Profile pic from pinterest!! She/they/it/he Current hyperfixation is hobie! I might start writing fanfics/mini ones! Ask and dms are open! Talk to me mutuals (like pretty please be my friends or anyone, just start a convo w/me and lets be friends)!!! 18
Street kid (and him as an adult who is stable. And psa a lot of these are him as an adult, you can tell which ones are him as an adult)
Street kid hobie who:
Taught himself how to cook, as well as started cooking for others in his community who didnt know how to but also needed food
As an adult he volunteers daily after protests to help make a differ and change in others lives
As an adult he has probably took in multiple different homeless kids or teens or told them where to go to be safe (we do see that with gwen in the movie as he lets her stay and she kinda ran away from home, and he was there for her)
Probably has nightmares from the unsafe streets he mightve been in, scared about cops causing harm where a lot of homeless people are.
Has witnessed homeless people get framed from osborn and the cops take them away even though they didnt do anything wrong
Street kid hobie who really got to see how horrible the world is and can be, learning it very quickly and really without anyone to lean on
Street kid hobie who had parental figures at the community volunteering for poor people (prob middle class people trying to help those who have it worse since the rich people were like osborn)
Street kid hobie as an adult whod literally donate and help get more systems stable for those who are homeless.
Street kid hobie who wonders what his parents were like and wishes to have a family
Street kid hobie as an adult who finds love and wants a family with them (aka reader or ocs!)
Street kid hobie who doesnt realize that everything hes done for others by giving back and helping his community has changed tons of peoples lives
Street kid hobie who teens/younger adults then him visit him and tell him how much he changed their lives and how much he helped them. And the teens/younger adults go on a rant about how they looked up to him as their father figure or older brother figure
Hobie who ends up crying after realizing he spread what he wanted to in the world and did what he wanted. He helped those and saved those like the way he wanted. He offered a figure for them that he needed.
Street kid hobie who still gives back or does whatever he can to his community whenever he has the options to, as even the tiniest things make a big difference.
Street kid hobie and his partner (the reader or ocs!)adopting a kid or a couple of kids who need homes<3
This isnt much of an xreader its much more of headcanons but still! Love for hobie fr fr🩷🩷
Some quick questions. From a fellow nerd obviously.
What first got you into d&d.
How was your first campaign whether you were a player or the dm.
How do you feel about homebrew classes and homebrew species.
And if you had to choose what do you prefer in a campaign, fighting or the plot (ignore that they both mutually need each other sometimes)
How do you feel about mythology?
Ooh, now these are the important questions.
I got into D&D my freshman year. A couple of guys invited me to join their group, and honestly? I thought it sounded kinda ridiculous at first. Sitting around a table pretending to be elves and wizards? Yeah, I was skeptical. Then we actually started playing, and before I knew it I was hooked. Turns out using your imagination with a bunch of fellow nerds is one hell of a way to spend an afternoon.
My first campaign, I was a player. It got... pretty emotional, actually. Ended with my character sacrificing himself to save my best friend's. Hurt like hell, but it made for one unforgettable story. That's when I realized D&D isn't just about rolling dice, it's about the people sitting around the table with you.
As for homebrew? I'm all for it. If somebody puts love and effort into creating a class or species and it's balanced enough that everyone can have fun, bring it on. Some of the coolest ideas come from people asking, "What if?"
And if I had to choose between combat or story? Plot, every time. Don't get me wrong, a good boss fight rules, but if I don't care why we're fighting, it's just rolling math rocks until something falls over. Give me characters I care about, impossible choices, and a story that'll stick with me years later.
Mythology- Love it. Greek, Norse, Celtic... all of it. Half the best fantasy ever made has its roots in old myths and legends. There's something awesome about taking stories that have survived for centuries and giving them a new life around the table.
All of the best questions for a fellow nerd like me (big on d&d and still am. Just need to find a new group to play with or to dm. And the time) d&d has some of my favorite aspects in it. Than again i see it like theater. A big performance.
Being big with everything makes everything so much funner when doing things
Also sacrificing characters are some of the best things to do for a story, some players fear it. But i ADORE it.
Another question involving homebrew, have you ever created something homebrew (besides homebrew/your own campaign from your own ideas) or used something homebrew in your campaigns (like as an npc or boss)
And if you like stories whats been your favorite story experience, has it been as a dm or a player? Or is it a mix?
Mythology is also just really fun to look into and to dig deep into whether you add it to something or not
Static Automatic [ an Eddie Munson x Female Reader mini series ]
✨ Summary - A sudden run in with Claire makes you both realize you need to take this relationship outside of The Hideout | WC-769
✨ Warnings - None (but please feel free to message me if you feel I missed something)
🪄 Chapter 2 / Month 1
“How much longer?” Smith sighs, talking over the bumping music playing from the DJ.
“Only 3 hours and…15 minutes. But who’s counting?” He rolls his eyes and walks to the end of the bar. You shake your head as you continue to wipe down your glass.
“Hey girl!” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, Claire. You place your glass into the drying rack and turn to her.
“Claire! It’s good to see you…again? What would you like…this time?”
“Oh you know what I’ve been drinking! Just keep em’ coming!” It hasn’t even been an hour and she’s downed two strawberry martinis. Anything fruity to keep the night going you suppose. Just as you walk away she drags you back, “so…you and Eddie huh?”
Showtime. “Yeah, Me and Eddie…Eddie and…I.”
“Like, how though?”
“How what?”
“How did you score him? Also, I want a shot please.” You pour her some vodka and she downs that as well. The poor girl must be going through all the feels.
“I don’t know, it just…happened. He asked me out, took me on a date and everything just…fell into place.” She reaches across the bar, grabbing your arm.
“Tell me everything.”
“Claire, I’m really busy-”
Her eyes are dark, droopy and glossed.“PLEASE?!”
“Okay, okay.”
“So you took her through everything?” Eddie asks, taking another bite of your shared bowl of ice cream.
“Yup. We talked for almost an hour. She wouldn’t fucking leave.”
“Isn’t it your duty as a bartender to lend an ear?” You give him a look, flicking some chocolate crunch at him, with some landing on his nose. You giggle, “here”, you pick up your napkin and wipe it off.
“Aw you guys are so cute together!” Both you and Eddie freeze, looking up from your seats to see -
“Claire.” You speak in unison.
“I was just grabbing some tubs to go and saw you so I came over to say hi.”
“Well, isn’t that nice.” Eddie grabs your leg from under the table, squeezing it. You grab his hand and squeeze it back, signaling it’s alright. We’re in this together Munson, we got this.
“It’s nice seeing you outside of the Hideout.” You emphasize your words looking over at Eddie, seeing that he understands what you were dictating. “Who is the ice cream for?”
“Oh just me and a few friends, having a girls night. Also, how bad was I last night? I’m sorry if I talked your ear off, my friend said I wouldn't stop babbling-"
“Oh no! You’re totally fine, you weren’t a bother at all. Don’t worry about it!”
“Phew, thanks! Well, I won’t keep you away from your time together. Enjoy the rest of your date night, I’ll see y'all soon.”
“I hope you have a fun time!” You yell as she waves and walks away. You both wave back, sighing in relief.
“That was uh-”
“Unexpected?”
“Yeah, exactly.” You sink down into the booth. “I guess it didn’t occur to me, or us, that we would have to work this outside of The Hideout as well.”
“Same. I guess we need to be a couple like…everywhere?”
You shrug your shoulders, “As long as we’re together-”
“YOU GUYS ARE DATING?!” Steve yells from behind the counter. You moan, as Eddie slaps his forehead.
“So let me run through this again-”
“You really are a dingus” Robin speaks up from next to Steve, who has now joined you in your booth; ice cream long melted down.
“Shut up. So you slept with girl and it went downhill-”
“Correct.”
“So then you lied to her and said you have a girlfriend when you really didn’t-”
“Yup.”
“So THEN you randomly kiss the first girl you see-” Steve points to you, “and now you’re both pretending to be in a relationship until she finds someone new-”
“YES.” You both speak in unison, slamming your hands down on the table. How can explaining this three times in a row be so hard to understand for someone?
“Huh, I can’t believe this.”
“Trust me we can’t either-”
You run your hands over your face, dragging them down slowly. “SO, if and when you see Claire please just play along as best as you can. I’ll forward you the email I sent to everyone who knows we’re faking it.”
“You, you send everyone an email?” Steve asks, bewildered.
“Is it color coordinated?" Robin asks afterwards, excited.
summary: eddie munson lived through the upside down but he wasnt supposed to. you and dustin just refused to leave him behind. the hard part wasn't getting him to safety or dealing with a town split in 4-- the aftermath of living and being in a coma-- thats the hardest part.
warnings/tags: angst, grief, stranger things level violence, injury, blood, eddie lives, happy ending
masterlist
The Upside Down didn’t want to let you go.
It pulled at your boots with every step, vines twitching like they were tasting the air for fresh blood. Red lightning split the sky in jagged veins, and the floating particles stuck to the sweat on your face, your neck, your shaking hands. You and Dustin had been running since the moment you heard the first distant screech—too long, too far, too late already.
“Faster!” Dustin’s voice cracked as he sprinted beside you, curls plastered to his forehead. His spear was clutched so tight the wood creaked. “He said he’d buy us time, not—he’s not supposed to be the one who—”
“He’s not dying,” you cut in, the words raw and furious. Your lungs burned. Every breath tasted like copper and rot. “We get there, we drag his stubborn ass back through the gate, and we get him to a hospital. That’s the plan now. Say it, Dustin.”
Dustin’s eyes were glassy, wild. “We get him back. We get him to the hospital. He doesn’t get to be a hero if it kills him. Not this time.”
The sound hit you before you saw him.
A wet, tearing chorus of wings and teeth. High, chittering screams that made your bones vibrate. And underneath it—Eddie’s voice, hoarse and defiant, breaking into a ragged shout that turned into a cry of pain so sharp it felt like it split your own chest open.
You crested the hill and the world narrowed to a single, horrific point.
Eddie was on his knees in the middle of the street that was more vine than road, surrounded by a living storm of demobats. Dozens. Their leathery wings beat so fast they blurred. One had latched onto his shoulder, another tore at the side of his neck. Blood sprayed with every vicious pull. His denim vest was shredded. The Hellfire shirt beneath was soaked through, dark and clinging. His spear was snapped in two, the jagged end still clutched in one fist like he refused to let go even as they dragged him down.
“EDDIE!”
You didn’t remember deciding to move. One second you were frozen, the next you were charging, spear raised, a scream ripping out of your throat that didn’t sound human. Dustin was right beside you, face twisted with something between terror and pure rage.
“Get off him!” Dustin roared, stabbing upward into the swarm. A bat shrieked and fell, wings twitching. “You don’t get to take him!”
The next minutes were nothing but chaos and blood.
You swung until your arms went numb, until your spear was slick and the bats started turning on the new threats. One clipped your arm hard enough to tear skin— you barely felt it. Dustin took a hit to the side of his head that knocked his vision out for a brief moment but he didn’t stop. You fought like the world would end if you didn’t—because it would. If Eddie died here, something in both of you would break and never come back.
Slowly, horribly, the swarm thinned. Some bats dropped. Others wheeled away into the crimson sky like they’d gotten what they came for. Or maybe the music still faintly thumping from the trailer had finally lost its pull. You didn’t care. You were already dropping to your knees beside the crumpled figure on the ground.
“Eddie—Eddie, look at me—”
He was worse up close. So much worse.
Deep, ragged tears across his chest and arms. A vicious bite on the side of his neck that wouldn’t stop pulsing blood no matter how hard you pressed your hands to it. His face was pale under the grime and red, lips already taking on a bluish tint. But his eyes—those dark, doe eyes—fluttered open when he heard your voice. They found you first. Then Dustin.
A weak, bloody smile ghosted across his mouth.
“Hey, Henderson… told you… to get the hell out…” His voice was wet, bubbling. “And you… brought backup? Knew you were… smart…”
“Shut up,” Dustin choked, already yanking off his hoodie, pressing it hard against the worst wound on Eddie’s side. His hands were shaking so badly the fabric slipped. “Don’t you dare joke right now. We’re fixing this. You hear me? We’re fixing it.”
You tore the bottom of your own shirt into strips with your teeth, tying one tight around Eddie’s upper arm where a bite had hit something important—blood was spurting too fast. Your fingers slipped in the warmth of it. Too much. God, there was too much.
“Pressure,” you said, voice cracking but steady enough. “Keep pressure. We have to move him. The gates not far—if we cut through the edge of the woods—”
“Woods?” Dustin’s laugh was half a sob. “There aren’t woods anymore, there’s just—Jesus, he’s losing too much blood. What if we move him and it gets worse? What if we can’t stop it and he—”
“Then he dies here,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. The fear made your voice shake. “He dies in this shithole because we were too scared to try. That’s not happening. Help me get him up. Now.”
Eddie groaned when you and Dustin hauled him between you, one arm over each of your shoulders. His weight nearly buckled your knees. His boots dragged, leaving dark smears on the ash-gray ground. Every step jarred a fresh sound out of him—half gasp, half whimper—and it carved something hollow into your chest.
“Easy,” you murmured, close to his ear, trying to keep your voice from breaking. “We’ve got you. Just stay awake. Yell at us if you have to. Call us idiots. Anything.”
“‘M… not… an idiot,” Eddie slurred, head lolling against your shoulder. His blood was soaking through your clothes now, warm and sticky and terrifying. “Just… really… bad at running away. Told you… I didn’t run this time…”
"Yeah, well, you’re gonna run with us now,” Dustin said fiercely, tears cutting clean tracks down his dirty face. “All the way back to the real world. Then you’re gonna let doctors poke you and you’re gonna complain about the food and you’re gonna live, Munson. You got that?”
Eddie tried to laugh. It came out as a wet cough that flecked more blood across his lips. “Bossy… little shit…”
“Damn right I am.” Dustin’s voice cracked again. He adjusted his grip, nearly stumbling over a twitching vine that reached for the blood trail they were leaving. “You think I’m letting you check out after everything? After you made Hellfire feel like home? After you let me be your friend even when I was just some kid? No. Not happening.”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. The gate was visible now—a jagged, pulsing wound in the ground ahead, the membrane between worlds thin and wrong and the only way out. Every step toward it felt like the Upside Down was trying to drag you back, to keep its prize.
“He’s fading,” you said quietly, just loud enough for Dustin to hear. Your arm under Eddie’s was screaming from the strain. “His pulse is… Dustin, we have to go faster.”
“I know.” Dustin’s face was set, terrified, determined. “Eddie—hey—remember that campaign you said you were gonna do after Vecna? The last hurrah before graduation? We can't do that without our dungeon master. So you better pull through this shit and maks it happen.”
Eddie’s fingers twitched against your shoulder, weak but there. “You… do it… Henderson. You’re… gonna be… better than me…”
“Bullshit,” you whispered fiercely. “You’re not allowed to say goodbye like that. We’re not doing goodbye. We’re doing ‘see you in the hospital, asshole.’ Got it?”
The gate loomed closer. Ten yards. Five. The air around it hummed like a live wire, smelling of ozone and something metallic and wrong.
“On three,” you said. “We go through together. Don’t you let go of him, Dustin.”
“Never,” Dustin answered, voice thick.
Eddie was barely conscious now, mumbling something about Wayne and Corroded Coffin and how he was sorry he was such a freak. You and Dustin answered at the same time, overlapping, desperate.
“You’re our freak.”
“You’re the best one we’ve got.”
“On three. One… two… three—”
You pushed through the gate as one.
The sensation was like being dragged through freezing, burning jelly that clung and tore and finally—finally—let go. Normal air hit your lungs like a slap. The sky above was dark velvet scattered with real stars. Distant sirens wailed somewhere in Hawkins. The ground under your feet was solid, ordinary asphalt instead of ash and rot.
You and Dustin lowered Eddie carefully to the ground just on the other side of the gate, both of you breathing like you’d run miles. His eyes were closed now, but his chest still rose—shallow, stuttering, but there.
“We did it,” Dustin whispered, staring at the blood on his hands like he couldn’t believe it was real. “We got him out. We actually—”
“He’s not safe yet.” You were already pressing fresh pressure to the neck wound, your own hands trembling now that the adrenaline had somewhere to go. “Hospital. We need a car, a phone, anything. Flag someone down or—”
Headlights cut through the dark at the end of the street. Maybe one of the others had circled back, or maybe it was pure luck. You didn’t care. You just started yelling, voice raw and cracking.
“Help! We need help! He’s hurt—he’s dying—please!”
Dustin stayed crouched beside Eddie, one hand gripping his friend’s bloody fingers like an anchor.
“You hear that, Munson?” he said, tears dripping onto Eddie’s torn vest. “Help’s coming. You made it. You didn’t run… and we didn’t let you go. So you better fight now. You hear me? You fight.”
Eddie’s eyes didn’t open, but his fingers twitched once against Dustin’s—weak, but there.
The hospital became your whole world.
The fluorescent lights in the ICU hummed like a living thing, too bright, too steady, nothing like the flickering red lightning you’d left behind in the Upside Down. Eddie had made it through surgery—barely. The doctors used words like “massive blood loss,” “hypovolemic shock,” “he coded twice on the table.” You heard them through a fog, still wearing Dustin’s blood-stiff hoodie over your own torn shirt, your hands and forearms crusted dark red-brown no matter how many times you scrubbed them in the hospital sink.
You didn’t leave. You couldn't.
They tried, at first. A nurse with kind eyes told you visiting hours were over, that family only could stay overnight. Dustin had backed you up with a voice that cracked but didn’t waver—“She’s the reason he’s still breathing. She’s not going anywhere.” After that they stopped asking. A cot was wheeled in. You ignored it. The chair beside Eddie’s bed became yours. You sat with your knees pulled up, one hand wrapped around his where it lay pale and IV-taped against the white sheet, the other resting lightly over the thick bandages on his chest so you could feel the rise and fall, however shallow.
The first night bled into the second. Then the third. The beeping monitors became your heartbeat. Every time his oxygen dipped or the pressure alarm went off, your whole body went rigid until the numbers climbed again. You talked to him when the nurses weren’t in the room. Stupid things, at first—Dustin’s latest Hellfire campaign notes, the way the Party had started leaving little gifts on the windowsill, how the town was rebuilding. Then quieter things. The way his voice had sounded when he told Dustin to run. The way his blood had felt hot and slick between your fingers. The way you’d screamed his name like it could anchor him to the world.
“You don’t get to be the hero who dies,” you whispered one night, forehead pressed to the back of his hand. “Not after everything. Not after you fought. You can't die for this stupid fucking town.”
Lucas found you on the fourth day.
You’d stepped out for the first time in hours—just long enough to pace the hallway and try to remember what air tasted like when it wasn’t filtered through antiseptic and fear. Max’s room was two doors down. Lucas was in the chair beside her bed the same way you were with Eddie— shoulders hunched, one hand holding hers, eyes red-rimmed but dry. He looked up when you passed. Something in your face must have cracked something in his, because he stood, walked out into the hall, and pulled you into a hug that smelled like hospital soap and the faint metallic ghost of the blood you both felt was permanently etched in your skin.
After that, the meetings overlapped.
You and Lucas took turns fetching coffee that tasted too burnt and was always too hot. You sat together in the unnervingly bright family lounge at 3 a.m., trading stories in low voices so you wouldn’t wake the ghosts. He confided in you about the attic, about the way Max had floated and then fallen, the sound her body made hitting the ground. You told him about the demobats, about Eddie on his knees in the street surrounding him like a tornado of destruction, about the way Dustin’s spear had trembled in his hands and how you’d both decided, without speaking, that dying there together was better than coming back without him.
“You're here,” Lucas said one night, staring at the vending machine like it held answers. “With Eddie. Even when it's bad. Even when they said he might not…”
You didn’t answer with words. Just reached over and squeezed his shoulder. He squeezed back. That was the bond. Two people holding the line while the people they loved fought their way back from places that didn’t want to give them up.
The rest of the Party rotated through like clockwork.
Dustin was there every day after school, reading Eddie the new campaign he was working on. Mike brought comics and tried to make jokes that fell flat but made you smile anyway. Will sat quietly and sketched Eddie’s sleeping face, capturing the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hair fanned across the pillow like he was still on stage. Eleven stood at the foot of the bed for long stretches, eyes closed, like she was listening for something only she could hear. Steve and Robin brought food you mostly didn’t eat and sat on either side of you like bookends, Robin rambling about nothing until the silence stopped feeling like it was going to swallow you whole. Nancy came when she could— she didn’t say much, but her hand on your arm was steady.
Hopper showed up on the sixth day.
