People who perform manual labor should be not only given high and liveable wages, but unlimited access to healthcare and physical therapy to help manage the myriad conditions that come from doing back-breaking work.
Like this is not an absurd concept. It bothers me that people think that it is.
Ive had a change or heart. Let's stay in Gotham for a bit longer. (So I can suspiciously run through alleyways on the off chance red hood runs into me and we fall in love)
♡ author's note: an anon requested for this; i decided to make their daughter adopted since she doesn't have powers & she's around 10, i hope that's okay!!
CLARK KENT MASTERLIST ♡
you were sitting in front of your laptop, your thoughts too busy to even pretend you were working as you kept glancing up at the clock on the wall, the hour hand creeping closer and closer to twelve, unable to shake the pit in your stomach. clark was always home by 8pm, most of the time much earlier.
one of your shaky hands reached out for the wine glass as you took a large swig. violet had been asking for him earlier, saying she needed help with her math homework, and you had to put on the best smile you could, and tell her that her dad was working late, but that you'd try to help her.
suddenly, you heard a loud clatter in the hallway followed by a grunt and heavy breaths. you rushed into the hallway to find your husband on the floor, covered in dirt and cuts all over his face. kneeling down, you cupped your husband's face in your hands. "jesus christ, clark. i was worried about you." your brows were furrowed, and your eyes were so glassy your husband could see his reflection, a gentle smile taking over your husband's exhaust-ridden features. "i'm sorry i'm late for dinner, honey."
you let out a huff of a laughter, softly smacking his forearm, "you're terrible. joking when i've spent the last who knows how many hours worrying that you might be dead in a ditch..." you pushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear, "god, i was so worried." you pressed a kiss on his forehead. "i'm fine. you've gotta stop worrying about me so much."
"oh please. like i'm ever gonna stop worrying about you." at your words, your husband laughed softly and pulled you into his muscular arms, clark's lips meeting yours as his hand slid to cup your jaw.
what you didn't know was that your daughter violet had heard the commotion coming from downstairs, deciding to see what it was, only to be stopped halfway down the stairwell, her jaw falling slack when she saw that you were kissing someone that wasn't her father, and it wasn't just anyone.
superman.
you pulled away from the kiss you were sharing with your husband when you heard a sound coming from the stairs, your brows furrowing when you didn't see anything there. "clark, did you hear something?"
"i was, uh, a bit more focused on this." the man looked up at you and you turned to look at him, his pupils blown wide and lips swollen from kissing. you chuckled softly and rolled your eyes, "alright, my hero. let's get you to bed."
the next morning, you were whistling as you made breakfast, clark sitting at the dining room table reading the newspaper, and you could hear your daughter's steps as she was rushing down the stairs.
"good morning, sunshine." you called out as you moved the last pancake onto the plate, bringing it to the dining table to the seat where violet usually sat, the girl sitting down without saying a word, "i made pancakes." you ruffled her hair as she sat down.
"not hungry." violet grumbled, and you and clark looked at each other in slight confusion. "vi, is everything okay?" you asked, sitting down next to her. "perfect." she put on the most passive-aggressive smile you'd seen in a long time as she looked at you.
"you know you can talk to us, if something's going on, right?" your husband intervened with a concerned look on his face, placing his hand over hers. violet turned to look at him, and her expression eased up a bit. "it's nothing, dad. don't worry about it."
"oh, please. like we're ever gonna stop worrying about you." clark said, quoting your words from the night before, both of you letting out a laugh, the affectionate sound only souring your daughter's mood even further.
clark stood up and let out a small sigh, "i should get to work." he bent down to press a kiss on top of your daughter's head, "good luck at school, peach." clark mumbled, before turning to you, bringing his lips to yours for a quick peck, "good luck at work, honey." you smiled, straightening his tie.
you watched as your husband walked to the front door, "love you both!" he called out, you and your daughter called out "love you too!" in sync.
after a few moments, violet pushed away from the table and stood up, grabbing her school bag off the floor, "i'm gonna start walking to school." she mumbled, "already? you don't need to leave for another half an hour." you motioned to the clock with your head.
"yeah. bye." the girl started walking to the front door.
"love you!" you called out, but the only response you got was a slam of the door that made you startle.
violet was sitting at the dinner table, picking at the food with her fork. you and clark were holding hands with your free hands as you ate with the other, both of you with smiles on your faces as you talked about your respective days, both clueless about the kind of thoughts going through the youngest kent's head.
violet looked at the smile on her father's face; how was she going to tell her dad? he looked so happy. he didn't want to break his heart, or even worse, make him want to abandon her.
then she looked at the smile on your face; how could you smile like that when you had done something like that to her father? how could someone lie to—
"violet, aren't you gonna eat?" you asked with a smile, "i made your favorite." the girl simply narrowed her eyes defiantly as she looked to you in a challenging matter, "i'm not hungry."
"come on, vi. you didn't even eat breakfast, either. did you eat at school?" "what do you care?"
your brows furrowed, your voice softening as you reached out to take her hand, "violet, you're my daughter. of course i care. don't be silly." "you say you care about dad too but you don't."
"violet, what are you talking about?" clark asked, turning his gaze from you to your daughter. "ask her. she knows." your daughter cocked her head towards you, clark turning to you with a confused expression, "i have no idea what she's talking about."
"i can't believe you, mom!" violet abruptly stood up, her eyes glistening with tears as she slammed her hands against the wooden dining table, her lip wobbling with each word, "i can't believe you'd do something like that and lie about it too!"
"sweetheart, calm down." clark stood up, going to the girl's side, pulling her into a hug, stroking her hair, the girl letting out sobs, tears starting to stain his white button-up. "it's okay, peach. everything's okay." he spoke softly.
your heart ached at the sight; it had been so long since you'd seen violet cry like that, and it had never been because of you.
when her sobs started to subside and she pulled away from her father's embrace, she looked up at him and gave him a sad smile, "i-i'm okay…"
"you sure, peach?" clark questioned, ruffling the girl's hair, and she let out a soft chuckle and nodded. "sit down, please."
violet and clark both returned to their respective seats, and your husband cleared his throat, "violet, why don't you tell us what you're talking about?"
your daughter looked to you as if saying what had been plaguing her mind since last night would somehow make you mad, but you simply smiled and nodded. violet took in a deep breath, looking down at her hands in her lap as she spoke "well... last night i heard a noise downstairs... and i came to see what it was, and... i saw mom kissing someone else."
oh. you and clark turned to each other, a look of realization on both of your faces. ohhhhh.
"that... wasn't someone else," violet's head snapped up at your words, "that was your father." you turned to look at clark, "we should tell her." your husband nodded, and you took his hand in yours, squeezing it to cheer him on.
"violet, we wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand, and old enough to be able to handle it..." clark loosened his tie in discomfort, "i'm... superman."
for a minute, your daughter simply stared at him, until letting out a snort, rolling her eyes, "sure, dad. and is mom some kind of superhero too?" "only when it comes to getting a certain someone's nail polish stains out of the dining table."
clark cleared his throat, looking at you pointedly, and you simply lifted your hands up. he then unbuttoned a few of the top buttons of his shirt, showing the blue of the suit underneath it, "it's true." violet looked between you two, letting out a chuckle, "no way. you bought that."
clark tutted his lips and turned to you, "can i prove it to her?" "only if you're careful."
soon enough, the three of you were in your backyard, violet looking between the two of you skeptically, the tween's eyes narrowed "why are we here?"
"so you can see this." clark answered, and you could see him slowly starting to ascend. violet's eyes widened, as your husband floated closer and closer to the roof of your home.
"what..." violet looked to you, "how is dad doing that?" then back to her father. you smiled at the girl, ruffling her hair, "he's superman. and vi?" the girl looked up at you, "i want you to know that i would never do anything to put our family in danger. you and your dad mean the world to me, okay?"
"okay. i'm sorry, ma." the little girl hugged you tightly.
after a moment, clark came back down to the ground, and now there was a wide, excited smile on her face. "you're really superman?" violet asked, making her dad chuckle. "i might be superman, but more importantly, i'm your dad."
violet scrunched up her nose, cringing at her father's words, "dad, that's corny." your husband let out an exasperated laugh, shaking his head in mock offence, "i was going to ask you if you wanted to try that out too, but i guess since your dad is so corny you wouldn't want that."
violet's eyes widened, "you're not." she shook her head intently, "can i?" you cleared your throat, your arms crossed and brows raised, "well, uh, you're gonna have to ask your mom..." clark's hand went to scratch the back of his neck.
your daughter turned to you with the pair of biggest puppy-dog eyes, much similar to her father's even without his genes, letting out a soft, "pleaseeee?"
you let out an exasperated sigh and turned to clark, "fine. only if you don't go too high, and only if you're careful." "of course." the man smiled, and you leaned close to him, speaking in a low tone, "if something happens to her, you are dead meat, clark kent. i will find a way."
when you pulled away, your husband simply smiled, "i know you will." he said back, pressing a kiss on your cheek, picking your daughter up into his arms. "let's go!"
"YOU SHOWED ME COLORS YOU KNOW I CAN'T SEE WITH ANYONE ELSE."
summary: the soulmate au based on "illicit affairs" by taylor swift that almost no one asked for.
warnings: ANGST, HURT/NO COMFORT, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, strategic use of pet names, allusions to sex but none described, reader is referred to as a girl a few times, no use of Y/N, canon compliant. not really edited (cause i'm not putting myself through this shit again).
wc: 15.1k+
a/n: im genuinely sorry for once. blame @abibliophobiaa and @breddiemunson for this. also, thank you @hellfire--cult for helping me with the header!!! please take all those warnings very seriously. please. (also shout out to ash who got her own divider sort of so she'd know when to stop reading because my baby doesn't like angst 😅)
The first thirteen years of your life, you only had second hand accounts to trust when it came to colors.
The sky is blue, soft and dreamy, nearly translucent until grey wisps of clouds would overrun it on stormy days (although, the clouds, you could make out). Most grass is green, verdant and rich as it sprouts from the hard dirt. Even the yellowing strands are most likely gorgeous, a sign of life and death, a sign that someone once stood atop the green and held their ground. Roses come in a rainbow of shades, but everyone seems to adore the staunch red ones the best. The plush pink of a lover’s kiss-bitten lips, the warm brown fur of the dogs you passed by on the street, the deep violet of the plums your mother proclaimed as her favorite fruit. A range of colors you had only ever heard of, never experienced yourself.
For thirteen years, all you had was stories. Nothing tangible, nothing solid in your palms. Mere crumbs of a promise of what you would have one day, when you met your soulmate.
When you met him.
It wasn’t the most pleasant of circumstances in which you two met. You’d spent a lot of your childhood fascinated with the concept and lost in daydreams about it – maybe they’d be a stranger you caught the eye of on the train, or maybe they’d be the one making your coffee at a quaint cafe in a big city someday. Whoever they would be, you wanted them to be made of all the fairytales. You wanted a meeting to challenge every romantic story you’d been fed through your youth, you wanted a love that would shake the very Earth you wandered from the first time your eyes met theirs.
Your reality seemed as far from earth-quake inducing as they could get, at the time. Looking back, though, you wish you could plead and change your youthful mind. Because the day wasn’t perfect, the situation was terrible shades of melancholy, but none of that really matters; what matters is that on that sunny Wednesday afternoon, you met him.
Scraped knees. You had scraped knees, sitting embarrassed and frazzled beneath a tree as you tried to sink into the shade surrounding its base and erase the memory of what had just transpired. You could still hear all the other kids’ taunts echoing through your mind, cruel and unnecessary words that were suited to follow you the rest of your days. Comments on your looks and teases of things you couldn’t change. Seeds of insecurity that were hard to swallow at the beginning of your teen youth.
You were still picking at the edges of your open wounds with slow drying tears still coating your cheeks when his shadow joined the tree’s.
“Are you alright?”
You looked up immediately to find a boy standing there. Your eyes had traveled slowly, taking in his baggy jeans with patchwork knees and his oversized faded t-shirt first. Even with the hand-me-down clothes, you could recognize his gangly limbs beneath it all. A frail frame and hunger-panged face. An overgrown buzz cut, no doubt prickly as the hairs stood to attention. Sunken in eyes brimming with concern for you. Whatever shade they were, they had to be dark; they were nearly black in the shades of grey your eyes could currently pick up on.
The thing about soulmates, is the colors don’t happen until you touch your soulmate.
“I’m fine,” you stubbornly replied, wrapping your arms around your shins and tucking your knees beneath your chin despite the sting.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Then stop looking.”
He threw his hands up defensively, shrugging a bony shoulder, “Sorry.”
