Friends in Low Places: Six
Series masterlist
Summary: Misery loves company
Word count: 6.5k
A/N: I'm so sorry. I had the flu and then a sinus infection I still haven't gotten rid of. so we’ve surpassed where I have already pre-written things. I am hoping to try and keep myself on schedule of every other week but if I miss it by a few days or a week…sorry. 😣 We’re starting to get some wheels moving here, people! I hope you enjoy!
It was hard to care about the last semester of senior year. Your grade point average was excellent and already sent your transcripts to the colleges of your choice for determination. The desire to slack off and take a break was becoming more and more alluring, especially with spring break coming up in the next couple of weeks. Getting the mail on Wednesday only made the urge to slack off even greater.
You pulled a few small envelopes and one thick envelope embossed with the lettering you’d been waiting months for.
You raced into the house, frantically tearing at the edge of the packet. They wouldn’t have sent a letter this thick if they were rejecting you. This had to be an acceptance and welcome packet. It had to be!
You were going to Chicago! Far away from Hawkins and everyone in it! New friends! New city! New foods to try! A whole new life of get togethers, parties with new classmates who had the same interest as you. Maybe even dating.
Heart pounding against your chest, you quickly unsheathed the top paper and skimmed the first paragraph breathlessly.
Thank you for applying to the University... The admissions committee has completed a very careful review of your application…The committee has placed your application on the waitlist…
Your heart briefly stuttered. Waitlist? What the hell did that mean?
We must ensure that the number of new freshmen is reasonably in line with the resources and services designed to support student success...If space becomes available in the freshman class, we will automatically re-review your application and consider you for admission...If space becomes available we will admit the overall strongest applicants who remain on the waitlist…Students who are selected for admission will receive an update on the status of their applications...
You reread the last paragraph over and over. If space becomes available…consider for admission…? Did you not get in? The more your eyes darted across the words the less sense it made. They included a course catalog. A guide outlining what classes you needed to enroll in Pre-Law. Pricing information on room, board, and dining. Why would they send all that if you weren’t…going?
You collapsed onto the couch and sighed heavily. You were almost good enough to get in the first round. The school would wait for the other applicants to confirm their spots and if in the end they had space for you, maybe you would be picked.
Though you tried to tell yourself it wasn’t the end of the world—that you were accepted to Indiana State—a strangled sob erupted from your throat.
Why did everything in your life follow the same pattern? You were never anyone’s first choice. Not your parents’ who picked work over you. Nancy who preferred Barb and Johnathan’s company to yours. Patrick who booked you as a last resort girlfriend for the month. It seemed like in every aspect you were always average. Always third or fourth best. Subpar. Why would your dream school see you any differently? You never won first place at anything—why would now be the time to start?
So you cried. Buried your face into the cushion of the couch and wept through your woes, wondering if you would ever be anyone’s first choice for anything. What would it take to be good enough the first time? Would there ever be a time where you didn’t have to prove yourself?
The remaining days to the weekend were overshadowed by misery as you let yourself wallow. Ms. Kelly said being waitlisted wasn’t a bad thing. She suggested you could go to Indiana State or Hawkins Community College to get your prerequisites out of the way in the meantime to show you were serious about your studies.
Then came the question if you even wanted to do this anymore. You’d worked so hard the last three years to be in the top five percent of your class and what did you have to show for it? Waitlisted by your dream school. It wasn’t Harvard or some fancy Ivy League school. It was achievable and as usual you weren’t up to snuff. What was the point of working hard when you didn’t get the already mediocre reward?
You were so disheartened that you didn’t show up to school Thursday, and when Friday came around, you couldn’t be bothered to care about anything. Sulking took too much of your focus to do much else. Something that Munson made sure to comment on.
“Get a grip,” he muttered through the side of his mouth. “We both can’t slack off.”
He hadn’t spoken to you in days. Not that you tried to say anything to the butthead since he told you to leave him alone, but still. Now he wanted to be funny? After he made you think you may have found common ground and then told you to piss off?
“Bite me,” you spat.
Munson balked at the venom on your tone. You expected him to say ‘what’s your damage’ like a normal person, but in classic Munson fashion he had to be different. So when he said “What’s up your ass?” instead, the very poorly timed reply of “You!” sounded downright vulgar.
“I absolutely am not!” Munson declared.
You scowled and shifted as far away from his side of the aisle as your tiny desk would allow. “Just shut up and stop talking to me!”