He filled the doorway like he always had—broad, gruff, eyes that had seen too much and still kept looking. Joyce was with him, carrying a thermos of actual decent coffee. He waited until Lucas had stepped out to check on Max, until the nurses had done their checks and left you alone with the steady beep of Eddie’s heart monitor.
“Kid,” he said, voice low. “I need you to hear this.”
You turned, still holding Eddie’s hand.
Hopper rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s done. The feds, the local PD, the whole goddamn mess. I called in every contact I had left from… before. Evidence got lost. Witnesses changed their stories. The official line is that Eddie Munson was a victim of the same shit that took Chrissy and the others—some kind of freak storm or gas leak or whatever the hell they’re spinning this week. His name’s clear. When he wakes up, he walks out of here a free man. No cuffs, no questions.”
Joyce stepped forward and pressed the thermos into your free hand. Her eyes were wet. “He’s going to wake up,” she said softly. “They both are. We don’t lose our people. Not this time.”
You nodded because your throat had closed. Hopper squeezed your shoulder once—rough, grounding—then left you with the coffee and the news and the man in the bed who still hadn’t opened his eyes.
The crash came on the afternoon of the eighth day.
It had been quiet. Too quiet. Lucas had taken Max’s mom to the cafeteria. The Party was at school or work or pretending to have normal lives for a few hours. The nurses had just left after changing Eddie’s dressings— you’d seen the raw, stitched edges of the worst bite on his neck, the way the skin around it was still angry and purple. You’d helped, holding the basin, murmuring nonsense to him the whole time like he could hear you.
Now the room was empty except for the two of you and the machines.
You sat in the chair, his hand in both of yours, and the weight of everything you’d been holding back for eight days—eight days of blood and screaming and not sleeping and pretending you were fine because Dustin and Lucas and all the kids needed you to be fine—landed on your chest like a demobat latching on.
Your shoulders started shaking first. Then the tears came hot and silent, then not silent at all. You pressed your forehead to the back of his hand, to the calluses still there from years of guitar strings, and the sobs tore out of you like something had finally ripped open.
“Eddie,” you choked, voice wrecked. “Eddie, please. I can’t—I keep seeing it. The way they were tearing at you. The blood on my hands, on Dustin’s face, the way you smiled at us like you were already tryinf to say goodbye. You weren’t supposed to fucking stay. You were supposed to run and you didn’t and I’m so fucking proud of you and so fucking angry and I can’t lose you now. Not after we dragged you through that gate. Not after Hopper fixed everything. You’re free, you asshole. You get to be free. So wake up. Yell at me. Call me pathetic. Anything. Just—please. Please come back.”
Your tears soaked into the bandages on his wrist. The monitors kept their steady rhythm. The light through the blinds striped the floor in gold and shadow. You cried until your ribs hurt, until your voice gave out, until there was nothing left but the raw, animal sound of someone who had run out of ways to be strong.
And then—
A twitch.
Fingers, weak but deliberate, curling around yours.
You froze.
Another twitch. A shift in the bed. The heart monitor picked up, just a little. You lifted your head, vision blurred, and watched his eyelids flutter like they were fighting through concrete.
“Eddie?”
A low, raspy sound—half groan, half breath. His head turned a fraction on the pillow. Those dark eyes, the ones that had always found you first, cracked open. They were glassy, unfocused, but they found your face. A tiny, exhausted smile ghosted across his cracked lips.
“Hey…” The word was barely air, but it was his voice. Rough. Alive. “Told you… I wasn't going…anywhere.”
Your breath hitched so hard it hurt. Fresh tears—different ones—spilled over as you leaned in, one hand coming up to cradle the side of his face so gently it was like touching something holy.
“You’re here,” you whispered, voice cracking on every syllable. “You’re—you came back.”
His thumb brushed weakly over your knuckles. “Heard you… crying. Couldn’t… let you do that alone.” His eyes drifted shut for a second, then fought back open. “Dustin…?”
“Safe. Everyone’s safe. Hopper—he cleared your name. You’re free, Eddie. You made it.”
The smile got a little stronger, even through the pain and the drugs and the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “Knew you’d… drag my stubborn ass back.”
You laughed through the tears, the sound wet and broken and the most beautiful thing you’d heard in eight days. “Damn right I did.”
His fingers tightened—just a fraction, just enough—and you felt it all the way down to the marrow. The machines kept beeping. The light kept falling in stripes across the bed. Somewhere down the hall, Lucas was probably sitting with Max, and the Party was probably arguing about who got to bring the next round of terrible hospital food, and the Upside Down was still out there, still hungry.
But here, in this room, Eddie Munson was awake.
And you were still holding his hand.
The healing was slow, brutal, and beautiful in the way only survival could be.
The first week after Eddie woke was the hardest. He was weak, voice wrecked from unuse, body a map of stitched-together ruin. The demobat bites had torn deep—jagged across his chest, one vicious tear along his ribs that had nicked something important, another high on his neck that still pulsed dangerously close to the artery. The doctors kept saying “miracle.” You kept saying his name like a prayer every time the pain meds wore off and his hand found yours in the dark.
You stayed.
Every night. Every sponge bath the nurses let you help with. Every time they changed the dressings and you saw the raw edges, the way his blood still sometimes welled fresh if he moved wrong. You didn’t flinch. You traced the skin around the wounds with careful fingers while he watched you through half-lidded eyes, something dark and wondering in his gaze.
“You’re still here,” he rasped one night, after a bad dream had him gasping and reaching for a spear that wasn’t there. You’d climbed into the narrow hospital bed without asking, curling carefully against his good side so he could feel your heartbeat. “Even after… everything.”
“I told you,” you whispered against his collarbone, right above a healing bite. “We don’t do goodbye. We do see-you-in-the-hospital-asshole. And now we do see-you-at-home.”
He didn’t answer with words. Just turned his face into your hair and breathed you in like you were the only clean thing left in the world.
The Party became a rotating army of support.
Dustin showed up after school with homework he pretended was his but was really updates on Hellfire and the latest campaign. He and Eddie would argue softly about the story until Eddie’s voice gave out, then Dustin would just sit there, hand on Eddie’s arm like he was still anchoring him through the gate. Mike brought more comics and bad jokes. Ones that Eddie could hear and roast him got. Will would come in with Eleven while sat quietly and sometimes just… looked at Eddie like she was checking the shape of his soul was still intact. Steve and Robin brought food and conversation and the kind of normal that made the hospital feel less like a tomb. Nancy came with practical things—clothes that weren’t hospital gowns, a new leather jacket the whole party pitched in to buy because the old one was “evidence” now.
Lucas was there too, between shifts with Max. Your bond had deepened into something wordless and necessary. Late nights in the lounge, you’d trade stories—his about when he first met Max, how he owes her a movie date. Yours about Eddie before he joined the party. Sometimes you cried together. Sometimes you just sat in silence until one of you could breathe again. When Max had a good day, Lucas would smile like the sun coming out. When she didn’t, you brought him coffee and didn’t ask him to talk.
Wayne visited twice in those first weeks. The second time, Eddie watched his uncle’s hands shake while pouring water and made a decision he didn’t voice yet. After Wayne left, Eddie stared at the ceiling for a long time before saying, quiet, “He’s already carried enough for me. I can’t put this on him too.”
You didn’t push. You just squeezed his hand and let him come to it in his own time.
The government men came on week three.
Two suits, polite, with nondisclosure papers and a settlement offer that made your eyes widen. Hush money. For the “earthquake.” For the “tragic accident” that had nearly killed all of you. For everything you’d seen and done and bled through. You signed because what else was there to do? The money was obscene. Enough for a fresh start. Enough for the brand-new house on the edge of town you’d bought two weeks later—empty, echoing, with big windows that let in real sunlight and a bedroom big enough for two people who’d almost died in the dark.
You told Eddie about it on a good day, when he was sitting up and the physical therapist had just left him sweating and grinning because he’d walked the length of the hallway without the cane for the first time.
“Government paid out,” you said, casual like you were talking about the weather. “Big settlement. I bought a house. It’s… empty. Brand new. Haven't really had time to decorate.”
He’d looked at you for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then he’d reached out, thumb brushing the scar on your forearm from where a demobat had clipped you during the rescue.
“You understand,” he said. Not a question.
You nodded. “Yeah. I understand.”
He didn’t say anything else that day. But after that, his touches lingered longer. His eyes never seem to have left you.
Two months in, the scars were pink and raised, permanent. The worst of the pain had faded to a dull ache he only noticed when it rained. He could play guitar again, softly, and the first time he managed a full verse of “Master of Puppets” without his hands shaking, the entire Party had cheered so loud a nurse threatened to kick them all out.
The doctor cleared him on a Monday afternoon.
“Rest. Physical therapy three times a week. No lifting anything heavier than a guitar for another month. And if anything feels off—anything—you come back immediately.”
Eddie sat on the edge of the hospital bed in the clothes you’d brought him—soft black jeans, your faded Hellfire shirt, his new leather jacket draped over his shoulders. He looked at you, really looked, and the whole room seemed to narrow to just the two of you.
“I’m not going to Wayne’s,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “Eddie—”
“He’s good. He’s the best. But he’s old, and he’s already buried too many people. If I show up like this he’ll worry himself into an early grave. I won’t do that to him.” He reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together. “But you... You saw the worst of it. You get it. The blood. The dark. The way it still feels like it’s under my skin sometimes. You're my best friend.”
He swallowed, eyes bright and fierce and so full of everything he’d been holding back.
“And that house you bought? It’s empty. Waiting. I want to fill it. With us. With music and bad cooking and the Party crashing in and you yelling at me when I push too hard in PT. I want to wake up every morning and know the person next to me understands what it felt like to almost die in that hellhole and still chose to stay. I want… I want to go home with you. If you’ll have me.”
Your throat closed. The tears came fast and hot, but they were good ones this time. You stepped between his knees, hands gentle on his face, careful of the healing bite on his neck. The space between you feeling too intimate for "just friends" but you don't care.
“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes. Come home with me.”
The Party helped pack his few belongings from the hospital room. Dustin cried a little and tried to hide it. Lucas hugged you both and said Max would want to hear all about the new house when she woke up. Steve drove you—Eddie in the passenger seat, you in the back with your hand on his shoulder the whole way because neither of you could stand the distance yet.
The house was exactly as you’d left it— too big, echoing, sunlight pouring through windows that had never seen monsters. Empty rooms waiting for life. A big kitchen. A living room with space for a couch and amps. A bedroom with a king bed you’d bought on impulse because it felt like enough room for two codependant people who’d survived the end of the world.
Eddie stood in the middle of the living room, leather jacket still on, looking around like he couldn’t quite believe it was real. Then he turned to you. The sunlight caught the pink edges of the scars on his neck and chest where his shirt dipped low. He looked tired. He looked alive. He looked beautiful.
He crossed the space in three steps and pulled you into him. His face buried in your neck, arms wrapping around your waist like he was anchoring himself to the only solid thing left.
“Home,” he murmured, voice rough with everything he wasn’t saying out loud. “Our home.”
You held him back just as tight, one hand sliding up under his jacket to rest over the worst of the scars on his back. The ones you’d pressed your hands to in the Upside Down. The ones that had almost taken him from you.
“Welcome home, Eddie,” you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes shining with something that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the future stretching out in this empty house—scarred, alive, and finally, finally theirs.
And for the first time since the demobats, the world felt like it might actually let you both keep breathing.
The new house didn’t feel like home right away. It felt like a stage someone had built for people who were supposed to be normal. The walls were too clean. You couldn't hear any of your neighbors fighting. Sunlight poured through the big windows like it was trying too hard, and every room echoed until you started filling them—blankets on the couch, amps in the corner, Eddie’s guitar case propped against the bedroom wall like it had always lived there.
Life was an adjustment.
Eddie still moved like his body was a borrowed thing. Some days the scars pulled tight when he reached for a glass or bent to tie his boots. You helped without making it a thing—steady hands on his ribs when he changed the dressings, thumbs brushing the raised pink lines of the worst bites while he watched you with that dark, unreadable look. Physical therapy at home was brutal some mornings. You counted reps with him, called him a stubborn asshole when he pushed too hard, and wiped the sweat off his temple when he finally let himself rest against you on the living room floor.
The government called it “quarantine protocol.” The military moved into your once quiet town. Walls went up, the fissures in the ground covered up by crude sheet metal to keep the world from learning the truth. The people who stayed in Hawkins officially trapped by a truth no one would believe in.
The kids were a constant.
They showed up in Steve’s car or on bikes, sometimes with Nancy riding shotgun. Dustin was there almost every other day, bringing updates from the rebuilding of the town and working on campaigns here and there. Lucas came when he could, eyes tired from Max’s room but lighter every time he saw Eddie upright and breathing. Mike, Will and Eleven always came together as a trio, the three of them experienced something we'll never understand out in California. Robin and Steve brought weed and any new vinyls they could sneak out of their new jobs at WSQK.
They all tried to keep it light. But one afternoon, a week into the new house, Dustin asked the question everyone had been dancing around.
“So… the coma. Was it like… dreams? Or just black? Did you see anything?”
Eddie went still on the couch, guitar balanced across his lap. His fingers paused on the strings. For a second the only sound was the low hum of the amp. Then he gave that crooked, deflecting smile—the one that used to get him out of detention and never quite reached his eyes anymore.
“Mostly just dark, Henderson. Like someone turned the lights off and forgot to pay the bill. Nothing worth writing songs about.” He ruffled Dustin’s curls and changed the subject to a new campaign idea so fast the kid didn’t have time to push.
You caught the way Eddie’s hand shook later when he reached for his water glass. You didn’t say anything. Just slid onto the couch beside him after everyone left and let him pull you into his side without asking.
That night the nightmare hit like the demobats had never left.
It started with him jerking awake around 2 a.m., a raw, broken sound tearing out of his throat. You were already moving—sleeping at his hospital bed had trained your body to wake the second his breathing changed. He was sitting up, sheets tangled around his legs, hands clawing at his own chest like he was trying to rip the bites off. Tears were already streaking down his face, silent at first, then not silent at all.
“Eddie—hey, hey, I’m here—” You climbed into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thighs so you could frame his face with both hands. His skin was clammy. His eyes were wide and unseeing, still trapped in whatever hell the dream had dragged him back to. “You’re home. You’re with me. The bats are gone. We got you out.”
He folded forward into you with a choked sob, face pressed to your chest, arms locking around your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from falling back through the rift. You held him through the worst of it—rocked him, whispered the same grounding words over and over until his breathing started to hitch less violently. Your fingers carded through his tangled curls, your other hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, careful of the scars but not avoiding them.
When the shaking eased enough for him to speak, you reached for the nightstand without letting go of him. The familiar ritual of rolling a joint calmed something in both of you. The crisp sound of the paper, the flick of the lighter, the first slow inhale he took like it was oxygen. You stayed tangled—legs wrapped around each other, his back against the headboard, your body curled into his chest so he could feel your heartbeat against the worst of the scars. The joint passed between you in the dark.
He was quiet for a long time, just smoking and letting you hold him. Then, voice hoarse and small in a way you’d never heard from him before, he started talking.
“The nightmare was the Upside Down again,” he said, staring at the glowing tip of the joint like it held answers. “Bats. Blood. You and Dustin too far away. Same shit as always.” He swallowed hard. “But the coma… it wasn’t just that. I saw my mom a lot.”
Your hand stilled in his hair, but you didn’t interrupt. You just held him tighter.
“She was happy,” he whispered, and his voice cracked on the word. Fresh tears welled up and spilled over before he could stop them. “Really happy. Sometimes she looked older—like if she’d gotten to live longer, you know? Gray in her hair but still smiling that same smile she has in the old pictures. And sometimes… sometimes I’d see us. You and me. Happy. In love. Like we’d been together for years. You’d be laughing at something stupid I said and I’d have my arms around you and it felt so fucking real I could smell your shampoo.”
He let out a shaky breath, the joint forgotten between his fingers. You took it gently and set it aside, then cupped his face again, thumbs brushing away the tears as they kept coming.
“And then there were the family ones,” he said, voice breaking completely now. “You, me, my mom, and Wayne. All together at some family function—picnic or something in a backyard that looked like it could’ve been ours. And there were these little kids running around. Curly hair. Loud as hell. Laughing. Calling her Grandma and Wayne Grandpa and you… Mom.” A sob tore out of him so hard it shook his whole frame. “They had my hair. Your eyes. I don’t know. But they were ours. And everyone was happy. No running. No monsters. Just… a real family. The kind I never got to have with her when I was little. The kind I never thought I’d get at all.”
He was crying in earnest now—shoulders shaking, face buried in your neck, hot tears soaking into your skin. You wrapped yourself around him completely, one hand in his hair, the other stroking slow lines down his back over the scars that had almost taken him from this future.
“I thought it was just the dark at first,” he choked out. “But it kept showing me that. Over and over. Like the Upside Down was trying to drag me under and something else was showing me what I’d lose if I let it. And now I’m here and you’re real and the house is real and I want it so fucking bad it hurts. I want that with you. The happy. The loud kids. The love that doesn’t have to hide from the world. But I’m scared as hell I’m gonna wake up and it’ll be gone again.”
You didn’t rush to fix it with words. You just held him—tight and steady—while he cried out the grief and the hope and the terrifying, beautiful weight of wanting a future he’d only ever seen in the dark. When the tears finally slowed, you pressed your forehead to his, noses brushing, and whispered against his mouth.
“It’s not gone. It’s right here. We’re building it. One day at a time. You and me. Your mom would’ve loved it. Wayne already does. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He pulled you closer until there was no space left between you, legs tangled, arms locked around each other like the world might still try to take this away. The joint burned low in the ashtray. The new house was quiet around you. But he was still crying—not the sharp, panicked sobs from the nightmare, but the quieter, deeper kind that came from somewhere older and more fragile. His face stayed buried in your neck, arms locked around your waist so tight it almost hurt. His whole body trembled against yours like he was terrified that if he loosened his grip even a fraction, you’d disappear back into the Upside Down with the rest of the dream.
“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up,” he whispered, voice wrecked and small against your skin. His fingers fisted in the back of your shirt, knuckles white. “Back in that hospital bed. Or worse—still in the street with the bats and the blood and you and Dustin screaming. But then I feel you. Right here. Breathing. And it scares the shit out of me how much I want this to be real.”
You held him just as fiercely, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other stroking slow, steady lines down his spine over the raised scars. “It is real, Eddie. Every single part of it. You made it out of that hellscape. You fought to stay with us. You didn't run away and you're a god damn hero for that. You are so loved Eddie Munson. You have no idea how loved you are. This is real. It's real and its safe and I'm here and I'm not going anywhere.”
A fresh wave of tears hit him. He made a broken sound and pulled you even closer—if that was possible— legs tangled so completely you couldn’t tell where yours ended and his began. His face stayed hidden against your throat like he couldn’t bear to look at you while the words kept spilling out.
“I saw her so clearly,” he choked. “My mom. Happy. Older. Like the universe was giving me back the years we never got. And then it showed me you. Us. You’d look at me like you always do when I was being a dramatic asshole and you’d just… laugh and pull me in anyway. And the kids—those little curly-haired tornadoes calling you Mom and running to Wayne and latching onto his legs like how I used to do. My mom there with all of us like she never had to leave too soon. And I wanted it so fucking bad it hurt worse than the bats ever did.”
Every breath he took shuddered through both of you.
“I almost died without ever telling you,” he rasped. “Without ever saying that I’ve been in love with you since before all of this. Since the day we met. Since I was lucky enough that you decided that I was your person. And now we’re here in this house that feels like it’s waiting for exactly that future and I’m so scared I’m gonna fuck it up or wake up or lose you. I can't lose you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, face open and raw in a way you’d never seen from him before. Vulnerable. Terrified. Hopeful. All at once.
His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was memorizing the shape of you in case it vanished.
“So I need to know,” he whispered, voice breaking on every word. “I need to hear you say it again. That this is real. That I’m not still dreaming in that fucking hospital bed. That you’re not gonna disappear when the sun comes up.”
A shaky breath. His forehead dropped to yours, noses brushing, tears mixing between you.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” The words came out small and desperate, like they’d been trapped in his chest. “Please. Officially. I want to call you mine. I want to wake up every morning in this house knowing you chose this—chose me—after everything. After the highschool bullshit. All the times I've made a fool of myself to make you laugh. I can't just go back to being your best friend. I want to live life with you. The family. The fighting. The growing old together. All of it. But I need you to say yes first. I need to know it’s real.”
You didn’t make him wait. Your hands slid into his hair, gentle but sure, and you kissed him once—soft, salt-tasting, full of every promise you’d kept since the moment you dragged him through the gate.