He wasn’t sorry. Even with the wince that graced his face, he wasn’t sorry for checking in on you. You knew it the moment you caught the broken skin on his knuckles, nearly matching the cuts on your knees. You had fallen on the pavement as you’d tried to run away from the bullies, determined to not let them see you cry. The entire ordeal had been mortifying. You wished you would have just stood there and cried, let them hear your sobs and let them crown you the school’s newest crybaby.
“What happened to your hands?” you sniffled, moving to wipe at your nose. Your cheeks were drier now, the skin nearly stiff where the tears marks remained.
When you mentioned it, he suddenly shot his hands out before him, flexing each hand for emphasis as he looked down with boredom, “What? The cuts? Carver has sharp teeth, ‘s all.”
“Carver?” One of the kids who had just partaken in tormenting you.
“Yeah,” the boy nodded, suddenly plopping himself onto the ground beside you. You flinched and he grimaced in a silent apology once more, “I think he was in the middle of saying something when I punched him, but that’s not surprising. He always has his big mouth open-”
He was cut off mid-insult by a soft snort of laughter. Looking up, all of the previous annoyance at his injured knuckles melted away as he caught you fighting back your laughter.
“What? I say somethin’ funny?” he was biting back his own grin, raising an eyebrow.
You only laughed more, shoulders shaking now with entertainment rather than sobs. “I- Yeah, sorry, I just- God, you’re right. Carver does have a big mouth.”
“The absolute biggest.”
“Bigger than the Atlantic ocean.”
His chuckling joined yours, along with a face splitting grin and eyes that you swore shone between the monotonous tones. “God, bigger than the fucking Pacific ocean. Every ocean, as a matter of fact.”
You both leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, just close enough you could feel his heat through the summer air but not quite touching. Not yet. You let the back of your head thump against the trunk and tried to not think about any of the debris sure to end up in your hair.
“So…” you sighed once the two of you composed yourself from your laughing fits, “I’m assuming you punched Carver?”
He only nodded in answer.
“Can I ask why?”
Part of you wanted to assume that the two events were connected; Carver bullying you, and this boy punching him. But you didn’t want to make such a bold assumption about some stranger. Fellow peer or not.
“Because he made fun of you.”
The assumption wasn’t so bold. Your chest constricted, you remembered the sting of your knees, heard the echoes of the other students’ laughter at your fall once more.
“You punched him just because he made fun of me?” you tried to force out a joking tone, as if it wasn’t a big deal, as if it wasn’t making your heart swell, “You don’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t matter. He made fun of you,” the boy said with concrete decisiveness. There wasn’t a quiver of doubt to be seen, as if the logic made perfect sense to him. Your heart swelled more, painfully so. He looked down at one of his hands for a moment, before suddenly shrugging and rolling his head to look at you, sticking it out towards you, “I’m Eddie, by the way.”
A certain security blanketed the moment. This kid, Eddie, had punched a guy for making fun of you. You’d never even spoken to him before that day, much less would you have considered bruising your own knuckles for him. But he had for you. Without hesitation, apparently. Just some boy with a sliver of a gap still between his front teeth, a promise of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and blood on his hands as a reminder of your honor.
Teachers were certainly going to be coming to find the two of you soon. There would be consequences, most likely more on Eddie’s part than yours, but that didn’t matter. There, in the shade of an oak tree of a middle school you’d soon be departing only to join the ranks of some awful high school with bigger and badder bullies, with larger and crueler problems than skinned knees, you had a friend.
“I’m-” you started, reaching out your hand to meet his halfways. But you stopped, because the moment your palm met his, it happened. Suddenly, quickly, unexpectedly. It nearly gave you an instantaneous migraine; the flood of color was so overwhelming.
The first color you saw was the soft, whiskey brown of his eyes. Two warm and comforting orbs, blown out to be as wide as your own, as his face echoed back the same shell-shock on your own. His eyes were brown. Not grey, not black, but something more, something russet. Brown.
Colors. You were seeing colors for the first time. You both knew what it meant.
“You,” he breathed out with a boyish grin, letting you catch the pink of the tip of his tongue as he finished your introduction for you, both of your excitement buzzing in the breeze, “are my soulmate.”
—
Fifteen was the age of awkwardness. Thirteen had been awful, sure, full of changes and growth and such, but fifteen made it seem like a cake walk.
You wouldn’t have survived it without Eddie.
Two years into the friendship, the two of you were inseparable. You had always spent your entire childhood assuming that when you found your soulmate, it would all fall into place, romantically speaking. But then Eddie happened. Eddie, your soulmate, fell right into your lap and you realized all of your childish dreams were pale in comparison.
He was your best friend first and foremost. Even if he hadn’t been revealed as your soulmate on that day, you have no doubt that the trajectory of your friendship would have stayed on this path. From the beginning, both of you decided to Hell with society’s expectations of soulmates. Sure, most people didn’t find their soulmates until later in life, when it made sense for the sparks of romance to fly instantly, but the adults still seemed to expect that when the news broke. Your parents had been concerned, Eddie’s Uncle Wayne had been weary, your teachers had been blatantly confused.
It was fun for the two of you, though. The thrill of introducing each other as, “This is my best friend. Oh, also my soulmate, but, hey. Technicalities, am I right?”
Most of the kids in your grade hadn’t met their soulmates quite yet, especially those first few years. A sense of superiority sprouted in both of you to be able to know, to experience, to lavish in a world of color. To have the weight of finding your better part lifted off your shoulders so soon in life.
You and Eddie had an entire lifetime to figure out the romantic aspect of it all. For now, he was your best friend, and you were his, and that was enough.
Once you two had entered high school, one thing did become very clear: the parading of being soulmates had to cease.
Jason Carver had been enough of a menace in middle school, but grew into a fully formed monster once he joined your ranks in high school. People were not kind to Eddie – they hadn’t been in middle school, when he first moved to Hawkins, and they weren’t going to change their tune suddenly in high school. The bullying you had endured had begun to fade, but his age of torment had just begun.
You never once left his side. It didn’t matter to you if the entire school knew you were soulmates or not. It didn’t even matter that you two were soulmates; he was your best friend, and you would be damned before you left him to battle the tides alone.
“I hate this,” he mumbled as he sat on the toilet of his shared bathroom with Wayne in their trailer, you kneeling between his legs as you blotted at his split lip with an alcohol wipe, “I should have punched the asshole back.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” you scowled, furrowing your brows even deeper in concentration, “And stop talking – you’re making it worse.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but you quieted him with a glare.
Just as you wouldn’t have survived the Age of Awkwardness without Eddie, he wouldn’t have survived it without you.
You finished cleaning off the dried blood before tossing the wipe into the overfilled trash can, sighing heavily as you fell back onto the ground and supported yourself against the wall opposite of him.
You leveled each other into a staring contest, eyes blankly boring into each other with emotionless expressions.
“You’re lucky Wayne isn’t home, y’know,” you finally broke the silence, shooting a hand out to grab his ankle and give it a squeeze, “He’d probably be driving down to the school right now and-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie waved you off, shaking his head, “I know. Trust me, I know. I think Principal Higgins is starting to hate him more than he hates me.”
“Principal Higgins doesn’t hate you.”
“You’re right – he loathes me.”
The hand that was squeezing his ankle quickly traveled up to his knee to slap it, “Eddie.”
He raised his hands up in the air, lifting his brows for emphasis as he exclaimed, “What? You know I’m right, kid.”
Kid. The loving nickname Eddie had adorned you with the moment he found out he was a mere six months older than you. You hated it, and he loved that you hated it.
“The day you’re right is the day pigs fly, old man.”
Old man. The nickname that served as your attempt at a rebuttal. It didn’t work, not as intended.
He chuckled softly at that, as he usually does when you call him that, and only smacked his palms onto his thighs, “Well, doc, I must say – you’ve done an exquisite job. Am I free to go?”
You tried to fight your smile, tried to linger in the anger sparked from seeing Eddie hurt. Your disdain wasn’t directed at him; it was always a loaded gun pointed at whoever dared to lay a hand on your boy. You probably could have had a spotless reputation without Eddie Munson in your life, but you’d found your fists quick to fly in his defense.
Your parents hated it. Wayne secretly adored it, even when he’d still join in scolding you and Eddie alike on avoiding violence.
“Sure,” you shrugged, before grabbing his calves through denim to stop him. Dark blue denim, a deep shade of navy that you still hadn’t grown used to seeing. You hadn’t even realized jeans came in so many different shades until you met Eddie, and you’d always chastised him when he’d opt for a boring black pair, “But first, a payment is required.”
“A payment?” Eddie tilted his head, looking down at you curiously.
“A payment.”
“And what would this payment be?”
“A movie night,” you grinned wildly, finally letting your grip on him go, taking in the chestnut highlights of his curls and the red font of his t-shirt, a band shirt you’d never heard of but that he had recently gotten into, “Snacks provided by my loving host, you, of course.”
He exaggerated his pondering, bringing a hand to his chin, stroking dramatically. As if he was ever capable of saying no to you.
“Hm,” he hummed, his voice echoing through the tiny space and encasing you in warmth. As serene as that first summer day when he’d taken the leap of sitting down next to you in the grass, back to a tree, palm in your palm as colors had swarmed your vision, “I suppose that can be arranged.”
—
Movie nights were a frequent occurrence. A sanctuary from the shit show of your small town. Sometimes, they had been the illusion of a bargain like that night, and others, they were an unspoken agreement. You’d show up to Eddie’s trailer or he would end up on your doorstep, your favorite candies in hand, and the two of you would just know. No words needed as you’d situate yourself on whoever’s couch, legs intertwining and blankets shared across laps. A bowl of popcorn that usually ended up being spilled inevitably.
Movies were more fun in color. Some of your friends didn’t get it, still living in a world of black and white, but Eddie loved to listen to your rambles about how the vivid shades appeared across the screen. He loved the way your eyes would light up passionately, he loved how you still smiled so widely at special effects that were made more poignant by this gift the two of you had been given.
Time. You two had been given the time most soulmates weren’t allotted. A gift you always thanked the Universe for.
The latest Slasher film that had been released was currently displayed on the small television in Eddie’s living room, the two of you practically molded to the worn cushions of his sofa. Wayne had left within the first ten minutes for his shift, bidding the two of you a farewell with the warning of behaving. Vibrant reds splashed across the screen as one of the protagonists takes a stabbing, and while you should be shying away from the gruesome scene, you can’t help but stare in awe.
Even after years of experiencing colors, they took away your breath.
“Jesus,” you sighed wistfully, “How do they even make the fake blood? It’s so… so…”
“Red?” Eddie laughed from the other side of the couch, prodding at your thigh with his sock clad foot, “Probably food dye. Maybe some corn syrup.”
“It’s just so bright,” you eagerly leaned in closer to the TV, squinting with a wide smile, unaware of his stare.
He was quiet for a moment, simply enjoying your joy. Your awe and wonder at the world, the way it seemed as if you two had just met that day rather than years before. As if colors were still a fascinating color to you. Eddie had grown used to them, let them become a part of his daily routine, but you always seemed to shine a new light on them for him.
Around you, all the colors seemed a little bit brighter.
“How do you do that?” he whispered so softly, it nearly got lost in the noise of the movie’s climax.
You hummed in response, eyes never leaving the screen. You were watching the movie in fascination, and he was watching you in serenity.
His miracle. His gift. His soulmate.
“You just…” he trailed off, no longer caring about the movie, “You always treat them like they’re brand new.”
It caught your attention. The way his tone was so… velvety, so caring, so affectionate. You looked at him, “I treat what like they’re brand new?”
“The colors.”
“Because they are.”
The same assuredness as he used that very first day. As if it were obvious, as if it were simply a matter of fact and not such an endearing trait. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and it only made his heart clench tighter.
You were his soulmate.
“We lived without them for thirteen years, old man-”
“Thirteen years and six months, in my case,” he piped up in interruption, wearing a Cheshire grin.
You nodded and rolled your eyes, “Yes, in your case. Thirteen years, give or take. I just… I don’t know. They still… they still get to me. I don’t think I can ever get used to them. Are you?”
“What? Used to them?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t know how to explain it to you, not at that moment. How could he articulate to you that after so many years, the colors had dulled ever so slightly? The novelty had worn off, had run its course. The only time they’d ever become as vivacious as the first time was when he looked at you.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t explain it to you, so he only shrugged, “I guess.”
I guess, except when I see the color of your eyes, and I realize they’re my favorite color. Except when I notice the varied shades of your hair, and realize how lucky I am to see them in their full glory rather than shades of grey. Except when you wear that favorite mauve lipstick of yours, and I can’t get over the shape of your lips. Except when you wear that pretty red dress, and your confidence has my head spinning.