“Knock it off back there!” Albrecht shouted from the front of the class. “You don’t get extra credit for bickering so zip it!”
You both sneered at each other, and neither attempted to do anything except fume silently for the rest of the lesson.
In hindsight, you should’ve made a plan to meet sometime after school or on Saturday again to go over buying a car. You really wanted to go to the dealership or used car lot to get the full experience, but you were almost certain Munson was going to offer some back alley, under the table, barely legal method instead and after snapping at him, the last thing you wanted to do was speak to him within the same 60 minutes.
But then Saturday came and the consequences for slacking off the last full days hit you full force. Calculus homework, a 500-700 word essay on the true theme of The Great Gatsby, physics worksheet, and other tedious busywork demanded your immediate attention. Dread filled your bones as you tried to focus on the material before you, but no amount of self bullying could keep your mind on track because Munson’s statement the day before haunted you more than the courseload on your desk. You felt restless and would remain so until you figured out exactly what you had missed.
Nancy was out—probably with Johnathan—and no one answered the Byer’s phone when you rang to see if either of them could clue you in. So you rang the irritant himself.
“Munson’s. What do you want?” he answered.
You swallowed thickly. “Hey, it’s me. Can you meet today?”
“Wha—? Can—he—ar —ou. —peak—.”
Was he in fucking elementary school? Clearly he had no problems answering the first time and you could hear him choking on his words to make them sound broken.
“I know you can hear me,” you replied gruffly.
“H--llo? Hel—lo?”
“Would you stop!” you snapped. “We need to go over yes—“
The line went dead.
When you called back, he let it ring for a full minute and made no attempt to answer.you tried a third time, you were met with the rapid beeping of the busy tone. The bastard probably left the phone off the hook on purpose.
“Son of an asshole!” you shouted into the beeping receiver.
Teeth grinding, muttering to yourself, and stomping into warmer clothes, you were gonna show Munson he can’t weasel his way out that easily. How dare he! Did he think you were stupid! That you would really fall for the oldest trick since the phone was invented?!
Anger propelled you the seven miles towards Forrest Hills a lot faster than you would’ve gotten there on a leisurely ride. With March beginning, the bite of winter wasn’t as harsh against your cheeks or your hands—something you were grateful for as you pedaled at max speed.
Sure enough, that butt-ugly van was sitting right in front of his trailer. He was home and probably smugly thinking he’d be free of you until Monday. Well, he certainly would have a rude awakening!
You propped your bike against the wooden porch and hopped up the concrete steps before hammering on the door like it owed you money.
“I know you’re in there, you jerk!” you shouted through the flimsy door, still pounding your fist rapidly against it.
It swung open without notice, almost sending you stumbling towards Eddie Munson’s naked chest. Was that a burn near his shoulder? No, it was a tattoo—a couple of tattoos actually splattered all over his torso and forearms.
His eyes were wide and crazed like you’d never seen before, a cigarette pinched between his lips.
You stepped back and he stomped toward you, his hair wild and frizzier than ever as he looked frantically for something behind you. When he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, he turned his demented gaze towards you.
He pulled the cigarette from his lips and held it between fingers as he shouted at you. “Are you fucking INSANE?!”
You jumped at the volume of his voice. All anger and irritation evaporated the longer he stared you down. He looked downright frightful with his brows furrowed like this. There was no mirth behind those bulging brown eyes, no humor. Only frenzy. It only occurred to you then maybe Patrick had been right about Munson. Perhaps confronting him on his own turf wasn’t such a great idea.
You tried to hold on to some of your nerve and crossed your arms over your chest to keep your shoulders squared. “You hung up on me.”
Munson inched closer, making the height difference quite noticeable. You lowered your gaze out of fear for a split second. The tattoo you thought was a burn on the left side of his chest was just an ugly, skeletal demon that you quickly averted your eyes from. Both faces before you were unpleasant.
Munson swelled. “So you rode all the way over here on your shitty bike?”
“So what—“
“That’s damn near seven miles!” he interrupted. “From your house to mine. Biking seven miles in Hawkins alone! By yourself! Through the goddamn woods! I ask again, are you INSANE? “Don’t do that!” he shouted, pointing his cigarette right in your face.
Understanding started to dawn on you. The manic and wide eyed expression on his face wasn’t one of aggression, but of worry.
“Don’t ever do that! You call me next time—!”