“It’s real,” you said against his mouth, voice steady even as your own eyes burned. “Every scar on your body. Every damn breath in your lungs. This house. It’s all real, Eddie. And I’m yours. I’ve been yours since the day I met you. Yes. God, yes. I’ll be your girlfriend. I’ll be your future. I’ll be anything you want. It’s real. We’re real. And I’m not going anywhere. I love you Eddie. I'll always love you.”
A sound tore out of him—half sob, half relief—and he crushed you to him again, face buried in your neck, arms locked so tight you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. He didn’t let go for a long time. Just held you like the world might still try to take this away, breathing you in, whispering broken little thank-yous and I love yous into your skin between the tears that kept falling.
You stayed tangled like that for the rest of the night—his body wrapped around yours, your hands never stopping their slow, grounding strokes through his hair. The dark settled soft around the new house. And somewhere in the quiet, between the whispered promises and the way he kept checking that you were still there, Eddie Munson finally let himself believe that the future he’d seen in the dark wasn’t a trick.
Description: Eddie Munson has a crush, the only issue is he can’t even look you in the eye nevermind talk to you face to face. His solution? Taking advantage of your makeshift therapy clinic that you run in the abandoned toilet block round the back of Hawkins High School.
Request here! Hope you enjoy this.. ♥️ w/c: 6k
Pairing: Shy!Eddie Munson x Outcast!Reader.
Tags: Strangers to friends to lovers, romance, mystery.
⚠️: Mentions of Disordered Eating! Death, grief, Two cuties, fluff, angst, bullying, issues with self worth and confidence, loneliness.
Fluff, angst and a happy ending. My blog is 18+ MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE
Authors note: I am currently using Ellipsus to write and oh my god trying to transfer my work over is a nightmare! Anyways, rant over… Re-blogs and comments are ALWAYS welcome in this house and I thank you for your time xoxox
Almost.
One of the more unfortunate words to exist within the English language.
I almost made it. I almost kissed you. I almost told you.
For Eddie, it was gutting. He almost made it out of this hellish tomb. He almost flew but the sun had other plans for him. So, he fell, and when his plummeting body hit that concrete he wasn’t sure if he could get back up.
He almost didn’t….
Until he met you.
The quiet girl who often only existed within the realms of his daydreams. The girl who radiated light, not in the harsh way of the beating sun but like the comforting glow of the full moon at night. The one person who made Eddie’s palms sweat and his throat swell. He couldn’t even manage a meek ‘Hello,’ in passing, too shy. Too undeserving. So, his eyes would glide along the floor until he caught only a glimpse of your feet and even after you were long gone he was unable to look back over his shoulder at you. He could smell you though, the freshness of your perfume mixed with your shampoo if you ad washed your hair that day. Little things that kept the wheel of his imagination churning on.
It’s not that you were popular, actually, you were quite the opposite. An outcast, just like him, only prettier and a hell of a lot better at avoiding their loathsome stares and targeted brutality. You hid it better, suppressed it until you could walk over it, whereas Eddie couldn’t help but be ridiculously vocal about it. He didn’t care, not entirely, and he was nearly out of this shit hole any ways. Make waves or drown, right?
The only way Eddie was able to pluck up the courage to talk to you was through the thin wall of a bathroom stall where you would meet every Wednesday just as the final bell blew to dismiss everyone home. Over the last few months you had started a somewhat therapeutic clinic in the abandoned bathroom block hidden at the back of the high school. Now the forgotten space was used for the occasional smokers and substance takers. You claimed the middle stall as your own, cleaning it up slightly and treating it as your office. Sometimes you’d eat lunch there if you were feeling particularly vulnerable that day. The cheerleaders could be mean sometimes. Especially if provoked.
Outwardly you were overlooked and trodden on by your peers, but this separate identity of yours was praised and championed. It was strange, living both lives apart from the other, but you liked the anonymity. The shadows felt safe.
Some visited you regularly and when they couldn’t afford the $5 fee they would bring you other items of value like a fresh pack of ballpoint pens or something they had baked at home and brought for you to try. A lot of them were sweet, truly, but quite a few couldn’t handle the truth. You’d been yelled at numerous times, spat at through the walls and rattled to the core. They came around, eventually, all they needed was time and acceptance came with that.
For example, when you explained to Chrissy Cunningham that her reasons for feeling ill after eating wasn’t something necessarily physical but something punishing her mind. You suggested that she looked into the disorders of bulimia and anorexia and encouraged her to identify what caused her flare ups and triggered her illness. She had wailed, cursing your bloodline as she fled the building in tears. The following week she returned with a new outlook and a readiness to try to get better. You had helped her to reach out to a professional councillor for treatment and that’s what your message was. Healing took time and effort but it all started with opening up to someone worth trusting.
You slowly became that person for the students of Hawkins High.
—
Eddie was mistrusting at first. A nervous clam that was hard to crack open. At the beginning, your sessions together consisted of weighty silence with the occasional breath as one of you felt the urge to talk. More often than not people just need to sit with someone nonjudgmental. To know they are there and they aren’t alone. You liked those moments too, you felt allowed to exist as yourself with him. Unmasked.
“Hey…” The word left Eddie’s heart scrambling in his chest, as if he had done something wrong. He knew he was nervous over nothing but he couldn’t shake his need for control. If he opened up to you he would be totally exposed. Naked and willing. Unable to take it back. Unable to hide anymore.
The sound of denim rustling and a lightweight chain chiming hit your ears as Eddie fidgeted next to you, evidently uncomfortable and searching frantically for something to ground him. You expected this session to be no different to the previous.
“Please, don’t feel pressured to speak. We can take this at your own pace.” In front of you your eyes spotted a small beetle scuttling across the dirty tiled floor and you internally squirmed at the small creature.
“Sorry…” He choked as he dragged his hands through his hair, pushing his dampening fringe back and away from his sweaty forehead, “This, uh, this is new to me… I’m sorry.”
Instinctively you wanted to reach out and comfort him, “Don’t worry, me too. Sort of…” A soft smile found your face as Eddie released a sigh of relief into the still air.
“I cant imagine this is fun for you,” He shifted against the closed toilet seat lid, settling into his newfound welcome, “Listening to people bitch and moan must exhaust you.”
“Well, in a weird and self-indulgent way…” Momentary silence captivated you and you contemplated if you should show this side of yourself. You, more than anyone, knew the meaningfulness of relatability and how it only takes one thing to spark a deep conversation between two people. So, in a second of brave stupidity, you shared, hoping that the person on the other side of the wall felt a sense of belonging, “It makes me feel better about my own life. Knowing now that other students here struggle similarly to me makes me feel less of a target. I can ignore their taunts and eye rolls… I can see the human in them. Even when they don’t feel the same about me.”
Although Eddie couldn’t see you nor you him, his eyes slumped with appreciation and little by little his body relaxed into your presence, “Your empathy amazes me. Wish I could be as considerate.”
“Has high school been kind to you?” Deep down you knew the answer, your body could sense when someone like you settled down beside you. It’s like the souls spoke before anyone managed to open their mouths.
“Was hell kind to Satan when he first arrived?” A rhetorical question he expected you to laugh at but you remained unswayed, “No… high school has not been my best years. I’ll admit that good shit has came from my time here but… everything else is memorable in the worst way.”
“That’s why we focus on the good. Acknowledge the bad but don’t let it consume you.” He smiled then and rested his head against the adjoining wall. Through his nose he breathed your scent until it captivated him fully, lodging the breath until he was ready to reply.
His eyes watered, “I’m a little angry… no, fuck that. I’m really fucking angry. I’m so angry and I have been for years.”
For the first time in hours you were genuinely taken aback by this confession. But you remain voiceless, allowing him to vent.
“I’m not a bad guy,” He said it like he was trying to convince himself, “I look after people… I try to make sure no one feels the way that I have and yet you have people like douchebag Carver who treats people like they’re dogshit and he is worshipped like a God. Why is that? Why do people just… hate me..” It broke your heart to hear the croak in his voice and after allowing the emotion to level only then did you choose to respond.
“People… they often disregard what they don’t understand. They fear the unknown and the strange,” You searched for the words, chewing your bottom lip, “Jason is what they know, they find comfort in him because they have been brainwashed to believe that’s what the ‘norm’ should be. Surprisingly, not everyone has a kind heart. Not everyone cares.”
“They should…” He grumbled to himself, his polish chipped nails coming to pick the skin around his cuticles, “If people were more like you I think I would’ve actually gave a damn about school.”
The compliment seeped into your brain and you banked it there for a later visit, trying to remain as professional as possible and stay within the tender moment, “I’m sure you have people that cherish you and what you do for them. Like the people you have adopted. They may not treat you like a God but they treat you like a human being.”
Eddie bit back a loud chuckle then, his memory flickering to his role as Dungeon Master and how his little sheepie’s did treat him as a God during his meticulous campaigns. More importantly, though, he realised how right you were and he respected your way with words. Under normal circumstances he would be tongue tied right now and walking away in the opposite direction of you. He knew he'd be making the effort of returning to see you again.
Eddie slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees and using his fist to hold up his tired head, “I feel like I could tell you anything.”
You sung a happy hum, “You can, if you feel comfortable.”
A moment of suspense passed, “Can I ask you something?”
“Okay.” Your stomach fluttered with uncertainty.
“Has high school been kind to you?” There was something special about this stranger. Something that made you feel unveiled and safe. No one had cared enough to ask you questions, but here you two were, defying the odds.
“Not as kind as it has been to others and not as brutal as it has treated many more unfortunate than I. I’m sort of in a grey area… I know people but I don’t particularly have many friends. I guess I’ve survived high school but not conquered it.” The truth left you feeling lighter but with a sourness lingering on your tongue that made you frown. Unbeknownst to you, Eddie was also saddened on the other side of the stall.
“Don’t lose hope, there are bound to be many quiet admirers that lurk these halls looking at you…” Him being one of them.
“That’s sweet of you, but I don’t want to be admired. Besides, only a few months left before graduation and in a couple of years none of this will matter. I’ll forget about it…” This time it was you that was trying to convince yourself of that statement. Maybe with time the memories of the torment will fade but the scars will remain. You’ll never look at skirts the same way and your hair won’t be pulled up into a ponytail for at least seven years. White sneakers will make you grimace and vanilla will always smell foul to you.
You’ll move on from Hawkins High but you wouldn’t recover.
“Unfortunately, our time is up… I’m sorry I spoke so much.” Eddie shook his head, alarmed at your discomfort.
“Trust me, you have no idea how much I enjoyed today. And hey, we actually talked this time. Progress.” You could hear the grin on his face and you couldn’t contain the heat spreading across your cheeks and nose as you smiled down into your notebook resting on your lap. The page open but blank. How charming.
“I’ll see you soon?” You asked, unsure.
“See ya next Wednesday, Doc. Oh, and here.” Beneath the cubicle, just at the small gap above the floor, his hand reached through with a $10 bill and as he hovered the money there you took notice of the unique silver rings adorning his fingers and the black watch strapped around his wrist.
“Oh, that’s too much—”
“Consider it a deposit for next time.” After ensuring the money met your fingertips Eddie exits the stall promptly, leaving you alone once more but this time with a amused grin ghosting your face and longing for more time.
You were growing fond of this client.
—
The sides of your ribs were in stitches, sore from laughing at countless sloppy jokes. You weren’t sure how you ended up here, spending hours after class with the same client twice a week now, but here you were. Tears streaming hot down your cheeks that also ached from your prolonged smile.
“Honest, these sessions help me get through the day… I look forward to them every time.” Talking was easy now, carefree with him and yet you still were unsure of his identity. Only hints of him existed in your mind. His staple rings, his black watch and the fresh minty smell of… shaving foam.
“Glad I could be of some assistance, Sweetheart.” His new nickname for you. He’d call you it constantly, the same adoration radiating from it each time. You’d never grow tired of it, never stop thinking about it or dreaming about it…
You’d miss him when you’d leave for home. Things would happen that you desperately longed to tell him about; like how your favourite mug had sadly lost its handle during a ferocious battle in the kitchen sink or how every time you thought about him you decided to write it down in your notebook. Those tallies went from once and turned into twelve times and twelve times turned into twenty-four. You had to know his name… you wanted to know him more.
Eddie was no different in comparison. It pained him to walk away from that stall, every time his feet would falter beneath him and stick to the tattered floor. He contemplated waiting there for you on the other side wearing nothing but a huge smile and a wild mop of hair. But, like a coward, he would run— not walk, but run to the parking lot and hurl himself into his van. You had come to know him more than anyone. You were burrowed beneath his skin now and there was no escaping you. He would see you in morning clouds on his drive to school. He’d search for you in every crowded room and supermarket isle. It was unbearable… he needed to know you.
“Y'know, I’m not taking your money today. Or anymore, for that matter.” You teased and your ink covered fingertip drew little circles on your thigh.
Eddie huffed, “Listen, it’s either you take it or I’m leavimg it on the floor for the roaches. You decide, Sweetheart.” His thumb toyed with the flint of a lighter, flicking the mechanism and occasionally lighting the flame.
A gasp escapes you, “That isn’t fair! I consider us friends now… you don’t pay friends for their time.” You chew the inside of your cheek as Eddie hums teasingly.
“Hmmm, I dunno. You still listen to my crap, which there is a lot more of, by the way. Wouldn’t feel right letting you take on that burden for free.”
A burden. He could never… not you.
“I like you— I like talking to you! I mean… uhm. It's nice, talking to you. I don’t mind it…” Your skin erupts in a warmth comparable to lava and you slap a palm to your forehead repeatedly.
Silly girl. Silly, silly girl.
You felt like screaming.
Eddie, however, has frozen to the spot. His restless limbs now like concrete as he processes what you’ve just said slowly. He couldn't believe it, but regardless, he beams and responds with a foggy brain, “I like you, too. I… I like this.”
The rigid moment dissolves into something diffused and for a long pause you both sit there. Basking in it.
“I… I nearly left last year, y’know? It’s hard to believe that I could’ve missed out on this.” Eddie’s gaze is trained on his clasped hands and his voice had a sombreness to it.
“Missed out on what?”
“You. This…” Your eyes flicker to the wall separating you, almost expecting to meet his eyes, but all you’re offered is old graffiti done in thick black sharpie.
‘Michelle is a whore! Yuck!’
Poor Michelle….
“What happened?” You quiz after your train of thought decided to take a detour.
He gulped, his mouth suddenly dry, “I met this girl at one of my gigs… she was an intern at one of the bigger labels and God, I was so close to getting a CD to her. But…” He punctured his bottom lip with his two front teeth, the memories rawer than they were seconds ago.
“But…?” You try to coax him in a way that was supportive.
“My uh… my Dad showed up. He fucked it… he fucked everything. Plus, Paige, the girl… she went off grid. Must’ve changed her number, or something.” Your jaw ticks and you blink away the water from your eyes. Of course there was another girl, how could you have been so foolish to believe this could be anything than what it is.
As if he could read your mind Eddie interrupted your self destruction, “It was strictly business. I hardly knew her… even now, I can't really recall her face.” You smoothed down your sweater, something you done often when you needed comfort. To self soothe.
“Your Dad… you haven’t really spoke about him.” Eddie now chewed on his thumb nail, picking off the polish and flicking it away with his tongue.
“He’s a total asshat. He was holed up for most of my childhood for petty crime and shortly after I moved in with my Uncle Way.. My Uncle William.” He regretted it as soon as he said it. Why didn’t he tell you the truth? Why didn’t he tell you about Wayne?
“Your Uncle? Why not your Mom?” The air shifted instantly to something tangible, you could feel it in the seconds it took Eddie to respond. Clearly, it was something not many people had asked him about before.
“She… she uh…” He almost couldn’t say it, “She died when I was young… terminal illness. It was a bit easier because I was only six but man did I miss her.” The frog jumped in his throat before he could conclude his sentence and you gave him a few moments to collect himself.
He still missed her. Every day….
“Tell me about her? What was her name—”
“Elizabeth.” He answered instantly through a teary smile, “Beth, for short. What my Dad called her…”
“I bet she was beautiful.”
“Oh, you’ve no idea,” He exclaims through a pant of a laugh that was equal parts love and loss, “Life with her was so… bright.” He remembered her as if it was only yesterday he had lost her…
He chuckles, “I remember this one time, after they had been to the grocery store, my Mom and I played a trick on my Dad,” He sniffled, his sinuses clearing, “I had asked for a bowl of cereal all the while my Mom had hid the milk in the cabinet. We watched my Dad search for the carton for a whole five minutes before we told him.”
You giggled, able to see the scene play out in your mind. Only the characters were faceless and slightly blurry…
“He was unimpressed but we laughed and laughed…” His giggles faded, “If I could go back I would in a heartbeat. There’s so much I wanna say to her…”
You could only imagine the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. How he has carried that with him through his formative years into early adulthood. If anyone had an excuse to be an asshole, it was him. Yet, he remained kind even after being beaten and bruised.
“I feel guilty sometimes… because sometimes I forget about her. I.. forget my grief.” He breaks down then, a sob strangling his throat that he violently tries to swallow.
“That’s normal. That… that happens. Grief ebbs and flows… it comes in waves. Some stronger than the others.” The palm of your hand rests against the cubicle wall, reaching out for his touch and your temple follows to lean against it.
“I wonder if life would’ve been different with her here… I question if I would've turned out somewhat normal.” Eddie was calmer now, letting his emotions wash over him and away again.
“Normal is overrated.”
“It is. I'm sure she’d agree, too,” Suddenly exhausted he collapses back on the covered toilet seat, letting his back collide with the water tank, “I swear I can still smell the pancakes she’d make in the morning. Only on a Sunday as a treat before the school week but wow… best fucking pancakes I’d ever had. Nothing compares.”
You laughed softly, “Sounds like you need to learn how to make a mean pancake.”
“I definitely do.”
“Maybe you’ll let me taste test one…” A desperate attempt of yours to drive the friendship further.
“Maybe I will, Sweetheart. Maybe I will.” His voice drops low, insecure and pensive.
“Next time… can we ditch the stalls? I’d really like to meet you—”
“You have met me.” He fires back.
“Fine! I'd like to see you. Know you…” Now it was your turn to shell up. Terrified of what he might say.
“…Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, yes. Okay. But don’t look too disappointed when you discover who is behind this charm and raw sex appeal.”
You chuckled, “I don't think you could ever disappoint me.”
We’ll see about that…
“I have to head on home now, but I’ll see you on Friday? 3.30pm at the… bench?”
You knew the place, It’s where all the jocks and the cheerleaders met for their not so discreet drug deals and tasteless hookups.
“I’ll see you then.” You tried not to sound so excited though it proved impossible.
“It’s a date.”
—
Wednesday evening through to Friday was nothing short of tortuous and when Thursday night eventually rolled around, after many anticipated hours, you couldn’t will sleep with all the noise parading around in your head. Trumpets of doubt and drums of triumph.
You stayed up late into the early hours of dawn, tossing and turning and rehearsing the perfect conversation filled with witty one liners and blushing cheeks. Giddily you pictured a kiss... slow and sensual. And a embrace that blanketed you in fulfilment. It had you smiling up at your darkened ceiling, your eyes watching the blades of the fan swirl around slowly. During that girlish moment you also found yourself reminded of the other way which this could go. You tried to prepare for the worst outcome; the disappointment.
What if it was him riddled with regret on his face?
What if he was repulsed by what he saw?
These lonely thoughts became the downward spiral that robbed you of any rest at all. In fact, it inspired you to leave the warmth of your bed at 5:00am and begin getting ready for the day ahead. Classes weren’t until 9:00am but you couldn’t stop yourself, you had to do something. Shave your legs, pluck your eyebrows and scrub your skin until smooth.
From an outside perspective you look utterly insane in that bathroom, doing the unthinkable at that hour in the morning, but you struggled to find reasons to care. You’d show up at that bench today looking your absolute best if it was the last thing you did.
Walking down the traffic stricken hallway you met each fleeting face with suspicion and a quirked eyebrow. Your brain rushing around to string the pieces of the puzzle together before the end of the school day.
It was one of your many flaws, your need to know the future before it presents itself.
Frustration found you in your first class of the day when you couldn’t focus on a single thing spewing from the sub teachers mouth. Your pupils too busy darting to the clock above the door every five seconds and watching the minutes tick by.
9:30, 9:45, 9:47, 9:50, 9:53, 10:00…
Pathetically, you wanted to scream at the mechanism to hurry up.
After discovering that your wishful thinking wasn’t going to make the clock hands move any faster you slumped your body down over your desk, using your open textbook as your pillow as your eyelids sunk over your eyes and you drifted to sleep for a short while.