I guess, except when it’s you.
“Well, that’s just sad,” you huffed, focusing back on the movie after kicking gently at his shin. You lapsed into a comforting silence for a few more minutes, letting the movie fill the air. The same cycle; you watched the screen, he watched you, and the Universe watched both of you with a smile as it knew that the right choice had been made. The two of you were meant for each other. In this life. In the past lives. In the next lives. The two of you were the epitome of soulmates, even if the concept had never existed before.
Thank the Universe it existed. Thank the Universe that he found you that day, below an oak tree, scraped knees and all.
His voice shook as he quietly confessed, “I love you, you know that, right?”
The movie faded in a blur for you instantly. Your neck could have snapped from how quickly you turned your attention to him. “What?”
“I love you,” his voice continued its waver, not from being unsure but from pure emotion. The flood of love that pulsed through his veins currently.
You smiled, the apples of your cheeks punctuated and the chip in your tooth from your youth he hadn’t had the privilege of being apart of on showcase, “Well, yeah. Duh. I’m your soulmate. You kind of have to love me.”
“Even if we weren’t soulmates,” he rushed to clarify, suddenly leaning forward and grabbing your knee beneath blankets that smelled of home, “Even if you weren’t my soulmate, I would love you.”
Your face softened. He wished he would have kissed you in that moment.
But the vulnerability was terrifying, and all that could echo through your mind is the fact that you two had time. So instead of matching his serious tone, you joked, “Well, it’s a good thing I am your soulmate, then. It might have been awkward for your hypothetically soulmate you would have had instead in that scenario, trying to explain why you love your best friend more than them.”
“Shut up,” he laughed, squeezing your knee tighter, “I’m being serious, kid. I love you. I really, really fuckin’ love you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You’re only saying that because I’m the reason you see colors.”
“Fuck the colors,” he was quick to reply, “The Universe can take back the colors, as long as I still have you.”
There it is. The earthquake you dreamt of as a little girl. The trailer’s across the park never felt it, the kids surely getting into trouble in the forest behind Eddie’s home didn’t notice it, but you felt it. A rumble through your chest, a groundbreaking discovery, a world-ending confession. Your world began, and your world ended, and your world restarted with Eddie Munson.
“You don’t believe me,” he noted, suddenly shimmying out from beneath the blanket.
“Wait, hold on-”
“Stay here.”
You stayed frozen in your seat, wide eyes following his broad back and the army green of his t-shirt. No longer a frail frame, face filling out with puberty. He was becoming a man. No longer the young boy who took punches and threw them back twice as hard.
He was becoming a man, he was your soulmate, and he loved you. He loved you enough he would give up what everyone else considered the greatest gift, just for you.
Eddie Munson didn’t need colors to love you so ardently. And you knew, at that moment, that the same could be said for you. You would have loved him no matter what. The moment his shadow had spread over you beneath wide leaves and simmering heat, he was destined to hole up in your heart, never to leave again.
By the time he had returned to the living room, you had paused the movie, eyes locked on where he emerged from the hallway with a polaroid camera in hand and a mischievous grin gracing his features. The camera had been a joint gift from your parents and his uncle the previous Christmas.
Your eyes weren’t on the camera. They were on him. His hair had grown over the years, wild auburn curls finally surpassing his ears. The awkward style made for ridiculous bed head, something you’d been witness to many mornings after impromptu sleepovers.
You were fascinated with the way the sunlight caught each strand as they bounced with his eager steps. The trace of gold you could outline. Shades of autumn you loved to run your fingers through when he’d offer the opportunity.
He shook the camera into the air for emphasis, finally catching your eyes’ attention, before he propelled himself back down onto the couch across from you, both of you sitting up instead of being reclined now. “Let me show you something.”
“O-Okay,” you stuttered out, unsure.
He fiddled with the camera for a few moments before he brought it up to his face, resting against his cheek as his eye peered into the small peephole. You were so busy memorizing him like that, that the flash of the camera took you off guard and effectively blinded you for a few seconds.
“What the-” you started with a scowl, hands flying up to rub your knuckles into your eyes in a sorry attempt to rush away the stars blocking your vision.
“Just wait,” he insisted, snatching up the polaroid the moment it printed from the camera. When you flashed him an unconvinced look, he continued on, “Trust me.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. You always trusted him with your entire being, whether for better or for worse.
The polaroid was slow in developing. Eddie hummed to fill the silence, occasionally fanning around the small capture of you that was slowly filling out in color rather than blinding white. You spent your energy on trying to decipher what song was stuck in his head and not focus on how slow those damned photos always seemed to be in coming to fruition.
It had only been a few minutes, but it had felt like an eternity when you finally gave up on figuring out the song and succumbing to your impatience with a sigh, “This is the world’s slowest magic trick ever.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, but tossed you the camera. You thanked the Heavens for fast reflexes as you were able to catch it rather than let it fall to the ground. The two of you would have never heard the end of it if you managed to break such an expensive gift.
“Hey!” you shouted as you clutched the camera tightly to your chest, “Be careful with this thing, Eddie. It’s fragile.”
His eyebrows raised from behind where he held up the polaroid he took of you to his face, “Is it? Can we really be sure that it’s that fragile if we don’t knock it around for good measure?”
“We can,” you snappily replied, glaring down at the camera and fighting amusement, “If you want to throw it around, be my guest. But you’ll explain to Wayne why you broke it – not me.”
“Of course, kid,” he grinned so wide that it spread to his cheeks peeking out either side of the photo still obnoxiously close to his face, “What else is a best friend good for? Basically signed up to be your permanent scapegoat until the end of time the moment I gave you the gift of colors.”
“And yet, I’m the one usually talking us out of trouble,” you dramatically called back, finally looking up at him and holding up the camera, “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I dunno. Break it, take a picture of me. The choice is yours, sweetheart.”
He still hadn’t put the photo of you down, so you finally reached across the sea of blankets to yank on his forearms. Once you were faced once more with those warm doe eyes rather than the blank back of a photo, you narrowed your eyes at him in indecision.
He was still smirking. Wide enough that his teeth just barely peeked out between his barely parted lips. You recalled the tales of kiss-bitten lips, the way you’d heard adults describe that deeper shade of pink, and for a second, you considered that it would look good on Eddie. Something about imagining him flushed and bruised by love and lust rather than malice made your gut twist stormily.
“Picture it is,” you muttered, “Put that stupid polaroid down and smile for the camera, pretty boy.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
The camera went off mid-teasing, his dimples on full display and eyes shining wonderfully with the flash of the camera.
“Nope,” you mumbled, “Just said it so you’d keep smiling.”
It was a lie. A horrible, pathetic, and badly-veiled lie.
The photos developed faster. Yours is finally in full color and detail by the time the two of you can make out the shape of Eddie in his, and he was quick to toss it to the side before he shoved yours into your lap.
“There, look.”
It wasn’t anything magnificent to look at. Just another photo. The same old color of your hair, baby hairs frizzing at the edges. Same old eyes fighting from crinkling in adornment at the boy before you. You weren’t anything special, not in your eyes. But Eddie’s expectant stare told you that there had to be something more there, something he was waiting for you to pick up on. You scoured the background of the photo for pops of color only to come up empty-handed. All you could find were the tired dark tones of the Munson’s furniture and living room behind yourself in the picture.
“Eddie, what am I supposed to be looking at?” you squinted, bringing the photo closer and trying to figure out the useless puzzle he had presented you with, “It’s just a picture of me-”
“Exactly,” he interrupted, “A picture of you. My soulmate. That right there,” he leaned over and plucked the photo from your hands, holding it up tauntingly just out of reach, “Is a picture of the girl I love. A picture of the one person who makes colors worth seeing, and makes colors worth losing.”
The sentiment had you choked up.
“You’re my favorite person,” his voice dropped to a whisper, and he held up his hand with his knuckles facing you as he put down the polaroid in his lap, “Have been since that very first day.”
There was still a faint scar, right there, clear as day. It casted over the knuckles of his ring and middle finger as a permanent reminder of that fateful day. As if the colors weren’t enough, as if the swell of your heart inside your chest wasn’t enough reminder of the love and care you’d always felt pulsing from Eddie.
You reached out to the coffee table suddenly, picking up the photo of him, glad to see it finally developed. You didn’t even glance at it before you held it up to him, “And this is a photo of my favorite person.”
“You didn’t even look at the picture.”
“I don’t need to,” you breathed out, moving the picture out of your vision to look at him dead in the eyes, “He’s right here in front of me. In full color, treating me far kinder than I deserve.”
His touch was ginger as he pinched the corner of the photo and took it from your grasp, placing it down atop the polaroid of you, “Don’t do that. You always deserve my kindness – you deserve the entire world’s kindness. I’ll kick the ass of anyone who argues otherwise.”
A soft and shy smile ripped at your lips, made the corners and your cheeks ache as you shrugged, “Whatever you say, old man.”
He only looked at you, only wore the lovesick look of a man face-to-face with his soulmate.
The movie was long forgotten. All snacks carefully put on the table before Eddie threw the blanket off of the two of you and scooted backwards while leaving a space large enough for you between his legs.
“C’mere,” he beckoned, motioning for you to crawl forward and fit your head to his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. He pressed you impossibly close to him, until your cheek was tight to his t-shirt and your ear was thundering with his racing heartbeat.
You melted into him easily, letting your own arms encase him to the best of their abilities in this position. You took a few selfish moments to just be there with him, to just let his words sink in beneath your skin and the reality of them weigh heavy on you. The heavier it weighed, the further into his embrace you pressed.
The warmth of serenity and peacefulness of the picture perfect moment nearly lulled you to sleep. But even in the drowsiness, you felt the kiss he pressed to the crown of your head.
“I love you, too,” you admitted, muffled by his chest. You hoped he felt the words and wouldn’t teasingly make you look him in his eyes as you confessed, “I love you so fucking much. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Sure you could-” he began, but was cut off but the abrupt lifting of your head, just as he fingertips had started on a path down your spine.
“I couldn’t,” you insisted, “I really, really couldn’t. I need you to stick around for a long time, Munson. I’m not in the business of losing my soulmate until we’re old and grey and gross. I want to keep you around until I lose count of all your wrinkles and weird moles.”
He chuckled, and the force vibrated against your shoulder digging into his torso.
You retrieved those two polaroids before you resettled against him, your back now pressed to his chest as you held the two snapshots side by side for both of you to look out.
He was right. You think you get it.
When you look at the photo of yourself, you see nothing extraordinary. But when you look at the photo of Eddie, everything just… the world seemingly stops, all moving parts suddenly snapping into place. A boy vibrant with color and glee, a boy who tugged on every heartstring you’d hung in your chest throughout your lifetime. It sent warmth to every crevice of you, from the top of your head where the ghost of his lips still lingered to the tips of your toes wiggling beside his within thick socks.
It’s more than an earthquake or the world stopping. Eddie doesn’t just stop or begin your world – he is your world.
A world of wild hair, charming smiles, unfiltered laughter and fierce adoration. Even the brightest shades out there that you had yet to discover were dim compared to the boy photographed in time for you.
His arms slide around your shoulders, tugging you in even closer,“Just out of curiosity, what is your cap on wrinkles you can count? Because I’ve seen Wayne, and some photos of my old man, and let me tell you – time is not kind to us Munson men.”
You rolled your head and pressed a kiss to one of his forearms before smashing your cheek into it, breathing deeply as his fingertips drew random shapes over the spot on your chest that your heart rests beneath.
“As many as it takes, old man.”
“Whatever you say, kid.”
You brought a hand up to curl around the arm, right beside when you kept your cheek nuzzled. He finally laid his palm flat against your chest, and you wonder if he can feel the way each beat of your heart called out his name. It was okay if he didn’t – he had all the time in the world to figure it out.
—
“I just don’t understand why you’re so mad!”
“I’m not mad, Eddie – I’m fucking pissed!”
“Okay, then I don’t understand why you’re so pissed!”
Seventeen is the age of being reckless and redundant. Of big feelings and reckless decisions. It is the time in your life for being an absolute idiot.
Eddie Munson was proof of it as the two of you stood outside of his van, the whistle of the winds around you two from the impending storm lost on your current screaming match.
“Figure it out,” you seethed, stomping your feet almost childishly as you began to turn away from him, “And while you do that, leave me the fuck alone.”
“I- Hey!” he reached out for you, but you’re already quickening your pace and hopping up onto the sidewalk, “Hey! Don’t fucking walk away from me!”
You didn’t reply, only widening your strides.
He called out your name, and you heard his frustrated groan before he easily caught up with you.
