The late afternoon sun spills through the open window of your bedroom, casting golden streaks across the cluttered desk where you sit, needle in hand. The denim jacket sprawled across your lap is heavy, worn soft by years of use, its rips and frayed edges telling stories you can only guess at. Eddie Munson’s battle jacket. His pride and joy, a patchwork of his obsessions—bands like Metallica, Iron Maiden, and Dio, their logos stitched with care, some by you, some by hands long before yours. The fabric smells faintly of cigarette smoke, leather, and that musky cologne he wears, the one that clings to your skin after he’s been close.
You thread the needle with black thread, the patch in your other hand a fresh addition: a snarling skull with crossed axes, something Eddie picked up at a record shop last week. He’d held it up with that boyish grin of his, eyes bright, like he’d found treasure. “You think you can work your magic on this one, sweetheart?” he’d asked, already knowing the answer. You always do. It’s become a ritual between you—your steady hands bringing his chaotic vision to life, stitch by stitch.
The needle pierces the denim, and you pull the thread through, your fingers moving with practiced ease. You’re careful, precise, because you know how much this jacket means to him. It’s more than clothing; it’s armor, a declaration of who he is to a world that’s never been kind to him. You’ve seen the way he wears it, shoulders squared, chin up, like it shields him from the sneers of Hawkins’ small-minded elite. And you love being part of it, weaving yourself into the fabric of his rebellion.
The door creaks open, and you don’t need to look up to know it’s him. The air shifts when Eddie’s near, like the room hums with his energy. “There’s my girl,” he says, voice low and warm, boots scuffing the floor as he crosses the room. You glance up, and there he is—lean frame slouched against the doorframe, dark curls spilling over his shoulders, that damn leather jacket thrown over a faded Black Sabbath tee. His brown eyes, soft and molten, lock onto you, and your stomach flips like it always does.
“Thought you were at band practice,” you say, tying off a stitch, keeping your tone light even as your pulse quickens under his gaze.
“Got done early. Gareth was bein’ a diva about his drum kit, so we called it.” He pushes off the frame, closing the distance between you in a few strides. “Missed you, though.” He drops onto the bed beside your chair, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh. The contact, small as it is, sends a spark through you.
You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “You saw me, like, three hours ago, Munson.”
“Three hours too long.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching your hands work. “You’re makin’ me look cooler than I deserve, you know that?”
You snort, focusing on the next stitch. “You’re plenty cool without me. I’m just… enhancing the aesthetic.”
“Nah,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes you pause. “You make it better. Always do.” His hand finds your knee, warm and calloused, and you feel the heat of it through your jeans. “You’re puttin’ your heart into this, and I don’t take that for granted.”
You meet his eyes, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Eddie’s good at that—making everything else fall away. You set the jacket aside, needle still dangling from the thread, and turn to face him. “You’re gettin’ sappy on me,” you tease, but your voice is soft, betraying how much his words mean.
“Only for you.” He grins, but it’s not his usual cocky smirk. It’s softer, real. He leans closer, and you can smell the faint mint of his gum mixed with that familiar cologne. “So, how’s my payment plan lookin’?”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up before you can stop it. “Payment plan, huh? You think you can just bat those eyes and get away with it?”
“Oh, I know I can.” He’s closer now, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers splaying wide. “But I’m a man of my word. You sew my patches, I pay you in kisses. That’s the deal, right?”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “Hmm. I dunno, Munson. This is skilled labor. Might need more than kisses to cover it.”
His eyes glint with mischief. “Oh, I got plenty to offer, sweetheart. Name your price.”
Before you can answer, he’s pulling you out of the chair and onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs. You yelp in surprise, hands landing on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates through you. His hands settle on your hips, firm but gentle, like he’s anchoring you in place. “Eddie!” you protest, but there’s no heat in it. You’re already melting into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.
“What?” he says, all innocence, but his thumbs are tracing slow circles on your hips, and you know he’s anything but innocent. “I’m just settlin’ my debts.” He leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, teasing, not quite a kiss. Your breath catches, and he notices, his grin widening. “You want more, you gotta say so.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of words. Instead, you slide your hands up to his face, fingers tangling in his curls, and pull him to you. His lips meet yours, soft at first, exploratory, like he’s savoring the taste of you. But then you deepen the kiss, and he responds in kind, one hand sliding up your back to press you closer. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but there’s a hunger there, a warmth that spreads through your chest and makes your toes curl.
When you pull back, he chases your lips, stealing one more quick kiss before letting you breathe. His forehead rests against yours, and you’re both smiling, a little breathless, a little dazed. “That cover it?” he murmurs, voice husky.
“For now,” you say, your own voice low, matching his. “But I’m not done with the patch, so you’re not off the hook.”
“Good.” He shifts, pulling you closer so your head tucks under his chin, his arms wrapping around you. “I like bein’ in your debt.”
You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the jacket forgotten on the desk. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. You talk about nothing important—his band’s latest gig, the D&D campaign he’s been obsessing over, the way you almost burned dinner last night. It’s easy, comfortable, the kind of intimacy you didn’t know you could have until him.
Eventually, you slide off his lap, ignoring his playful pout, and pick up the jacket again. “If you want this done before your show tomorrow, I need to focus,” you say, settling back in your chair.
He leans back on the bed, propped on his elbows, watching you with a look that’s equal parts admiration and desire. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”
You smirk, threading the needle again. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head.”
He laughs, and the sound fills the room, bright and unguarded. You work in companionable silence, the needle moving in and out, the patch slowly taking its place among the others. Every so often, you glance at him, and he’s still watching, his eyes soft, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. It makes your heart ache in the best way.
When the patch is finally secure, you hold up the jacket, inspecting your work. The skull grins back at you, perfectly aligned, the stitches tight and even. “Done,” you say, turning to show him.
He sits up, eyes lighting up as he takes it from you. “Holy shit, you’re a wizard.” He runs his fingers over the patch, tracing the stitches, and you can see the pride in his expression—not just for the jacket, but for you. “This is perfect.”
You shrug, trying to play it cool, but his praise warms you from the inside out. “Just don’t rip it up too fast, okay? I’m not made of thread.”
He grins, pulling the jacket on, and damn if he doesn’t look good in it. The patches, old and new, tell his story, and you’re proud to be part of it. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning you with a crook of his finger.
You step closer, and he pulls you into his arms again, kissing you slow and deep, like he’s got all the time in the world. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, his nose brushing yours. “That’s payment number two,” he says. “I’ll owe you a lot more by the time I’m done with this jacket.”
You laugh, resting your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “I’m counting on it, Munson.”
And as he kisses you again, you know you’ll keep sewing his patches, keep weaving yourself into his world, for as long as he’ll let you. Because every stitch, every kiss, is a promise—a thread tying you together, stronger than denim, stronger than anything.
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
previous part
EPILOGUE
August’s heat lingers in Hawkins, the air warm with the scent of cotton candy and popcorn, the Hawkins County Fair a kaleidoscope of lights and laughter spilling across the open field. The sky is a deep indigo, stars peeking through the glow of neon signs and the spinning Ferris wheel, its pastel cabins swaying gently against the horizon. You’re weaving through the crowd, your hand laced with Eddie Munson’s, his fingers warm and steady, his rings cool against your skin, a tether that grounds you in the chaos of barking vendors and shrieking kids. Your denim skirt swishes against your thighs, your loose blouse catching the breeze, and a soft smile curves your lips, your heart light, the weight of the past—Eddie’s betrayal, the months of silence—now a distant memory, dissolved by forgiveness and love. The trailer’s kisses two months ago, the stargazing under the pines, sealed a bond that’s grown stronger, your rogue-and-cleric saga now a shared life, woven through late-night campaigns and quiet moments, a love you’ve named and claimed.
Eddie’s beside you, his leather jacket swapped for a faded Black Sabbath tee, his hair tied back in a loose bun, strands escaping to frame his grin, boyish and radiant as he tugs you toward a game booth, its shelves stacked with plush dragons. “C’mon, cleric,” he says, his voice extra soft, teasing, his shoulder brushing yours, a touch you welcome, warmth seeping through your blouse. “Let’s win you something to guard our campaign table.” His eyes sparkle, and you laugh, the sound bright, your hand squeezing his, the black-and-silver d20 a faint bulge in his pocket, a symbol of the journey from fracture to forever.
“Only if you don’t cheat,” you reply, your voice gentle, leaning into him, your hip grazing his, the contact easy, natural. The fair hums around you—bells ringing, a calliope’s jaunty tune, the sizzle of funnel cakes frying—and you feel at home, not just in Hawkins but with him, the boy who broke your heart and rebuilt it with patience and care. His stand against Tara, his campaign devotion, and those kisses—soft, heated, starlit—have become the foundation of this, a love that feels like a critical hit, a roll you’re glad you made.
At the booth, Eddie tosses a softball, his aim comically off, the ball sailing over the milk bottles, and you nudge his shoulder, your laughter mingling. “Some rogue you are,” you tease, and he grins, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his lips brushing your temple, a fleeting kiss that sends a flutter through you. “Good thing I’ve got my cleric,” he murmurs, his voice low, warm, and you lean into him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the moment a quiet vow in the fair’s chaos.
Robin appears, her band jacket slung over her shoulder, a candy apple in hand, her grin sly as she spots you entwined. “You two are disgustingly perfect,” she says, her voice teasing but fond, her eyes flicking to your joined hands. “Save some romance for the rest of us, yeah?” You blush, your smile shy, and Eddie laughs, his arm tightening around you, his voice playful. “No promises, Buckley.” Robin rolls her eyes, stealing a sip of your lemonade, and rambles about Steve’s failed attempt at the ring toss, her presence a reminder of the friends who’ve cheered this love along, their support a quiet thread in your story.