Eddie was unable to contain his excitement and even without an ounce of sleep he was still able to climb the walls with buckets of energy possessing him. Whenever he would see you he’d nearly combust into flames, he felt like a little kid in a candy store, grinning at your choice of outfit and the makeup around your eyes. You did that for him and he was absolutely enthralled by it. The party commented on his ridiculously good mood at lunch and how out of character it was for a campaign as gut wrenching as today. Then, they thought the worst when Eddie revealed that Hellfire was postponed that evening.
“Who died? Was it Carver? Are we celebrating?” Gareth investigated with a michevious smirk across the cafeteria but Eddie said nothing. He wanted to keep you a secret for now. Until he was sure… until he was certain that you wouldn’t run away as soon as you saw him.
“None of your business, ladies.” He chomped into the side of a red apple, his eyes scoping the canteen as he searched for you. Sure enough, he found you with ease near the lunch ladies where you chatted away with them. The older women smiled and laughed with you and you picked away at the slop on your plate. Pushing the mush around before you decided dessert was due.
His heart picked up to a record breaking pace and he felt like he could run a mile right there and then with the adrenaline flooding his blood stream.
“Jesus, Eddie, nervous much?” He hadn’t noticed that his bouncing leg was shaking the entirety of the lunch table. Jolting lunch trays and sodas as if they were experiencing an earthquake.
“No? I’m excited… for the campaign tomorrow.”
“If you were that excited we would be doing it today. What gives?” Dustin really could get on his nerves sometimes.
“Like I said, Dusty-Bun, it’s none of your—”
“Is this another Chrissy Cunningham special?” Gareth wiggles his eyebrows and Eddie flinches, disgusted.
“What? No. Ew, that was a one time deal and nothing happened—”
“Then who is it you’re meeting later?” Jeff asks, leaning in closer to Eddie, “You can tell us. Promise… we’ll be nice.”
“Okay. That’s it. Fuck you guys, I’m leaving,” He kicks out his seat, the metal legs screeching across the floor, “You,” He singles out Mike, “Through my lunch away.”
Mike meets him with a nod and an eye roll and Eddie shoots off from the table, fleeing away to somewhere more private where he can collect himself and his thoughts. His excitement was slowly starting to twist and expand into anxiety and the longer he waited for the end of the day to arrive the more difficult it got.
He started to picture your face, contorted with terror and disgust when you realise after all this time it’s been him on the other side of that stall.
It was funny, actually, because now more than ever he wanted to sit in that cubicle and talk to you about it. About his raging feelings for you.
He couldn’t, he knew that and it drove him fucking crazy.
When the final bell sounded, signalling the weekend, you weren’t the only person eager to make it out of the bloated hallways plagued with mild B.O. and booming voices. Instead of the main entrance at the front of the school that undoubtedly would be mobbed with a stampede of students you opted for the quieter side door that lead straight out towards the woods.
After fighting your way through the whipping branches and soft ground you were a whole twenty minutes early when you arrived at the table, too jittery to wait for him to meet you there. You needed time to prepare, to pace around and sort through your earlier thoughts and ideas.
What was good enough to say? What was totally unusable and lame?
These were the things you needed to know.
In the time it took for the twenty minutes to pass you had already talked yourself out of leaving on four different occasions and around the picnic table you had paved an evident path through the leaves in a huge circle. You spoke to yourself aloud, losing track of all time and meaning. You were calmer now but you also hadn’t even stopped to question if he were coming or not.
That’s when you decided to pace in the other direction which drags a unexpected yelp from your throat and causes one of your hands to fly up and clutch at your pounding heart in your chest as you nearly collide into someone at full speed.
“Oh god, Sorry! I didn’t see you— Oh, Eddie. Hi! Are you… are you meeting someone here?” You knew he used this spot regularly for quick visits with his clientele and through avoiding his gaze you shift down to admired his hands, “I can totally leave and come… back… wait…” You trail off, your eyes clocking the black watch on his wrist and the rings decorating his fingers.
“Eddie?” Your blown eyes find the shy smile teetering on his lips. If he didn’t know any better he may mistake your surprise for horror.
“Surprise, Sweetheart…” There goes all his confidence, out the fucking window.
“Wait—” you squint at him, “Your Uncles name isn’t William.”
Slowly, the hornets in his chest dissolve, “Correct.”
“It’s Wayne. Wayne Munson—”
“Which is exactly why I couldn’t tell you. You’re too smart, you would’ve figured me out instantly.” You beamed up at him, getting lost in the depths of his eyes.
“You’re… taller than I remember.” Eddie shrugs his jacket from his shoulders, tossing it onto the bench.
“It’s been a long time since we spoke, and possibly forever since we were this close to one another,” Suddenly coy you take a small step away from him but Eddie matches the step towards you, “That wasn’t a complaint. Just an observation…”
Like how he observed the the pink in your face that definitely was unrelated to the makeup touched gently onto your features.
“Are you… disappointed?” You couldn’t look at him. Why couldn’t you look a him? He may be the most handsome man you’ve laid eyes on in this dump of a town and you couldn’t muster the strength to look at his perfect face—
“Me?” He chuckles lightheartedly, “Sweetheart, I was about to ask you the same question.”
With caution his fingers tilt your chin up until he can see the mesmerising colour of your eyes, “You have got to be the textbook definition of perfect If I've ever seen one.”
You rolled your eyes, “I’m serious!” He exclaims, “Don’t give me that sass, y’hear? I might grow to like it too much.”
He was relentless, like the prickling warmth scorching your entire body, “I.. I’m so relieved that it’s you.” You confess and Eddie melts, nearly succumbing to gravity.
His Cheshire Cat smile goes straight to your head, “Yeah?”
“Definitely. If it was anyone else I think I may have ran for the hills by now…” You gnaw on the inside of your check.
“Hey, me too… me too,” All too quickly his fingers tuck a fallen strand of hair behind your ear before his touch is gone again. Leaving you yearning for more, “Shall we sit down?”
Your thighs settle against the warped wood of the bench, cold against the blazing skin through your jeans, “So… Eddie Munson.”
“In the flesh.” He fidgets with his arms, crossing them and uncrossing them over his chest.
“Did you know it was me? Through the wall.”
“The whole time.” He said it so casually it made your head spin at x2 speed.
“No way, you couldn’t have—”
“Mhm, I did,” He smiles down at his clasped hands outstretched on the table in front of him, “Did you suspect it was me? Did you have any ideas…?”
“Nope. Not a clue… only reason I knew it was you right now was because of your rings. And your watch,” You nod down towards the items, “When you’d pass me money through the stall I would see them. Catch glimpses…”
He clapped, “Very good, Detective. Very good…”
You bow where you sit, angling yourself forward from your hips and tipping you’re imaginary hat towards him, “Thank you, kind sir.”
Fuck, Eddie was smitten.
“Next time we hang out we should hit Benny’s diner… not as good as it once was but I think the pancakes are decent enough…” Your body stills for a moment, not rigidly but motionless enough to peak concern from Eddie, “What? Do I have something on my face—”
“Are you asking me out? On a date…” This time you took great pleasure in watching Eddie’s face glow in a colour similar to a tomato.
“Possibly… maybe…” He grabs a piece of his hair, hiding part of his face behind it, “Yes.”
“Well… I’d also like to add to that invitation, if I may?” Sitting here with him felt so natural. So… meant to be.
“Please do.”
“Pancakes at Benny’s and a movie later in the night?” The sunlight peeks through the trees and illuminates your eyes in a luminosity Eddie can only describe as ethereal.
“Sounds great—”
“The catch is, though… next time you have to make the pancakes. And I get to eat them.” Your posture straightens and Eddie nods whilst he chuckles.
“Okay. Sold, to the pretty girl with the remarkable eyes.” His attempt at an English accent catches you totally off guard and you burst into laughs, your hand shooting up to cover your open lips.
“Where on Earth did that come from?”
“I don’t know! You make me so nervous… next I’ll be pulling a rabbit out of a hat.” The giggles continued at an alarming rate and you feared you may run out of breath soon.
With a huge sigh, “I love this.”
I love you…
You thought but didn’t say.
“I love it, too. Love our time together, Sweetheart. Wish I could spend every second here with you…” Your brain doesn’t register his hand holding yours until after he ceased talking and looking down at the limbs intertwined had your heart leaping and singing with joy.
“Maybe this can be our new spot… amongst many other places.” The suggestion is punctuated by a soft squeeze from Eddie’s fingers.
“I think I’d really like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah… I’d like that a lot,” He pauses and you see in his eyes the gears turning, “Fridays are campaign days, though… is that cool with you?”
“Perhaps you can teach me the ways of Dungeons and Dragons…? I’d love to see the master at work,” God, you knew just what to say, “Once I’ve learned the ropes I could possibly join the club? Maybe we can have some solo adventures together, too.” You’d winked.
And his brain nearly exploded.
“Deal.”
“Deal?—”
“Yes, yes! Deal! Say no more because I am all in, pretty girl.”
And for those incredible remaining hours together you giggled and snorted like there was no tomorrow. No one else existed but you and him and slowly, then all at once you came to realise that….
Bohemian Rhapsody came on shuffle today and I couldn’t help but imagine Johnny getting absolutely obsessed with the song, to the point where he starts singing it everywhere.
One day he starts pulling a little performance in Reed’s lab without even noticing. He knows he’s walking on thin thin ice but he can’t help it. He just has to get it out of his system and unfortunately Reed is the victim this time. Like I can just imagine him singing the part that goes:
I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?
Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me
Doing all the different voices while following Reed around like
But you wanna know the best part? The one he sings SPECIFICALLY dramatic? The one that makes Reed snap???
But I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity!!
Reed is done. Actually done. Kicks him out immediately because what in the actual hell is this manchild singing about??? Gtfo of my kitchen for God’s sake!!
So Johnny, pretending not to be hurt, just goes and sings it to Ben instead 🤠 that man has patience but Johnny can be quite…persistent. Bless his heart. The only one who doesn’t get violent when he sings is Herbert though. He’s a real one <3
Sue would hear her brother singing that to reed and than to ben. And would purposefully go invisible to sneak out of the house before he found her. She had to deal with enough of this in their childhood. As much as she loves her brother…. Shell let those two handle it
Oh my god, she doooes. Sue’s had ENOUGH of this frustrated theater kid 😭 I know she’s taking Franklin with her because she’s not letting her own son become like Johnny 🤣
Johnny somehow still finds a way to get franklin to do it. And franklin will go in to his momma and reed acting like he had a nightmare before he sings it himself. Sues half awake and reed just stares at his son. Sue lets out an exasperated sigh and screams “JOHNATHAN LOWELL SPENCER STORM”
Bohemian Rhapsody came on shuffle today and I couldn’t help but imagine Johnny getting absolutely obsessed with the song, to the point where he starts singing it everywhere.
One day he starts pulling a little performance in Reed’s lab without even noticing. He knows he’s walking on thin thin ice but he can’t help it. He just has to get it out of his system and unfortunately Reed is the victim this time. Like I can just imagine him singing the part that goes:
I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?
Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me
Doing all the different voices while following Reed around like
But you wanna know the best part? The one he sings SPECIFICALLY dramatic? The one that makes Reed snap???
But I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity!!
Reed is done. Actually done. Kicks him out immediately because what in the actual hell is this manchild singing about??? Gtfo of my kitchen for God’s sake!!
So Johnny, pretending not to be hurt, just goes and sings it to Ben instead 🤠 that man has patience but Johnny can be quite…persistent. Bless his heart. The only one who doesn’t get violent when he sings is Herbert though. He’s a real one <3
Sue would hear her brother singing that to reed and than to ben. And would purposefully go invisible to sneak out of the house before he found her. She had to deal with enough of this in their childhood. As much as she loves her brother…. Shell let those two handle it
description: you move to Hawkins hoping to fly below the radar and, above all else, escape your past. when ominous notes begin to appear in your locker, insinuating that it won't be possible, you chalk it up to a coincidence. only when you find out that your friends have been getting anonymous notes that are a bit too personal do you realize this is bigger than some harmless prank.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
tags: eddie munson x you, no y/n, PLL coded, PLL x ST, slow burn, mutual pining (it's coming, i promise), ST AU, season 1 x 4 vibes, eventual romance, everyone has something to lose, A knows EVERYTHING, eddie has a cruuuuush, reader has a HUGE secret
A/N: AGH HELLO!!!! i just started re-watching PLL for the MILLIONTH time and was hit with immediate inspiration. i hope you all enjoy:) this will probably be a 3-4 part series, so stand READY!!!
reblogs are always appreciated :))
enjoy, my loves. xoxo -A
The first days of anything new always suck. But the first day of school during your senior year in a small town where everybody seems to know everyone and everything? That shit blows.
So, naturally, when you walk into your first-period English class, you keep your eyes down and your appearance small. You kept your focus on the rows of desks instead, searching for an empty seat that wouldn't require you to introduce yourself to anyone before eight in the morning.
You slid into the chair, setting your backpack on the floor with a quiet sigh of relief. If you could just make it through today unnoticed, you'd consider it a win.
You knew the routine by now. Keep your answers short; don't volunteer any information people didn't ask for; smile just enough that you don't come across as rude; and, above all else, don't give anyone a reason to remember you.
If everything went according to plan, today would be painfully uneventful. By the end of the week, you'd just be another student sitting in the back of the class, and eventually people would stop wondering where you came from altogether.
That was the goal. Unfortunately, fate had apparently taken one look at your plan and decided it could use the laugh.
"I love your shirt."
The voice came so suddenly from beside you that your shoulders jerked, your hand flying to your chest before you turned toward it.
A girl with short, feathered hair was looking at you with a genuine excitement that couldn't have been faked, even if she tried. She leaned sideways in her chair, chin resting against the back of it as though she'd been waiting for the right moment to say something.
"Sorry," she said immediately, though she didn't look particularly sorry. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"No, you're fine." You let out an embarrassed laugh. "I just... wasn't expecting anyone to talk to me."
"Fair." She nodded once. "But that's a killer Fleetwood Mac shirt."
You glanced down instinctively, smoothing a wrinkle from the faded black fabric. "Thanks."
"They're my favorite."
"You've got good taste."
"I've been told."
Her grin widened, pleased with herself.
Up close, she noticed the rest of you almost by accident. The silver hoop through your nose. The dozens of piercings tucked along your ear. The random, pointless tattoos littered across your skin.
"Holy shit."
You blinked. "What?"
"I just realized you're, like..." She gestured vaguely in your direction. "Cool."
You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "I don't know about that."
"No, seriously. We don't really..." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "...get a lot of variety around here."
You looked around the classroom. That, you could believe.
"Polo shirts," she continued, counting on her fingers. "Pastels. The occasional denim jacket if somebody's feeling rebellious."
"I wore flannel."
"I like you," she decided.
"You've known me for, what, thirty seconds?"
"Thirty very informative seconds."
Before you could answer, the classroom door swung open.
"Made it before the bell," a voice announced. "That's gotta be some kind of personal record."
You looked up just as a guy stepped through the doorway, dark curls tucked beneath a bandana, a worn leather jacket hanging over a faded Dio shirt. A handful of silver rings flashed as he adjusted the backpack slung over one shoulder, scanning the room with practiced ease before his eyes landed on the two of you.
More specifically...you. He slowed just enough to be noticeable.
"There he is," she muttered, mostly to herself.
The guy wandered over, stopping beside her desk before hooking a thumb in her direction.
"I leave you unattended for five minutes, and you're already recruiting?"
Robin looked offended. "I am making a friend."
"You've said that before."
"And sometimes it's even true."
His attention drifted back to you then. He took you in, eyeing you up and down, quickly assessing what to say.
"...Hi."
You smiled politely. "Hi."
"I'm Eddie."
You gave him your name. He repeated it once under his breath, as if testing how it sounded, then nodded to himself. "Cool."
Robin watched the exchange with poorly concealed amusement.
"You had something else," she prompted.
"I did."
"You forgot it."
"I absolutely did."
"You do that a lot."
"I know."
He rubbed the back of his neck, giving you an awkward grin before looking back at you.
"Uh..." He cleared his throat. "Your shirt's cool."
Robin snorted. "I literally just said that."
"Oh," Eddie replied, refusing to look at her. "Then, I'm agreeing."
By the time first period was halfway over, your plan to remain invisible had been thoroughly dismantled.
It wasn't entirely your fault, though. Robin had an almost supernatural inability to whisper, and Eddie seemed physically incapable of letting the room stay quiet for more than five minutes.
Most of it wasn't even directed at you. It was little observations muttered just loudly enough for the two of you to hear whenever the teacher turned toward the board.
"...That's the third metaphor in ten minutes."
Robin didn't bother looking up from her notebook. "You're counting?"
"I have to entertain myself somehow."
Five minutes later…
"If Shakespeare wanted us to understand him, he would've written in English."
"He... did," you murmured.
Eddie frowned. "...Oh. Yeah."
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
By the time Mrs. O'Donnell called on someone to read aloud, you had already made the mistake of glancing toward Eddie whenever he sighed dramatically or whispered another running commentary under his breath.
Every time your shoulders shook with another laugh, he caught it from the corner of his eye, fighting a grin of his own before pretending to pay very close attention to whatever was happening at the front of the room.
Robin leaned toward you just enough to murmur, "Careful. He gets encouraged way too easily."
"I heard that," Eddie whispered.
"You were supposed to."
"I know."
The bell finally rang before Mrs. O'Donnell could assign anyone another passage, and the room erupted into the familiar scrape of chairs and conversations picking back up where they'd left off forty-five minutes earlier.
Robin was already slinging her backpack over one shoulder. "Lunch?"
You blinked. "Already?"
She nodded. Eddie appeared beside the two of you, adjusting the strap of his own bag. "Cafeteria cuisine awaits."
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
"You should be."
The three of you filtered into the hallway with everyone else and were immediately swallowed by the rush of students moving from every direction.
Lockers slammed shut in uneven rhythms, teachers called after kids who'd forgotten homework, and somewhere farther down the hall, someone was already arguing about Friday night's basketball game. The cafeteria wasn't much quieter.
You had barely stepped through the doors before Robin angled toward an empty table tucked near the windows.
"That's us."
"You have an assigned table?"
"We're creatures of habit."
"And deeply unpopular," Eddie added cheerfully.
Robin shrugged. "That too."
As the three of you crossed the room, a voice cut through the noise. "Well, would you look at that."
Tommy Hagan leaned back in his chair with an amused smirk, Steve and Nancy sitting across from him. Steve looked up first, following Tommy's line of sight before immediately realizing where this was headed.
"The Freak found himself another lost puppy."
A few nearby tables snickered, but Eddie didn't even slow down. "Morning to you, too, Hagan."
Tommy's grin widened. "Didn't realize Hawkins was taking transfers for the circus."
Before Eddie could answer, Nancy sighed loudly enough for everyone at their table to hear. "Tommy."
"What?"
"You don't have to be an asshole every time someone walks into a room."
"I'm just making conversation."
"No," Nancy replied evenly. "You're making yourself annoying."
Tommy rolled his eyes but finally shut up. Steve, who looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, offered Eddie the smallest apologetic nod.
Eddie answered with one of his own before continuing toward the empty table as though nothing had happened.
You glanced back once, surprised. Nancy caught your eye for only a second before giving you an almost embarrassed smile, one that seemed to apologize for the entire exchange without saying a word.
Robin noticed. "Huh."
"What?"
She pulled out her chair. "I don't think I've ever heard Nancy Wheeler willingly tell Tommy to knock it off."
Eddie dropped into the seat beside her. "Maybe Hell froze over."
Robin snorted. "Or maybe she's finally realizing he's exhausting."
You looked back one last time. Nancy had already gone back to her lunch, though something about the way she'd frowned down at her tray made it seem as if her mind were somewhere else entirely.
Lunch came and went quicker than you'd expected. Maybe it was because Robin had managed to carry ninety percent of the conversation on her own, effortlessly bouncing from stories about her mom to complaining about Hawkins High's criminal lack of decent music programs.
Eddie chimed in whenever the opportunity arose, usually with dramatic commentary that had you laughing into your milk carton before you could stop yourself. Somewhere between the cafeteria mystery meat and Robin's passionate argument that The Breakfast Club was wildly overrated, you realized you'd almost forgotten why you'd been so anxious that morning in the first place.
By the time the bell rang, the cafeteria erupted into organized chaos. Chairs scraped across the floor, backpacks were slung over shoulders, and students poured into the hallways as if someone had kicked over an anthill.
"You've got chemistry next, right?" Robin asked as the three of you spilled into the crowd.
