At least, you were willfully pretending you didn’t.
Eddie’s weight is still in your arms, warm and heavy in the way he has always been. His skin hasn’t gone cold. His breath hasn’t stopped. Nothing about him feels like someone slipping away. Someone dying. If anything, he looks like he’s just worn himself out again, another reckless stunt at practice, another game gone too long.
His eyes are barely open, unfocused, but still tracking you in these small, stubborn flickers of someone who can’t seem to keep focus.
Death in stories is sharp and clean. A single moment you can point to. But this… this is slow. Cruel in its softness. He isn’t gone cold, his breathing didn’t stop when he’d dropped to the ground.
There was no dramatic swelling music like in the movies, only the sounds of Eddie’s haggard breathing, wet and painful, and the muffled sounds of Dustin and yourself crying.
He was still here.
You press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it. His skin is hot, more so than usual, and alive. His curls stick to his forehead, slick with sweat and blood, and you keep brushing them back because your brain refuses to accept that this is the last time you’ll ever do it. A habit of comfort for both of you.
He was still right here.
“Eddie,” you whisper, because anything louder might break him, break you. “Hey. Stay with me. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Right?”
He gives you the smallest smile. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A smile that speaks of someone so bone deep tired that it’s all they can muster.
His fingers grip weakly in your shirt, not purposeful, not dramatic, just instinct for you, for comfort. You hold his hand against your chest, trying to anchor him, and if you were honest, yourself as well, trying to keep him here by sheer force of will.
If you held him tight enough, he wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave.
The movies had one thing right. In these moments, everything was quiet, though you’re unsure if the world has gone silent or you’d simply lost focus on everything but the warmth seeping into your clothes and out of Eddie.
His breathing stutters. It doesn’t stop — just falters. His chest rises again, but shallow. The breath he was trying so desperately to take catching halfway as his body begins to wane.
You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, still fighting, still refusing to give up. That seems worse somehow. The way his body keeps trying. The way it doesn’t understand that it’s losing as the strong thud fades into a distant whisper.
“I didn’t run.” he murmurs, voice soft and frayed.
“I know,” you affirm, forehead pressed to his. “You didn’t. You were-“
You don’t finish. Not because you can’t, but because the chance is taken before the words can form.
You feel it in slow motion. The way his grip loosens, but doesn’t fully let go. The way his chest rises less each time. The way his eyes stop trying to focus on you.
He exhales, long and slow, and something in you goes with it. His eyes flutter, but don’t close. His body stays warm. His limbs stay loose. He looks like he’s drifting off, like he’s fighting falling asleep during a late night movie. You keep waiting for the moment, the final breath, the stillness that feels so final, but it doesn’t come. He just… fades.
And you feel something snap, break inside, as Eddie Munson, warm, soft, pliable, heartbreakingly alive in every way except the one that matters, slips out of your hands so slowly you almost miss the exact second he’s gone.
At least, you were willfully pretending you didn’t.
Eddie’s weight is still in your arms, warm and heavy in the way he has always been. His skin hasn’t gone cold. His breath hasn’t stopped. Nothing about him feels like someone slipping away. Someone dying. If anything, he looks like he’s just worn himself out again, another reckless stunt at practice, another game gone too long.
His eyes are barely open, unfocused, but still tracking you in these small, stubborn flickers of someone who can’t seem to keep focus.
Death in stories is sharp and clean. A single moment you can point to. But this… this is slow. Cruel in its softness. He isn’t gone cold, his breathing didn’t stop when he’d dropped to the ground.
There was no dramatic swelling music like in the movies, only the sounds of Eddie’s haggard breathing, wet and painful, and the muffled sounds of Dustin and yourself crying.
He was still here.
You press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it. His skin is hot, more so than usual, and alive. His curls stick to his forehead, slick with sweat and blood, and you keep brushing them back because your brain refuses to accept that this is the last time you’ll ever do it. A habit of comfort for both of you.
He was still right here.
“Eddie,” you whisper, because anything louder might break him, break you. “Hey. Stay with me. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Right?”
He gives you the smallest smile. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A smile that speaks of someone so bone deep tired that it’s all they can muster.
His fingers grip weakly in your shirt, not purposeful, not dramatic, just instinct for you, for comfort. You hold his hand against your chest, trying to anchor him, and if you were honest, yourself as well, trying to keep him here by sheer force of will.
If you held him tight enough, he wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave.
The movies had one thing right. In these moments, everything was quiet, though you’re unsure if the world has gone silent or you’d simply lost focus on everything but the warmth seeping into your clothes and out of Eddie.
His breathing stutters. It doesn’t stop — just falters. His chest rises again, but shallow. The breath he was trying so desperately to take catching halfway as his body begins to wane.
You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, still fighting, still refusing to give up. That seems worse somehow. The way his body keeps trying. The way it doesn’t understand that it’s losing as the strong thud fades into a distant whisper.
“I didn’t run.” he murmurs, voice soft and frayed.
“I know,” you affirm, forehead pressed to his. “You didn’t. You were-“
You don’t finish. Not because you can’t, but because the chance is taken before the words can form.
You feel it in slow motion. The way his grip loosens, but doesn’t fully let go. The way his chest rises less each time. The way his eyes stop trying to focus on you.
He exhales, long and slow, and something in you goes with it. His eyes flutter, but don’t close. His body stays warm. His limbs stay loose. He looks like he’s drifting off, like he’s fighting falling asleep during a late night movie. You keep waiting for the moment, the final breath, the stillness that feels so final, but it doesn’t come. He just… fades.