“I did call you!” you shouted over him.
Munson’s mouth snapped shut and his cheeks started to redden.
You had to stop the smirk from creeping across your face. Rarely was Munson ever silenced by a challenger. “I called you, and you hung up on me.”
Munson frowned. “Well take the hint next time. Don’t just show up here. Or have someone drop you off, Jesus Christ.”
It was almost…touching that Munson worried about your safety to yell at you for biking alone. You could understand. Kind of. He probably would’ve felt bad had you gone missing on your way to berate him for being his usual annoying self.
“Thank you for your concern, but I bike to and from school every day,” you told him flatly. You watched him inhale from his cigarette and let your eyes wander over his exposed skin. He was a little skinnier than you thought now that he was without his usual jacket and vest. A silver chain rested at his neck with a guitar pick as the centerpiece. He had a spider tattoo near his collar bone and some others that sprinkled down his forearms. He didn’t have abs like Patrick but he wasn’t thin enough to have his ribs sticking out. Eyes traveled lower to the red plaid boxers sticking out above the waistband of his black jeans, but you found yourself staring at the trail of hair below his belly button and quickly looked away with heated cheeks.
“You don’t ride with Byers and Wheeler?” he questioned.
“No. Can we go inside? It’s chilly.” It wasn’t totally a lie—the air was still nippy—but you really needed him to put on a shirt.
“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he grumbled.
He waved for you to follow behind him, stamping out his cigarette in the ashtray on the porch before swinging the door open and ushering you inside.
The place looked the same as it did a couple weeks ago, save for some big wooden maze thing on top of the living room coffee table. With Munson’s permission you took off your coat and awkwardly sat on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do next while he disappeared into the back of the trailer. When he returned, he was thankfully covered, even if it was with an ugly Metallica shirt.
“So what exactly are you doing here?” Munson asked from the kitchenette as he dug around inside the fridge.
That was the question, wasn’t it? You didn’t notice until you were taking off your coat that in your haste to reprimand Munson that you completely forgot your backpack at home. You doubted he even had the textbook or even a notebook since you’ve never actually seen him with one, so you weren’t really sure what to do besides ask for a ride back home.
“I was going to ask about Albrecht’s class this week, but I didn’t bring my backpack,” you sighed.
Munson hummed thoughtfully. “Finally got that stick out of your ass?”
Your jaw dropped. “Me?! You’re the one who started being a jerk to me first!”
Munson smirked, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher. “So you did come to fight!”
“I didn’t, but now that you bring it up, what’s your problem with me?!” you shouted from your spot on the couch “Every time I think you’re decent you end up being the total opposite!”
Munson snorted as he walked towards the living room, setting two glasses of water on the coffee table. The hospitality only vexed you further.
“See!” you exclaimed, pointing at the beverage you didn’t ask for. “Why do you do that! If you’re gonna be a dick to me, then just be that way all the time. Don’t be a shit for a whole week only to be nice like you didn’t do anything wrong! Or vise freakin’ versa! You make it seem like we’re friends and then turn around and ruin it!”
Munson snorted, collapsing into the recliner next to you. “Is that what this is? You wanna be friends?”
The way he said it so condescending—like it was the dumbest idea in the world—made your stomach drop and a frown form upon your face. How was it that you weren’t even good enough to be friends with the freak Eddie Munson?
“I just don’t understand you,” you answered. “You get mad at me for riding here by myself like you would care if I disappeared, but then mock the idea of us even being friends.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just don’t see what you’d get out of being friends with—what did you call me—a trailer dwelling burnout low-life.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I never called you that!”
Munson blew a raspberry hard enough to fling spittle at you. “Sure. I just made that up, right?”
Your face grew hotter by the second. “Yeah, you did! Unless you’re talking about when I said I would never live in a trailer when I first came here—those weren’t my words!”
Munson rolled his eyes. “Sinclair told me he heard what you really thought about me from your boyfriend in the locker room.”
“Boyfriend? I don’t have a boy—“
Sinclair. Lock room.
Patrick.
Blood started to boil below the surface of your skin as rage swept in. Would he do that? Would he really stoop so low as to plant a nasty rumor through the grapevine like a gossipy mean girl? You were a little disappointed in Lucas, too. You baby sat him and his sister Erica for the first few years they moved here.
Jason Carver was the devil on Patrick’s shoulder, and could easily be inflicting the oldest Sinclair as well. It wasn’t too far-fetched of an idea, no matter how much it pained you to say so.