The crowd thins as you wander toward the Ferris wheel, its lights casting a soft glow across Eddie’s face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the spark in his eyes. You pause, your hand still in his, and he turns, his grin softening, sensing the shift in you. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice extra soft, his thumb tracing your knuckles, a touch that steadies you, the fair’s noise fading to a hum.
“Just… us,” you say, your voice gentle, meeting his gaze, your eyes reflecting the wheel’s colors. “How far we’ve come.” The words carry the weight of the quarry’s confrontation, the trailer’s forgiveness, the kisses that rebuilt you, and he nods, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, a touch you lean into, your heart full.
“Wanna see the stars from up there?” he asks, nodding to the Ferris wheel, and you nod, your smile radiant, your hand squeezing his. The operator waves you into a pink cabin, its seat creaking as you settle, Eddie’s arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, your head resting against his chest, the warmth of him a shield against the night’s breeze. The wheel lifts, the fair shrinking below, the lights a mosaic of color, the stars above clearer, brighter, a mirror of the night you forgave him.
You tilt your head, your lips finding his in a kiss that feels like coming home, soft and sure, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers brushing his hair, the strands soft under your touch. His lips move with yours, a gentle rhythm that deepens, his hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing your jaw, the kiss carrying the fair’s magic, the summer’s warmth, the love you’ve built. You taste the sweetness of lemonade on his breath, the faint salt of his skin, and feel the trailer’s kisses, the stargazing’s passion, all woven into this moment, a promise kept. The wheel pauses at the top, the cabin swaying gently, and you pull back, your forehead against his, your breath mingling, your smile shy but open, your voice extra soft. “I love you,” you whisper, the words a truth you’ve held, now free, your hand on his chest, feeling his heart race.
His eyes widen, a flicker of awe softening into adoration, and he grins, his voice low, warm. “I love you too, sweetheart,” he says, his lips brushing yours again, a fleeting kiss that seals the words, his hand sliding to your waist, holding you close, the stars above a witness. The wheel descends, but you stay there, hands entwined, the fair’s glow wrapping you, the dice in his pocket a symbol of the bond now unbreakable, a love that’s weathered the storm.
Back on the ground, you wander to a quiet corner, a grassy patch by the fair’s edge, the noise softer, the stars brighter. You sit on the grass, Eddie beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, a thermos of coffee between you, its bitter warmth a contrast to the night’s sweetness. Fireflies drift, their glow a nod to the trailer’s night, and you lean into him, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you, a touch that feels like forever. “Think we’ll make it?” you ask, your voice gentle, your fingers lacing with his, the future a canvas of possibilities.
He nods, his grin boyish, his voice warm. “With you? I’d bet all my dice on it.” You laugh, the sound bright, and kiss his cheek, a soft press that sparks a grin, his hand tightening on yours. The fair hums in the distance, the Ferris wheel spinning, the stars above a map of your love, a story written in dice rolls, kisses, and trust, a redemption complete, a future begun.
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
previous part - next part
FIFTEEN : A ROLL FOR FORGIVENESS
June’s balmy embrace settles over Hawkins, the air thick with the scent of blooming clover and warm asphalt, the trailer park bathed in the soft glow of twilight, fireflies flickering like tiny lanterns among the pines. You’re inside Eddie Munson’s trailer, the folding table a battlefield of graph paper, dice, and pizza boxes, their grease stains blooming like inkblots under the golden haze of Christmas lights strung along the walls. The familiar chaos—Metallica posters curling at the corners, a stack of cassettes teetering on a shelf, the faint cedar hum of incense—wraps you in comfort, a haven built through months of rebuilding. The kisses in your bedroom last month—your lips on his cheek sparking the first, your heated press igniting the second—pulse in your chest, a bridge crossed but not fully settled. His stand against Tara, his unwavering care in your weekly D&D campaign, have softened the scars of his betrayal—the months he chose her, the silence that broke you. You’ve held forgiveness at arm’s length, trust a fragile bloom, but tonight, as your campaign reaches its climax, you feel the weight of it shifting, your heart ready to let go.
The campaign, your private rogue-and-cleric saga, has built to this moment: your characters facing the wraith queen in her cursed shrine, a spectral fortress woven with shadows and starlight in Eddie’s vivid narration. You’re perched on a folding chair, your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, your fingers tracing the black-and-silver d20, its weight a tether to the bond you’ve rebuilt, a gift that survived the fracture. Eddie sits across, his Iron Maiden shirt rumpled, his hair loose after he tugged out his ponytail, his grin boyish as he leans forward, elbows on the table, graph paper crinkling. “The shrine pulses,” he narrates, his voice low, theatrical, “the wraith queen’s eyes blaze, her voice a hiss: ‘You dare challenge me?’ Your cleric stands tall—what’s your move?”
You meet his eyes, your smile soft, the campaign a mirror for your journey—truth sought, shadows faced. “I cast Holy Light,” you say, your voice steady, rolling a 17, the die clattering across the table, landing near a pizza crust. Eddie nods, his grin widening, and you add, “My cleric calls to the rogue, ‘Together, we end this.’” The words carry weight, a nod to your real-world alliance, and he leans closer, his knee brushing yours under the table, a touch you welcome, warmth seeping through your jeans.
“The light flares, searing the shadows,” he says, his eyes locked on yours, “but the queen lashes out, tendrils coiling toward your rogue. He’s pinned—cleric, it’s on you.” His voice dips, urgent, and you feel the stakes, the campaign echoing the choice before you: to trust, to forgive, to fight together. You pause, your fingers tightening on the die, and declare, “I use Sacred Bond to shield him, tying our fates.” It’s a rare spell, one you’ve held back, and you roll a 20, the table erupting in your shared cheer, your hands brushing as you high-five, his fingers lingering, a spark shooting through you.
“The bond glows, a golden thread,” Eddie narrates, his voice soft, almost reverent, “the tendrils shatter, the queen screams, her form unraveling. One final strike—what do you do?” His eyes hold yours, a question beyond the game, and you lean forward, your shoulder grazing his, your voice gentle but firm. “We strike together,” you say, rolling the d20 again, an 18, and he mirrors you, his rogue’s dagger flashing in the story, the queen’s defeat sealed in a burst of starlight.
The campaign ends, the shrine fading, your characters victorious, camping under a fictional sky. The trailer falls quiet, the pizza cold, the Coke cans empty, the air heavy with what’s next. You look at Eddie, his grin fading into vulnerability, his hands fidgeting, the dice a glint in his pocket, and feel the past dissolve—the hurt, the silence, the months apart. “Eddie,” you say, your voice extra soft, standing to move around the table, sitting beside him, your knee pressing against his, a touch you initiate. “I forgive you.”
The words are a release, a roll that lands true, and his eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief softening into awe. “You mean that?” he asks, his voice low, trembling, his hand hovering near yours, waiting for permission, his rings catching the light. You nod, your smile radiant, and take his hand, your fingers curling over his, the warmth grounding you. “I do,” you say, your voice gentle, “you’ve shown me, every week, every game. I trust you now.”
He exhales, his grin blooming, and leans closer, his shoulder against yours, a touch you welcome, the air humming with relief and possibility. “I don’t deserve it,” he murmurs, his voice soft, “but I’ll spend every day making sure I do, sweetheart.” His thumb traces your knuckles, a slow, tender motion, and you feel the bridge complete, the campaign’s victory mirrored in this moment.
The tension shifts, forgiveness a spark that ignites something deeper, and you lean in, your heart leading, your lips finding his in a kiss that seals the night. This kiss is soft but profound, a gentle press that carries the weight of your trust, your lips parting slightly to taste the faint salt of pizza on his breath, the warmth of his mouth a vow fulfilled. His hand rises to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, steady and warm, his fingers threading into your hair, the strands slipping through his rings, cool against your scalp. You press closer, your hand sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken through his shirt, your knee brushing his, the trailer’s glow wrapping you in its embrace. The kiss deepens, a slow dance of lips and breath, your fingers curling into his shirt, anchoring you as the moment stretches, each second weaving the months of hurt into something new. His lips move with yours, soft but insistent, a quiet rhythm that speaks of apologies and promises, the Christmas lights casting golden flecks across your closed eyelids. You taste the warmth of him, the trailer’s cedar scent mingling with his Old Spice, and feel the campaign’s victory, the quarry’s stars, the bedroom’s kisses—all converging here, a homecoming in his touch.
You pull back gently, your lips tingling, your breath uneven, your hand still on his chest, his on your cheek, a connection unbroken. “Eddie,” you whisper, your voice extra soft, your eyes meeting his, shimmering with the light’s reflection, your smile shy but open. “We’re okay now.” He nods, his grin tender, his thumb tracing your cheek, but the air hums, a hunger lingering, the months apart a void you both feel.
The spark reignites, and you lean in again, your heart surging, your lips crashing into his with a heated urgency, a kiss that burns to reclaim the lost time. This kiss is fierce, your lips parting wider, tasting him deeply, the salt sharper, his breath quickening, a soft groan escaping his throat. Your hands slide to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging with a gentle insistence, pulling him closer, your chest pressing against his, the quilt bunching beneath you. His hands find your waist, gripping with a quiet intensity, his fingers warm through your sweater, drawing you nearer, the contact electric. The kiss is a storm—lips moving faster, breaths ragged, hearts pounding—a reclaiming of every missed moment, every silenced laugh, yet it’s softened by your trust, your fingers brushing his jaw, his thumb tracing your hip. You feel the trailer fade, the world narrowing to this heat, this want, and when you ease back, your lips hover, your breath mingling, your eyes locked, a shared longing that leaves you both wanting more. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky, his grin wide, “you’re gonna kill me.” You laugh, a soft, breathless sound, your forehead against his, your fingers still in his hair, the moment a vow to keep exploring this love.