You nodded. "I've gotta stop at my locker first."
"We're headed the other way," Eddie said, hooking his thumb down the opposite hall. "Government. Which, by the way, is a completely made-up subject. They already have a government. Why do I have to learn about it?"
Robin rolled her eyes. "You say that every week."
"Because every week it's still true."
She looked back at you. "We'll see you after? You have gym, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool."
The two of them disappeared into the stream of students, Robin nudging Eddie after he nearly walked into a sophomore because he wasn't paying attention.
The corridor was quieter now, most everyone already filtering into their classrooms. A few lockers slammed shut somewhere behind you, followed by hurried footsteps echoing against the linoleum.
You spun the dial, worked the stubborn latch open, and reached inside for your chemistry notebook. Something white fluttered forward and landed at your feet, causing you to frown.
It wasn't notebook paper; it was heavier, folded neatly into thirds. Slowly, you unfolded it. Inside, there were only two sentences.
You can change your address, but you can't outrun what happened.
Welcome to Hawkins, bitch.
— A
The blood drained from your face then. No. No. Nobody here knew; they couldn't.
The newspaper articles had disappeared. Every report, every interview, every mention of your name had been scrubbed before you'd even left town. The police had called it a gas leak; the government had made sure of it. Your aunt had promised you, over and over again, that it was over.
Your fingers tightened around the paper until it crumpled in your hand. Someone fucking knew.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.
Mrs. Halpern called on you twice in Chemistry, and although you answered both questions correctly, you couldn't have recalled a single thing she'd actually taught by the time the bell rang. The folded note sat heavy in your backpack, tucked inside your notebook, where you kept catching yourself checking to make sure it was still there.
By the time you reached the girls' locker room for gym, you were still trying to convince yourself there had to be a logical explanation.
Someone from your old town moved here. Someone overheard something. Someone was playing a cruel joke. Anything was easier to believe than the alternative.
The locker room hummed with the usual pre-class chatter, metal doors clanging open and shut as girls changed into oversized gym shirts and tied their hair back.
Robin dropped her backpack onto the bench beside yours with an exaggerated groan. "If Coach makes us run the mile, I'm transferring."
"Can you even afford to transfer?"
"I'll transfer emotionally."
You laughed quietly, grateful for something that felt normal. "I think that's just called giving up."
"It's called self-care."
Robin spun the combination lock on her locker. "You'll learn."
The latch popped open. Almost immediately, something slipped free and drifted onto the bench between you.
"Huh." Robin frowned.
You glanced over. "What is it?"
"Probably another announcement." She reached down casually, unfolding the piece of paper without much thought.
The smile disappeared from her face. It wasn't obvious, but it was just gone. Like someone had flipped a switch behind her eyes. Her gaze stayed fixed on the page for only a second before she folded it again so quickly you barely caught a glimpse of the handwriting.
"You okay?" you asked.
Robin blinked. "What?"
"You just... froze."
"Oh." She let out a tiny laugh that didn't quite sound real. "No, it's nothing."
She crumpled the note into her fist. "Just some idiot."
"What kind of idiot?"
"The anonymous kind."
She shrugged, forcing another smile as she shoved the balled-up paper into the pocket of her bookbag. "You know. Hawkins High. Thriving intellectual community."
Robin was talkative, almost relentlessly so. But for the rest of the time she changed, she barely spoke at all. Only once the two of you started toward the gym doors did she finally clear her throat.
"So..." she said, her usual brightness returning just a little too deliberately. "If Coach says 'give me two laps to warm up,' we fake our own deaths, right?"
You laughed. "I thought you were transferring emotionally."
"I've decided that's too much paperwork."
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and Robin smiled back.
The note remained crumpled in Robin's backpack. She didn't look at it again until long after the final bell. When she finally unfolded it in the privacy of a bathroom stall, the words were exactly where she'd left them.
You can hide behind jokes all you want. Doesn't change who you look at when she isn't paying attention.
How long before Hawkins notices, too?
—A
By the time the final bell rang, Hawkins High emptied itself into the parking lot in waves.
Engines turned over one after another, buses hissed as their doors folded shut, and clusters of students lingered on the sidewalk, stretching out conversations they could've easily continued tomorrow. Eddie took his usual route toward the far corner of the lot, keys spinning lazily around his finger as he walked.
"You coming?" Robin called after him.
"In a second."
She narrowed her eyes. "You said that yesterday."
"And I meant it yesterday, too."
She snorted. "See you tomorrow, Munson."
He threw her a lazy salute before peeling away toward the battered van sitting by itself beneath the chain-link fence. Most people parked as close to the school as they could.
Eddie had learned pretty quickly that giving everyone else a little extra space saved him from finding mysterious dents and spit on his windows. He dug through his pocket for his keys, already fishing out a cigarette with the other hand when something caught his eye.
There was a folded piece of paper tucked beneath his windshield wiper.
He frowned. "Seriously?"
Probably another parking warning, or some freshman trying to be funny. He pulled it free, flattening the crease against the van's hood.
Guess the apple didn't fall very far from the chop shop.
Wonder what Uncle Wayne would think if he knew what you and your daddy really did during your father-son “bonding.”
—A
The cigarette slipped from between his fingers, landing forgotten on the pavement. No.
He read the note again anyway, then a third time. By the fourth, he realized his grip had tightened enough to wrinkle the paper.
"Eddie?"
Robin's voice carried across the parking lot, and he looked up.
She was halfway out of her own car, watching him. "You good?"
He glanced back at the note. Without thinking, he folded it once, then again. By the time Robin reached him, it had disappeared into his pocket.
"Yeah."
She studied him. "You don't look 'yeah.'"
He forced a crooked grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just realized I forgot I have homework."
Robin stared at him for a beat before laughing. "That might be the worst lie you've ever told."
"I've told worse."
"I know."
She gave him one last suspicious look before climbing into her car. "See you tomorrow."
"Yeah."
He waited until her taillights disappeared out of the parking lot before climbing into the driver's seat. For a long time, Eddie just sat there, staring at the folded note resting in his lap.
By the time Nancy stepped through the front door, she was already mentally sorting through calculus homework and college applications.
"Kitchen!" Karen called from somewhere down the hall.
Nancy slipped off her backpack. "I'm home."
"There was something in the mail for you."
Nancy paused. "What kind of something?"
"I don't know." Karen appeared around the corner, drying her hands on a dish towel. "Large envelope. I put it on the kitchen table."
Nancy's stomach gave a hopeful little flip. Emerson, it had to be. She'd been waiting all week. She crossed into the kitchen, already smiling to herself as she spotted the manila envelope sitting neatly beside the fruit bowl.
No return address, strange. She picked it up anyway. It wasn't heavy enough to be a packet. No school logo, no crest, nothing.
Her smile faded as she slipped a finger beneath the seal and pulled it open. A photograph slid onto the table.
It took her a second to understand what she was looking at.
It was her. Jonathan stood across from her beneath the pavilion at Lover's Lake, the two of them caught in the soft glow of a lone flashlight. She was smiling at something he'd said, one hand resting lightly against his arm while he looked at her with an expression she knew all too well.
The moment right before someone leaned in.
Another photograph. Same night, but closer, their faces inches apart. Then another. And another. Each one taken from somewhere in the darkness beyond the light. Someone had been watching them.
At the bottom of the envelope was a folded index card. Nancy unfolded it with suddenly trembling hands.
Poor Stevie.
He still thinks he has you all to himself.
—A
"Nancy?"
Karen's voice floated in from the living room. "You okay?"
Nancy's eyes never left the photographs. Someone had followed them. Someone had stood in the dark, close enough to capture every glance, every smile, every hesitation she hadn't even admitted to herself. She hurriedly gathered the photographs into a pile just as her mother stepped into the doorway.
"What was it?" Karen asked.
Nancy forced the envelope shut and tucked it beneath a stack of textbooks before looking up.
"...Nothing."
Karen frowned. "I thought it was from Emerson."
"So did I."
"Maybe tomorrow," Karen offered gently.
Nancy managed a smile that felt brittle around the edges. "Yeah."
Karen returned to the kitchen. Nancy waited until she was gone before pulling the photographs back out.
Jonathan didn't get home until well after dark.
The grocery store had been busier than usual, and by the time he pulled into the driveway, every light in the Byers' house except the one over the stove had already been turned off. Joyce had left for her night shift an hour earlier, and Will had almost certainly gone to bed.
He killed the engine and sat there for a moment, rubbing his eyes tiredly before climbing out. Something sat in front of the screen door: a cardboard box, no bigger than a shoebox. No shipping label, no postage stamp.
Just his name written neatly across the lid in black marker.
Jonathan frowned. "...Mom?"
He glanced toward the road, but nothing greeted him. He picked the box up and carried it inside, setting it carefully on the kitchen table. For a second, he considered leaving it unopened, but curiosity eventually won, and he peeled back the tape. Inside was a thick stack of photographs. His stomach sank before he'd even picked one up.
Steve. Nancy. The photographs from the school's developing room, the ones he'd sworn he'd thrown away. One after another.
Steve with his arms around Nancy. Nancy lifting her shirt. Steve kissing her neck. Every single picture he'd secretly taken through the trees that night.
His breathing slowed. "No..."
He knew these; he knew every frame. Hands suddenly unsteady, Jonathan thumbed through the stack faster. They were all there, every single one. Even the negatives. Tucked beneath them was a folded piece of paper.
Poor Johnathan. Can’t have her all to himself, so he settles for watching from the outside.
Would be a shame if Nancy saw these, wouldn’t it?
—A
Steve didn't think twice when he got home.
His parents were gone, as usual. The house sat in complete silence, the only sound coming from the grandfather clock ticking somewhere deeper inside. A note rested on the kitchen island in his mother's handwriting, letting him know dinner was in the refrigerator if he wanted it.
He tossed his keys into the bowl by the front door. "I'm home," he called anyway.
No answer.
"Shocking."
He took the stairs two at a time, already reaching for the collar of his polo to tug it over his head. By the time he pushed open his bedroom door, he was thinking more about tomorrow's basketball practice than anything else. Then he stopped.
There was an envelope sitting in the middle of his bed. Cream-colored, perfectly centered against the navy comforter.
Steve frowned. "...What the hell?"
He crossed the room and picked it up. Steve.
He slid a finger beneath the flap. A single photograph slipped into his hand. Nancy. Jonathan. Lover's Lake.
She was smiling at him. Not the polite smile she gave strangers, not the one she wore in yearbook pictures. The real one.
Steve stared at it. Then another photograph. Jonathan was looking at Nancy like she was the only person in the world. Another. Their hands brushed as they walked. Another. The distance between them disappearing.
Steve's jaw tightened. Folded beneath the photographs was an index card.
Funny thing about second choices...
...they never know they're second until someone better comes along.
—A
His first instinct was to laugh; it had to be fake. Some asshole with too much time on their hands. Nancy loved him.
Didn't she?
The next morning, you told yourself yesterday had been a fluke. One note, one sick joke, and nothing more.
You repeated it in your head while getting dressed. On the drive to school. Walking through the front doors. Even as you smiled at Robin when she waved from farther down the hallway.
Normal, everything was going to be normal. You reached your locker before first period, balancing your chemistry book against your hip while you worked the combination.
The latch clicked, and you pulled the door open. Something slid forward. It didn't flutter to the floor like yesterday's note; it hit the tile with a dull slap.
A newspaper clipping, yellowed around the edges, and folded in half. Slowly, your knees bending almost without permission, you picked it up. The headline stared back at you:
LOCAL TRAGEDY LEAVES DOZENS DEAD
No. No, no, no.
Your hands shook as you unfolded the rest. The article had been blacked out in places with thick marker, entire paragraphs disappearing beneath uneven strokes, but one grainy photograph remained untouched.
At the bottom of the clipping, written across the photograph in neat black ink:
Still think it was an accident?
Run all you want. It’ll find you anywhere; I’ll make sure of it.
—A
You burst through the side doors, the crisp morning air hitting your face like ice water as you crossed the practice field without looking back. The grass was still damp with dew, soaking through the canvas of your sneakers as you headed toward the line of trees bordering the property.
Only when the school disappeared behind the branches did you finally stop. Your hands found your knees. Your chest tightened until it felt like someone had wrapped steel bands around your ribs.
"This is not happening," you whispered to yourself. "It's not happening."
The clipping was still clenched in your fist, crumpled beyond recognition. You squeezed your eyes shut.
"Hey..." The voice was so soft you almost missed it. "...Sweetheart?"
Your head snapped up.
Eddie stood a few yards away, one hand still holding the cigarette he'd apparently forgotten to smoke. His backpack hung lazily from one shoulder, concern replacing the easy grin he usually wore.
"You okay?"
You immediately wiped at your face with the sleeve of your flannel. "Yeah."
He looked at you for a long second. Then, with the smallest shake of his head, he started toward you.
"Usually," he said carefully, "when girls are crying and tell me they're fine..."
A corner of his mouth tugged upward. "...they're generally not."
A watery laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Is that right?"
"It's one of the few things I've actually learned in nineteen years."
You looked down at the ground. "I just... needed a minute."
"Mhm."
"I'll be okay."
"Mhm."
"You don't believe me."
"I believe that you think you'll be okay."
He shifted his weight, glancing toward the school before looking back at you.
"But I also think whatever made you sprint into the woods before first period probably wasn't a pop quiz."
"...Hey."
You looked up.
"You don't have to tell me what's wrong." His voice stayed quiet. "But... whatever happened back there scared the hell outta you."
You swallowed. "I know."
"And I know we've known each other for..." He checked an imaginary watch. "...roughly twenty-four hours."
A weak laugh escaped you.
"So maybe I'm overstepping."
"No."
"I just..." Your voice caught before you could finish.
"There are..." You paused, searching for words that didn't sound completely insane. "There are things that have happened in my life that..." You shook your head. "Nobody here is supposed to know."
Eddie's brow furrowed. "Okay."
"I mean nobody. But somehow, someone else does.”
Eddie looked away for a second. "...When you say 'someone else'..."
"...You mean..." He stopped himself. "...Things nobody should know?"
You stared at him. "...Yeah."
Eddie reached into the inside pocket of his vest. He didn't say anything; he simply unfolded a wrinkled piece of paper he'd been carrying around since yesterday and held it out toward you.
You looked down. The handwriting. The black ink. The signature. Your stomach dropped.
You looked back up at him. "...You got one."
"I got one."
"When?"
He gave a humorless laugh. "Yesterday."
Your heart started racing all over again. "You didn't tell anybody?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing."
Eddie rubbed a hand over his face. "I figured somebody was screwing with me."
"I thought..." You looked back toward the school. "...I thought somebody had followed me here."
"I don't even know who'd know mine." He sighed.
Your fingers tightened around the crumpled newspaper clipping. "...Mine shouldn't exist."
Eddie looked at you. "What do you mean?"
You hesitated. Then slowly opened your hand just enough for him to see the edge of the yellowed newspaper.
Not enough to read it, just enough for him to realize it wasn't from yesterday. His eyes flicked from the clipping to your face.
"...Jesus."
You nodded once. "I wasn't lying."
"I know."
"No, I mean..." Your voice cracked. "I really don't know how they know."
"...Are you kidding me?" Robin's voice carried through the trees a second before she did. She pushed through the brush, hands thrown up in disbelief as she looked between you two.
"What the hell, guys?"
Eddie looked over. "Oh. Hey, Rob."
She blinked. "'Hey, Rob?'" she repeated. "Why aren't either of you in class?"
You instinctively wiped beneath your eyes.
"...Were you crying?"
"I'm okay."
She narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe either of you."
Eddie pointed at you. "See? I told you."
"Told me what?"
"That whenever somebody says they're fine while actively crying..."
Robin finished the sentence with him. "...they're usually not."
She looked between the two of you again. "I went to English."
Neither of you said anything.
"I figured maybe one of you overslept." She shrugged. "Then neither of you showed up."
"So I told Mrs. O'Donnell I had to use the bathroom."
"You skipped class?" Eddie asked.
"I skipped five minutes of class."
"You've changed."
"Oh, shut up."
Robin's gaze drifted to the folded paper still hanging loosely from Eddie's fingers. "...What's that?"
Eddie looked down, then back at her. For a moment, it looked like he was weighing whether to answer. Finally, he held it up.
Her eyes scanned the page, the color draining from her face.
"...Where'd you get that?"
"On my van."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"You... never said anything."
"I wasn't exactly eager to advertise it."
Robin swallowed. "...It was signed, wasn't it?"
Eddie frowned. "...Yeah."
Robin let out a slow breath through her nose. "No way."
"What?" Eddie asked.
She stared at the ground for a second before reaching into the pocket of her jacket.
"I thought..." she muttered. "I thought somebody was just being an asshole."
She unfolded a wrinkled piece of notebook paper. The black ink matched Eddie's perfectly. The same sharp handwriting, the same signature at the bottom.
—A
"You too?" you asked quietly.
Robin nodded once. "I found it yesterday."
"You didn't tell anybody?"
"I was kind of hoping if I ignored it, it'd magically become somebody else's problem."
Eddie gave a humorless laugh. "How'd that work out?"
"...Poorly."
Neither of you asked what the note said; Robin was grateful for that. She folded it back up before either of you had a chance to read it, stuffing it into her pocket with a practiced shrug that fooled absolutely no one.
"It was..." She searched for a word, eyes fixed on the dirt beneath her shoes. "...Personal."
Eddie looked from Robin to you, then back toward the school barely visible through the trees. "I don't think this is a coincidence anymore."
Robin shook her head. "No."
You tightened your grip around the crumpled newspaper clipping still hidden in your sleeve. "...Neither do I."
You made it back before second period ended, after Eddie insisted on walking you to the side entrance, the two of you agreeing, without ever really saying it aloud, that whatever was happening would stay between the three of you for now.
At least until you understood it.
By seventh period, you hadn't retained a single thing your teachers had said. Every unfamiliar face in the hallway made your stomach tighten. Every folded piece of paper you saw sticking out of someone's notebook caught your attention for just a second too long.
When the final bell rang, you waited for the hallway to thin before ducking into the girls' bathroom. Maybe splashing some cold water on your face would make you feel less like your heart had been living somewhere in your throat all day.
Someone stood at the sinks with their back to you, shoulders rigid beneath a pale blue sweater. You recognized the chestnut curls before she turned around. Nancy Wheeler.
She startled at the sound of the door closing, hastily folding a piece of paper in half.
"Oh."
Nancy quickly wiped beneath one eye, forcing the kind of smile that only made it more obvious she'd been crying.
"Sorry," she said quietly. "I... didn't know anyone else was in here."
You shook your head. "It's okay."
You'd spoken exactly twice before. Once when she'd apologized for Tommy in the cafeteria. Once in Chemistry, when she'd handed you a pencil after yours rolled beneath a lab table.
"...It's Nancy, right?"
She nodded. "...Yeah."
"I'm..." You gave her your name.
"I know."
Nancy looked down at the folded paper in her hands, almost instinctively trying to hide it behind her sleeve.
Your eyes followed the movement. Then slowly, very carefully, you asked, "That’s from A, isn’t it?"
Nancy's head snapped up, the color draining from her face. "...What?"
"You heard me."
"...How..." she whispered. "...How do you know that?"
You reached into your backpack. Without saying a word, you unfolded the now-soft newspaper clipping you'd carried around all day.
Nancy's eyes flicked from the article to the black ink scrawled across the bottom, then to your face.
"...Oh my God."
You nodded once. "I'm not the only one."
Nancy looked back at the letter in her own hands. "You too?"
"Me."
"My friend."
"...Actually..." A humorless smile tugged at your mouth. "...Four of us."
Nancy looked up quickly. "...Four?"
You nodded. "Eddie, Robin…"
"And now..." Your eyes settled on the paper still trembling in her hands. "...You."
Nancy leaned back against the sink as though her knees had suddenly forgotten how to work.
Nancy barely had enough time to fold the letter back into its envelope before the final bell echoed through the building. Students spilled into the hallway in every direction, conversations overlapping into one constant wall of noise.
She looked at you. "...I don't think I can do this by myself."
"You don't have to."
The two of you stepped out of the bathroom together and were immediately swallowed by the crowd.
"Nancy!"
The voice cut through the hallway sharply enough that people nearby turned to look. Steve.
He was pushing through the crowd, jaw tight, one hand clutching something so tightly it had crumpled around the edges.
He stopped in front of her. "What the hell is this, Nance?"
Nancy frowned. "...Steve?"
He held up a photograph. Even from where you stood, you recognized Jonathan's jacket. Nancy's eyes widened.
"...Where did you get that?"
"So it's real?"