You sighed heavily, wiping your hands on your jean clad thighs nervously in an attempt to calm your fury.
“If you’re talking about Patrick McKinney, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t think he ever was. We had a fling or whatever last year,” you explained bitterly. “Ever since we started this project, he’s been trying to convince me that you're going to hurt me. I’ve told him each time that he should just piss off and leave me alone, but he seems insistent on interfering. He even left me a note inviting me to the game last night.”
“Did you go?” Munson questioned, staring at the popcorn ceiling above him.
You scoffed. “As if. I’d rather face my calculus homework than go to a basketball game.”
Munson chewed the inside of his cheek, keeping his eyes fixed at the ceiling as he reclined with his arms clasped behind his head. He stayed quiet, not offering any indication he believed you or didn’t.
You contemplated asking if he would hurt you, but you decided against it. The way he yelled at you earlier for riding in the woods alone…Whether it be because he couldn’t take the idea of living through another missing person’s case in Hawkins or if it was because he actually did care if you lived or died, it didn’t really matter. If he wanted to physically hurt you, he would’ve by now.
“I don’t think you would,” you informed him. “Hurt me, I mean.”
“Obviously,” he huffed. “You wouldn’t have raced here, banging on my door like the damn fuzz to berate me if you thought you were in danger. Not unless you were fucking stupid.”
You chuckled softly. He had you there. If you were truly scared of him, you wouldn’t even be sitting here alone in the lion’s den. At least he knew that.
“I don’t talk to Patrick, and I didn’t say anything of the sort to him,” you told him. “He’s just being an ass. As usual.”
Munson continued to bask in the awkward silence, seemingly contemplating if he should really take your word for it. In an attempt to fill the space with some sot of noise, you made a small joke.
”I thought you were mad Albrecht said you liked me.”
“Partly,” Munson admitted with a nod. “Sinclair told me at lunch what he heard and then when Abrecht said that shit—it may have set me off.”
You weren’t sure if you were hoping he would say something along the lines of ‘of course that wasn't it!, but his answer did not make you feel better. He must’ve noticed the way your posture slumped at his admission.
”But uh, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad. Us being friends or whatever,” he said awkwardly.
“Yeah?” you questioned doubtfully.
“Yeah,” he answered with more certainty. “Matter of fact, wait here. I’ll be right back.”
He went to the back of the trailer where you assumed his bedroom was while you berated yourself for sounding so pathetic. Having to ask if you could be friends with him? Since when did you become such a loser to where you had to ask the village idiot to be nice to you? You hoped he wouldn’t tell his friends about this. That you wouldn’t hear him cracking jokes at your expense in the lunch room about how you showed up to his door like a crazy person and whined about how confusing it was to decipher if he was genuine in his belligerent insistence on keeping you safe. Where the hell did your dignity go?
Munson returned to the living room and started to mess with the record player. You hoped to god that he wouldn’t put on his usual high speed cacophony, but you were pleasantly surprised to hear the melodic intro of a familiar tune start to play.
”Dark Side of the Moon?” you questioned.
Munson cackled, turning over his shoulder to flash you a wicked smile. “Hoho! Look at you! Familiar with the jams!”
The way it showed his dimples made your cheeks warm. “I don’t live under a rock, you know.”
“Still, color me surprised,” he grinned. He sat back in the recliner, scooting it over closer to where he was in arm’s reach of you at the end of the couch. He pulled a rolled cigarette from behind his ear and held it out to you to inspect.
“Oh. No thanks,” you frowned, noting the hand twisted ends of what was clearly a joint. “I don’t do that.”
”Clearly,” Munson mused. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears with wide frazzled eyes, clearly mocking you. “You look tense enough to start shitting diamonds on my floor.”
He sure had a way with colorful imagery that made your nose wrinkle. It was then that you noticed your shoulders were actually touching the tops of your ears. In an attempt to discredit him, you rolled your neck and shoulders to loosen up.
“Better, but not by much,” he mused. He lit the end of the joint and put it to his mouth. You tried not to notice the way his lips pursed when he slowly blew smoke through them. Instinctively, you fanned the smoke away from your face. Johnathan recently got into the habit of smoking weed, much to you and Nancy’s disapproval.
Munson held out the lit doobie to you again. “Try it. It’ll make that pressure in your chest go away. Unknot your gut.”