You sit there, hands entwined, knees pressed, the campaign notes scattered, the Christmas lights glowing, the dice in his pocket a symbol of the bond you’ve rebuilt, now ablaze with love. You’re not just forgiving him—you’re starting anew, the kisses a bridge to a future you’re ready to write.
Later, you step outside, the trailer park hushed, the air cool against your flushed skin, the stars a glittering canopy above the pines, their light weaving a tapestry across the velvet sky. You spread a worn blanket over the damp grass by the trailer’s steps, the fabric soft but warm beneath you, and settle beside Eddie, his shoulder brushing yours, a thermos of hot chocolate between you, its rich cocoa scent curling upward, mingling with the pine’s sharp tang. Fireflies drift, their golden pulses mirroring the campaign’s starlight, and you tilt your head, your hair catching the breeze, your sweater slipping further, the night air kissing your bare shoulder. The kisses in the trailer—soft, then fierce—linger like a heartbeat, their heat a promise, and you glance at Eddie, his profile soft in the moonlight, his grin boyish as he points to a constellation, his voice low. “That’s Cassiopeia,” he says, his finger tracing the stars, “like our cleric, shining through the dark.”
You smile, your voice extra soft, leaning closer, your knee pressing against his. “You’re such a nerd,” you tease, and he laughs, the sound warm, his eyes meeting yours, sparkling with the same fire you felt inside. “Your nerd,” he murmurs, his hand finding yours, fingers lacing, the warmth grounding you, the dice in his pocket a quiet vow. The air shifts, the night’s quiet amplifying your closeness, and he turns to you, his gaze tender, a question in the way his thumb brushes your hand. “Wanna lie down?” he asks, his voice gentle, careful, and you nod, your smile shy but open, your heart ready for this moment.
He shifts, guiding you gently, his hands steady as he lays you down on the blanket, the grass cushioning beneath, its cool dampness seeping through the fabric, grounding you in the earth’s embrace. He lies beside you, propped on one elbow, his hair falling over his shoulder, framing his face, the starlight catching his eyes, a mirror of the sky above. You reach for him, your fingers brushing his cheek, and he leans in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels like the stars themselves are singing. This kiss is tender yet passionate, a soft press that deepens quickly, your lips parting to taste the cocoa on his breath, the warmth of his mouth a spark that reignites the trailer’s fire. His hand slides to your waist, fingers splaying gently, pulling you closer, his touch warm through your sweater, while your hands tangle in his hair, tugging softly, the strands cool and silky under your fingers. The kiss grows hungrier, lips moving with a quiet urgency, breaths quickening, your chest brushing his, the blanket crinkling beneath you. You feel the night dissolve, the stars, the fireflies, the pines—all fading into this moment, his thumb tracing your hip, your fingers grazing his jaw, a dance of want and trust. You pull back, your lips tingling, your breath ragged, your eyes locked, a shared smile blooming, the kiss leaving you both anchored in this new beginning.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice low, warm, his forehead resting against yours, “you’re my whole sky.” You laugh, a soft, breathless sound, your hand slipping to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, your voice extra soft. “And you’re mine, dungeon master.” You lie there, hands entwined, the stars above a map of your future, the fireflies dancing, the hot chocolate cooling, forgotten, as you hold each other, the kisses a vow to write this story together.
The trouble started small, a crack you didn’t notice until it split wide open. It was a Friday, six weeks since the cowboy hat sparked everything, and you were at Seung-Hyun’s loft, sprawled on his couch with a glass of wine he’d poured from a bottle too expensive for casual drinking. He was across the room, hunched over a sketchpad, scribbling ideas for some project—music, art, you weren’t sure anymore; his mind was always spinning three steps ahead.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, a text from a friend you hadn’t seen in weeks: Drinks tonight? Missed you. You hesitated, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lately, it’d been all him—nights here, dinners out, the cabin, the exhibit. Your world had shrunk to fit his orbit, and it hit you then, sharp and sudden: you hadn’t seen your people in too long.
“Gonna head out for a bit,” you said, casual, standing to grab your jacket. “Catch up with some friends.”
He didn’t look up right away—just kept sketching, the pencil scratching louder in the quiet. “Yeah?” he said finally, tone flat, like he was tasting the words. “Which ones?”
You zipped up, shrugging. “Just the usual crew. Haven’t seen them since... well, you.”
He set the pencil down, leaning back in his chair, eyes locking on you now—dark, unreadable. “Since me,” he echoed, and there was an edge there, not sharp enough to cut but enough to feel. “Been keeping you busy, huh?”
You laughed, trying to keep it light. “Something like that. Don’t wait up, okay?”
But he stood, crossing the room in that slow, deliberate way of his, hands in his pockets. “You’re taking the hat?” he asked, nodding at it on the hook—your hook now, a spot he’d cleared weeks ago.
“Nah,” you said, brushing it off. “Not tonight.”
He stopped a foot away, head tilted, and the air shifted—thicker, heavier. “What’s going on?” he asked, voice low, direct. “You’ve been off all week.”
You froze, caught off guard. He wasn’t wrong—you’d felt it too, a restlessness you couldn’t pin down, like the walls of this thing you’d built were closing in just a little. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, but it sounded weak even to you. “Just need a night out. That a problem?”
His jaw tightened, just a flicker, but you saw it. “Not a problem,” he said, stepping closer, close enough you could smell the faint smoke on him from earlier. “Just don’t bullshit me. If you’re pulling back, say it.”
“I’m not pulling back,” you snapped, sharper than you meant, and there it was—the crack widening. “I just need some space, Seung-hyun. It’s been you and me nonstop. I’m losing track of everything else.”
He stared at you, eyes narrowing like he was peeling you apart layer by layer. “Space,” he repeated, slow, tasting it. “Funny. Thought we were past that.”
“Past what?” you shot back, arms crossing. “We’re not glued together. I can have a night without you.”
“Yeah, you can,” he said, voice dropping, cold now. “But this isn’t about a night. You’re running scared, and I’m not chasing you down.”
That stung—harder than it should’ve. “I’m not running,” you said, but your voice cracked, betraying you. “I just... I don’t know what this is anymore. It’s too much, too fast.”
He laughed then, short and bitter, turning away to grab his beer off the table. “Too much,” he muttered, taking a swig. “You stole my hat, moved into my life, and now it’s too much. Make up your mind.”
Anger flared, hot and quick. “Don’t put this on me. You’re the one who kept pushing—dragging me to the cabin, the dinners, all of it. I didn’t ask for a whole damn world takeover.”
He set the bottle down hard, the clink echoing. “Didn’t hear you complaining,” he said, stepping back into your space, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted this as much as I did. Don’t play like you didn’t.”
“I did,” you admitted, quieter now, the fight draining out of you. “But I’m drowning in it, okay? I need a second to breathe.”
He went still, eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, you thought he’d push harder—force the argument into something uglier. But he just nodded, sharp and final, stepping back. “Take your second then,” he said, turning to the sketchpad, picking up the pencil like you weren’t there. “Door’s open.”
You stood there, chest tight, wanting to fix it but not knowing how. The hat stared at you from the hook, a silent question, and you grabbed your bag instead, walking out without another word. The door clicked shut behind you, softer than it should’ve, and the street outside felt too big, too empty.
He didn’t call that night. You didn’t either. Drinks with friends were loud, forced—your laugh didn’t fit right, and every glance at your phone came up blank. By midnight, you were back home, staring at the ceiling, the hat still at his place like a piece of you left behind.
Morning came, gray and heavy, and your phone buzzed once—a text, short, from him: Hat’s here when you want it. No apology, no plea, just him—stubborn, steady, waiting.
The challenge was real now: you’d built something unshakable, but it’d grown faster than either of you could handle. Space was one thing; walking away was another. And as you stared at that text, you knew the next move was yours—back to him, or out for good.
The text sat unanswered on your phone all morning, a stubborn little weight. No groveling, no anger—just Seung-Hyun, leaving the door cracked open, waiting for you to walk through or slam it shut. You paced your apartment, coffee cold in your hand, replaying the fight—the bite in his voice, the way you’d stormed out, the empty space that followed. It gnawed at you, not because it was over, but because it wasn’t. Not really.
By noon, you couldn’t stand it anymore. You grabbed your jacket—not his, this time—and headed to his loft, no plan, just a need to see this through. The ride over was a blur, your pulse kicking harder with every block, and when you buzzed up, his voice crackled through the intercom, flat but not surprised: “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” you said, and the door clicked open without another word.
He was on the couch when you walked in, sketchpad abandoned on the coffee table, a beer in his hand despite the hour. The cowboy hat hung on the hook, untouched, and he didn’t stand—just looked at you, eyes dark and steady, like he’d been expecting this. “Back for the hat?” he asked, voice low, testing.
“No,” you said, shutting the door behind you, staying where you were. “Back for you.”
That got a reaction—a flicker in his jaw, a tightening of his grip on the bottle. He set it down slow, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Thought you needed space,” he said, not sharp this time, just quiet, peeling back the layers.
“I did,” you admitted, stepping closer, arms crossed like armor. “Still do, maybe. But I don’t need it without you.”
He exhaled, a short, rough sound, running a hand through his hair. “You’re a mess, you know that?” But there was no heat in it—just a crack of a smile, the first sign he wasn’t shutting you out.
“Says the guy drinking at noon,” you shot back, and that broke it—he laughed, soft and real, shaking his head.
“Fair.” He stood then, crossing the room, stopping just shy of you. Up close, he looked tired—shadows under his eyes, tension in his shoulders—but he was there, solid, not running either. “So what’s this, then? You’re here, but you’re still halfway out the door. Talk to me.”