"Steve, let me see it."
He pulled it back before she could reach it. "No."
His voice wasn't angry so much as... hurt. "You tell me why somebody left this in my locker."
Nancy's face went pale. "Locker...?"
Steve flipped the photograph around. On the back, written in thick black marker, were three words.
Ask your girlfriend.
—A
Nancy felt the blood drain from her face. "...No."
Steve stared at her. “‘No' what?"
"No, I mean..." She shook her head frantically. "Steve, somebody's doing this."
"Doing what?"
"They—"
"They what?"
"They've been sending—"
"Nance." His voice cracked. "It's a picture."
He turned it back over. This time, you saw it clearly: Nancy and Jonathan, standing beneath the pavilion, Jonathan's hand cupping her cheek, and Nancy kissing him.
"Were you ever gonna tell me?"
The hallway had gone almost completely silent around them. People slowed as they walked by, and the whispers started.
Nancy took one desperate step toward him. "It wasn't—"
"What? What it looks like?"
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Steve let out a hollow laugh. "I defended you."
His eyes shimmered with disbelief more than anger. "When Tommy started running his mouth yesterday, I told him to shut up."
He looked down at the photograph again. "I thought we were okay."
"We are."
"Are we?"
Steve didn't say another word. He looked at Nancy for one long, unreadable moment before turning on his heel and shoving his way through the crowd.
"Steve!" Nancy hurried after him. "Steve, wait!"
By the time the three of you spilled out into the afternoon sun, Steve was already halfway across the parking lot, moving with long, determined strides.
"Steve!" Nancy called again.
Then Steve stopped, not because of Nancy, but because he'd spotted Jonathan. Jonathan had just stepped out of the school, camera bag slung over one shoulder, as he headed toward the student lot.
Steve changed direction without hesitation.
Your stomach dropped. "Nancy..."
Jonathan looked up just as Steve reached him. "What—"
His sentence was never finished; Steve's fist connected squarely with his jaw. Jonathan stumbled backward, crashing into the side of a parked car before sliding onto one knee.
The parking lot erupted while Nancy shoved past you. "Steve!"
Jonathan wiped at the blood already forming at the corner of his mouth, looking up in complete disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Steve was breathing hard, and his hand was still clenched into a fist. "You wanna tell me?"
"I don't even know what this is about!"
Steve barked out a bitter laugh. "No?"
He reached into his backpack and yanked out a thick manila envelope. "You don't recognize this?"
Before Jonathan could answer, Steve threw it at his chest. The envelope burst open the second it hit him. Photographs scattered across the asphalt, dozens of them.
Nancy instinctively looked down, her face draining white.
She recognized herself immediately. Standing in Steve’s bedroom, shirt rising over her head, then another of them kissing, then her bra…
Jonathan stared at them, his entire body going still. "...No."
Nancy slowly bent down, picking up one of the photographs with trembling fingers. Then another, then another. Each one felt worse than the last.
She looked up at Jonathan. "...You took these?"
He couldn't answer. "Nancy..."
"You were watching us?"
"It wasn't—"
"You were watching us."
Steve shook his head, chuckling in disbelief. "This is the guy you cheat on me with, Nance?"
Nancy's eyes never left the photographs in her hands; there were simply so many. So many moments she'd never known someone else had witnessed.
Then, something caught your eye. Another folded piece of paper had slipped from the envelope, drifting beneath Jonathan's shoe. You reached down before anyone else noticed and unfolded it. The now-familiar handwriting stared back at you.
Smile for the camera.
Everybody loves a good love triangle.
—A
"What the hell's going on?" Robin's voice carried over the crowd as she and Eddie hurried across the pavement, weaving around students who had already formed a loose circle around the fight.
"Move, move—excuse me—"
She squeezed between two juniors just as Eddie stepped around the edge of the crowd.
His eyes found you immediately. "Hey."
He reached your side, his expression pinched with concern. "You okay?"
You looked at him, still clutching the folded note, but before you could answer, his gaze dropped to the photographs scattered across the asphalt.
Nancy. Steve. Jonathan. Dozens of them. Some half-crumpled beneath students' shoes, others fluttering in the breeze.
"...Oh. Oh fuck."
Robin finally reached the front of the crowd beside him, her eyes darting from Steve, who was still glaring at Jonathan, to Nancy standing frozen with a photograph in her trembling hands.
"What..." She bent to pick one up. "...the hell?"
She looked up at you. "This..." she said quietly. "This isn't..."
You gave the smallest nod. "...Yeah."
Eddie's eyes narrowed. "It's them."
You nodded again. "The same person."
Robin's stomach dropped. She looked back toward Steve and Jonathan, neither of whom had noticed the three of you yet.
"...They don't know."
"They have no idea," you replied.
Eddie watched Steve shove Jonathan back another step before looking down at the photographs littering the ground.
His jaw tightened. "...This is exactly what they wanted."
Robin frowned. "Who?"
Eddie looked between you and Robin. "The person sending the notes."
It wasn't just three separate secrets anymore; it was one game. And somehow, all of you had been invited to play.
A fr.
well, I hope you all enjoyed :)))) part two will be out soon, promise.
Summary: Apparently, Eddie has made it his personal mission to get a rise out of you on national television. You thought Argyle was as comfortable in your connection as you were, but apparently you were wrong.
Word Count: 3K
Tags: Rockstar!Eddie Munson, Love Island references, witty banter, enemies to lovers energy
(A/N: Thank you so much for all of the love this fic has already gotten! I'm having a lot of fun with this concept. Should I have the Islanders sing karaoke at some point? If I do I'm sending Kenzie Chrissy home, don't worry.)
Divider credit goes to @cursed-carmine
Part 1
If you’d told Eddie a month ago that he was about to become a contestant on Love Island, he would’ve laughed in your face.
He wasn’t the type. Love Island was for models, wannabe actors and Tik Tokers who did those stupid little dances to ten-second song clips. Eddie was twenty-eight, fresh off a tour with Corroded Coffin, and was proud to say that he’d never watched a Tik Tok in his life.
He had only been aware of the show’s existence because of Robin. When she’d told him that she would be living in Fiji for two months to work as a field producer on the show, he’d been ecstatic for her. Years of working small jobs and flying under the radar on TV set after TV set had finally paid off for Robin, and Eddie couldn’t be prouder of his friend. So proud, in fact, that he binge watched the most recent season just to make sure he could watch the season she would be producing and keep up with it. Not what he generally preferred to watch, but it was certainly entertaining.
To say he’d been surprised when Robin called him a few weeks before the premiere of the first episode would be an understatement. She didn’t greet him with a ‘hello’, no ‘how’ve you been’, but instead opened their phone call with “Please don’t be mad” and “I’m really really sorry.”
“Robin,” Eddie had said, his voice already on edge in anticipation for whatever she was apologizing for. “What did you do?”
“The execs were going crazy, I just blurted your name out and before I knew it I was pulling up your Instagram on my phone, and-”
“Robin! Start from the beginning, why were the execs going crazy?”
“Well, one of the cast members had a family emergency, so they had to fly back home. The next up on the list was ready to go, but then a video of them saying a racial slur resurfaced, so they were out. Then it came out that the next backup had said a different racial slur, and-”
“Robin!!”
“I suggested you as a bombshell.” she’d finally blurted out. “I had recommended Steve and they love him, so when the casting director came to me asking if I knew anyone else-”
“You suggested the antithesis of Steve Harrington? Robin, what were you thinking?”
“No, that’s the thing! You’re exactly what they’re looking for, you’re edgy, smart, funny-”
Eddie couldn’t help but smirk smugly at that. “If you’re trying to butter me up, Buckley, I gotta say it’s working.”
“Good, because if you say yes you’ll be saving my ass.” Robin did sound desperate. Eddie crossed his arms, ready to at least hear her out.
“Okay,” he sighed, taking a seat on his worn leather couch. “If I were to say yes, what would it entail?”
Robin went on to explain what would be necessary— a self-tape to show his personality and his comfortability in a swimsuit, a psychological screening, some paperwork about his dating history— but according to Robin, all of that would be a formality. They already wanted him on the show.
“Not to mention you’d get an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji! And you just finished your tour, right? So you’re free!”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t have any plans lined up.” Eddie grumbled.
“Well, do you?”
“…No.”
“Perfect! Send me the self- tape by tomorrow, and start packing your bags! We can probably have you flown out by-”
“Robin, I haven’t even said yes yet.” Eddie raked a hand through his hair. This was so much to digest at once.
Robin waited patiently on the other line, evidently giving him time to think about it. Eddie searched his brain for a solid reason to say no— America could decide they hate him, but he was used to being an outcast. He’d had lifelong experience in that department. He might have a horrible time, but then again he was pretty good at finding a way to enjoy himself even in a room full of people he hated. He knew how to make his own fun.
After a solid ten seconds of silence, Eddie gave his answer.
“Which swim trunks should I wear for the self-tape?”
It had been a whirlwind from there. Before Eddie had known it, he was Fiji-bound on the longest flight of his life and then carted off to a resort where he would spend two weeks without any contact with the outside world other than the episodes of the show that Eddie was shown as soon as they premiered.
You were his favorite from the start.
Your connection with Argyle was flimsy, he could tell. Anyone with eyes could see it— how when you smiled at him, it never reached your eyes. How Argyle seemed complacent in your connection and never asked you anything deeper than “Did I make your coffee the way you like it?”
You poured all of your energy into being just likeable to stay but not dramatic enough to go. The persona that you portrayed on the show seemed so carefully crafted to him, like something built for display instead of practical use. He was dying to see who you really were under all the fine-tuned bullshit.
Eddie could pinpoint the first moment that he decided he would be the one to crack that facade you put on for the cameras. It was in one of the early episodes— you’d been playing nice with all the other islanders thus far, minding your business and keeping the peace, never causing drama. In this particular scene, Angela was sitting between you and Heather on a shaded couch by the pool, telling you about her connection with Jonathan.
“Like, he said that he could see us dating outside of here, and I’m like, what?? Like, you actually think I’d go for someone like you if it wasn’t my only fucking option? He’s delusional!”
Heather was laughing. Angela was laughing. But you? You were deadpanning into the distance, like you couldn’t stand to look at her. You changed the subject as soon as their laughing had died down, but Eddie had seen it- the loathing you were fighting like hell to keep quiet. He knew that loathing because he’d felt it— every time he’d watched a cheerleader ask him out as a joke, every time he’d watched some macho meathead toy with a nerdy girl’s emotions for a laugh, he’d felt that.
So at that moment, he knew he had to meet you, the real you. The woman who simmers when holding her tongue back from tearing into a stuck-up harpy like Angela when she belittled Jonathan for having something as foolish as hope that someone like her might actually be into someone like him.
He wanted to see what you said when you didn’t hold yourself back. To see who you were when the cameras weren’t watching.
Now, as Eddie strutted across the villa towards the fire pit where everyone was waiting for him, his eyes were zeroed in on you. Much to his amusement, you were pointedly looking just to his side, as if to look directly at him would be for you to admit something that you didn’t want him to know.
That’s interesting.
Eddie joined Ariana about two feet from where she stood before you all, grinning at the girls who were tittering with their shared inside joke. “Eddie,” Ariana addressed him now, “it’s lovely to have you here. Recognize any familiar faces?”
He smirked, looking around at the giggling women and the moping men. “I see a lot of familiar faces, Ariana; I’ve been keeping up with the goings on here since they started. Though more recently I got the chance to get to know some of you a bit more… personally.” He nodded a knowing hello. “Evening, ladies.”
The girls were practically beside themselves now, laughing outwardly at the boys’ confusion. “Wait…” Jonathan said, finally putting two and two together. “When they went backstage—”
“—Eddie was back there waiting for them.” Ariana finished, eyebrows raised and a mischievous smile on her lips. “Eddie, how well would you say you got to know the girls here tonight?”
Eddie shrugged. “You could say I got a taste.”
That certainly got a reaction from the guys, all of them groaning at A) how bad that pun was, and B) the fact that all of the girls were looking at each other and Eddie, giggling at the memory of making out with him behind the curtain. You participated too, sure, but still you avoided his eyes like the plague. What is she scared of? Eddie thought.
Argyle seemed oblivious to your specific reaction to Eddie; he looked just as nervous as the other guys. “Bro, we’re cooked.” he groaned to Jonathan, who sat beside him looking dejected and a little confused— he was already single and vulnerable, since Angela had left him for Andy during the recoupling last week. If anyone was cooked, it was him.
“But boys,” Ariana interrupted their groans, her eyes glinting excitedly. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. It’s only fair that you get a taste of something new as well.” She turned to face the same entrance that Eddie had just emerged from. “Come on out, Eden!”
When Ariana departed the villa and the group of you dispersed to have your respective chats to get to know the bombshells, you made a beeline towards Eden. The newest bombshell was pretty, wearing black leather to match Eddie’s pants and matched him even further with her collection of tattoos. They weren’t as numerous as Eddies— a stick-and-poke here, a floral piece there— but it was enough to make her look more alternative.
“Hi!” you crooned, putting on your most welcoming smile and enveloping her in a hug. “Let’s go over to the couch, we want to get to know you better.”
You knew Eddie had been staring at you the whole time Ariana was talking; he hadn’t exactly tried to hide it. By swooping in and claiming her first chat for the girls, you could put off talking to Eddie for a little while. You knew you’d need to talk to him eventually, but the longer you could put it off, the better. You still needed time to figure out how to handle the way your body chemistry seemed to go haywire the moment he was within reach.
You and the girls got to know Eden a little better while the guys pulled Eddie to do the same. After that, you were able to make it about ten minutes before Eddie cornered you in the kitchen.
“Hi!” he’d said, a lilting taunt hiding in his voice. You knew he could tell that you were avoiding him, and he was laughing about it.
“Hi.” you replied, glancing up at him with what you hoped was a polite smile. You were standing over the stove making a grilled cheese while he stood against the bartop across from you, leaning in and grinning knowingly.
“Can I pull you for a chat?” Eddie asked.
You glanced down at the snack which, in truth, was almost done cooking. However, you weren’t lying when you said, “I’m making a grilled cheese right now.”
Eddie was all smiles. “I can wait.”
Well fuck.
“Okay, cool!” you replied brightly. “So where are you from?” Might as well start the conversation here and now, if this guy was going to stare at you until you talked to him.
“Oh, here and there.” he said. “I move around a lot for work, but right before this I was living in Chicago.”
“And what do you do for work?” you asked, flipping your grilled cheese to the other side.
“I’m a musician.” Eddie replied.
You heard Steve’s voice from behind you add, “That’s an understatement, this guy’s an actual rockstar!” He and Nancy were joining the two of you in the kitchen. Familiar friendliness flashed across Eddie’s face as Steve approached, which piqued your curiosity.
“Well I’m trying to appear humble over here, Steve.” Eddie grinned. “Can’t be coming off full of myself on the first day.”
“Do you two know each other?” you asked.
The boys looked at each other, as if they were silently trying to gauge how much they should be divulging. “We have some mutual friends.” Steve decided on.
You nodded, satisfied with the answer. If there was more to the story, it was the producers’ problem and not yours.
Your grilled cheese was finally done, so you shut off the burner and shovelled your sandwich onto a plate. “Alright, Eddie.” you sighed. “Let’s go chat.”
He hopped off his stool like an excited child, to which you rolled your eyes. He was adorable, but you didn’t want to let him see that you felt that way. You led Eddie up the stairs to the lounge chairs overlooking the villa. The spot was private, but not so intimate or romantic as some of the other locations you could have chosen. The perfect place to make it clear to Eddie that you had no intentions of coupling up with him.
“Did I do something?”
You blinked. “What?”
Eddie was stretching himself across one of the lounge chairs, looking at home here even though he’d only just arrived. “Our kiss during the challenge was fucking phenomenal, you seemed to enjoy it— hell, you were all giggly and weak in the knees— but ever since I came out here, you can hardly look at me. Did I do or say something to make you uncomfortable? Because if I did I want to apologize, that was the opposite of what I was trying to—”
“Whoa. Slow down.” you had a feeling that he would ramble forever if you didn’t stop him. “No, you didn’t make me uncomfortable. Yes, the kiss was…good. And it’s not hard to look at you, I’m looking at you just fine right now, aren’t I?”
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m talking about earlier. Don’t try to lie and say that you weren’t avoiding eye contact earlier, because you were.”
You could double down. You could gaslight the fuck out of this guy, and you knew you could probably spin the narrative in a way that would make him look like the bad guy. Some of the viewers would probably start hating you for it, but you doubted it would impact your optics too much. Your conscience, however, was just a little too loud this time to let you do that.
You sighed, coming clean. “Okay, you got me.” You took a moment to string your words in the correct order, to gather your thoughts so that what you said came out how you wanted it to sound. You didn’t want to lie, per se. However, being completely honest was way more vulnerable than you wanted to be right now.
“I think you’re a very attractive guy—”
“Thank you.” Eddie said with a grin that looked ready to start picking out wedding colors.
“—But,” you continued, trying not to return the smile but failing miserably. The corners of your mouth turned up against your will in the face of this guy’s brazen attraction to you. “I’m really happy in my connection with Argyle.”
“No you’re not.” Eddie’s retort was so blunt that it took you a moment to register what he’d said.
“Yes,” you bit back, “I am.”
“You don’t like him like that. I can tell, it’s written all over your face whenever you talk to him.”
You were stunned. There’s no way he could’ve seen what you’d said in the confessional, was there? There was no way, you’d only just said that this morning.
Were you that easy to read?
Eddie just sat there, slightly smug but more curious as to what you would say— or hold yourself back from saying. When you said nothing, he glanced over his shoulder at the villa below and raised an eyebrow. “Hate to break it to you, babe, but I don’t think Argyle feels the same way you say you do.”
You craned your neck to see whatever he was looking at and sure enough, there he was: Argyle, lounging on a couch downstairs with his arms wrapped around Eden, eyes closed and lips locked.
Did it hurt your feelings? No. Was it frustrating as all hell? Fuck yeah.
“Good for him.” Eddie said, as if he were a proud older brother and not Argyle’s competition for your affections.
You were getting a little pissed at this guy’s candor. You sighed sharply, dropping your polite smile and gritting your teeth. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
His grin grew wider, and his brown eyes darkened in a way that lit your soul on fire. “Wasn’t the intent, sweetheart, but I’d sure love to know what that looks like.”
You stood from your seat, hands curling into fists. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem is the fake little smile you like to wear, and you just put it away.” He stayed seated, but tilted his chin so he could more easily meet your eyes. “I like you a lot better like this.”
You were fuming. First this guy makes you feel all kinds of feelings that you did not sign up to feel today, and then Argyle throws you a very inconvenient curveball. Now Eddie sits there laughing at the fact that your couple— your ticket to staying on this island— is falling apart before your eyes?
Fuck this guy.
You brought your face the slightest bit closer to his, and with the most seriousness you could muster, you hissed, “Stay away from me.”
And with that, you were stomping down the stairs, wishing for privacy more than anything so you could scream into a pillow or something. You made it about five steps down when you realized you’d left your grilled cheese.
You stopped, heart racing, head hanging, and took a moment to sigh defeatedly before you turned around to climb the steps again— only to find Eddie waiting at the top of the stairway, waiting with your plate in hand and a smirk on his lips.
Your cheeks heated as you grabbed the plate from him, mumbling a “Thank you.” before pivoting to descend the steps once again.
“My pleasure, sweetheart!” he called over your shoulder. You resisted the urge to flip him the bird.
Jester!Eddie Munson doing everything in his power to flatter the princess without crossing the boundaries of your father, the king.
Jester!Eddie who wears his best motley in hopes to catch your eye every time he's called to the throne room.
Jester!Eddie who creates the perfect melodies to play on his lute for your family, hiding in little lyrics of his affection for you.
Jester!Eddie who almost lost his life under the power of your father because of a joke that didn't land the way he intended.
^ he was given a second chance if he was able to amuse you. He thought he was for sure a goner but when you laughed hysterically at his come-back, a little part of him thought- hoped it wasn't just because he was funny- but because you didn't want him to be executed.
Jester!Eddie practising his best material in his free time to make sure he's perfected every joke, song, story, even working on improvising and digs at the king he could use.
Jester!Eddie who notices small things about you, quirks, habits and the faces you make, thinking about how you are the most precious thing his cynical eyes have ever seen.
Jester!Eddie who watches from the window as you wander the gardens outside, taking note of the flowers you stop by the longest.
Jester!Eddie who doesn't notice your lingering stares.
Jester!Eddie whose attitude gets snappier when he overhears suitorships for you, wishing he was of a higher rank to even be considered.
