoulder.
"God, Dunk," you say, nervous. "Sweetheart." Your hand comes into his hair and combs and tries to console him somehow, though it seems impossible. "Duncan, what is it? Darling, talk to me, please—"
"—love ye, I love ye," he says. "Jesus, I love ye. I love ye—"
Your eyes go wide, and you yourself go awfully quiet and still. It drops through you like a stone through a well. No bottom. Something you wanted attached to every little thing he does. To the kiss. To the first night. To the proposal and everything after it. Now it feels like it's been stolen from him and he's in terrible distress while saying it. So you grip his shoulders and shake him some.
"Duncan," you whisper. "Duncan, sweetheart, what is it? Are you hurt?"
He hears you as if through a bell jar. His name comes through first, then sweetheart, then hurt. It all arrives with edges blurred and goes huge in the middle. Both close and far off, while the last of the orgasm keeps leaving him in small, hard aftershocks. His hand is still on you, his dumbest flesh inside you. Tears have got into your skin and he can feel them cooling, which seems indecent. Everything seems indecent. Then he catches up with himself.
It just fucking burst him open. And fuck, fuck, fuck, Duncan has fucked up so badly. He means it. He knows he means it. He is terrified that saying it under these circumstances is unfair: you are pregnant, vulnerable, kind to him after a bad day, and he has just used your body to calm down. So he tries to make it disappear, ethically and immediately. Tuck it in for later, when the moment is right and the context kinder.
He starts rolling away and cringes when his hips remind him you are still locked together. His groin pulls on him, raw, and he twists until he lands half on his back beside you with one hand over his face. It's terribly wet.
"I'm sorry," he croaks. "I—I shouldnt've said t-that… I've… I've had a mad day, I'm—I'm all over the place—" He swallows and feels it click in his throat. "Didn't mean to put that on ye—"
"Dunk—"
“I’m sorry, lass. Forget I said it. I’m jus’—”
“It’s okay,” you say.
Oh God that sounds bad. He cannot see you, not through his hand, nor through the sight defect, and maybe that is for the better because that's the most lifeless okay you've ever said to him. The correction has botched the first mistake, somehow. Duncan's perturbed—he might just have sprinkled some salt into a stab wound. He drags his palm away and pats blindly for the glasses. Finds them crooked by the pillow, gets them on his face. Wipes under them with his knuckle, useless, for his eyes are so tired they do not know what glass is for.
“As long as you’re alright?” you mutter then.
It is very cautious. Duncan blinks. “Aye,” he says. Then has to try again. “Aye, I’m just. Just not the best today.”
He rolls back to you slowly. Gives you every chance to stay stiff, to stop him, to become some person he has broken the room with. When your body goes pliant, he pulls you into him and holds on. The embrace has an absence in it, and he hates it. His hand travels up and down your back in a poor attempt at tenderness. “Are ye alright?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Silence, for a while. Near suffocating. Then, Duncan sucks in a breath and eases himself out of you. The loss feels harrowing. You shift away and sit up. “I’ll be right back,” you tell him.
He jerks up on one elbow. “Do ye need help?”
“No," you say. "Just bathroom. I’m fine.”
You smile at him sadly and walk out of the bedroom. Duncan is left there feeling like he has lost something.