You swallowed, the words tangling before they came loose. “I got scared,” you said, voice steadying as you went. “It’s been six weeks, and I’m in so deep I can’t see straight. I needed a night to remember who I was before you, but it didn’t work—it just felt wrong without you in it.”
He didn’t move, just listened, eyes locked on yours, taking it in. “And me?” he asked, quieter now. “You think I’m not in deep? You think I let just anyone crash my life like this?”
“No,” you said, softer. “But you’re you—Choi Seung-hyun, big shot, untouchable. I’m just... me. I didn’t know how to keep up.”
He stepped closer then, close enough you could feel the warmth off him, his hand lifting to brush your cheek, thumb lingering. “You don’t have to keep up,” he said, voice low, firm. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re the one who stole my damn hat, turned my world sideways. I don’t want you to be anyone else.”
Your chest tightened, the fight draining out of you. “I don’t want space from you,” you said, reaching for him, fingers curling into his shirt. “I just need room to breathe with you. Not all or nothing.”
He nodded, slow, like he was piecing it together. “Okay,” he said, hand sliding to your neck, pulling you in. “We figure that out. Together. No running.”
“No running,” you agreed, and then he kissed you—not desperate, not angry, just steady, like sealing a pact. You melted into it, hands fisting in his shirt, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling.
“I’m not good at this,” he muttered, half a confession. “Letting someone in. But I’m trying. For you.”
“Me too,” you said, and that was it—the crack mended, not perfect but stronger for it. He tugged you to the couch, pulling you down beside him, arm around your shoulders like it belonged there. The hat stayed on the hook, a quiet witness, and you talked—really talked—about boundaries, about balance, about how to make this work without losing yourselves.
Later, he cooked—terrible eggs again, but you ate them anyway, laughing when he cursed the stove. Night fell, and you stayed, curled up with him, the sketchpad back in his hands as he doodled something absently, your head on his shoulder. It wasn’t fixed in a flash—it was a start, a promise to bend without breaking.
“Something else” didn’t shatter; it flexed, adapted, grew. The hat stayed on the hook, and you stayed with him, both of you finding the edges of this thing and making them fit.
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
previous part - next part
FOURTEEN : A KISS THAT LINGERS
May’s warmth envelops Hawkins, the air rich with honeysuckle and the crisp scent of freshly mowed grass, your bedroom window open to a breeze that stirs the cotton curtains, their soft dance catching the late afternoon light. You’re sprawled on your bed, the quilt a patchwork of faded blues and greens, a D&D campaign binder open in your lap, its pages crinkled from weeks of planning. Posters of Joan Jett and The Clash line your walls, a corkboard pinned with Polaroids—one of you and Eddie Munson at the arcade, grinning over a claw machine prize—glinting in the sunlight. The quarry moment last week lingers in your chest, your confession to Robin about more-than-friend feelings, the way Eddie’s hand curled over yours under the starlit cliffs, his thumb tracing your knuckles. His stand against Tara, his care in your weekly campaign, have woven a delicate bridge, softening the pain of his betrayal—the months he chose her, the silence that fractured you. You’re not ready to forgive him fully, trust a tender shoot, but you’re open, your heart softer, pulled by his warmth and the rogue-and-cleric bond that feels like home, now laced with a love you’re starting to embrace.
Eddie’s due for a campaign planning session, the two of you plotting the next chapter of your rogue and cleric’s quest, the wraith queen’s defeat on the horizon. His van’s rumble announces his arrival, the familiar growl of its engine sending a flutter through you, a smile tugging at your lips as you smooth your hair, your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, the cotton cool against your skin. You pad downstairs, your socks muffling your steps on the hardwood, and open the door to find Eddie, his leather jacket open, his Dio shirt wrinkled, his hair a loose cascade framing his grin, warm and boyish, his eyes sparkling as they meet yours.
“Hey, cleric,” he says, his voice soft, stepping inside, his boots scuffing the entryway rug, the black-and-silver d20 a faint bulge in his pocket, a quiet symbol of your bond. “Ready to slay some wraiths?” He holds up a spiral notebook, its cover doodled with dragons, and you laugh, the sound light, your heart lifting at his presence.
“Hey, dungeon master,” you reply, your voice teasing, extra gentle, leading him upstairs, your shoulder brushing his as you climb, the contact warm, welcomed. “Don’t think you’re killing my cleric yet.” His chuckle follows, a low hum that wraps around you, the air charged with the ease you’ve rebuilt, now tinged with something deeper.
In your room, you settle on the bed, cross-legged, the binder between you, while Eddie sprawls beside you, propped on one elbow, his notebook open, his pen tapping a rhythm on the page. The breeze carries jasmine’s sweetness through the window, mingling with the faint Old Spice on his skin, and you lean closer, your knee grazing his, a touch you don’t shy from, your heart fluttering at the closeness. “So,” you say, your voice soft, pointing to a sketch of the shrine, “after the wraith queen, what’s next? A dragon hoard?”
He grins, his eyes locking on yours, his pen pausing. “Maybe,” he says, his voice low, playful, “but I’m thinking a cursed mirror, one that shows your deepest fear. Your cleric’s gotta face it, with my rogue right beside her.” His shoulder presses against yours, a deliberate touch you allow, the warmth seeping through your sweater, and you nod, your smile mirroring his, the campaign a mirror for the fears you’re both navigating.
You spend an hour plotting, your voices weaving traps and treasures, your laughter spilling as he mimics a wraith’s hiss, his hands flailing dramatically. The binder fills with notes—your cleric’s spells, his rogue’s stealth rolls—and the past and present blur, the boy who hurt you now the one who makes your heart race. The sun dips, painting the room in amber, and your hands brush as you reach for the same pencil, the contact lingering, his fingers curling slightly, a question you answer with a soft smile, letting his hand stay.
The air grows quieter, the campaign fading as you close the binder, setting it on the nightstand, the room humming with a tension building since the quarry. You shift, facing him, your knees touching, the quilt soft beneath you, and he sits up, his eyes searching yours, his grin fading into tenderness, vulnerability. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, extra soft, his hand resting near yours, not taking it but close, waiting for your lead.
Your breath catches, your cheeks flushing, and you feel a pull, the spark Robin hinted at now a flame. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur, your voice gentle, your eyes holding his, the space between you shrinking. Without thinking, you lean forward, your heart pounding, and press a kiss to his cheek, the gesture impulsive, warm, your lips brushing his skin, soft and faintly stubbled, his scent grounding you.
He turns, his movement slow, deliberate, his eyes wide with surprise softening into longing, and his lips find yours, a gentle meeting that feels like a dice roll landing true. The kiss is soft, tentative, his hand rising to cup your face, his thumb tracing your jaw, the touch light but steady, a warmth spreading through you. You melt into it, your hand on his chest, feeling his heart’s rapid beat through his shirt, the quilt crinkling as you shift closer, your knees pressing against his, the world narrowing to this moment.
The kiss deepens, his lips moving with yours, a quiet dance of warmth and want, his fingers threading into your hair, the strands slipping through his rings, cool against your scalp. You taste the faint mint of his gum, the softness of his breath, and feel the trailer nights, the quarry talks, the campaign laughter—all woven into this touch, a promise he’s keeping. Your hand slides to his shoulder, gripping the fabric, anchoring you as the kiss lingers, each second a step toward something new.
You hesitate, not harshly but gently, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips tingling, your breath uneven, your hand still on his shoulder, a connection you don’t break. “Eddie,” you whisper, your voice soft, trembling, “I… I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” It’s honest, extra gentle, a confession wrapped in warmth, your eyes searching his, your heart open but cautious.
He nods, his grin small, understanding, his hand sliding from your face to your knee, a touch you allow, his thumb tracing a slow circle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, tender, echoing your quarry words. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. We go at your pace, always.” His eyes hold yours, a vow in their warmth, and you smile, your fingers squeezing his shoulder, a silent thank you.
His words settle, his patience a spark that ignites a surge of courage, a flame fanned by the warmth of his touch. You lean in again, your heart leading, and kiss him, your lips crashing into his with a heat that surprises you, a hungry edge tempered by tenderness. This kiss is yours, a choice to dive deeper, your lips pressing harder, parting slightly to taste him, the mint sharper now, his breath quickening against your mouth. Your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging gently, the strands soft and warm, pulling him closer. His hand tightens on your knee, fingers gripping with a quiet urgency, his other hand finding your waist, resting lightly, a question you answer by shifting closer, your chest brushing his, the quilt bunching beneath you. The kiss burns, a brief flare of passion—lips moving faster, breaths mingling, hearts racing—yet it’s soft at its core, your foreheads pressing together as you ease back, your lips hovering, your breath ragged, your smile shy but radiant. “Eddie,” you whisper, your voice extra soft, a tremor of awe, your fingers still in his hair, the moment a bridge you’re crossing together.
He exhales, his grin wide, his eyes bright with a mix of surprise and adoration. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low, warm, his thumb tracing your waist, a gentle anchor. “You’re… wow.” You laugh, a soft sound, your hand slipping to his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow, the connection unbroken as you sit there, knees pressed, hands touching, the breeze stirring the curtains, the room aglow with fading light. The binder lies forgotten, the Polaroid a witness, the dice in his pocket a symbol of the bond you’re rebuilding, now laced with love. You’re not forgiving him fully, but you’re closer, these kisses a bridge, your hesitation a pause, not a wall.
That night, you find yourself at the diner, the neon sign casting a pink and blue glow across your booth, its vinyl seat creaking as you settle in, the jukebox humming “Dancing in the Dark,” Springsteen’s voice a quiet ache threading through the air. The diner smells of coffee and fryer grease, the counter lined with truckers nursing mugs, their murmurs blending with the clink of dishes. You order a strawberry milkshake, the glass cold against your fingers, its pink foam swirling as you sip, the sweetness a counterpoint to the warmth in your chest, the kisses replaying—Eddie’s lips on yours, your spark igniting the second, the way his thumb steadied you.