Damn him and his newfound height.
“Would you just listen to me?” he shouted, latching onto your bicep and spinning you around harshly to face him.
You yanked yourself out of his touch quickly, eyes blazing, “Why should I? I’ve seen what I needed to see, Eddie. Just go back inside to your preppy girlfriend. Forget about me. Pretend like she’s never stood to the side while her boyfriend bullied you like- like- like some asshole.”
His hair was longer now. Ringlets that cascaded to brush over the top of his shoulders – shoulders that had broadened impressively as he neared the end of his youth. His newest clothing staple covered them; a denim vest you’d helped him distress and sew multitudes of patches onto, a display of his favorite bands that had only painted a new target onto his back.
Satan worshiper. That’s what they called your soulmate in terrified whispers amongst the halls at school. That’s what all the PTO mothers’ eyes silently cursed when they’d see him with you at the grocery store.
He’d made quite the image for himself. And you’d stayed by his side, defending his honor at every chance. Your best friend, your soulmate.
Only to find him eating the face off of some cheerleader at that goddamned party.
Yeah, you didn’t need to listen to him. You really had seen enough.
“She’s not my girlfriend!” he waved his arms wildly, the storm roaring loader with his increased volume.
“What is she then?” you insisted with venom, crossing your arms and effectively closing yourself off from him as you took another step back, “Just some one night stand? Some fun to have before you have to accept that you’re shackled to me for the rest of your life?”
You hated the way your eyes burned. You cursed the tears gathering as you glared at him viciously, masking all the pain with as much rage as you could muster.
He wouldn’t even kiss you, his soulmate. But he would kiss her.
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” he warned lowly, tone no longer making a spectacle of the two of you, “You know that’s not how I see it.”
“You won’t even kiss me.”
He was stunned into silence. As you spat out the words, the first few tears slipped.
It was about more than the pretty blonde girl you’d found him with. It was about more than the fact he was kissing someone else.
“I… What?” he whispered, his entire body going slack with defeat.
The tears fell more rapidly now as you replayed the moment in your head. The two of you were only at the stupid party for Eddie to deal weed from some weird guy he’d met in the arcade, a way to make extra cash. Cash he claimed he was putting towards your future together. You had no idea how you’d gone from sitting on the couch together to tipsy, joining a circle of fellow peers who momentarily forgot their cruelness between shots of whiskey and pours of vodka.
You were going to hate the game of Spin the Bottle for the rest of your life. You were sure of it.
When Eddie’s turn had arrived, when the neck of that dingy beer bottle casted shades of ambers in your direction, you had been so excited. Your heart had been in your throat, your head dizzy with the excitement of him finally kissing you. Your soulmate by Nature, your best friend by choice, finally would be kissing you. You had been so sure it was an affirmation from the Universe that the right choice had been made when it came to the two of you. That it was all real, and the colors weren’t a product of your delusion.
And then he said no.
“You wouldn’t kiss me,” you choked out, pulling your arms around your torso tighter to fight back any shivers or shaking, “The bottle landed on me, on your soulmate, and you wouldn’t even fucking kiss me. The one person you should have kissed. And you didn’t.”
Eddie’s eyes widened in shock, a deer caught in your headlights, as he started to stutter out a sorry excuse.
You didn’t want to hear it. You only threw your head back in bitter laughter, spinning on your heel and preparing to leave him behind once more.
“Wait,” he begged, grabbing your shoulder this time.
You shrugged it off harshly, “For what? For you to make up some bullshit excuse for it? I don’t want to hear it, Eddie. I get it. I’m so sorry that I’m your soulmate. I’m so sorry you’re stuck with me. I’m so-”
He cut you off by rounding in front of you, blocking your escape route and cradling each of your cheeks with determination as he forced you to meet his fiery gaze, “Stop putting words in my mouth! That’s not why I did it, okay? It’s not!”
Your tears fell more rapidly, so quickly that his thumbs couldn’t have kept up with swiping them away if he tried. Instead, he let them puddle against his palms, focus solely on your eyes as he bore into them and whispered, “That’s not why I said no. And it’s not why I kissed that girl, okay? You’ve got to believe me, kid.”
“Don’t-” you started, but he shook his head, determined.
“No, no. Hear me out. Please. You know I don’t see it that way. You- You’re- I’m not shackled to you. You aren’t some sort of damnation for me. Do you get that? You aren’t some life sentence or burden – you’re….” he trailed off, and you could see the tears gathering in his eyes. Constellations in his lashes to match your own. “I said no because I’m terrified. O-Okay? I said no to kissing you because… because… what if you’re the one shackled to me?”
The crack in his voice reverberated through you. Aftershocks rattled your bones at his confession.
“I- We haven’t crossed that line. And I just… if I crossed that line, and if you decided I wasn’t what you wanted…” his eyes searched yours for answers you couldn’t provide to him, not as your brows creased and your chest tightened, “If I kissed you and you decided that the Universe made a mistake, that I’m not actually your soulmate… I- Fuck, I couldn’t take that, kid. I couldn’t.”
You’re no longer poised to run, to escape him and all the emotions drowning your lungs. You felt your shoulders drop, your defenses burned to ash as you stood with two solid feet on the quivering ground below you.
There were a million reassurances on the tip of your tongue, but instead you only said, “Why did you kiss her?”
The question that had pinned you as a flight risk. Because if what he told you was true, and you did believe him, then it didn’t make sense. Nothing that had happened that night made sense if what he said was true.
“I don’t know,” he seemed even more confused than you, “And- God, I’m fucking sorry for such a shitty cop-out of an answer. But I just… I don’t know. I just did. She was there, and she kissed me, and I kissed back. I pretended she was you, like a fucking idiot.”
The honesty threatened to shatter you, but you decided it was better to hear his truth than risk being lied to. You could move past the anguish in both your eyes, the confusion and the hurt having brewed – you wouldn’t have been able to move past some half-assed lie in an attempt to save your feelings.
“I regret it,” he whispered, “The moment I kissed her back, I regretted it.”
“Why?”
An opportunity to seal a bandage over the bleeding wound. A chance for him to make it all better.
“Because she isn’t you. She isn’t my soulmate - she never could be. It’s you, and it was always going to be you, even if the Universe didn’t agree with me.”
You took a moment to try and picture a world in which the man stood before you wasn’t your soulmate. A world where your palms touched, and your world hadn’t exploded in technicolor. Another Universe where the first color you had seen hadn’t been warm, brown, honey coated eyes. A twisted timeline where you hadn’t been awarded the gift of memorizing the red of his guitar, his sweetheart, or the calm blue tint his room bathed in every early morning. A world where you don’t know the shade his skin turns in during golden hour, or can’t see the way his few tattoos he’d gathered in the past year on his skin are actually a fading shade of blue-green rather than stark black. A world where you couldn’t pick up the Fruity Pebbles stuck between his teeth as he rushed to class late and you teased him mercilessly for it. A world without color - a world without the guarantee of Eddie Munson.
A breeze roared by, and you could hear the Universe you were in whispering to stop it, to not do this. Because you weren’t living in a world without color. Your world had burst to life when your palm met his. You knew all the colors of his lifeline like the back of your hand.
“It wasn’t worth it?” You knew the answer. You still needed to hear him say it.
And say it he did, nodding in confirmation, “It wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t worth it.”
He could have left it at that and you would have offered him your forgiveness anyways. Even if the bond formed between you two didn’t feel like a shackle of chains binding you two together, you knew that there would always be an invisible string wound around your soul and connected to his. You could have spent longer being mad, you could have still walked yourself home and left him broken in the middle of that neighborhood street. But even if you did, you would have eventually found your way back to him. Whether you left in anger, whether you left in sadness, whether you left in mourning – your final destination remained the same. Him.
You may have all the time in the world with Eddie, but even a second spent upset with him felt like a second wasted.
Not even forever felt like long enough. You knew that now, glaringly obvious by the chain of events the night had followed.
And so he could have left it at that. And all would be well. Wounds would heal and time would soothe the ache that echoed. But he didn’t.
He took a step closer. Took a shaky, deep breath. And then another step. One foot after the other until he was toe-to-toe with you as he breathed out, “You’re my future. You’re everything to me. Soulmate or not, you’re all I want. I want to grow old with you until I lose count of your wrinkles, and then some.”
His chin tilted down, lips daring closer and closer to yours as your stare into his eyes refused to waver.
Deep, deep brown. Endless, molten, a kind of comforting that says you’re home, you can rest now. How fortunate you were to see the twisting of lively carob and umber rather than lifeless greys.
Your eyes tried to flutter close, but you couldn’t let them, not yet. Not until he was close enough to feel his breath on your chin before he let out a raspy, “Baby.”
You folded immediately, took the plunge as your eyes finally shut and you pressed forward with fervent.
It wasn’t like the movies. It wasn’t fluid and instantaneous. There was hesitancy and there was awkwardness, and your noses bumped one anothers hard enough to make both of you chuckle into the rarity of space left between your mouths as you both gasped in waves of air before returning to one another. His hand took its time before it grabbed your waist, and it trembled the entire time. Your arms shook the entire way they lifted until they wrapped around his neck and shoulders, unsure of where exactly to lay comfortably.
But none of that mattered. Because he was kissing you – your soulmate was finally kissing you. And you had never kissed another soul before that night, but you knew immediately you’d never want to kiss another soul.
It wasn’t like the movies or fairy tales, but it was enough.
And you knew he felt the same way when the kiss was broken by the grin that split his lips just as the sky began to spit out the beginning of its inevitable downpour.
—
You hadn’t heard from Eddie in three days. Which, fair enough. Finals season was nearly upon you two and you knew he had been stressed. Since the night of that party nearly a year before, you two had become even more inseparable if possible. You two had finally crossed a line, had finally accepted your status of soulmates, and no one would dare to demand the two of you detach from each other’s sides once you made the announcement that you were officially together.
Wayne had worn a knowing smile. Your parents had simply warned Eddie to not hurt you (as if that was even an option for him at this point). Even Principal Higgins had offered a polite smile when he caught you two holding hands in the hallway, surprisingly not commenting on the public display of affection. You two were officially dating, officially succumbing to the status quo of what soulmates should be.
Everyone had already sort of known there was something there between you two, but making it official removed any sliver of doubt any of them may have harbored.
And so it was fine if Eddie needed space. It had been that way before your first kiss, occasionally learning how to stand as your own entities rather than solely a joint force, and it could continue to be that way after your first kiss.
But after three days, you had started to worry.
Pacing your room, you told yourself you were being ridiculous. This was fine. Space was good – space was needed.
Space didn’t help with all your what-ifs, though.
What if he was hurt? What if he was sick? What if he was mad at you? What if the longer you gave him that space, the starcher of a revelation he would have that he didn’t need you? What if the two of you had flown into all of this too fast, too quickly, too soon? It may have taken years to get there, but what if Eddie suddenly decided the last year had been too much?
You were in your car, driving recklessly down the streets that would lead to his house, before you could even think of another what if.
If it was that last thought that crossed your mind, if everything between the two of you had become simply overwhelming for him, you convinced yourself it would be okay. It would be just fine, you could handle it as long as he told you as much to your face rather than hiding behind distance put between you. It remained a mantra spinning through your storming mind the entire drive; it will be fine. It will be okay. As long as he says it, I can handle it. Anything for him.
You never considered that one of the other possibilities was more likely. Not until you had your car haphazardly parked in front of the Munson’s trailer, fist banging on their front door before Wayne threw it open with tired eyes and wrinkles bunched in concern.
“Is he here?” you breathed out in lieu of a proper greeting, breathless from your jog up to the damn porch from your car that you hadn’t even bothered with locking up.
It will be fine. It will be okay. As long as he says it, I can handle it.
Wayne understood immediately, stepping to the side as he nodded and motioned for you to come in, “He’s in his room. But listen, he got some news, and he’s not do-”
You didn’t hear the rest of Wayne’s warning, too busy storming past him and flying to Eddie’s bedroom door. You didn’t even knock, bursting through the door and already fighting tears as you geared up to hear Eddie say that he needed time and space, that he had gotten sick of you, that he wanted to experience more life before you guys really gave any of this a fighting chance.
“Eddie, can you please tell me why you’ve just up and disappeared-” you cut off your plead the moment you laid eyes on him.
He wasn’t facing the door. He was curled up in bed, back to you, clad in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. You could see the stubborn knots that had built up in his hair, immediately keyed in on the way he was trying to collapse into himself. His knees were nearly buried in his chest, and if you squinted into the dark room, you’d see the outline of his spine beneath the flash of skin peaking out from where the back of his shirt had raised.
It wasn’t just the state of him; the state of the room also immediately silenced you.