Jester!Eddie who tells a story of how a beautiful princess falls in love for a lesser- a poverty man- a slave- an amuser- a fool, pouring his heart out in the tale, his heart crumbling apart when your entire family stumbles over laughing, curling over in their seats.
^ not even daring to look over at you- if he had, he would have found soft, almost confused- but compassionate eyes.
Jester!Eddie who falls apart when you risk touching his gloved hand, almost tenderly, whispering a compliment on his services, stuttering in response.
"I- i would do anything for you-r family...your highness"
You giggled softly, catching onto what he truly wanted to say.
Last Song : Make Some Noise for the Desi Boys (Hindi song btw)
Last Movie : Where Evil Lurks (Horror movie watched it at midnight)
Last Thing I ate : Chilly Paneer
Last Place I went : A mall in another city I was visting lol
Last Video Game : Rhythm Hive
No pressure Tagging- @holyymoly @imkindasleepdeprived @asexual-lemonade @wolfstarisareligion @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @iamawolfstarsimp @aiexh @hamzakamehroomkurta @femmour @linnielemon+anyone I forgot + anyone who is seeing this and wants to do it and didn't get tagged. go ahead, act like I did tag you
Last thing I ate- Roti and Ladyfinger ki sabji (bhindi)
Last place I went to - The shell petrol pump
Last video game - Either valo (last year prolly) or pandemic on board game
Moots-
@moonandstarshangoutinbars @moonyisnotonfire @istillwishforyouateleveneleven @adduptosomething @moonyluvrr @fantasyfiend222 + anymore I forgot to add+ open to all
last song - currently listening to like real people do by hozier
last movie - uhhhh. uhhhhhhhh. I don’t actually know tbf, I think last movie was when I pirated fantastic beasts and where to find them because I missed my little crush on newt scamander ngl
last I ate - chive & onion twists. currently munching on them. yummy
last place I went to - corner store bcs I ran out of lipbalm
last video game - stardew valley I think??? or maybe minecraft. forgot which was last
tags !! no pressure ofc !! - @andromaex @merthurtrenches @epic-sorcerer @frederissa @frogmerthur @wingsstilldontwork + open !!!
Sooo, have we ever thought of Ghost Rider! Hobie? Specially cowboy! Ghost Rider! Hobie🤔😩 Oh oh! Better yet, Ghost Rider! R and Spider-Punk! Hobie! Like, like, cuz there's nothing more punk in his eyes than seeing his lovie acting out vengeance against those that even he questions his own non killing rule about. Seeing the penance stare would ultimately frighten him and yet, he's never been more intrigued by you🤭💕 And the fact that you look so absolutely otherworldly while riding your own motorcycle/vehicle that's blazing with your hellish flames. Watching you switch between forms so effortlessly (putting aside that it took such a long time for you to even get to that point because of the deal, yk💀) makes him feel like you're completely out of his league, but to his delight, you like the annoying little spider that sometimes crashes your nightly rides as you seek out victims– I mean, wrongdoers👀
OMG YUME QODMKWNDKEMDKD I LOVE THAT IDEA
Brooo the way i need a fanart of hobie as ghost rider tho 🥰😳 wait WAIT COWBOY HOBIE AS GHOST RIDER?!!! THAT MEANS HIS SKELETON HORSE IS IN FLAMES THAT IS SO BADASS I'M SO DOWN BAD FOR THAT CONCEPT AUGH 🥴
Ghost rider! R is gonna unlock something in him 👀👀😳 y'know that one meme with the tall woman and smaller guy in an alleyway? Yeah that's r in her ghost rider form and spider punk hobie looking up at her like she's a goddess reborn 🤭
Hell, Ghost Rider unlocked something in me when I was younger bc I would. Even when he's in that form, I WOULD😩💕💕
BUT YEAH, LIKE THAT SCENE IN THE MOVIE WHERE THE OLD GHOST RIDER CALLS HIS HORSE AND TURNS IT INTO THE SKELETON HORSE❤️ Him and Buckeye would be feared lmaooo
Ghost Rider! R is just staring him down with a sizzling hot chain wrapped up in her hands. "Do you know who I am, little spider...?"
@yumeaoka-chan who says hobie has a no kill rule? Like that PUNK WEARS blue laces. He also def probably knows about lace code. And most often in lace code that means someone killed a cop or someone in the line of duty
+ go look at his comics… lets just say he does a lot more with that guitar than play it… so so. Hobie would probably love his lovie
However i do fuck with this idea (i fuck with it and love this idea a LOTTT)
Ik all about his comic book counterpart, trust🤭💕 But, this is assuming movie Hobie has roughly the same universe as his comic book👀 (idk, they both feel like 2 slightly different Hobies to me) Besides, maybe he has a no kill rule on minor villains rather than that twat Osborn and the venom police guys🤔 I'm actually really curious about movie Hobie's universe, ngl🤔
Lol, but besides that, ofc he loves his lovie🤭💕
"You do realize that I could melt your face off if I wanted to?"
"Sounds like a lovely Friday night😀"
He his absolutely, HORRENDOUSLY, down bad for the glowering spirit towering over him🙂↕️
LMAOO. I mean i assume movie hobie has roughly the same universe. Considering both of then are punks and anarchist. Id assume hobies at least killed some politically evil twat. And possibly
Hes so cute and i would give him the biggest kiss (i couldnt blame him. Lowkey a glowering female spirit that towers over me? Yeah id fold as well)
Sooo, have we ever thought of Ghost Rider! Hobie? Specially cowboy! Ghost Rider! Hobie🤔😩 Oh oh! Better yet, Ghost Rider! R and Spider-Punk! Hobie! Like, like, cuz there's nothing more punk in his eyes than seeing his lovie acting out vengeance against those that even he questions his own non killing rule about. Seeing the penance stare would ultimately frighten him and yet, he's never been more intrigued by you🤭💕 And the fact that you look so absolutely otherworldly while riding your own motorcycle/vehicle that's blazing with your hellish flames. Watching you switch between forms so effortlessly (putting aside that it took such a long time for you to even get to that point because of the deal, yk💀) makes him feel like you're completely out of his league, but to his delight, you like the annoying little spider that sometimes crashes your nightly rides as you seek out victims– I mean, wrongdoers👀
OMG YUME QODMKWNDKEMDKD I LOVE THAT IDEA
Brooo the way i need a fanart of hobie as ghost rider tho 🥰😳 wait WAIT COWBOY HOBIE AS GHOST RIDER?!!! THAT MEANS HIS SKELETON HORSE IS IN FLAMES THAT IS SO BADASS I'M SO DOWN BAD FOR THAT CONCEPT AUGH 🥴
Ghost rider! R is gonna unlock something in him 👀👀😳 y'know that one meme with the tall woman and smaller guy in an alleyway? Yeah that's r in her ghost rider form and spider punk hobie looking up at her like she's a goddess reborn 🤭
Hell, Ghost Rider unlocked something in me when I was younger bc I would. Even when he's in that form, I WOULD😩💕💕
BUT YEAH, LIKE THAT SCENE IN THE MOVIE WHERE THE OLD GHOST RIDER CALLS HIS HORSE AND TURNS IT INTO THE SKELETON HORSE❤️ Him and Buckeye would be feared lmaooo
Ghost Rider! R is just staring him down with a sizzling hot chain wrapped up in her hands. "Do you know who I am, little spider...?"
@yumeaoka-chan who says hobie has a no kill rule? Like that PUNK WEARS blue laces. He also def probably knows about lace code. And most often in lace code that means someone killed a cop or someone in the line of duty
+ go look at his comics… lets just say he does a lot more with that guitar than play it… so so. Hobie would probably love his lovie
However i do fuck with this idea (i fuck with it and love this idea a LOTTT)
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.5k
Author's Note: I'M BACK, BABY!!!!! 😩 I missed writing these girls frfr, and I've lowkey been locked in for the past week for the last scene alone with a specific song stuck on loop 🥲 I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie, Ramona and another original character that you'll see later in the chapter, as well as @pinksugarscrub for beta reading this chapter!
The first thing Ramona wakes up to is a foot shoved against her face.
An exhausted groan rumbles in Ramona’s chest as she blinks the sleep out of her eyes. Dull sores pulse all over her body when she finds herself being squished between a wooden wall and a sprawled out Billie. Quiet snores rumble from the punk girl, her mouth hanging open with drool coating a corner, while the patched up comforter is halfway on them and on the hardwood floor. Billie’s warmth adds onto the creeping heat from the late-morning sun, the wooden cabin slowly baking Ramona alive.With an annoyed whine, she sits herself up, pushing Billie’s foot away from her. She winces from the soft pops crackling along her spine while she stretches her arms up to the ceiling.
A heavy fog swirls in Ramona’s head. Pressure looms over her shoulders as her arms drop to her sides, leaving her in a hazy vertigo. She struggles to crawl out of her occupied space through her bleary vision, her fingers sliding against wrinkled sheets until they curve onto the edge of the bed. With as much grace as a teetering bowling ball, Ramona tumbles onto the hardwood floor with a grunt, her face planted on wood grain and lint.
A loud snort rings above Ramona before her bed creaks again, the springs groaning under shifting weight until Billie’s foot hangs over the edge near Ramona’s face again.
Ramona’s face pinches into a grimace before she rolls away from the offending appendage, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Throbs lap over her head while swirling greens and blues bloom and fade from her vision. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes before she sits herself back up, her bonnet slowly slipping back from her head until frizzy baby hairs peek under the elastic headband.
Her sleep has been getting worse.
Ramona rolls over onto her hands and knees, crawling towards her unlatched trunk. Hazy memories flicker in the girl’s mind as she flips the trunk open, voices both familiar and foreign crooning in her ears while she pulls out a clean change of clothes. Your hushed, honeyed voice sends a bittersweet warmth through her at the sight of one of your embroidered cardigans— pink-petaled flowers and cherries dancing across the sleeves on cream-knitted polyester. At the same time, a deep timbre gently rattles through her bones as she fishes out some patched jeans.
She’s not sure why she can hear the man’s voice so clearly in her head, but it tickles a nostalgic part of her conscience just as much as your voice.
As she pushes herself onto her feet with her clothes in hand, Ramona’s eyes trail back to the slumbering punk girl in her bed. Ruby-hued bonnet halfway off her head, wild curls spilling onto crumpled sheets, black earphones tangling in long nimble fingers— Billie made herself at home in Ramona’s space a little too much. Ramona presses her lips together with a disgruntled sound before heaving a sigh.
Ramona has a sister. A long-lost sister. And she’s sprawled over Ramona’s bed like a carefree dog in their owner’s bed.
As the small mp3 player slips from Billie’s hand, Ramona gingerly grabs it and tugs the earphones out of her sister’s pierced ears. Billie quietly whines as she rolls over to Ramona’s indent on the bed. She buries her face into the pillow, her half sock-covered foot jerking against the headboard.
With a relenting shake of her head, Ramona toes her sneakers from under her bed before stumbling towards the door.
–
Ramona is used to the stares by now.
The tinny ring of a bell spikes in her ears when she enters the camp office. Wood of different shades and grains wall around her, decorated with strings of color-faded flags and taxidermied animals that would haunt Ramona’s subconscious if she stared for too long. Floorboards creak under her scuffed white sneakers. Small dust bunnies hop across the hardwood while the smell of mildew tickles her nostrils. Some counselors quiet down and peek over from the open kitchen area, a rarity for a kid to come into their domain so far into the camp season. The only person not paying Ramona any mind is the receptionist behind the desk, the older woman’s eyes locked in on the old, dusty computer monitor.
With a wrinkle of her nose, Ramona slowly approaches the desk, her fingers toying with the small black mp3 player in her cardigan pocket.
The older lady glances up from the box-like monitor, a wary acknowledgement, before turning her attention back.
“Back for another charging session?” Loud clacking rings behind the desk when the older lady resumes her typing. “It’s a little early for you this time, isn’t it?”
A sheepish smile curls up on Ramona’s lips as she pulls her mp3 out. “Just used it a lot more than usual last night, Ms. Janet.”
A noncommittal hum rumbles from the receptionist before she reaches over the desk for the device, her eyes still locked onto the monitor. “I swear, Georgette needs to redo the electrical wiring in that damn cabin. Can’t just throw two kids in there and expect them to deal with only three working outlets.”
Ramona’s hand twitches as the player slips from her grasp, but she pulls her hand back with a slight frown.
“It’s not like we have a lot to charge, so I don’t really mind—”
“It’s still not something to overlook though.” Ms. Janet lets out a scoff as she shoves a charger port into the device. “If she’s not careful, she’ll have a snot-nosed brat make a complaint to their parents and have them sick a damn lawsuit on the camp.”
Heavy footsteps bounce off wooden walls before another figure steps into the room. Another older woman stares at Ms. Janet with a deadpan as she stirs her coffee mug.
“Janet, c’mon, why do you have to speak like that to a camper?”
“Don’t act like they’re innocent angels, May.” Ms. Janet resumes her typing with a snort. “You’ve heard those kids cursing worse than some war-torn sailors out there without a thought behind their eyes.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to join them.” With an exasperated sigh, May approaches the back of the reception desk, her long white doctor’s coat fluttering right behind her. “Whether they know it or not, they still look to us for guidance—”
“Trust me, they’re not paying attention to old biddies like us.” Ms. Janet twirls her swivel chair to May with a deadpan of her own. “They’re just focused on their assigned lessons and whatever camp activities are available for the day.”
“You have no faith,” May rolls her eyes before she turns her attention to Ramona with a tender smile. “And how’re you doing today, Ramona dear? Do you need a restock on allergy pills?”
Ramona adamantly shakes her head, her tied dark coils swaying behind her back. “I’ve been airing out my cabin, so I should be okay, Nurse May.”
Another scoff reverberates in the room as Ms. Janet swivels back to the desk, shuffling through some papers. “You shouldn’t have to air out your own cabin if Georgette actually properly maintained the campgrounds—”
“Janet—”
Ms. Janet rolls her eyes as she drops some papers onto the desk one by one in different piles. “You and I both know it, May. The only reason why those old cabins are being used in the first place is because of her bad ass grandson and his shenanigans.”
May narrows her eyes at the curt receptionist before turning back to Ramona with an apologetic smile. “Is there anything else you need, sweetheart?”
Ramona’s hands drop to her sides, her fingers toying with the hem of her embroidered sleeves. “Did any letters come for me and…”
What is Billie to Ramona? Obviously she’s her sister, but it’s still too sudden for her, too jarring for her to say out loud.
“…my roommate?”
With a low grunt, Janet pushes herself back on her swivel chair towards the colorful array of cubbies behind her. “Give me a second. It was you and…?”
“…Billie Brown.”
Another low grunt of acknowledgement rumbles from the receptionist as she rummages through one of the cubbies, more mumbled expletives tumbling from the older woman’s mouth. With an exasperated sigh, May leans against the desk and cups her coffee mug, eyes training back onto the preteen.
“Your other friend’s also doing well,” the nurse’s eyes soften as she takes a sip. “There weren’t any issues after his initial concussion, so he’s clear for the rest of camp. He’ll just have to pop in every now and then, but I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Relief flickers in Ramona’s eyes, the tension rolling off her shoulders for a brief reprieve. “That’s good.”
Arnold peeks from the back of Ramona’s mind, the shorter boy’s sheepish gapped smile flashing behind her eyes before he rushes back offstage. A few other figures pop up and disappear soon after— Billie with her mega-watt cat-like grin, you with your calming voice. However, one towers over Ramona in the back of her mind, tinny vibrations of guitar strings crooning in her ears while the rest of the world retreats from her. Billie’s smile curls along his lips, but it looks foreign to Ramona— sharper, more perceptive. She snaps back to reality once her ears pick up the sound of wheels scraping wood.
Ms. Janet spins her way back on her rolling chair to the desk with a fat stack of envelopes bulging out against a single rubber band. “Well damn, whoever your roommate is, she either has a big family or a very doting one.”
Ramona reaches for the stack, the sudden heft against her palm nearly making her drop it before her other hand saves it. A myriad of envelopes grab her attention— fiery reds, electric blues, citrusy yellows, gem-like purples. Only one white envelope atop the stack stands out against the rainbow palette in her grasp.
“Don’t worry, your usual mail’s on top,” Ms. Janet dismisses with a wave of her hand, but her eyes soften behind her metal-rimmed glasses. “I’m sure you don’t wanna shuffle through all of that just to find that one letter.”
The small smile falters on Ramona’s lips, a lump-like weight bobbing in the pit of her stomach. The image of you flickers back in her mind— your sketchbooks towering over you at your desk, ink and charcoal staining your skin, the scent of chocolate and cardamom trailing around you. The you in her mind smiles just the same, the smile you always have around her every time you meet her eyes.
That smile pricks a bittersweet sting in Ramona’s chest.
“Thank you,” the girl ignores the taste of ash on her tongue as she tucks the stack of letters against her chest. “I’ll come back tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah, same deal, same routine.” The receptionist waves Ramona off as she turns her attention back to the ancient monitor. “I’ll keep your mp3 player out safe and sound until then.”
A disgruntled sigh echoes behind Ramona as she retreats to the door, the nurse and receptionist’s voices muffling in her ears with complaints and disagreements before the door shuts behind the tween.
—
Your handwriting stands out amongst pop art cutouts and garish envelopes against the dark hardwood floor.
Ramona leans against the edge of her bed, her lower back and rear growing sore on the wooden floor, while she stares at the letters scattered before her. Most of the letters scream for her eyes’ attention— cut-out photos and letters from magazines plastered over some yellow and purple envelopes, messy pen smudges stain the bright blue ones, and sketched out webs and music notes border along the reds.
But the one that keeps beckoning her back is the unassuming white envelope in the middle, comically orderly and clean compared to the hodgepodge of envelopes. Your familiar cursive adorns the blank canvas, ink etched onto the paper with clean strokes and a steady hand. The way your ‘o’s and ‘a’s loop around in tight circles, the way you squiggle through your ‘m’s and ‘n’s, the way the dot above your ‘i’s skews off to the side— they all well up warm nostalgia in her chest.
Ramona Diane. Her name from your hand.
Snores rumble beside her ear. Ramona turns towards the head of the bed as Billie rolls towards the edge in blissful slumber. The crimson bonnet is nowhere on the punk girl’s head, her wild coils tangled and frizzy from her sporadic movement. Silver glints beneath dark tresses, the small stud lodged in her earlobe glittering under the late morning sun filtering in the cabin, before Billie burrows herself under the covers.
Ramona blinks away the warmth behind her eyes as she looks back at your letter. She picks it up, the envelope encasing the usual numerous pages you tend to write every week. Each page throughout her time apart from you spills through in inked words, like you can barely contain every little detail you’ve seen for her before you run out of blank space. You’ve always written like you’re running out of time— a habit from you pushing through your deadlines, perhaps. But even with your scrawls bombarding through paper stationery, your words always paint through every moment you have seen in her mind.
She flips the envelope over and tucks her pinky under the sealed flap. With a quick flick, she rips through, revealing the folded papers of your recent thoughts and tales.
Rustling sheets echo into Ramona’s ears again before thin calloused fingers brush against her shoulder. She fights off a flinch as Billie’s head lolls over, her eyes barely cracked open. Her morning breath ghosts Ramona’s cheek like a humid hiss from old pipes. The punk girl slinks her arm out of her cotton cocoon and points at the envelopes on the floor.
“…red.”
“…which one?”
“All‘em…”
With a relenting sigh, Ramona gathers all the red envelopes and hands it to her sister— still a strange revelation, but one Ramona cannot run away from. Loud rips echo into her ears as Billie retreats into her temporary haven. Rustling sheets and creaking springs overtake the quiet of the outside world, bubbling the duo in their shared world of scratched inks and torn paper. Bright crimson shreds flutter over Ramona like confetti, erupting out of Billie’s blanket cave like papery red ash, before they land atop your folded pages. The scrawled ink across the red canvas is illegible to Ramona’s eyes— jagged, angular, heavy. She can make out indiscernible words pressed against the paper, the inkless grooves pimpling throughout the paper like hairline wrinkles.
Hobie Brown must have a heavy hand when he writes, at least to Ramona.
Her eyes drift back to the bound letters in her hands, weighing heavy with the red petal-like scraps sitting on cream papers. She brushes them off, fingertips lingering on his invisible words stamped into the scraps, before she tugs your multi-paged letter out of the envelope.