You trace the glass’s rim, your sweater sleeve slipping, your smile small but radiant, the memory of his touch—cheek, lips, knee—a spark that lingers. The diner’s hum feels alive, a cocoon for your thoughts, and you glance at the window, the stars beyond a mirror of the quarry’s sky. Robin slides into the booth across from you, her band jacket slung over her shoulder, her grin sly as she steals a sip of your shake. “You’re glowing,” she says, her voice teasing but soft, her eyes narrowing. “Spill—what’s got you all dreamy?”
You blush, your fingers fidgeting with the straw, your voice extra gentle. “Just… a moment with Eddie,” you admit, your smile shy, the kisses a secret you’re not ready to share fully. “It’s new, scary, but… good.” Robin’s grin widens, nodding approvingly, and she launches into a story about Steve’s latest arcade fail, giving you space to savor the moment, the milkshake’s cold grounding you.
The waitress, a familiar face with a teased perm, refills your water, her smile warm. “You look happy, kid,” she says, and you nod, your smile growing, her warmth echoing the diner’s embrace. You’re not thanking her directly, but you feel the community’s quiet pulse, the diner a haven for this shift. You’re not ready to name this love, not yet, but it’s a heat, a roll you’re warming to, Eddie’s patience a promise. The stars outside wink, and you lean back, your heart whispering what your lips have already begun to say.
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
MASTERLIST
previous part - next part
THIRTEEN : A SPARK BEYOND FRIENDSHIP
You’re perched on a low stone wall, your sneakers swinging, a half-eaten apple in your hand, its crisp sweetness lingering on your tongue. The sun warms your shoulders through your oversized sweater, its soft cotton brushing your skin, a comfort against the flutter in your chest. The sleepover in Eddie Munson’s trailer last month hums in your thoughts—his whispered “I miss you,” your quiet “I know,” the way your fingers traced his jaw, a gesture that cracked a door open. His stand against Tara, his care in your D&D campaign, have softened the scars of his betrayal—the months he chose her, the silence that left you hollow. You’re not ready to forgive him fully, trust a fragile thread, but you’re gentler, your smiles brighter, drawn by his persistence and the pull of your rogue-and-cleric bond, a history of shared campaigns and late-night laughter that pulses beneath every glance.
Eddie’s across the courtyard, leaning against an oak with Hellfire Club, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, his hair a wild cascade catching the light as he gestures animatedly, likely spinning a tale of a dragon’s hoard. His eyes find yours, a grin blooming, warm and unguarded, and he waves, a small gesture that sparks a flutter in your chest. You wave back, your smile soft, and he breaks away, weaving through the crowd to join you, his boots scuffing the grass, his Black Sabbath shirt clinging to his frame. “Hey, cleric,” he says, his voice warm, settling beside you on the wall, close enough that his knee brushes yours, a deliberate touch you don’t shy from. His rings glint as his hand rests near yours, the contact light but electric, and you let it linger, a quiet sign of the trust you’re rebuilding.
“Hey, dungeon master,” you reply, your voice teasing, softer than the quarry’s cold defiance months ago. You offer him a bite of your apple, your fingers grazing his as he takes it, his grin widening, the moment small but heavy with meaning. “Planning to throw a dragon at me this weekend?” you ask, nudging his shoulder, the warmth of his arm seeping through his shirt, and he laughs, the sound bright, filling the air.
“Gotta keep you on your toes,” he says, leaning closer, his shoulder pressing against yours, another touch you allow, your heart skipping at the ease of it. “But my rogue’s got your back, always.” His eyes sparkle, and the air hums with a tension beyond friendship, a spark you’re not ready to name but can’t ignore.
Robin Buckley interrupts, plopping onto the wall beside you, her band folder thumping against the stone, her freckled face alight with curiosity. “Okay, you two are basically a rom-com,” she says, her grin sly but kind, her eyes flicking between you, noting the closeness, the way Eddie’s hand hovers near yours. “What’s the vibe here? Just buddies, or… something else brewing?” Her tone is playful, but her gaze sharpens, a subtle mission to probe your heart without pushing too hard.
You blush, your cheeks warming, and glance at Eddie, who’s suddenly fascinated by a leaf, his ears pink. “Friends,” you say, your voice soft, hesitant, but the word feels too small, a half-truth you’re grappling with. Robin tilts her head, her grin hinting she sees more, and Eddie mumbles about Hellfire prep, his hand brushing your shoulder as he stands, a lingering touch that sends a shiver through you. “See you at the trailer, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low, and you nod, your smile real, letting the nickname wrap around you like a promise.
Robin waits until he’s gone, then leans in, her voice quieter, her grin softening. “Alright, talk to me,” she says, her eyes searching yours. “You’re all glowy with him—apple sharing, those little touches, the way you look at him like he’s the only guy in Hawkins. What’s going on in there?” Her hand gestures to your chest, her tone gentle, inviting you to unravel the tangle of your heart.
You sigh, setting the apple core on the wall, your fingers fidgeting with your sweater’s hem, the cotton soft against your skin. The courtyard’s chatter fades, the world narrowing to this moment, Robin’s patience a safe harbor. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, raw and honest. “When he’s around, it’s… different. More than friends, maybe, when he laughs or sits close, like in the trailer. It’s like before, but bigger, like my heart’s trying to tell me something.” You pause, your eyes on the grass, the memory of his shoulder against yours warming you. “But he hurt me, Robin. He chose Tara, and I’m scared to trust him with that kind of feeling, not yet.”
Robin nods, her grin fading into understanding, her hand resting on your arm, steady and warm. “That’s fair,” she says, her voice soft. “You’re allowed to feel both—wanting him and needing time. But, you know, he’s different now, the way he looks at you, like you’re his whole campaign.” She pauses, her grin turning sly, a hint without spilling secrets. “Just saying, he’s not out here brushing shoulders with anyone else. Maybe he’s feeling something big too.”
Your breath catches, her words a spark that lights a flush across your cheeks, and you swallow, the idea of Eddie’s feelings—unspoken but hinted—stirring hope and caution. “You think so?” you ask, your voice shy, your fingers twisting the hem tighter, the possibility a dice roll you’re not ready to make but can’t dismiss.
“Call it a hunch,” Robin says, winking, her tone light but deliberate, her mission to nudge without revealing too much complete. She shifts to ramble about a band prank, giving you space to process, the seed of Eddie’s feelings planted subtly, leaving you to wonder.
Saturday’s campaign unfolds in the trailer, the Christmas lights casting a golden haze, the table a chaos of dice, graph paper, and empty Coke cans, the air thick with cedar incense and pizza grease. Your rogue and cleric face a wraith queen guarding the cursed shrine, the forest in Eddie’s narration alive with mist and whispers. “The queen rises, her eyes twin flames,” he says, his voice low, theatrical, leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his hair falling into his eyes. “She hisses, ‘What do you seek, mortals?’ Your cleric steps forward—what’s your move?”
You pause, the black-and-silver d20 in your hand, its weight familiar, a gift that binds you even now. “Truth,” you say, your voice soft, meeting his eyes, a nod to your journey, the honesty you’re both seeking. You roll an 18, the die skittering across the table, landing near a crumpled napkin, and Eddie grins, his hand brushing yours as he adjusts the DM screen, the touch intentional, welcomed. “The wraith falters, her flames dimming,” he narrates, his voice warm, “but she summons shadow tendrils, lashing at your rogue. What’s the cleric do?”
You lean in, your shoulder grazing his, the contact a quiet thrill, and declare, “I cast Turn Undead,” rolling a 15, the table alive with your shared excitement. “The tendrils recoil, the queen shrieks,” Eddie says, clapping, his grin wide, his fingers grazing your wrist as he passes a pencil, another touch you allow, your smile mirroring his. The session ends with the queen weakened, your characters poised for the final strike, and you linger, your banter flirty, your laughter spilling like sunlight, the air electric with a tension that feels like love you’re not ready to name.
By Friday, the spark Robin hinted at burns brighter, and you’re drawn to the quarry, its jagged cliffs softened by the deepening dusk, the water below a shimmering canvas of gold, indigo, and rose, rippling gently in the evening breeze. You park your car, the gravel crunching under your tires, and climb onto the hood, the metal cool through your jeans, the air carrying the mineral tang of stone and the faint sweetness of wildflowers tucked among the rocks. The quarry holds your history—the raw confrontation months ago, the tears you shed, the black-and-silver dice Eddie kept when he discarded so much else—and now it’s a sanctuary, a place to untangle the feelings you confessed to Robin, the more-than-friend pull that tugs at your heart.
You sit cross-legged, your hands tracing the hood’s chipped paint, its flaking edges rough under your fingertips, your sweater slipping off one shoulder as the breeze brushes your skin. The sky shifts, stars pricking through the twilight, their light dancing on the water, and you close your eyes, letting the quarry’s quiet seep into you. Memories flood—Eddie’s voice in the trailer, his shoulder against yours, the way his hand brushed yours during the campaign, each touch a thread in the bridge you’re building. The admission to Robin feels heavier here, the idea that you might love him, not just as a friend, a weight both thrilling and terrifying, a roll you’re not sure you’re ready to make.
The rumble of Eddie’s van breaks the silence, its headlights slicing through the dusk, the engine’s growl softening as he parks beside you, the gravel shifting under its weight. He steps out, his leather jacket open, his hair loose and tousled by the wind, his grin hesitant but warm, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he sees you. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says, his voice soft, climbing onto the hood beside you, his thigh brushing yours, a deliberate touch you don’t pull away from. His boots dangle, scuffing the bumper, and the dice, a faint bulge in his pocket, catch the starlight, a quiet vow of the bond you’re rebuilding.