Almost as if a war path had been torn through it days before, the bedroom was messier than normal. Eddie was never the most organized or pristine person, but he kept his living space well enough to… well, live. Kept the floor always within sight, tried to never let any collection of trash overflow on the tops of his dressers or desk. He even found himself emptying his ashtrays without your reminding most of the time. Usually, most of the clutter simply came from mountains of papers detailing campaigns or writing new songs, or different sets of dice being left out from planning said campaigns. A t-shirt here, a pair of ripped jeans there – sure. He was a teenage boy. It was expected.
It looked as though a level five hurricane had hit Eddie Munson’s room.
Clothes strewn everywhere, dresser drawers thrown open and never closed. Beer cans collected across each surface and both ashtrays were overfilling with cigarette butts. You even spotted two half smoked joints on his bedside table. His sweetheart had been taken off of its wall mount and laid to rest on the floor. He would never have let his prized possession be discarded like that. Ever.
Your voice came out weak as you took a step closer to the bed, “Eddie?”
You’re surprised he heard your whisper. He stirred, and your eyes followed the dust particles dancing in the single stream of sunlight that was bursting through a hole forgotten in his makeshift curtains. Navy blue sheets the two of you once used to make a pillow fort in the Munson living room, thinned to the illusion of a sky blue in some patches.
You’d always warned him they make shit curtains; he’d always shrugged and said it added to his feng shui.
“Eddie,” you whispered again, knees knocking against the edge of the mattress as you looked down at his broken form, “I… What happened? Are you… are you okay?”
You hadn’t known how to approach it. Whatever happened was even worse than the first time he’d received a phone call from his dad in prison.
He mumbled something against the pillow he has one arm curled under.
“What?” you questioned, nearly ready to climb into that damn bed and force him onto his back, force him to look at you if only so you could guarantee there were no tear tracks on his cheeks.
You don’t have to, though. Eddie finally loosened his grip on that pillow and rolls ever so slightly, just enough for you to see half his face and feel your heart break at the confirmation of tears. Translucent pink eyes, glossy wet cheeks, the tip of his nose glowing as his gaze met yours. He looked tired.
“I’m getting held back,” he croaked, “I fucking- I flunked. I’m not graduating.”
You nearly sighed in relief. For his sake, you don’t, but the weight on your shoulders lifted immediately.
“Oh, sweet boy,” you murmured, giving into the need to crawl into the bed. You folded your knees as you situated yourself on the bed behind him, and the moment you’re situated, he wasted no time twisting himself to face you and bury his face into your side, “Why didn’t you call? You had me losing my goddamn mind-“
A strangled sob rattled against your side. One of his hands gripped your thigh, fingertips holding on for dear life, “Because your soulmate is a fucking loser.”
Your chest cracked further, a valley beginning to form as a hand buried into the back of his head, holding him to you as the other hand moved to rub his back in soothing motions.
“My soulmate is not a fucking loser,” you tried to keep a gentle tone rather than scold him at the moment. He didn’t need scolding — he needed patience, he needed care, he just needed you to be there, “Keep talking about him that way, and I’ll have to get the fighting gloves.”
He wetly laughed into your t-shirt, and you were sure that there would be tear stains when he finally lifted his head, “I’m the one who taught you how to throw a punch, baby.”
“Exactly. Which means I’ll have you on your ass in ten seconds flat.”
It was a few minutes of silence that followed; just you holding him, just him clinging onto you. His life line — his single ship of hope in what had been a terribly rocky sea the last few days. An irreplaceable peace settled across all the wounds and damage that had been done in private. You had been right. He should have called you immediately. He should have known that if anyone could make the situation feel less like his world was ending, it was you.
His soulmate.
“Do you want to talk about it?” you questioned in a soft, lulling tone. The endless patterns you’d drawn on his back had nearly put him to sleep, “Maybe be a bit kinder to yourself this time?”
“I just…” he started, finally removing his face from being buried against you, “I sort of had a hunch. O’Donnel wouldn’t round my grade, you know? And I’ve skipped a lot of classes, I know. But hearing Higgins say it just… just…”
“Made it real?” you offered a weary ending to his sentence.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “Real. It made it really fucking real.”
He didn’t feel judged at that moment. He felt seen as you continued on, “It is real, and it sucks. But it’ll be okay, Eds. I mean, I was already planning on the community college for my first year, maybe even taking a year off. If you need any help with classes, you just gotta ask me. Don’t forget I was one of O'Donnell's pets, as unfortunate as it was. I know how to work that woman into rounding up some grade.”
You rambled on a little more, all the while still stroking his hair and back, offering even more solutions. The longer you spoke, the better Eddie felt. You made it all sound so easy — like this was nothing, like it was the smallest of blips in plans that had been years in the making. You weren’t upset, you weren’t disappointed. He deserved your negativity, and instead only received your optimism.
You were with him for the long haul, he realized. Truly. It wasn’t just some one off promise or chain of the Universe holding you to him. He wasn’t dragging you down.
When you finally trailed off, his lids finally heavier than his heart, he sighed, “I love you. You know that?”
“I love you,” you smiled, “That’s kind of part of the soulmate package, isn’t it?”
“Fuck the soulmate part,” he lifted out of your hold despite everything in him screaming to stay put, to let you to continue to coddle him, “I’ve seen plenty of people be shitty to their soulmates. I watched my dad-“ he cut himself off, throat tightening with memories of his parents. You don’t make him finish that sentence, only nodding in understanding, “The Universe doesn’t force you to be a good person. You choose to be that. Every single day, you choose to stand by my side. You always have. You could have made me feel shitty about this, could have let me see how bummed you really are about sticking out another year here, but…”
But you didn’t.
Your eyes softened, a stormy shade of his favorite color, “Do you remember the way you punched Carver that day, before you even knew me?”
That very first day. The day two souls destined to intertwine had come in contact. The day the Universe had sighed in relief as your palm met his.
He nodded.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered, “You didn’t even know me. And yeah, whatever, maybe the Universe nudged you to do it, whatever. But there’s tons of people who know their soulmates for years and never realize it. Tons of people go to school and never interact with their soulmates. But that very first day… the first day you were at that school, the first day you saw me — we met. You defended me. And that counts for something. And I like to think it speaks more about us than it does about the grand scheme of things,” you brought a hand up, wiped away whatever tears were left on his cheeks with enough tenderness he almost started to sob again, “You didn’t know I was your soulmate. I was just some random classmate, and you defended me without even thinking about it. And I will always do the same for you. Always.”
You always had, you always will. The two of you had proven, time and time again, that you will always choose one another. It was never about that inevitable bond.
“I don’t deserve you,” he confessed, quickly moving to keep your palm there, resting on his stubbled cheek, “You deserve a soulmate who isn’t a fuck up. Someone good, someone who can give you the world and someone who… who isn’t repeating another year of fucking high school.”
“You still don’t get it,” you grinned sadly. Your fingertips press into that soft spanse right before his ear, cradling him more urgently on their own accord, “I don’t want or need someone else. You do give me the world- you are my world, you idiot.”
Idiot sounded perfectly aligned with lover as he leaned forward, burying his face in your neck. Home — he was home as you wrapped your arms back around him, pulled him a little closer in your embrace, clung to him as tightly as he clung to you.
All the colors in the world, and the only ones the two of you cared about were the ones confined to that small space for the time being, shades of you and shades of him, all overlapping perfectly in sync.
—
You stay true to your word. The first time Eddie repeats his senior year, and the second time.
Endless nights are spent studying, you forcing him to focus when he couldn’t, trying to invent new ways to learn that work for him rather than against him. He’s brilliant; you never let your boy forget that.
It’s nice for a while. Sickly sweet kisses and teasing exchanges. Enough lovesickness to make even those around you two nauseous. Nights spent out by Lover’s Lake, exchanges of promises of a future to come and discussions of whether your kids will have his eyes or your eyes. Kids. You two were discussing fucking kids. And it had scared Eddie half to death to even bring it up, but you hadn’t been phased. You’d answered terrifying question after question with ease, had even joked about what color flowers the two of you would have at your wedding and listened to Eddie describe the house he’d want to grow old in with you in excruciating detail. Sometimes the two of you even brought up what kind of dog you’d have, fantasized about the big yard which would not have a white picket fence (because, according to Eddie, that shit was too cheesy even for him in all his adoration for you). It made Eddie realize that after all these years, maybe you had become the brave one.
You’d both succumbed to the stereotypical soulmate trope. Become exactly what society had expected from the two of you since the beginning. And honestly, you couldn’t even be mad about it. You get it – you got the allure as you had laid with a head pressed to Eddie’s chest, observing all the stars again, a night sky the vision of black and white as your vision went blurry with fatigue.
“You know, that house sounds awfully expensive,” you yawned, curling a bit tighter into his side. You’re in nothing but his t-shirt, his chest still bare from the night’s activities.
Another new development. Even after all your time together, you two continued to find novelty to explore. New ways to learn each other, new ways to love each other, new ways to further tie your two souls together. An unbreakable knot. If anyone, the Universe included, tried to loosen it, you would spill blood without second thought.
“Oh, it absolutely will be,” he chuckled, vibrations echoing in your eardrum, “But that’s fine. We’re going to tap into that rockstar money, baby.”
In between talks of the future, more honest versions had arisen. Eddie and his band. You and your aspirations. Things that neither of you laughed at quite as much as the talk of children or houses with wraparound porches because they were in reach.
“Do you think you’ll have groupies?” your voice was a murmur, mouth half pressed into his skin as you lazily traced circles on his pec you aren’t using as your own personal pillow.
It made him chuckle once more, “Groupies? Sure. Don’t think any of them will be very successful, though.”
“Bold of you to assume I meant just you,” you’re able to snark back even half asleep, “Gareth deserves to be fawned over, too. Jeff is definitely a ladies killer.”
Your hand moved just fast enough out of the way for Eddie to lazily mimic stabbing himself in the exact muscle you were painting invisible imagery across, “You wound me, sweetheart.”
From this angle, you could catch the exact shade of brown that his faded freckles shone. You could see the differences in tan skin, see where he’d left a pair of sunglasses on his chest during a lake day over the summer and the tanline had remained stubborn. That had been a good day – Eddie had thrown you off the dark, wrapping his arms around you and turning the world to a blur of passing greens and blues before you’d been dunked beneath the lake’s surface. The cold water had stunned you, but him joining you seconds later hadn’t. Always by your side, even when he was being a little shit.
You’ve gone quiet on him, mind overcome with fond memories as the silence came naturally only for a few seconds before Eddie felt the need to fill it again.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, the hand that had mock-stabbed himself now curling around your forearm.
Your hand against his chest turned to a fist, pressing deeper into the skin, just to feel him closer, before you teased him, “How do you even know I’m thinking? What if my mind is just blank right now?”
“Psychic-soulmate-telepathy powers,” he answered without hesitation. When you only huffed, clearly unimpressed, he pressed a kiss to your temple before whispering in honesty, “You were smiling.”
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. Usually, you loved memorizing all the colors of him. You loved taking in his doe brown eyes and the harsh blush of his swollen lips. You’d memorize the twinkling of pink staining his skin across his chest and up his neck. You’d pick at the vibrant cherry shade of his painted nails, a sharp contrast from the usual black or sharpie scribbles he’d wear on them instead.
That silver glint of his rings. The forest green of his plaid boxers. All shades in the palette of Eddie Munson, your soulmate.
You love him so much, your chest is ready to burst from it. And you told him as much, too.
“I’m just really glad I have you,” you said for only him and only the trees to hear, “I’m really happy you came after me that day.”
There’s no rush to memorize all his colors and all his shades. You had all the time in the entire world, and then some. The only reason anyone had ever reported losing their colors was due to the death of their soulmate, and he wasn’t in any danger at the moment. He was there, sturdy beneath you, deep breaths syncing with your own.
If you didn’t learn them in this life, you wouldn’t rest until you found him in the next to finish what you had started.
“Yeah?” you could hear his grin as he held you a bit tighter. Another deep breath, another expansion of his ribs, and you feel all that time laid out at your feet. A lifetime of learning and memorizing Eddie Munson. A life well spent, “I’m glad, too.”
“Did you have even a single moment where you…. I don’t know, hesitated coming after me?” your speech began to slur, and you knew you were one foot in unconsciousness at that point.
“Never,” that same certainty he has always held since day one laced his tone, “Never. I just- I went for it. I made Jason Carver eat his words, and I ran after you. The only thing I’ll ever regret is not throwing a second punch at the asshole.”
Your smile widened, and you knew he felt it. Imagined the comfort he felt at the feeling. Imagined the peace that was washing over him just as it encased you, “But not about coming after me?”