And you feel something snap, break inside, as Eddie Munson, warm, soft, pliable, heartbreakingly alive in every way except the one that matters, slips out of your hands so slowly you almost miss the exact second he’s gone.
See, I’m too sensitive for this world. Every hope-core or semi-sad video and I’m tearing up. Animal? Tears. Little kid getting health care at a non-profit? Tears. Old person getting company and finding a friend after being lonely? Tears.
He trudges towards the little beverage station at the back of the store, glove-clad fingers skimming the tops of the pristine, plastic-wrapped snack cakes as he contemplates a little treat to go with the burnt bean water. Raspberry Zingers are his usual choice, but today he decides that the humble Hostess Cupcake will be his breakfast. He doesn't even need to break his stride to grab it; it practically jumps into his hand as he passes.
Commission of Snow Day Eddie in the Gas Station, from @drac-harrington
As I'm sure many people know, it's hot a fuck in many places across the globe right now, and all I want instead of sweating is to be in the moment I was when I thought about a snowy day with Eddie. Drac made it happen, as they always do. Thank you Drac for bringing him to life, for seeing my vision perfectly as you always do.
Summary: Or...alternately, just say yes? (AKA Eddie Munson is a bad influence.)
Word Count: 783
Rating: T
Warnings/Themes: No Upside Down AU, Friendship, Humor, Mention of Alcohol and Drug Use, Peer Pressure
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Enjoy!
The date? December 14, 1984. The time? Well-near close to 9pm, as the boys wrapped up a long and arduous—if victorious!—session of Hellfire Club.
“A round of meads and your best pipe-weed for us weary travelers,” Jeff’s rogue shouted to the bar-maid, roleplayed by Eddie of course.
Usually, Eddie usually would use this opportunity to bat his lashes coquettishly, then narrate some conclusion to their adventure. But a thought occurred to him. A rather devilish thought, if he was so bold to say.
“What if we could have a round of meads and pipe-weed?”
Dave, ever slow on the uptake, snorted, “Where? At the Prancing Pony?”
Eddie shot them all a look as if to say it's so obvious, but it turned out that all of his friend were slow on the uptake. They blinked at him and his brows climbed in disbelief.
"Beer and weed at the trailer."
They blinked again, in unison, before the lightbulbs went off. At least, they went off in Dave and Jeff's heads, as they chattered and quickly put their things away. Gareth, on the other hand, stood there with a very prominent pout, his arms crossed over his chest.
"But...we can't," he scoffed, causing the others movements to come to a stop.
Eddie folded his arms over his chest, mirroring Gareth. "And why not?"
And to be fair, he expected something along the lines of curfew or early plans with his family. He should have known better. Should have known that the younger boy was still new to their brand of debauchery and mischief.
“Uhhh, because of Mrs. Reagan. Obviously. Just say no?”
Eddie snorted and rolled his eyes.
"Is that some old lady you help cross the street?"
"It's the First Lady, Ed," Jeff offered sincerely. "You know, married to the president."
"I know who she is Jeffrey." Eddie shot him a scathing look, then turned back to Gareth. "What does she have to do with beer and weed?"
"Have you seriously never seen the posters around the school? Just say no? As in, just say no to drugs?"
"I've clearly ignored them. Since when have I ever read a poster taped to the walls around here? They're always for the chess club meetings or the Spring Musical. Once again I ask, during the very stimulating questions-and-answers segment of our evening: what does that have to do with beer and weed?"
"Weed's a drug."
"It's just weed!" Eddie threw his hands up in the air. "I smoke it, Wayne smokes it! Shit, everybody does it."
"That's what they said you'd say!" Dave interjected, not helping the matter in the least bit. Gareth held his hands out towards Dave, as if to emphasize his point, and Eddie growled.
"Who is they?"
"Nancy Reagan!"
"Fuck Nancy Reagan!" Eddie shouted in exasperation. "I can't believe what I'm hearing right now, Gare. Remember when I asked you if you wanted to join Corroded Coffin? After Ronnie went off to college? If I'm not mistaken, you howled the words "sex, drugs, and rock and roll" into the air and then started head banging. What happened to the drugs part?"
"I thought I could ignore it," Gareth reasoned, sheepishly. "Like...the sex part would be cool...and the rock and roll...but I don't know about the drugs. My mom says it ruins your life."
"Or makes it better?" Eddie offered. "Come on! What do moms know? It'll be fine. I've smoked with Jeff before. It was great. Makes you feel good, floaty. Tell him, Jeff."
"Makes you hungry," Jeff recalled.
"Yeah, you thought you could eat a million oreos," the older metalhead laughed, then sobered up. "And then you threw up in the van. Lets not have a repeat performance of that tonight, kay?"
Jeff crossed his heart and held his hands up innocently.
"But we can have oreos?"
"Sure. I don't care." Eddie turned back to Jeff. "See? Got a night of getting high with beer and oreos and no puking. Couldn't be better! Sounds like a dream. Right guys?"
Jeff and Dave answered in unison.
"So what'll it be?" Eddie urged and stared at Gareth with big, hypnotic, abyss-like eyes. "Don't say no. Just say yes."
Gareth swallowed, looked around at his friends, and then down at his backpack that rested by his feet. More specifically, he was looking at the just say no club pin that was displayed proudly next to a bunch of bands and slogans.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Reagan," he whispered, as he reached down and carefully pulled the it free. He discarded it haphazardly onto the floor, hiked his bag over his shoulder, and then looked at his friends expectantly.
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