“Needed to think,” you say, your voice gentle, meeting his gaze, your hazel eyes reflecting the water’s glow, your smile open, vulnerable. “About us.” The words are a confession, heavier than the campaign’s “truth,” and the air shifts, charged with a possibility that makes your pulse quicken.
Eddie’s grin softens, his eyes searching yours, and he leans closer, his shoulder pressing against yours, a warmth that grounds you in the cool evening. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper, “I’ve been thinking about us too, sweetheart.” His fingers brush yours, resting on the hood, a tentative touch that sends sparks across your skin, and you let it linger, your thumb grazing his knuckles, the metal of his ring cool against your palm. “What’s on your mind?” he asks, his tone gentle, inviting, his head tilting, hair falling over his shoulder, framing his face in the dusk.
You swallow, your heart a drumbeat, and shift closer, your knee brushing his, the contact steadying you. “I don’t know where we’re going,” you admit, your voice soft, raw, the words spilling like water over the quarry’s edge. “You hurt me, Eddie, and part of me’s still scared you’ll do it again. But when you’re here, like this, it feels… right. More than it used to, more than just friends.” Your voice drops, vulnerable, and you look at him, his eyes wide, holding yours, a spark mirroring the one Robin hinted at.
He exhales, his grin fading into something deeper, a quiet awe that makes your chest ache. “I feel it too,” he says, his voice raw, his hand shifting to rest over yours, fingers curling gently, a touch you allow, letting his warmth seep into you. “You’re my cleric, my best friend, but it’s bigger now, and I’m terrified of messing it up. I’m here, though, for every step, as long as you’ll let me.” His thumb traces your knuckles, a slow, deliberate motion, and you lean into his shoulder, the contact a silent answer, your heart whispering what you’re starting to believe.
The quarry hums around you, the breeze carrying the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a night bird, the water’s soft lap against the rocks below. You sit there, hands entwined, shoulders pressed, the stars a constellation of possibility above. The silence stretches, comfortable, charged, and you tilt your head, resting it briefly against his arm, a gesture that feels like a promise. “We’ll figure it out,” you say, your voice barely audible, a vow as much to yourself as to him, and he nods, his grip tightening slightly, his grin returning, soft and hopeful.
You stay until the sky darkens fully, the quarry a cradle for this moment, its history rewritten with touches and words that point to a future you’re starting to want. You’re not forgiving him fully, but you’re close, his presence a bridge, your confession a spark, guiding you toward something new.
hihi! i just read all the parts to roll for redemption and OMGG i ate it up it's so good so far but if you're still adding to the taglist could i be added? i don't know if you like have a link or something for that i didn't see or something so sorry if you do but anyway it's okay if not! sorry i just started rambling but anyways have a good day/night!
I am a mess catching up with messages I am so sorry ! You will be added to the remaining chapters love <3
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
MASTERLIST
previous part - next part
TWELVE : A WHISPER OF TRUST
March weaves a tentative warmth through Hawkins, the frost retreating into muddy fields, the air alive with the scent of damp earth and budding pines. The trailer park lies hushed under a star-scattered sky, its gravel paths glinting faintly in the moonlight as you sit cross-legged on the floor of Eddie Munson’s trailer, the folding table before you a battlefield of graph paper, character sheets, and a pizza box, its edges curling with grease. Christmas lights drape the walls, their golden glow softening the chaos—Metallica posters peeling at the corners, a stack of cassettes teetering on a shelf, a battered acoustic guitar leaning against a chair, its strings catching the light. The faint hum of incense, cedar and patchouli, mingles with the pepperoni’s tang, wrapping you in a cocoon of familiarity. Your private D&D campaign, a weekly sanctuary since January, has become a fragile bridge, its warmth threading through the pain of Eddie’s betrayal—Tara’s venom, his months of silence, the way he let her dim you. His efforts—red M&Ms left at the record store, notes slipped into your locker, his fierce stand against Tara in the parking lot—have softened your heart, though trust remains a distant roll. You’re kinder now, your laughter freer, drawn by his relentless care and the nostalgia of your rogue-and-cleric days, when you’d conquer imaginary realms in Wayne’s trailer, your voices echoing with joy.
Tonight’s campaign has stretched deep into the night, the clock’s neon digits glowing 12:47 AM, your rogue and cleric forging through a haunted forest where spectral wolves guard a cursed shrine. The table is a tapestry of dice—red, blue, and the black-and-silver d20 you gave Eddie for his birthday, its numbers winking in the light, a silent symbol of the bond you’re rebuilding. Eddie’s sprawled across from you, his Iron Maiden shirt rumpled, his hair loose after he yanked out his ponytail in mock frustration when you dodged his latest trap. “You’re too damn clever,” he says, grinning, his voice warm as he leans forward, his elbows on the table, graph paper crinkling under his weight. “That bridge was supposed to drop you into a pit of shadow vipers.”
You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, the soft cotton brushing your skin. “Should’ve known I’d see it coming,” you tease, your voice light, a flicker of the banter you once shared in Hellfire Club, before Tara’s shadow fell. You’d spotted the trap—a rickety bridge over a chasm, its ropes fraying as ghostly winds howled in Eddie’s narration. “The forest groans, the bridge sways,” he’d said, his voice dipping low, theatrical, his hands painting the air with sweeping gestures. “Your cleric senses a chill, a whisper of dark magic. What do you do?”
You’d leaned in, your eyes narrowing as you scanned your character sheet, its margins doodled with stars from idle moments. “I cast Detect Magic,” you said, rolling a 13, the die clattering across the table, landing near a pizza crust. Eddie nodded, his grin sly, and you followed with Protection from Evil, your voice confident as you rolled a 20, the table erupting in your shared cheer. “The ward flares, a golden shield,” he narrated, his eyes locked on yours, pride sparkling. “The bridge collapses, but you leap, landing on solid ground, the wolves retreating into mist.” You smirked, high-fiving him, your fingers brushing, a spark shot through you, warm and electric, a reminder of the connection you’re inching toward.
Now, the session’s winding down, your characters camping in a moonlit grove, the shrine’s faint glow on the horizon. You’re both quiet, the pizza’s remnants scattered, the Cokes flat in their cans, the air thick with unspoken words. Eddie stretches, his boots scuffing the shag carpet, his rings glinting as he tosses the d20 in the air, catching it with a flourish. “You’re killing it, cleric,” he says, his voice soft, his hair falling into his eyes, framing his grin. “That spell combo? Pure poetry.”
You smile, curling your legs under you, your fingers tracing the inked stats on your character sheet, the paper worn from weeks of play. “You’re not so bad yourself, dungeon master,” you say, your voice teasing, gentler than it’s been since the quarry’s tears. The moment lingers, charged with the warmth of shared laughter, the way he looks at you—like you’re the only player in his world—stirring a pull you’ve felt since the campaign began, since he shielded you from Tara, since he called you sweetheart like a promise.
He glances at the clock, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing faintly under the lights. “It’s late,” he says, his voice hesitant, like he’s stepping onto thin ice. “You, uh… wanna stay? Wayne’s working nights, and it’s a long drive home.” His eyes search yours, hope flickering, a nervous edge to his grin, and you see the boy you once knew, the one who’d share fries and secrets in this very trailer.
Your heart skips, memories of old sleepovers flooding back—nights sprawled on his couch, The Lost Boys flickering on the grainy TV, his guitar strumming Metallica riffs as you dozed, the trailer a haven from the world. Those nights vanished when Tara came, her jealousy a wall that shut you out, and staying here now feels like a leap, a roll you’re not sure will land. But his eyes are earnest, his grin small and vulnerable, and you’re tired of guarding your heart, of denying the warmth he’s rekindled. “Yeah,” you say, your voice soft, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll stay.”
His grin blooms, wide and boyish, and he springs to his feet, energy crackling. “Sweet! I’ll take the couch, you get my bed. It’s… mostly clean, swear.” He winks, but there’s a nervous tremor, like he’s afraid to break the spell, and you shake your head, standing, your sweater brushing his arm, the contact warm against the trailer’s chill.
“No,” you say, your voice gentler than ever, stepping closer, the carpet soft under your socks. “Stay with me, Eddie. Like… like before.” The words are raw, a bridge to the past you’ve missed, and his eyes widen, surprise softening into something deeper, a quiet awe that makes your chest ache.
“You sure?” he asks, his voice low, his grin fading into sincerity, careful not to push. “I don’t want to… screw this up.”
“I’m sure,” you say, nodding, your smile small but real. “Just… don’t think I’m forgiving you yet.” It’s honest, but soft, a promise you’re starting to believe, and his grin returns, cautious but warm, a nod sealing the moment.
“Okay,” he says, his voice thick with relief, leading you down the narrow hall to his room. The space is a familiar chaos—Metallica and Dio posters taped crookedly, a lava lamp bubbling red on a cluttered dresser, cassettes scattered like fallen leaves, the air heavy with Old Spice and faint weed. His bed is a tangle of flannel blankets and a faded quilt, its springs creaking as you sit, the mattress dipping under your weight. You change into an oversized shirt from your backpack, the hem brushing your thighs, the cotton cool against your skin, while Eddie swaps his shirt for a worn Black Sabbath tee and sweatpants, his hair a wild halo as he shakes it loose.
You climb into bed, the sheets smelling faintly of laundry soap and Eddie, the mattress sinking as he slides in, leaving a small space between you, a boundary he’s careful not to cross. The Christmas lights hum, their glow painting the ceiling in soft patterns, and you lie there, staring at the faint cracks above, your heart racing. It’s familiar—his warmth radiating across the gap, the trailer’s creaks, the distant hum of a neighbor’s radio—but new, charged with the months apart, the healing you’re both chasing. You shift, your foot brushing his under the blanket, a soft contact that draws a quiet exhale from him, and you smile, the sound grounding you in the moment.