“I don’t regret coming after you,” he told you, not growing the slightest bit annoyed at your need for constant reassurance. His fingers and palm slowly spread across your lower back, the warmth of their weight carrying you into sleep, “I’ll always come back to you, baby.”
—
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
Spring break was supposed to be nice. Time spent with friends, lazy mornings that you and Eddie slept through, night drives spent screaming out in relief to empty highways because he made it – you both made it. The college transfer was already put into motion, making it so you’d start the fall semester at a University in upstate Indiana. Eddie had taken a few roadtrips with you at his side, already having gotten on the good side of a boss at one of the car shops within range of where you’d be attending. You two had littered his floor with ads for apartments, the ones in your price range circled in brilliant and glaring red. Everything had been perfectly in line. Everything was set in place. Spring break was supposed to be a break to just be kids one last time – it was supposed to be nice.
But then Chrissy Cunningham happened. And Jason Carver, and an entire town of people who had always hated your soulmate. Suddenly, your own plan for the future had been scrapped, and in its spot a line of new dominos had been placed. One falling down after the other, too quick for you to keep up with.
A group of strangers had banged down on your front door. Had demanded to know where Eddie was, claimed they were friends trying to help him. You hadn’t even seen the news yet. They’d tried to fill you in, but only confused you more in the process, because the words Eddie and murderer should have never been used together in a sentence in the way they claimed the entire town was currently spewing.
You were his soulmate. They were sure you’d know where he was, but you didn’t.
That didn’t matter, though. The young boy, Dustin, had been determined. You’d heard all about him from Eddie – about the brilliant mind hidden beneath baseball caps and unruly curls, about the smart mouth you witnessed mouthing off to Steve Harrington first hand as you’d been searching for your boy.
It reminded you of Eddie. It made you ache. It made you only more voracious in your search.
And you’d found him – terrified, alone, trembling and crying. A version of him you’d never been privy to had pinned Steve fucking Harrington to the wall of Reefer Rick’s boathouse with a broken bottle to his throat. Wild, scared eyes and hands that shook harder than the day his father had called him and he’d put a goddamn hole through his kitchen wall. More desperation on his face than the day he’d informed you he’d be repeating his senior year for the first time. Shoulders more tense than the night you’d nearly walked away from him over some silly kiss with a cheerleader.
When he saw you, he’d shattered completely.
The sight of you had him collapsing into your arms, unable to explain himself in full sentences as he gasped and panicked and clung to you. And you had held him, had forced the others to give him time. You were like a feral animal, standing between him and them, friends or not. Your claws and teeth alike had been out, ready to mar anyone who would dare to lay a hand on your soulmate.
He’d calmed down. He’d explained. And then they had explained and reassured Eddie that he wasn’t crazy. His eyes had found yours over and over, and not a single time did they hold a single doubt for him in them. You believed him; you would always believe him. The cries of the town had been nothing more than static noise. You knew the man before you, you loved the man before you. Your soul knew his intricately, intimately. It would always know him, no matter the circumstance and no matter the troubles to come. In this life and the next.
The colors were never the gift. The gift the Universe had offered you had always been him.
You stayed with him those short few days. Ran from Carver and his posse, swam in the lake and had kept a level head as you formulated a plan. Find a walkie-talkie. Call for Dustin, call for help.
When the rest of them had jumped into the lake after Steve, you’d put a selfish hand on his bicep. For a moment, the only thing you were thinking of was him. You couldn’t lose him.
When he jumped in after Robin and Nancy anyways, you’d followed, no hesitation.
A dreary, nightmarish world. You’d followed him into Hell – quite literally, it seemed. Except they didn’t call it Hell, they called it the Upside Down. A place made up of all the things children fear, of awful creatures that only served to attack, to kill, and terrible storms of flashing red lightning. A blue tint to the town you’d come to know. Shades of flesh and shades of grey – shades of death – flooded the place. And only you, Eddie, and Nancy could see them.
Nancy’s soulmate was somewhere far away. Somewhere safe. But she understood that protective stance and the way you’d stuck staunchly at Eddie’s side. She got it.
A stolen RV, shields made of trash can lids and nails rather than make believe, goddamn spears made at the hand of people all far too young to be handling these things. They were handling the end of the world, and you suddenly hadn’t felt as brave as Eddie always claimed you were. The plan was formulated, and the entire time, you had a sinking feeling in your stomach. You watched Eddie play fight with Dustin, real weapons discarded to the ground, and you listened to Robin whisper the same sentiment to Steve.
“I just have this terrible, gnawing feeling that… it might not work out for us this time.”
You agreed with Robin. You hated that you agreed with Robin.
And so you stood like a watch dog at Eddie’s side, nearly lashed out when it was suggested you might be more helpful joining everyone else going after this Vecna rather than staying with Eddie.
It was his turn to put a hesitant hand on your bicep. Brown, russet, umber eyes that flashed with the unspoken question of are you sure you want to do this?
But he was sure. And just as quickly as you’d followed him into that lake, just as quickly as you had dismissed those awful claims against him, you’d nodded. Because if he was sure, if he was going through it, you would follow him.
You should have insisted on staying with him and Dustin.
Because your group of rag tags re-entered that Hellish landscape, and you flinched with each flash of red, not even soothed by Eddie’s hand in yours. And the people around you were now friends; you’d realized in a few short days that you would do almost anything to protect all of them as well, but you knew there was nothing that you wouldn’t do to keep Eddie alive.
“Hey,” he insists once the two of you stand outside this alternate version of his trailer, somewhere that you should know all too well but that has morphed into something unfamiliar in this world.
His hand holding yours spins you to face him, a few steps off to the side from the rest of everyone.
“Hi,” you whisper back, trying to only focus on him. Not the bleak colors of the landscape around you two, but the vibrancy of his shades. You hate the weakness written all across your features, unable to offer him any reassurance in return for all that he had given you over the years. You were terrified. As Robin had said, a terrible gut feeling was gnawing at you from the inside out. You couldn’t help the tears gathering, couldn’t unravel the restriction of your throat.
“It’s going to be okay, alright?” he does the talking, nodding and lowering his chin to stare right into your eyes. His favorite color now wet with emotion, shining even in the dullest of environments, “Can’t be worse than punching Jason Carver, right?”
It could be. It could be much, much worse. Everything you two had endured together was children’s play compared to this. But you don’t say that; you nod in dishonesty, biting your lip to stop from letting a whimper escape.
“I’ll always come back to you, I promise,” he swears so vehemently, voice spitting with determination. Those brows half hidden by the bandana atop his head furrow, his forehead nearly brushing yours.
That, you at the very least, believe. Just as you would find him every time, in this life and the next, he would find you.
“You better,” you choke out, hands reaching up just to latch onto him one more time. To feel him, sturdy beneath your palms. Alive. Your gift from the Universe, the boy who let you see colors. You almost regret spending so long fascinated with the shades you’d discovered when you should have allotted more time to imprint the features of his face to memory. You should have cared more about that freckle beneath his right eye, the slight crook to his nose, the way each of his calluses feel against your bare shoulders. Shades of blue, red, green, violet, yellow – none of them matter as much as the boy before you. They only matter because they paint the picture of him for you fully. They only matter because he matters, “I still need your rockstar money to pay for that wraparound porch.”
He laughs at that. And God, he’s gorgeous – his head thrown back, eyes crinkling with genuine joy for the first time in days. No one else catches the tear that slips from one of those pinched eyes, the hidden sadness for only you to catch onto.
That gnawing feeling – the one you and Robin felt. He felt it, too.
“Of course,” he finally sighs, opening his eyes back to yours and now holding so many words that neither of you have the time to exchange. It kills you – you don’t have time. You thought you’d always have more time. “Think of this as a test run for that rockstar money. See how a crowd of bats feel about my rockstar skills.”
“Careful,” your voice cracks, a few tears slipping that he’s quick to swipe away, “I hear they’re a tough crowd.”
He smiles at your joke, but doesn’t waste his breath on laughing. His lips find yours instead, pouring out every single thought and emotion possible. You feel a tug on that knot you’d tied between you two, everything in your being protesting from pulling back from the kiss. You try to move your lips in a response, to tell him it’ll be fine, to tell him you’ll both return to each other. To tell him you’ll have more time.
When he pulls back, realizing you can’t, his hand falls from you only to reach into the pocket of his jeans. You don’t understand until suddenly, he’s thrusting a laminated square into your hand.
You know what it is before you even turn it over. Your entire body strangles down the broken sob as you look down at a polaroid of a younger Eddie. Somewhere safe and somewhere that time is still yours.
“Keep that safe for me, yeah?” his voice wavers as he produces his own polaroid – the picture of you, “I mean, I’ll have yours, obviously. But… but just… it’s gonna be worth a lot of money once I’m the next big thing in the Upside Down.”
He’s trying so hard to make you laugh just one more time. It only surges more tears to burn your vision.
“All I’ll have to show Vecna is this,” you start to joke back, letting more tears stain your cheeks, “And- and-”
You can’t finish the joke. He gets it, putting a hand over yours, forcing you both to put away those polaroids.
“I know,” he assures you, “I know. Show him my ugly mug, and he’ll go down without a fight. That’s exactly why I’m giving it to you, baby.”
Another tear, only for you, slips. You trace it all the way down his cheek, memorize the way his skin looks in the horrid blue tint and try to remember the shade it glows during golden hour instead.
“I love you,” you say. But once isn’t enough, “I love you.”
“I love you,” he takes your hands in his palms, finally presses his forehead to yours, shares his breath for a moment as he focuses on your sad eyes, “So fucking much. You always were prettier than all the colors combined. Better stay that way till I come back to you.”
He releases you. Wipes away his tears, has to give you an encouraging shove on your shoulders to force you to join Nancy and Robin’s sides.
Steve catches your eye, a look on his face telling you he’d been watching the entire interaction. Something yearning crosses his features, and then something clicks. As if this is the first time he’d ever witnessed soulmates. As if he’s the one seeing colors for the first time.
Maybe that’s why he gives his little speech. Maybe that’s why he tries to plead your case and make sure that Eddie and Dustin don’t do anything stupid.
After Eddie has made his final request to Steve, to make him pay, he looks at you one last time. A ghost of a grin, wearing his bravest mask to date as he mouths I love you.
You echo the silent sentiment. A silent prayer. For the Universe to bring him back to you. To bring you back to him.
—*ash, stop reading here*—
The only way to lose your colors is if your soulmate has died. It’s one of the first things you learn when school first broached the sensitive topic. Your soulmate dies, they take the colors with them. They never told you how the soulmate takes the colors with them – never discussed whether it would fast and sudden like the moment you first touched your soulmate, if the colors would drain from you in real time and leave a path of chromatic grey behind, or if you’d watch them flicker from sight, just as one might watch the life flicker from the eyes of the one they loved.
You’d always wondered how it happened.
You’d been morbidly curious that day in class despite finding it all a bit dramatic. Had looked around a black and white classroom and processed your classmates' different greyscale reactions. Some were forlorn, some were snickering beneath their breath. Some just looked plain bored. It made sense; you were all kids, none of you had ever seen the blue sky or the verdant grass. Only heard about it. Only listened to adults drone on and on about it wistfully. It was never something tangible, something to have and to hold and to lose.
You wonder how younger you would have looked upon you now. As you faced down an alternate dimension’s fiercest villain, hand paused midair, prepared to launch a lit molotov cocktail with aim to kill, when you suddenly paused.
The shades of the fire burning brightly in front of you have dulled. Microscopically. The smallest of flickers in vibrancy.
“What are you doing?” Steve screams when he notices your hesitation, “Throw it! Jesus Christ, throw it before-”
Robin cut him off, being the closest to you and reaching over to snatch the ticking time bomb of a bottle, tossing it for you.
As it explodes against the mangled being before you, another flicker occurs. You swear you feel a stabbing pain in your side, as if that gnawing has taken to ripping you apart.
You swear the bright flashes of yellow amongst the flames have turned to white. The orange has gone so faded, the dullest bits have shadowed over in grey.
Nancy takes another shot, but you can’t move. You watch it all in slow motion: she doesn’t miss, her shot ricochets dead center, Vecna stumbles before crashing through the wall behind him.
The world flickers a final time, and all the air leaves your lungs.
It’s black and white.
The floorboards, all of your sudden friends beside you, the walls of the old house, the lightning flashing amongst storm clouds in the sky outside.
It’s black and white. Shades of grey monotone.
As everyone rushes to look out the hole, your knees collide with splintered wood.
The colors are gone. It’s black and white.