Inked cursive dances across lined paper. Every thought written down by you is jam-packed within the lines, almost spilling out of the pages. As she reads, images roll through Ramona’s mind like a film reel in a movie projector. Rolling waves lapping at sandy shores, vanilla ice cream melting over waffle cones and fingers, glass and steel skyscrapers towering up to blue skies. Stills of executives in suits in your meetings morphing into silly caricatures in your prose— a pot-bellied old man with a wall of mustache cloaking his upper lip; a spindly elderly lady with bright red lips and an enormous plume tucked into her hat; a towering giant with broad shoulders and skinny stick legs. Ramona’s lips press into a thin line to cage the bubbling giggles.
Before she flips over to another page, loud rustling and giggles suddenly bombards her ears while the comforter gets yanked against her back. She looks over her shoulder, only to be greeted with two peaks repeatedly kicking the blanket in the air. Each kick props the patched comforter higher, the edges jerkily pulling away from the bottom, until Billie’s beaming face surfaces. A thin stack of glossy card-like paper hovers over her face as her smile brightens. Russet eyes dart over to Ramona’s own as a beam of sunshine shines over Billie’s. Flashes of copper and amber glitter under the light, as if the sun itself decided to pool over darkened honey.
“Mon-Mon,” Billie calls to her in a hush, as if preparing to unveil a secret, “d’ya know where Washin’ton D.C. is?”
Ramona stares back at her giddy double with a befuddled pinch of her eyebrows.
“…Like, around Maryland, I guess?”
“Yeah, but where?” Billie scoots closer until half her body hangs off the bed. “Like how far is it from here? Like an hour away? Or is it ‘cross t’ country? Is it true that ya can pass through like ten different states in a whole day—?”
“Billie, I don’t have a map—”
Despite Ramona slowly backing away, Billie continues to invade her space. “Anyway, Dad went there earlier. He sent alotta pictures ‘n everythin’.”
Some photos slip from Billie’s grasp and flutter onto the floor. Blurred captured moments are inked onto the resin-covered papers, each one revealing at least one member of the band. A burly blonde man with rose-tinged skin pointing up at a hanging fighter plane with jagged teeth painted at the front. Another man with liberty-spiked hair staring up at a skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex. A ravenette woman with sharp eyes in front of a gate flipping off a far away White House.
But the one that catches Ramona’s eyes is of a towering man with gravity-defying wicks holding a carrot out to a giraffe. His chiseled profile warms through the printed ink— a giddy smile curling his pierced lips, awe glinting in russet eyes, a tattooed and scarred arm reaching out before the majestic spotted creature lowering its head. The image of the famous guitarist crumbles and rebuilds itself in Ramona’s mind one by one, no longer the enigmatic rockstar out of her reach, but a man slowly unveiling through a sister she barely met. Instead of complex guitar riffs, a deep timbre of his voice croons in Ramona’s ear. Harsh, dark eyes in black and white posters shift into warm russet browns. A nonchalant smirk morphs into a bright grin, lighting his face up amidst the hazy darkness of her subconscious.
It’s strange how much Hobie Brown looks like Billie to Ramona now.
Technically, by that logic, it should apply to her too— of Hobie and her looking alike. But she still can’t see it, not fully at least.
“They went t’ a lot of touristy places this time,” Billie’s voice breaks through Ramona’s pondering as the punk girl slides further over the edge of the bed, blindly pawing for the dropped photos. “T’ last photos Dad sent me were mainly hikin’ trails ‘n Uncle Ned passed out on a huge boulder.”
A snort sneaks up on Ramona before she covers her mouth, her body trembling from the bubbling giggles in her chest. The letters in her hand gradually slide out of her grasp before they flutter onto the floor.
“Honestly, this is probably t’ first city where they actually found a whole bunch of t’ings t’ do ‘stead of bein’ holed up in an airbnb.” Billie rolls over on the bed until she hangs upside down over the edge, her dark coils tangled from her slumber-driven moving. “Normally, Dad ‘n Uncle James would get bored ‘n hunt down whatever seemed fun, ‘n Uncle Ned would drag Auntie Yuri with him t’ hunt ‘em down right after.”
Another snort slips through Ramona’s nose before a sputtering wheeze escapes her lips.
“At least with this place, ev’rybody got t’ have fun in their own way.” Billie holds out another picture to her twin, gently wobbling it. “They’ve been tryin’ t’ find diff’rent places fer me t’ go t’ after camp…”
Ramona gingerly grabs the photo, the glossy shine reflecting light before the image reveals itself. Hues of pink, purple and blue catch her eye as she brings it closer— hundreds of balloons flooding the floor within indigo walls with a manmade lotus flower towering over. Blurry figures linger at the bottom corner, one of a startled ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-scream and mid-fall with ‘Uncle’ James tackling him from behind with a feral grin. In the far background, a tiny ‘Auntie’ Yuri points at them mid-cackle while more balloons float in the air around her.
Ramona trembles as she swallows down the giggle bubbling up her throat. “They’re like big kids…”
“Basically, yeah.”
A cat-like grin curls up on Billie’s face as she leans closer. The punk girl tilts her head to the side until it rests against her sister’s, her wild dark coils cascading over Ramona’s shoulder. “But they make travelin’ more fun. Dad doesn’t like stayin’ inside fer too long durin’ tours, so he ropes Uncle Ned int’ researchin’ different cities with ‘im while Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri drive ‘round.”
Billie tucks her chin against Ramona’s shoulder. “I t’ink Dad’ll want t’ take me t’ DC first. He sent me a lot of photos from this bubble place alone, but I t’ink he likes t’ zoo more…”
Ramona hums out in absent acknowledgement as she drifts her eyes between the photo in her hand and your letter on the floor.
“Does…”
Her words crumble to ash before Ramona can breathe life into them. What can she even ask? Does she even have a right to? Would Billie even care if she did?
A gentle nudge against her head buoys Ramona out of her thoughts. She glances at her sister, expectant curiosity glinting in Billie’s russet eyes.
“Does…?”
A small pebble lodges itself against Ramona’s throat. It doesn’t choke her, but it burrows itself against her esophagus before she struggles to swallow it down. Her question burns acrid on her tongue as she wills herself to utter it out.
“…does he have any pictures of his concerts?”
It doesn’t sit right for Ramona, the way she worded it. She can’t bring herself to say it despite the festering creeping up in her chest.
Billie’s eyes continue to stare back, eyes mirroring each other in some uncanny valley moment for Ramona, before she responds in a hush.
“Dad?”
The pebble pulses uncomfortably against Ramona’s throat, but she slowly nods.
“Yeah. Dad.”
The word tastes foreign to Ramona, a word that she never thought would leave her mouth. Her stomach churns as she shrinks away from her double, averting her eyes back to the letters by her feet. Tingles thrum under her skin from Billie’s scrutiny as Ramona curls into a ball.
“…prob’ly not for this concert yet.”
Billie’s voice ghosts against the shell of Ramona’s ear, more solemn and wistful than it should be. Lanky arms wrap around Ramona before Billie’s chin digs deeper in her shoulder, dark coils tickling the side of her neck.
“I t’ink I got some pictures of his other concerts though.” Billie tightens her embrace as the rest of the photos slip off the edge of the bed. “Ya wanna look while I go through ev’ryone else’s photos?”
The pebble grows bigger, pushing against the walls of Ramona’s throat until it cuts the airway from her lungs. Heat tingles the back of her eyes before she blinks it away, her vision blurring at the edges until the sheets of your handwriting go unfocused. She swallows around the lump little by little, inching it down her esophagus until it plummets into her stomach.
“…okay.”
—
Water laps over Ramona’s dangling feet. The wooden swim dock creaks under her weight with every swing of her legs. Gradients of purple, pink and orange drape across the forested skyline, the rippling surface of the lake glittering from the setting sun. Paper crinkles drift in the air when Ramona shuffles through your letters, your inked words scrawled through the pages under the fading sunlight, while she tries to find where she left off.
All the photos Billie showed her earlier still flicker in Ramona’s head, bleeding into the forefront with every roam of her eyes. Flashes of neon lights bubble in her head in tandem with your retellings, stuffy caricatures of your potential investors suddenly thrown into a balloon pit before being tackled by punk-like figures. Dinosaur bones surface under sandy shores with every ocean wave lapping over. Skyscrapers erupt from the ground around the White House, towering over the governmental building, until it sits under their shadows. Wild animals prowl through the boardwalk, licking ice cream off their maws with saltwater air breezing through their manes and furs.
Ramona shakes her head from the fantastical daydreams.
A lot of the captured moments weren’t like the family photos Ramona usually sees in movies. They weren’t the picturesque ones with amusement parks or picnics, nor were they the staged photoshoot ones with the white backgrounds and mini props. The photos were chaotic. They were blurry, random, probably morally illegal at times. Even with the typical touristy backdrops, the band somehow commands an anarchic energy with every inked paper. One image of a flushed ‘Uncle’ James being piggybacked by an exasperated ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-falling onto the street flickers. Then another of a giddy ‘Auntie’ Yuri climbing over a wire fence towards a neon-lit venue. And then another with Hobie— Hobie? Dad?— screaming at something off-camera with a makeshift sign in hand and paint smeared across his face at a protest. These moments weren’t staged, nor were they censored or edited to make themselves more like normal adults in her mind.
They were themselves. With all their grit and bite. Without a shred of fear or care.
Ramona wonders how they all got to that point.
Her eyes drift back to the scrawled ink on the lined paper. The tips of her fingers drift over your writing, your words permanently branded into the fibers. You weren’t really the type to take photos of yourself, preferring to be behind or away from the camera, but you always made sure to take note of whatever caught your eye. Whether it was a fabric that caught the sunlight just right, or an art piece that inspires a new pattern, or just a silly moment Ramona would laugh at— you would always write it down.
A bittersweet smile curls up on Ramona’s lips before she finally finds the paragraph she left off.
Music creeps into her ears— not her usual curation on your mp3 player, but nostalgic syncopated beats played on the radio when she gets picked up after school. A new figure emerges in the forefront of Ramona’s mind, leaning over Ramona’s shoulder with warm eyes and paint-splattered freckles across his cheeks. Paint fumes and graphite ghost along her nostrils as the figure’s presence warms her back. Soft scratchings of pencil against paper fill in the background of the hip-hop instrumentals, a myriad of colors spraying into the edges of her periphery. A canvas erupts from the ground and towers over her mind, spray painted sunflowers and vibrant comic book art tagged across it. The figure slowly pushes himself up and approaches the mural, amber-like caramel eyes lighting up at the art. Another familiar figure approaches the first, you standing beside him with a giddy smile, a sheen glinting over your eyes at him before you turn to the vibrant art. Warmth creeps the back of Ramona's eyes from the awe in your writings, the pride you weave through pressed ink for—
“Uncle Miles?”
A scream rips through Ramona’s throat from the intruding voice. Frantic eyes dart to its direction behind her, greeted by mirrored russets. Billie stares back at her sister as she sits back up on her rear, the wooden dock creaking out in protest by the sudden weight distribution. A shaky breath wheezes through Ramona as she slowly loosens her grip onto the crumpled letters.
“Billie, why—?”
Billie shrinks from the exasperation in Ramona’s voice, her shoulders hunching in as she crosses her legs together. The spike of irritation extinguishes within Ramona.
“Billie?”
The punk girl stays quiet, a habit slowly becoming more common around Ramona. A gentle breeze drifts between the long-lost twins with a piney, earthy scent, but neither takes notice, only scrutinizing each other behind a setting backdrop. Billie’s eyes waver in Ramona’s sight, flicking between Ramona’s eyes and the letters in her hands.
“I didn’t mean t’…”
Billie trails off as she curls into a ball, wrapping her arms around her tucked knees. “Didn’t mean t’ look. Was gon’ check on ya after ya left t’ cabin, but ya were really focused when I found ya, ‘n I jus’ ended up…”
The punk girl shrinks even more, her voice getting lost in the summer breeze.
“S’from Mum, right?”
Ramona’s face drops, and a faint ache creeps up within her ribs.
“…yeah.”
Rubber soles tap against the grained wood as Billie’s boots fidget against the wooden dock.
“Ya didn’t really talk ‘bout her earlier.” Billie tucks her chin between her knees, caution flickering in her eyes. “Didn’t really talk at all, t’be honest. Kinda jus’…stayed quiet t’ whole time.”
Her arms snake around her knees tighter. “Didn’t really ask a lot ‘bout Dad or nothin’. Or ‘bout Uncle Ned, Uncle James, Auntie Yuri either.”
“…there’s not really much to ask when you already answered them for me.”
Ramona hesitantly scoots over to the side, the water rippling from her feet’s sudden movements. She pats her hand with a tentative drum beside her. Billie’s eyes briefly widen before she slowly scoots up to the edge of the dock, steel toes peeking over and knees tucked against her chest. Silence permeates between the girls. Lapping water and rustling leaves muffle into white noise in their ears. The last of the warmth in the sky cools to a blue-tinted palette, oranges and pinks giving into indigos and violets. The moon peeks over through the sky, its silver light peeking behind fading golden rays, while the sun slowly sinks further behind the trees.
They stare at the sunset, but even the tranquil beauty of nature can’t burrow its roots through the tension.
Ramona glances to the side, eyes lingering on her sister, while Billie absently fidgets her boot laces until they come loose.
“…I don’t know what you expect me to ask, to be honest.”
Ramona’s voice wavers as her gaze drifts over to the rippling water before them. “Technically, I already knew about him and everybody through Mom. Or at least their music. And with all the photos and stories you had, I think I got a gist of it—”
“That ain’t t’ same, though.”
Billie’s paint-chipped finger twirls a black bootlace around itself as she continues to stare off to the sunset. “S’like ya were jus’ sittin’ back ‘n takin’ in whatever I told ya, but ya weren’t really…into it, I guess.”
The punk girl’s dark tresses flutter in the breeze, shielding her face from her newly-found twin. “Ya don’ really listen t’ Dad’s songs either, not on yer own.”
A tingling itch creeps up the back of Ramona’s throat. Two ghostly hands clamp onto her shoulders, long calloused fingers slowly pressing into her flesh, while the scent of citrus sneaks up her nostrils.
“I mean, I get it.” Billie’s fingers move on to the other boot laces, tugging an end by the plastic aglet until the knot unravels. “It ain’t easy, dealin’ with some life-changin’ chance meetin’ like some main character in a bizarre story, but…s’our life right now. ’m still tryin’ t’ wrap m’head ‘round it too.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
An acrid tinge lingers on Ramona’s tongue as she averts her eyes back to the water. She slowly kicks her submerged feet against the lapping waves, the lake’s intended direction stronger than her resolve against the current. “I still don’t know how you’re okay with all of this. With Mom and Dad keeping us a secret from each other.”
Dad.
The word still leaves an uncomfortable feeling on Ramona’s tongue— almost drying and heavy with a metallic taste.
“I don’t know if I’m being a baby about this whole thing, but I can’t just accept this on the spot. I can tell he’s a good guy with all your stories, with all your guys' photos, and I want to learn more about him and everything. But…”
Chilled goosebumps prickle over Ramona’s skin as her feet prune in the water, but a wave of heat creeps up behind her eyes as the apparition’s hands grip onto her shoulders tighter.
“I can’t just see him as my dad. Not like how you already see Mom as your mom.”
The ghostly hands slowly slide off her shoulders, leaving behind another chill on Ramona. She bundles herself up with your cardigan to chase the cold away.
“…s’not as easy t’ t’ink ‘bout Mum fer me.”
Billie pushes her hair out of her face, revealing the telltale sheen over her eyes. A melancholic smile tugs at Billie’s lips, but it looks wrong on her to Ramona.
“Tha’ recordin’ of Mum ‘n Dad in yer mp3 was t’ first time I actually believed she was real. All t’ stories Uncle Ned, Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri would tell me were jus’…stories t’ me. Not really memories fer me t’ look back on.”
With a sniffle, Billie tugs her boots and socks off. Setting her footwear aside, her feet join Ramona’s in the frigid water. “Sometimes I thought they were jus’ makin’ her up t’ be some super-mum fer me, like s’gon’ make me feel better ‘bout not havin’ her in m’life.”
Billie’s watery eyes drift back to Ramona’s. “Then I come over ‘ere ‘n end up findin’ out she’s alive, ‘n I got a sister who has all these memories of her I never got t’have.”
A bead of a tear clings to her lashes, but Billie blinks it away before it can roll down her cheek.
“Is it really that bad t’ feel t’ same way ‘bout Dad fer ya?”
Ramona’s vision starts to blur as she stares back at her sister, but she blinks her own tears away before they can escape.
“It’s not like I don’t, but…it’s still kind of hard for me to believe that a punk rock star is my dad.”
Her hand clutches onto your letter again, tingles festering against her palm. “I didn’t know you wanted to know about Mom that bad, though.”
Billie shrugs as her feet bob up to the surface.
“Can’t really ask while yer strugglin’ with it, can I?”
A rock slowly sinks in Ramona’s stomach. The festering in the back of her throat grows stronger, ebbing in tandem with the burning tingle in her hand. The jagged folded parts of your letters scrape against the flesh of her palm, almost begging to be read more. Ramona glances at the crumpled papers in her trembling hand, and with another blink of her gleaming eyes, she carefully flattens them on the wooden deck before sliding them to Billie. The punk girl furrows her brows at the letters before Ramona quietly speaks.
“Uncle Miles isn’t really my uncle, but he’s kinda like how Uncle Ned, Uncle James and Auntie Yuri are to you.”
A wavering smile curls up on Ramona’s face. “Other than that, I think you can get an idea of how Mom is through this.”
Hesitation flickers in Billie’s eyes as she stares at your wrinkled handwriting, like a forbidden Pandora’s box beckoning her, before her hand hovers over the letters.
“…her handwritin’s pretty.”
Billie’s eyes latch onto your first words as she grasps your pages, slowly taking in every line with awe. “She writes a lot, though…”
A trembling huff slips through Ramona’s lips as she turns away to the sun finally leaving the sky, painting all the remaining light in blue.
“Yeah, she kinda does that. She’s not really a picture person.”
Ramona lifts one of her feet out of the water and props it on the edge of the dock. Rivulets of water trickle down her paled wrinkled leg, pooling beneath her naked sole and seeping into the wood and the denim over her inner thigh.
“Mom doesn’t like being distracted from the moment. She said she’d rather take it all in and remember it before telling me. But I think it’s also her way of saying she doesn’t wanna take pictures of herself, though.”
The sounds of chirping crickets and lapping water respond back to Ramona. With a quick side glance, her eyes land on a quiet Billie shuffling to the next page. Her eyes are hooked onto the letters, devouring your every word as if starved for a different adventure. Entranced under the moonlight, lips curling and dropping depending on what part she reached, Billie refuses to pry her eyes away from the crumpled papers. When she finally reaches the last page, her eyes slow down their pace, almost savoring the last of your words until the bittersweet end. And even then, she still stares at the last page as the moon finally takes its place in the night sky.
A small drop drips onto the crumpled last page before Billie quickly hands the letter back with averted eyes.
“Mum should’ve been a writer or somethin’,” Billie hiccups as she wipes under her eyes.
The festering in Ramona’s throat screams louder at the sight of her sister’s tears, but Ramona swallows it back before taking the letters.
“Yeah, but Mom said she barely makes her deadlines as it is with her designs. I don’t think she’ll be happy adding writing deadlines into her routine.”
A quiet, broken laugh trembles through Billie while she pulls her own feet out the lake, splashing some of the water back onto the back of her jeans. “Then maybe she’ll write those stories famous people write ‘bout ‘emselves.”
“I doubt she’d wanna write a full-on autobiography.”
“Maybe not, but she’ll at least have somethin’ interestin’ t’ write ‘bout…”
Billie’s smile strains under the moonlight when her eyes drift back to the letters. Warm russets dim and glint with more unshed tears before the punk girl averts her eyes back to the lake. Crickets and faint waves croons back into the twins' ears, chasming the distance between them. Finally, when amber lights from the campsite flood behind them, Billie’s voice bridges them back together.
“I wanna meet Mum.”
A cool breeze brushes against their skin, prickling their skin with more goosebumps and chills. Small beads of tears cling to Billie’s lashes before she looks back at Ramona with a resigned smile.
“I know ‘m bein’ selfish, but I really wanna meet her.”
Sharp shrapnel stabs into Ramona’s throat. Her stomach churns and eats itself alive, and her heart squeezes until a dull ache ebbs through her chest. For a moment, Ramona doesn’t see Billie, nor does she see a guise of Hobie Brown over her.
She sees you.
Not obviously, of course. Billie still looks like a mini copy of Hobie Brown, but Ramona can’t help but see your smile on her— the faraway one, where you’re lost in thought when you thought no one would notice.
A brief inkling whispers in Ramona’s mind before it sneaks away and slips through her mouth.