The silence deepens, the night a cocoon, until Eddie turns his head, his voice a whisper in the dark. “I miss you,” he says, raw and vulnerable, a single tear catching the light as it slips down his cheek, pooling on the pillow. “So fucking much, sweetheart.”
Your heart clenches, and you shift closer, the space between you vanishing, your fingers reaching to touch his face, tracing the curve of his jaw, the damp trail of his tear. “I know,” you whisper, your voice trembling, soft as a lullaby, a single tear falling as you hold his gaze. The gesture is tender, a crack in your walls, a sign you’re starting to forgive, though full trust hovers just beyond reach. His breath hitches, and he leans into your touch, his eyes closing, savoring the warmth of your hand.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice choked, his hand hovering near yours but not taking it, respecting your pace. “I’ll keep proving it, every day, every roll, every note.”
You nod, your fingers lingering, your tear drying on the quilt. “I know,” you say again, softer, shifting until your shoulders touch, your warmth mingling, a quiet promise you’re not ready to name fully. You fall asleep like that, close but not entwined, his breath steady, the black-and-silver die on his nightstand glinting, a vow in the quiet.
Morning light filters through the trailer’s blinds, painting stripes across the cluttered room, the air cool and smelling faintly of coffee from Wayne’s pot, left brewing before he crashed after his shift. You wake slowly, Eddie still asleep, his arm flung over the quilt, his face peaceful, his hair a wild halo on the pillow. You smile, a warmth blooming, and slip out of bed, tugging on your sweater, your socks muffling your steps as you step outside, the trailer park hushed, the grass damp with dew.
You sit on the trailer’s steps, the cold metal biting through your jeans, a mug of instant coffee warming your hands, the steam curling in the crisp air. The sleepover feels like a milestone, your “I know” and touch a leap you didn’t expect, and you replay it—Eddie’s tear, his voice, the way his grin lit up when you stayed. The mixtape waits at home, unplayed but closer now, a promise you’re inching toward. You’re not forgiving him fully, but you’re closer, his efforts a bridge you’re crossing, step by gentle step.
Eddie stirs inside, and you hear his boots scuff the floor, his voice sleepy but warm as he calls, “You out there, cleric?” You laugh, soft and real, and call back, “Right here, dungeon master.” The door creaks, and he joins you, his Dio tee wrinkled, a mug in his hand, his grin boyish as he sits beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. The morning stretches before you, a new roll, a new chance, and you lean into him, just a little, the dice in his pocket a quiet vow, your heart whispering what you’re starting to believe.
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
MASTERLIST
previous part - next part
ELEVEN : A SHIELD AND A STEP CLOSER
February’s chill clings to Hawkins, the air sharp with frost and the faint smoke of wood-burning stoves, the school parking lot a patchwork of slush and tire marks glinting under the sodium glow of streetlights. You trudge toward your car after a late shift at the record store, your sneakers crunching through the icy crust, your breath fogging in the dusk. Your ankle’s healed, but you move with care, a reflex from months of limping through both physical pain and the emotional wreckage left by Eddie Munson’s betrayal. The private D&D campaign in his trailer, now a weekly ritual, has spun a delicate thread between you, its warmth softening the edges of Tara’s venom, Eddie’s silence, and the way he let her erase your friendship. His gestures—red M&Ms on your car hood, notes tucked into your locker, the mixtape Songs for the Cleric hidden under your bed—pulse quietly, easing the anger that once defined you. You’re not ready to forgive him, not when trust is a fragile braid, but you’re gentler, your smiles warmer, pulled by his persistence and the nostalgia of your rogue-and-cleric days, when you’d slay dragons in Wayne’s trailer, laughing until dawn.
You’re halfway to your car, your keys jangling in your gloved hand, the cold metal biting through the wool, when a voice slices through the quiet—sharp, venomous, a ghost you thought you’d outrun. “So, you’re back to stealing him, huh?” Tara stands by the bike racks, her blonde hair a halo under the streetlight, her eyes narrowed with a fury that knots your stomach. She’s alone, her usual posse of sneering cheerleaders absent, but her presence is a storm, her leather skirt and cropped jacket screaming defiance. Her breath clouds the air, and her hands tremble, not from cold but from a desperation you hadn’t seen before, a crack in her polished cruelty that makes her seem smaller, more human, yet no less dangerous.
You pause, your sneakers sinking into the slush, and face her, your heart pounding but your voice steady, softer than the quarry’s raw defiance. “I’m not stealing anyone, Tara,” you say, clutching your backpack strap, the canvas rough against your palm. “Eddie’s not yours anymore. Just… let it go.” Your words are gentle, almost pleading, a shift from the anger you’d have hurled months ago, and you turn to walk away, your boots scraping the asphalt, hoping to leave her venom in the cold.
Tara’s laugh is sharp, a brittle sound that echoes off the parked cars, and she steps forward, her boots clicking with purpose. “Oh, don’t play the saint,” she sneers, closing the distance, her perfume—sweet and cloying—mixing with the frost. “You think I don’t see you? Hanging around him, playing your little D&D games, acting like you’re his best friend again? You’re pathetic, thinking you can just slide back in and take him from me.” Her voice rises, cracking with emotion, and you see her eyes glisten, not with tears but with a raw, wounded pride. She’s closer now, her shadow falling over you, and you feel the weight of her words—fat bitch, nothing—stirring old wounds, though they sting less under Eddie’s quiet efforts.
You hold her gaze, your voice still soft, your hands steady despite the tremor in your chest. “He ended things with you, Tara,” you say, your tone calm, laced with empathy you didn’t expect to feel. “That’s between you and him, not me. I’m not here to fight you.” You step back, your backpack bumping against your hip, and turn again, the car keys cold in your grip, but Tara’s not done, her desperation spilling over like a dam breaking.
“Don’t you dare walk away,” she hisses, lunging forward, her hand clamping onto your arm, her nails digging through your jacket, sharp enough to bruise. “You don’t get to act like you’re above this. You’re nothing, you hear me? You’re just a sad little nobody who thinks she can steal my life.” She shoves you, hard, her strength fueled by rage, and you stumble, your sneakers slipping on the slush, your shoulder slamming against a car hood. Pain flares in your wrist as you catch yourself, a gasp escaping, and a single tear pricks your eye, more from shock than hurt, quickly blinked away as you steady yourself.
Before you can respond, a shout rips through the lot, raw and urgent. “Tara, what the hell are you doing?” Eddie’s sprinting toward you, his leather jacket flapping, his hair a wild tangle as he skids to a stop between you and Tara, his body a shield. He’d been waiting by his van, a habit since the campaign started, hoping to offer you a ride, his keys still dangling from his fingers. His face is a storm of anger and fear, a single tear glinting in his eye as he faces Tara, his breath heaving. “Back off,” he says, his voice low, a growl that vibrates with protectiveness. “Don’t you dare touch her.”
Tara freezes, her hand dropping, her eyes darting between you and Eddie, her bravado crumbling under his fury. “So this is it?” she says, her voice trembling, a mix of rage and heartbreak. “You’re picking her? After everything I gave you? I kept you together, Eddie, when you were falling apart, and now you’re throwing me away for her?” Her words are desperate, her hands gesturing wildly, and you see the girl behind the cruelty—a girl who thought she’d won him, only to lose everything. “She’s just using you, can’t you see that? She’ll drag you down, make you miserable.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens, his tear falling as he steps closer to Tara, his voice steady, cutting through her storm. “You didn’t keep me together,” he says, his words sharp but honest. “You controlled me. You made me push away the one person who’s always been there, and I let you, and I’ll carry that guilt forever. Now you’re hurting her? No, Tara. We’re done, and you need to leave her alone.” His voice softens on the last words, a final severing, and you feel a warmth spread through you, his defense a shield against the cold.
Tara’s face twists, a flicker of defeat in her eyes, and she steps back, her boots scraping the asphalt. “You’re making a mistake,” she mutters, her voice low, her gaze flicking to you, venomous but fading. “She’s nothing, and you’ll see it when she leaves you broken.” She turns, her hair whipping in the wind, and stalks away, her figure dissolving into the dusk, her footsteps echoing until they’re gone.
Eddie turns to you, his anger dissolving into worry, his eyes soft as he steps closer, keeping his hands at his sides, respecting your boundaries. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle, scanning you for injury, his gaze lingering on your wrist, which you’re rubbing absently. You nod, your breath steadying, the pain in your wrist fading, Eddie’s presence a quiet anchor.
“I’m fine,” you say, your voice warm, kinder than it’s been since the quarry, a smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Eddie, for… for stepping in.” You meet his eyes, your gratitude genuine, and his face brightens, a grin breaking through, his relief tangible.
“Don’t thank me,” he says, shaking his head, his voice soft. “I should’ve been here sooner. I won’t let her near you again.” He hesitates, then adds, “Can I walk you to your car? Just to make sure you’re good.” His hands fidget, the dice a faint bulge in his jeans, a reminder of his vow to keep trying.
You nod, your smile widening, and he falls into step beside you, his arm brushing yours, a steady warmth in the cold. At your car, you pause, turning to him, your voice softer than ever. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, “but I’m glad you did. It means something, Eddie.” The words are a bridge, a step toward trust, and his grin grows, his eyes sparkling under the streetlight.
“That’s all I need,” he says, his voice warm, stepping back as you unlock your car. “I’ll keep showing up, sweetheart.” The nickname settles gently, and you let it linger, climbing into your car with a small wave, driving off as he watches, his silhouette fading in the rearview mirror.