“Where’d he-” Steve starts to question before he turns and sees you. You’re folding into yourself, no longer breathing as you look down at your palms. Grey. Not a single sliver of flesh tone to be seen. “Are you okay?”
The colors are gone.
A cold washes over you like never before, and even if you wanted to take another breath, you couldn’t. It’s not ash burning your eyes – it’s tears, hot and vicious as your face begins to crumple in panic.
Eddie.
You don’t even hear them cross the room back to you. Can’t hone in on what’s happened, if the evil has been defeated and if you’d all won. It doesn’t matter; your colors are gone.
Your hands finally fumble without thought, patting down your person until you catch the corner of the polaroid. You yank it free, breaths finally strangling into your throat without purchase, your shoulders shaking.
It’ll be in color. It has to be in color. He has to be in color.
That familiar and well loved photo stares back at you. Your boy, curly hair wild and unruly, grin soft and fond. A twinkle captured in his eye and all that adoration that had been rolling off of him in waves somehow frozen in time.
Frozen in time, frozen in black and white.
Steve shakes your shoulders, Robin begins to pace and match your panic. They don’t understand.
Gritted sobs leave your mouth, tears blinding you as you look at the shadow of what must be Nancy.
She understands.
Even through the strangled breaths, earth-shattering sobs that make you nearly incoherent, she knows.
“Eddie,” you manage to gasp, fist curling around the photograph.
The only way to lose your colors is if your soulmate has died.
“Eddie,” you manage a mangled sob as Steve pulls back, horror-stricken as he looks down at the polaroid, slowly piecing together what was happening.
Fast and sudden like the moment you first touched your soulmate. Draining from you in real time and leaving a path of chromatic grey behind. Flickering from sight, just as one might watch the life flicker from the eyes of the one they loved.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: eddie munson x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.7k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Eddie Munson's crush on you was manageable from a distance. But now that he's friends with your brother Dustin, you're suddenly, terrifyingly close. His mission: be cool. The result: a spectacular failure that just might be the key to your heart.
𝐚/𝐧: split this up into multiple parts cause it was getting wayyyy too long
It wasn’t a secret, not really. Secrets were for things you actively hid, things that festered in the dark with the bitter taste of shame or fear. What existed between you and Dustin was something else entirely: a quiet, mutual understanding, a natural consequence of orbiting different suns in the chaotic, small-town galaxy of Hawkins High.
He was Dustin Henderson, a supernova of unapologetic weirdness, proudly branded by the Hellfire Club. His world smelled of old paper and the electric tang of a soldering iron. It was a universe mapped in the clatter of twenty-sided dice on a wooden table, in the frantic crackle of a walkie-talkie cutting through static with life-or-death urgency. His language was built on theories so wild they could unravel the very laws of physics, a future pioneer in some scientific field nobody else in these hallways could even pronounce.
You were his half-sister, a celestial body of a different sort: a varsity cheerleader with a smile that could halt traffic and a reputation so spotless it practically gleamed under the judgmental fluorescent lights. Your world was built on the sharp, clean scent of gymnasium polish and the saccharine cloud of cheap hairspray. You knew the comforting weight of a borrowed letterman's jacket on your shoulders and found solace in the crisp, certain pages of textbooks you aced without breaking a sweat. Your kingdom was the sun-drenched bleachers and the roaring Friday night crowd, a world of clear rules and tangible victories.
Yet, your gravitational pulls were inextricably linked. The same silence that fell in the Henderson household after a bad day held space for both of you. A shared glance across the cafeteria could communicate a universe of support—a raised eyebrow from him when a jock said something particularly dumb, a subtle, encouraging nod from you when he walked into a room full of snickers.
You existed within the same four walls, bound by the same history of shared Christmases and silent, understanding looks across the dinner table when your mom got that tone in her voice.
It was a conscious, carefully maintained orbit. Easier this way. Safer. A silent pact, signed not with a handshake but with a thousand averted gazes in the school hallway, to let the other survive in their own habitat, untouched by the particular predators that stalked the other's world.
The different last names were the first line of defence, a bureaucratic blessing that drew a clear, public line in the sand. The only partial, faintly visible shared genetics—a similar, mischievous curve at the corner of a smile, perhaps, or the same habit of raising an eyebrow in sceptical unison—were subtle enough to be dismissed as coincidence. They were ghosts of a relation, nothing the casual observer would ever think to trace back to its source.
It was a convenient truth, one that required no effort to conceal because no one in your respective orbits ever thought to look for it. Their attention spans were too short, their worlds too self-contained. The jocks, scanning the bleachers for a flicker of your approval, their vision clouded by the sheen of your varsity jacket, never once glanced toward the dim, chaotic sanctuary of the drama room where he held court with a twenty-sided die and a grand plan. Conversely, his fellow dungeon crawlers, locked in fervent debate over a demogorgon’s tactical weaknesses or the arcane politics of the Upside Down, would never think to seek a cheerleader’s opinion. Why would they? You were a resident of a different planet entirely, one where the only monsters were social ones, and the only battles fought for a spot on the homecoming court.
Mike and Lucas knew the full story, of course. Having been officially adopted into the Henderson fold years ago—their DNA practically rewritten by shared trauma and a thousand sleepovers—they were the keepers of the file. They treated the knowledge not with gossipy excitement, but with the grim, procedural gravity of a top-secret government dossier. It was a need-to-know truth, and they, as senior operatives in the chaotic landscape that was their adolescence, needed to know.
To them, your familial connection was not a piece of salacious trivia; it was a strategic datum. They understood its importance to the delicate ecosystem of their own lives, a key piece of intelligence that explained certain logistical realities. They saw no tactical advantage in disseminating it to the wider population. In the high school warzone, some intel was best kept compartmentalised.
To Mike and Lucas, it was just another feature on the strange, complicated map of Hawkins—a faded, familial ley line that connected the gleaming, alien territory of the gym to the familiar, sacred ground of the basement game room. They were content, diligent cartographers that they were, to let that particular line remain faint, unmarked, and undrawn for everyone else. It wasn't a secret to be kept, but a boundary to be respected—one of the many silent, unspoken rules that kept their small, fiercely protected world turning.
And at the heart of it all, your bond with Dustin was the one thing that felt unshakably, undeniably real. In a world of performative friendships and shifting alliances, it was your bedrock. While your cheer squad smiled with gritted teeth through whispered rivalries, and your study partners were temporary allies of convenience, Dustin was your anchor. He was your constant in a universe of variables.
You were the first, slightly hysterical call after a disastrous, stammering attempt to talk to Suzie, listening without judgment to the replay of every fumbled word. You were his designated driver to the arcade, your payment rendered in a palmful of stale Skittles and a running commentary of scientific trivia that you only half-understood but wholly adored because it was his. When the storms of teenage angst or high school hierarchy grew too wild, you were the safe harbour he could always sail into, no questions asked.
The two of you were a sealed system, a closed circuit of unconditional support. In the carefully partitioned worlds you both navigated—you in your kingdom of pom-poms and pep rallies, him in his empire of dice and demodogs—your relationship was the one place where you could both stand down. You didn't have to be the perfect cheerleader or the formidable nerd. You could just be. He was more than a brother; he was home base. And in a game where the rules were always changing, that was everything.
But now, a different kind of storm was brewing on the horizon—one that smelled of worn leather, damp weed, and the electric ozone of cheap thrash metal. It had a physical form: a whirlwind of restless energy contained within a wiry frame, a symphony of silver rings on every finger, and warm, knowing brown eyes that seemed to see past every carefully constructed façade to the raw wiring beneath. It had a voice, too—a low, compelling rasp that could command a room of misfits with a single dramatic flourish or shred a guitar solo that felt like bottled lightning, dangerous and brilliant.
As Eddie "The Freak" Munson sank his claws into your brother's life with the fervor of a prophet finding a new disciple, he didn't just bring a new friend. He brought a whole new religion of chaos, a doctrine of unapologetic rebellion preached from the pulpit of a beaten-up lunchroom table. He was the untamable variable in your brother's once-predictable scientific equations, the glitch in the system. He was a living, breathing monster manual entry that broke all the established rules, and Dustin was studying him with rapt, unwavering fascination.
And with every late-night D&D session that ran past curfew, with every cursed cassette tape of screeching guitars that filtered under Dustin's bedroom door and into the fabric of your quiet home, you felt it. The careful, quiet peace you’d built together—the delicate equilibrium of your separate orbits—began to tremble on its very foundations.
Eddie had always nursed a grudging, privately entertained soft spot for you from afar, a fact he’d readily—and theatrically—lament after a few beers in the sanctuary of his trailer. "It's a classic tragedy, man!" he'd proclaim, gesturing wildly with a bottle. "The king of the freaks, laid low by the most predictable cliché in the book!" And who could blame him? Who didn't harbor some distant, starlit admiration for you? You were the holy trifecta of high school divinity: smoking hot, disgustingly popular, and—most bafflingly of all—seemingly, genuinely nice.
You didn't sneer at the freaks and losers from your gleaming throne atop the social food chain. You didn't deploy your squad like mean-girl infantry to carve up the school's underbelly for sport. No, you were far more subversive. You just offered a benign, traffic-stopping smile that never quite reached the eyes of the people who didn't matter, and moved on with your charmed life, utterly unbothered. It was a quiet, effortless power that was the complete antithesis of his own loud, performative existence. You weren't playing the game; you were so far above it, you didn't even know there was a game. And that, to Eddie Munson, was the most infuriatingly, intriguingly charming thing he’d ever witnessed.
Lately, however, that dormant soft spot had begun to itch, a persistent, distracting sensation under his skin, like a corrupted track on a well-worn cassette that kept skipping back to the same maddening riff. It was a glitch in his own carefully curated persona. And suddenly, his perception had shifted, his vision attuned to your frequency. He was seeing you everywhere, your golden, sun-bleached presence a stark and polluting contrast to the grim, familiar corners of his world.
There you were, a vision of pristine varsity wool and effortless cool leaning against the scuffed, graffiti-marred lockers outside the science lab. But the real anomaly wasn't your location—it was the fact you were actually listening, head tilted, a real, unguarded laugh bursting from your lips at something Henderson said. The sound was a clean, sharp note that cut through the hallway's dull roar, and it hooked itself directly into his brain.
There you were again, parked in your obnoxiously shiny, parent-approved car right outside Family Video. You were drumming your perfectly manicured fingers on the steering wheel to a beat he couldn't hear—his beat, he irrationally hoped, something fast and violent—while you waited for Dustin to run his nerd errands. You were a splash of vibrant color on his monochrome map of Hawkins, a siren's call from the deck of a ship he was supposed to be torpedoing. And he was utterly, infuriatingly captivated.
Each sighting was a new, confounding data point that refused to fit into any of his pre-existing theories. You weren't just a flat, one-dimensional poster girl on the wall of high school hierarchy; you were a living, breathing person, with a laugh that disarmed him and a taste in music he was suddenly, irrationally dying to identify. The mystery, much to his own horror, was deepening from a casual curiosity into a full-blown fixation. And Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed connoisseur of chaos and the arcane, had never been able to resist a good puzzle, especially one that looked so damn good.
And so, cornering Dustin Henderson became Eddie’s new, and most frustrating, extracurricular activity. He was a man possessed, a hunter on a singular, maddening quest for intel. He transformed into a shadow in the crowded halls, a lurking predator lying in wait by his locker with a too-casual lean. He became an "unexpected" companion who fell into step on the walk to the parking lot after Hellfire, his questions veiled in a cloak of feigned nonchalance that was as subtle as a hammer to glass. "So, the cheerleader," he'd start, clapping a hand on Dustin's shoulder, his voice a studied casual drawl that fooled no one. "She, uh... she always your chauffeur, Henderson, or are you just that lucky?"
Each encounter was a carefully orchestrated ambush disguised as casual conversation, a verbal chess game where all roads, no matter how winding, were ruthlessly designed to lead to a single, burning topic: You.
He was a grandmaster of subterfuge, laying traps for a prodigy, and the school hallways were their board.
"Hey, Henderson," he'd start, slinging a comradely arm around his shoulders that was just a little too tight to be friendly. The scent of leather, clove cigarettes, and weed descending like a palpable warning cloud. "Saw you getting a personal audience with Her Royal Shininess again. What's the deal? You, uh… hire her for a morale campaign? Gotta say, man, the psychological warfare is top-tier."
Dustin, to his immense credit, was a veritable fortress of evasion, a master of misdirection who had, after all, helped save the world by lying to panicked government agents and his own mother. "Something like that," he'd say with an infuriatingly nonchalant shrug, never breaking stride. He wouldn't just deny—he'd counter-attack, expertly parrying every thrust with a strategically deployed question about the next campaign's monster roster or a technical debate on a new module's rule set. It was like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands.
Each failed interrogation, each expertly deflected question, only cemented a maddening truth in Eddie's mind: Henderson wasn't just being private; he was actively protecting something. He had classified information, and he was following a protocol Eddie wasn't cleared for. And Eddie Munson, connoisseur of secrets and the forbidden, had never encountered a lock he didn't immediately, obsessively need to pick until it gave up all its treasures.
Eddie's attempts grew increasingly desperate, his subtlety evaporating like cheap beer in the July sun. His interrogations became so transparent that even the wide-eyed freshmen, who usually scurried out of his path like frightened beetles, would pause to watch the spectacle.
"So, Henderson," he'd begin, materialising at his side with a jolt of manic energy that made Dustin visibly brace himself, his shoulders creeping toward his ears. "A theoretical question for the group's head of logistics. Does our resident solar deity ever, I don't know, express any opinions on local counter-culture? Inquire about the band's seminal demo? Maybe... feel a sudden, profound need to probe the tortured, creative vision of the lead guitarist?" He wiggled his ring-clad fingers for emphasis, the picture of artistic anguish.
Dustin, the unflappable stone wall in Eddie's hurricane of neediness, didn't even look up from the complex chemical equation in his textbook. "She asked if you actually passed any of your classes," he replied, his tone flat as a week-old pancake. "I told her it was a coin toss on a good day and that she should probably pray for your immortal soul." The verbal pin landed with sniper-like precision, popping the inflated balloon of Eddie's ego with a sad, quiet fizzle.
The problem, the true, moustache-twirling villain of this entire farce, was the clock. The three-minute passing period was a cruel and unforgiving master, its final bell a death knell to his progress, severing his interrogations with the brutal finality of a guillotine. He was trying to walk a razor-thin line between casually curious and full-blown stalker, and he was failing so miserably he might as well have been face-down on the linoleum, tasting the wax and his own humiliation. Every time he felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough—a single, unguarded word, a hint of a crack in the fortress walls—Dustin would deflect with the preternatural skill of a CIA operative, offering a crumb of meaningless gossip about Steve Harrington's latest hair crisis before slipping into a classroom and vanishing. The slamming door was a brutal, full-stop punctuation mark on his failure, leaving Eddie standing alone in the suddenly silent hallway, more bewildered and hopelessly intrigued than before, the ghost of your name dying on his lips.
The mystery of you and Dustin Henderson was no longer a casual side-quest. It was escalating, mutating in the petri dish of his mind into the greatest, most compelling unsolved campaign of his life. The whiteboard in his trailer was now a chaotic web of questions and theories, connected by red string and pure, unadulterated fixation. He was done playing by the rules of polite inquiry. Eddie Munson was fully prepared to burn the whole damn rulebook, shred the map, and roll a natural twenty on a shot in the dark if it meant finally uncovering the truth.
The roar of the Friday night crowd is a distant, ghostly echo, a world away from his sanctuary—a rickety picnic table shrouded in the woods behind the football field. This is his kingdom of shadows and silence, the one place where Eddie "The Freak" Munson could let his guard down.
Right now, his guard is in tatters.
He is supposed to be plotting his next campaign, a strategic masterstroke to finally, finally talk to you. But his mental playbook, once filled with clever subterfuge and silver-tongued gambits, is now just a collection of pathetic, crumpled failures. Just ask her about Dustin, the logical part of his brain pleads. It’s the perfect in! But the rest of him, the part that turns to a puddle of incoherent mush whenever he sees you, rebels. What if he sounds like a stalker? What if his voice cracks? What if he, in a moment of peak Munson misfortune, spontaneously combusts at your feet?
He’s so deep in this cycle of self-flagellation that he doesn't hear a thing—not a footfall, not a snapped twig, not a single rustle of leaves. Which is why the voice, smooth and clear as polished glass, slices through the quiet from directly behind him and nearly sends his soul launching into orbit.
"I heard you've been asking about me."
Eddie jolts so hard the table shudders in sympathy. His heart isn't just pounding; it’s performing a frantic, double-kick-drum solo against his ribs, a frantic rhythm for the panic coursing through him. He spins around, his rings scraping against the weathered wood.
And there you are.
It was as if you’ve materialised from the shadows themselves, a phantom made flesh, bathed in the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy. His mind, usually a whirlwind of witty retorts and theatrical flair, goes utterly, completely blank. All that remained is a single, screaming thought: Abort mission. System failure. Total, catastrophic, and humiliating system failure.
A soft, melodic laugh escapes you as he fumbles, his limbs turning to tangled marionette strings. He practically falls off the bench in a clatter of silver rings and frayed denim, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Before he can even attempt to reclaim a shred of dignity, you’re moving.
Completely uninvited, you smoothly take a seat on the bench opposite him, folding your hands primly on the weather-beaten wood as if you were holding court in a king’s hall, not some shady clearing. The move is so audaciously calm, so utterly self-possessed, that it leaves him mentally reeling, grasping for a handhold in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.
His brain, desperate for any port in this storm of your presence, latches onto the first ridiculous lie it can find. “Who, me? Asking about—? Pfft. No, I was just… conducting a sociological survey on the migratory patterns of the common jock,” he deflects, the words tumbling out in a rushed, defensive jumble. A sociological survey? He sounds like a complete dork. A poser. A fool.
The panic is a neon sign plastered all over his face, he’s sure of it. And the way your smile widens, just a fraction at the corners of your mouth, tells him it only amuses you more. It’s not a mocking smile, but something far more dangerous: a genuinely entertained one.
His gaze follows yours as you nod your head towards his contraband scattered across the graffiti-scarred table—the worn leather pouch, the rolling papers, the bag of mid-grade schlock. And a sudden, piercing regret lances through him, so sharp and specific it’s almost comical. He wishes, more than anything, that he’d brought the good weed. The sacred, top-shelf stash he reserved for solo nights contemplating the cosmos and his own magnificent failures. Not this dry, pedestrian schlock he palmed off to desperate freshmen for gas money. The thought is utterly, pathetically vain, but it’s there: he wants to impress you, even with his weed, and he has already, catastrophically, failed.
“How much?” you ask, your voice slicing clean through his internal lament.
His mouth moves on pure, unadulterated instinct, completely bypassing the shred of his brain that runs a business. “For you? First one’s on the house,” he says, his voice cracking on the word ‘house,’ pitching a humiliating notch too high. He fumbles through his leather pouch, fingers finally closing around what he deems a relatively respectable joint. The moment his fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, a jolt shoots up his arm—static-sharp and disconcertingly warm. The thought flashes, unbidden and terrifyingly sincere: He’d hand you his whole damn stash for free. His van keys. The master copy of Corroded Coffin’s demo tape. Possibly his still-beating heart, if you kept looking at him with that unreadable, captivating glint in your eyes.
Then, you shift the entire universe.
Without a word, you produce a sleek, silver lighter from your skirt pocket. It’s a mundane object, but seeing it on your person, knowing you carry this small tool of controlled arson, feels impossibly intimate. He watches, utterly mesmerised, as you bring the neatly rolled joint to your lips. The act is practised, effortless, and it steals the air from his lungs.
You take a slow, deep inhale. The tip glows a fierce, brilliant orange in the dimming light, and for a surreal second, he feels like he’s witnessing a sacred ritual. You hold it for a beat, your eyes fluttering slightly, before you tilt your head back and blow a smooth, grey plume into the dappled forest air. It’s not a cough or a sputter, but a perfect, controlled stream that dances with the motes of dust in the sunbeams.
A soft, content sigh leaves you, and it’s the most relaxed, unguarded sound he’s ever heard you make. It’s a sound that wraps around him, and he knows, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he is in deep, deep trouble.
“You’re staring again, Munson.”
Your voice is a low hum, laced with amusement. Your eyes flutter open to catch him in the act, and they’re clearer now, more focused, piercing through the hazy air and seeing right through the fragile fortress of his cool. He quickly looks away, feigning a sudden, intense interest in the gnarled bark of a nearby oak tree as if it holds the secrets of the universe. His cheeks burn with a tell-tale heat he’s desperately grateful you can’t feel.
“Just didn’t know you smoked,” he counters, the words a weak, transparent defence against the gentle accusation in your tone. He knows it’s a pathetic excuse, knows it’s about so much more than tobacco or weed. It’s about the fact that he’s been quietly building a shrine to you in the dusty, hidden corners of his mind, and you just walked in and casually rearranged all the furniture, leaving him disoriented and in awe.
A slow, knowing smile plays on your lips, a silent testament to the fact that you see right through him, and you don't seem to mind. “There’s plenty you don’t know about me yet.”
Yet.
The word doesn't just hang in the air; it detonates. A single, three-letter promise that throws a gallon of gasoline directly onto the already raging fire of his curiosity. It’s an invitation that makes his pulse stutter. A challenge that his entire being itches to accept. A future tense that sends his mind spiralling into a dozen different, thrilling possibilities—shared mixtapes, late-night drives in his van, the secret sound of your laugh when it's meant just for him. It’s the most terrifying and beautiful word he’s ever heard.
Panicking under the weight of that single, terrifyingly beautiful promise, he’s rambling again before his brain can even think to engage the clutch. “I’ve, uh—I’ve got some better stuff. Back at the trailer. The good shit, you know? The kind that… unlocks the secrets of the universe. Or, you know, just makes Deep Purple sound even more fucking epic.” He’s babbling, digging the hole deeper with every word. “If you’d ever be… interested.”
The invitation hangs in the air between you, as clumsy and transparent as a sheet of Saran Wrap. He might as well have just handed you a poorly photocopied flyer that read, in Comic Sans, ‘Please Come To My Sad Trailer So I Can Stare At You More Efficiently.’
You cock a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, a silent masterpiece of judgment and amusement. The gesture is a physical thing, driving the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of his words like a hot spike directly into his already fragile ego. He can feel it—a full-body cringe that starts at the soles of his boots and vibrates up to the tips of his hair. He can practically feel his soul trying to vacate his body, peeling itself away from this mortifying reality out of pure, unbridled shame, desperately seeking refuge in the Upside Down where the social stakes are, frankly, less terrifying.
You actually seem to contemplate the offer, your gaze drifting past him into the shadow-dappled woods as if mentally consulting some invisible, infinitely more interesting social calendar. The pause stretches, a taut, excruciating silence filled only by the frantic thrum of his own pulse in his ears. It lasts just long enough for him to fully register the monumental, soul-crushing magnitude of his own idiocy. He’s already scripting his retreat, the mumbled apology, the vow to never speak again.
Then, your answer nearly knocks him clean off his seat and into next week.
“Sure. Why not.”
It’s so casual, so utterly, devastatingly nonchalant, that his brain simply short-circuits. The words don’t compute. They’re a syntax error in the carefully constructed code of his social anxiety. He swears you’re giving him psychological whiplash; he can’t keep up with the violent, nauseating shifts between his own spiraling panic and your preternatural calm. It’s like being caught in a hurricane that has the manners to sip a cup of tea at its very centre.
“Wait… really?” The words escape him in a stunned, breathy rush, all his usual theatrical bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw, disbelieving shock of a man who just hit the jackpot he never dared to buy a ticket for.
A ghost of a smirk, there and gone in a heartbeat, touches your lips. “Don’t have any plans tonight,” you shrug, the picture of nonchalance, as if agreeing to hang out in his shabby trailer was the most mundane decision in the world, like choosing what to watch on TV. But your eyes tell a different story—they glint with a sharp, knowing challenge. “Unless you don’t actually want me to come over?”
The banter feels familiar, a verbal volley he recognizes from a hundred lunchroom skirmishes and hallway arguments. It’s a rhythm he knows how to dance to. And yet, he’s completely disarmed. He’s a swordsman who has not only forgotten his blade but has forgotten which end is the hilt. All his usual sarcastic comebacks, the clever retorts that usually stream so effortlessly to form a protective, witty moat around the fortress of his insecurities, have deserted him, leaving the gates wide open and him utterly exposed on your shores.
You stand up, brushing a stray leaf from your skirt with a grace that feels utterly alien in this muddy, Munson-domain clearing. It’s a gesture that belongs in a catalog or a ballet, not here amongst the discarded beer cans and gnarled roots. You look at him expectantly, a single, perfect eyebrow arched in a silent question that feels louder than any Corroded Coffin solo.
“Well? You gonna give me a ride, or what?”
The question, so direct and laced with a challenge he desperately wants to prove himself worthy of, finally jump-starts his frozen motor functions. “Right. Yeah. The van. It’s, uh… this way,” he manages, his voice still rough with shock.