At the diner that night, you sit in a vinyl booth, the neon sign outside casting a pink glow across your table, the jukebox humming a low Springsteen tune. You pull out the latest note from your locker, slipped there this morning, Eddie’s messy scrawl a familiar ache: I’m here, always – E. Your fingers trace the ink, smudged where his hand shook, the paper worn from being folded and unfolded, a tangible piece of his effort. The note feels heavier now, after Tara’s venom, after Eddie’s shield, and you linger on it, the red M&M in your pocket a quiet companion. You remember his handwriting from simpler days—D&D notes, mixtape labels, a doodle he left on your math homework—and the memory stirs a warmth, a flicker of the trust you’re starting to rebuild. You don’t forgive him, not yet, but the note, like the campaign, the M&Ms, is a brick in the bridge he’s building, and you’re beginning to believe he won’t let it crumble.
The milkshake arrives, strawberry sweet, its cold glass grounding your thoughts, the diner’s hum a soft backdrop. You sip slowly, the note open on the table, your smile small but real, a hope you’re letting grow. Tara’s words fade, Eddie’s defense louder, and the stars outside the window feel like a map to something new. He’s out there, the dice in his pocket, his resolve unwavering, and you’re here, your heart softening, ready for the next step in this fragile dance.
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
MASTERLIST
previous part - next part
TEN : A CAMPAIGN TO MEND
January’s grip tightens on Hawkins, the air a sharp blade of cold, the school parking lot slick with patches of ice that glitter under the streetlights. You limp toward your car, your ankle brace gone but your steps cautious, a habit born from months of physical and emotional recovery. The library scene with Eddie Munson lingers—his tear-streaked face, his vow to keep proving himself, the mixtape Songs for the Cleric still unplayed under your bed. His gestures—red M&Ms on your car hood, notes in your locker, the fixed wiper—have become a quiet rhythm, chipping at the fortress around your heart. The quarry’s tears, your shared grief, and his dice, the ones you saved for his birthday, haunt you, stirring a longing you’re not ready to embrace. You’re not forgiving him, not after he chose Tara, not after the silence that left you hollow, but you’re less sharp, your anger dulled by exhaustion and the pull of the boy who was once your rogue to your cleric.
Eddie’s waiting by your car, leaning against the hood in his leather jacket, his hair tucked behind his ears, his hands fidgeting with a pencil like he’s bracing for rejection. His eyes, red-rimmed from tears barely held back, light up when he sees you, a cautious hope that makes your chest ache. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft, almost swallowed by the wind, his breath fogging in the chill. The sight of him—his rings glinting, the faint scent of Old Spice and cigarette smoke—tugs at memories of late-night van rides, Dio blasting, your laughter filling the space between you.
You pause, your keys cold in your hand, and meet his gaze, your own eyes stinging with unshed tears. The memory of his plea at the quarry, his tears mirroring yours, softens your edges, and you nod, your voice quieter than the harsh rebukes you gave before. “Hey,” you say, leaning against the car, keeping a small distance but not turning away, your ankle twinging faintly as you shift your weight.
He takes a deep breath, the pencil twisting in his fingers, his voice faltering but earnest. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “About us, about how things used to be. I know Hellfire’s too much right now, and I get why—you don’t trust me, and I deserve that. But what if we started smaller? Just you and me, a D&D campaign like when we were kids, sprawled on Wayne’s floor, making it up as we went.” His voice cracks, tears welling, and he blinks them back, his grin shaky. “No pressure, no big stakes. Just a story, a way to… find our way back.”
The idea hits like a warm breeze, stirring memories of twelve-year-old you, cross-legged in Wayne’s trailer, giggling as Eddie narrated a dragon hoarding tacos, his hands flailing for effect. It’s tempting, a flicker of the safety you lost when Tara’s jealousy drove a wedge between you, but the pain—his silence, your hoodie in the trash, her voice calling you nothing—holds you back. Tears prick your eyes, and you blink them away, your voice soft but guarded. “Why, Eddie?” you ask, your hands tightening around your keys. “Why now? Why do you think a game can fix this?”
He swallows, a tear slipping down his cheek, and he wipes it with his sleeve, his rings catching the streetlight. “Because I miss you,” he says, his voice raw, trembling with a vulnerability that mirrors the quarry night. “Not just at Hellfire, but in my life—in the van, at the arcade, in every damn song I hear. I know I broke that, and I hate myself for it. I’m not asking you to forgive me, not yet. I just want to give you something good, something we used to love, even if it’s just for a few hours.” His tears fall faster, and he doesn’t hide them, his hands still now, the pencil forgotten on the hood.
Your own tears spill, hot against the cold air, and you wipe them away, your heart a tangle of hurt and nostalgia. You want to say no, to protect the fragile pieces of yourself, but his sincerity, his quiet persistence—the M&Ms, the mixtape, the note you kept—makes it harder to push him away. “I don’t know,” you say, your voice trembling, softer than the quarry’s cold rejection. “I’m still mad at you, Eddie. I’m still hurt. A game… it’s not enough.”
“I know,” he says, nodding, more tears falling as he steps closer, stopping short of touching you. “It’s not enough, and I don’t expect it to be. I’m just asking for a chance to start, to show you I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere. If you say no, I’ll keep trying—more notes, more M&Ms, whatever it takes. But if you say yes…” He trails off, his grin small, hopeful, tears glinting in his eyes. “I’ll make it worth it.”
You look at him, his tear-streaked face, the dice a faint bulge in his pocket, and feel a shift, small but undeniable. You’re not ready to trust, but you’re tired of running, of carrying the weight of his absence alone. Tears stream down your cheeks, and you wipe them with your sleeve, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay,” you say finally, your smile small, hesitant. “One session. That’s all I’m giving you.”
His grin blooms, cautious but bright, and he wipes his tears, nodding quickly. “One session,” he says, his voice thick with relief. “Saturday, my place. I’ll have pizza, Coke, the works. Just… thank you.” His eyes shine, and you see the boy you loved, the one who’d share your fries, who’d narrate your cleric’s triumphs with pride.
You nod, your throat tight, tears still falling, and climb into your car, the engine’s rumble a shield against the emotions swirling inside. “Don’t make me regret this,” you say, your voice soft, a warning wrapped in hope, and he nods, stepping back as you drive off, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror.
At home, you collapse on your bed, tears soaking your pillow as you stare at the Polaroid of you and Eddie at the arcade, its faded edges a reminder of what was and what might be. Agreeing to the campaign feels like a leap, a roll of the dice you’re not sure will land in your favor, but his tears, his promise, make you want to believe, even if just a little.
Saturday arrives, and your nerves hum as you knock on the trailer door, the chill air nipping at your fingers. Wayne’s at work, and Eddie opens it, his Iron Maiden shirt wrinkled, his grin tentative but warm. “Welcome to the Munson Dungeon,” he says, bowing slightly, and you manage a small smile, the familiarity easing your tension, though tears prick your eyes at the sight of his effort—the table set with a pizza box, two Cokes, graph paper, and dice.
Inside, the trailer’s warm, lit by Christmas lights, the scent of pepperoni and incense wrapping around you. He’s prepared a simple campaign—a rogue and cleric seeking a lost relic in a haunted forest, a nod to your old adventures. You sit across from him, the table small enough that your knees nearly brush, and he hands you a character sheet, your cleric’s name in his messy scrawl. “No pressure,” he says, his eyes soft, tears glinting as he looks at you. “We go slow, at your pace.”
You nod, tracing his handwriting, a tear falling onto the paper, and you wipe it quickly, your voice soft. “Let’s play,” you say, and the campaign begins, his voice weaving a tale of misty woods and hidden traps. You play cautiously, your cleric reserved, but his storytelling draws you in, his rogue’s banter a faint echo of the Eddie you knew. When you cast a spell to light the path, he grins, his voice warm. “That’s my cleric,” he says, then catches himself, his eyes wide, afraid he’s overstepped.
“It’s okay,” you say, your voice gentle, another tear falling as you meet his gaze. “Just… keep going.” It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a bridge, a small step you’re willing to take.
The session ends on a cliffhanger, the relic in sight but guarded by shadows. You’re both quiet, the pizza cold, the Cokes half-empty. “Thanks for coming,” he says, his voice low, tears welling again. “It… it meant everything.”
You nod, wiping your tears, your heart lighter but still guarded. “It was nice,” you admit, your voice hesitant, a smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe… we can do it again.” The words surprise you, a crack in your armor you didn’t expect, and his eyes brighten, tears spilling as he nods.
“Yeah?” he says, his grin wide, hopeful. “Same time next week?”
“Maybe,” you say, standing, your smile small but real, tears drying on your cheeks. He walks you to your car, his hands in his pockets, the dice a quiet weight, and you drive home, tears falling as you replay the night—the game, his care, the way it felt like home, if only for a moment.
At school, your friends notice a shift. Robin, at lunch, sees your brighter eyes and says, “You’re smiling a little. Eddie’s doing something right?” You shrug, a tear pricking, but nod, admitting, “Maybe.” Dustin, in the hallway, whispers to Steve, “She played D&D with him!” Max, at the arcade, watches you pocket another M&M from Eddie, her grin sly. “He’s trying hard,” she says, and you nod, your voice soft. “Yeah.”
That night, you sit on your porch, the cold air sharp, the mixtape in your hands, its tracklist a promise you’re not ready to hear. You don’t play it, but you hold it close, the stars above a quiet witness to the hope you’re starting to feel, a roll you’re not sure you’ll take but can’t rule out. Eddie’s out there, the dice in his pocket, his tears a vow to keep fighting, and you’re here, your heart bruised but stirring, the game a fragile thread pulling you closer.
prguitarman
gummygunk
stormborns
areudirty
vaporwave
janainaart
annaxmalina