”How did you—“
Munson raised his brows at you with a knowing look. “Why do you think I do it?”
You eyed the fragile paper between his fingers cautiously. You hated how Johnathan acted when he smoked. Like he lost all comprehension and sense. But Munson was right— you always felt the pressure of anxiety present in your chest—knots in your abdomen that made it impossible to breathe or relax past a certain point, feeling as if you did let go completely, something bad would happen or that constant nagging feeling that you were worthless and unproductive for being at ease rang loud over the buzzing thoughts in your head.
“Trust me. I won’t tell Regan you didn’t ‘just say no’,” he joked.
You could use a little relaxation. Being waitlisted, skipping school, dealing with the recurrent guilt of moving on while Barb stayed forever 16, navigating the confusing feelings around Patrick’s sudden reemergence…These were more than enough reasons to try something to take the edge of life off.
“Fine,” you relented. You took the joint from his fingers and held it between your own in the same fashion you’d seen Johnathan do so many times. How different could it be than the time Carol Perkins dared you to smoke her cigarette in fifth grade? You hoped this didn’t make your throat itch like that did. With a quick sight you brought it up to your lips quickly but was suddenly stopped by Munson.
”Whoa—hey, it’s not like a cigarette,” he warned. “Slowly inhale but not a lot. You’ll choke to death. Slow.”
The tatse of bitter earth hit you first. You eyed him with uncertainty as you inhaled on his count of “one Mississippi, two Mississippi—okay stop! Hold it.” Smoke filled your lungs and stung your eyes, as you followed his instruction. When he told you to slowly release, you did the best you could before letting it all out in a harsh garage of coughs.
Munson plucked the joint from your fingers. “Hey, that’s not bad,” he cheered.
Fighting for gasps of air between barking coughs, you gave him a look that clearly communicated how the hell was that not bad?!
”Gareth coughed so much he puked his first time,” he answered. “Have some water. It’ll help.”
You drank to quell the sharp burning in your chest. So much for getting rid of the tension there! Now it was on fire and felt as if it were full of ash and char. Your eyes watered continuously from the burn of the smoke. It took a few minutes to get your breathing back to normal, and when you did, you couldn’t stand the horrible taste lingering on your tongue.
“Take breath, it gets easier,” he shrugged. He reached towards his shoulder and started whispering into the crook of his neck. Before you could ask what the hell he was doing, much to your shock and horror, he pulled a giant, black rat from the curtain of his hair.
Screaming, you jumped towards the middle of the couch. Munson looked at you with annoyance and held the fat rodent out towards you. You covered your eyes, refusing to look at it.
“That’s so gross, what the hell!” You shouted in terror from beneath your hands. ”You never told me this place is infested with rats! Throw it outside!”
Munson was deeply offended judging by his tone “It's not infested. He’s a pet and he is not gross.”
You shook your head in disagreement, paralyzed with fear and disgust. You wanted to keep your mouth shut, you truly did, but Munson wouldn't stop demanding you look at the rodent he called Pippin.
When you felt something touch your arm—which turned out to be Munson just making you think he threw the rat on you—you let all the qualms come flooding out in a screech.“Who the hell has a pet rat?! They’re RATS! They live in sewers! They have fleas! They smell! They have that ugly slimy tail that is unnaturally long! Those grabby little hands were weird! Get it away from me!”
Munson looked at you with disappointment and annoyance etched in his frown. He held out Pippin again, this time only inches from your nose. You cowered back as far as the couch would let you, and turned your head with a grimace and a prayer for escape.
“Look at him.” Munson commanded for the umpteenth time. “Look at those little whiskers. And that cute little nose. He doesn’t bite. Just look.”
Swallowing thickly, you were met face to face with Pippin the fat rat and his blank, black beady eyes. His fine white whiskers twitched when his pink nose did. His little feet were dangling over Munson’s knuckles as he dangled helplessly in his owner’s grasp. He looked quite content as he hung there—no barring of his teeth or squealing at being handled. You wouldn't call it cute, but it wasn’t as ugly as you thought.
”Okay, I looked. Can you take it out of my face now?!”
”Pippin. Not ‘it’,” Munson corrected.
”Whatever! Pippin! Can you get Pippin away from me, please!?” You whined.
Munson, still looking betrayed, set the rat down in the wooden maze contraption on the coffee table and sealed the top with a giant clear plastic lid. “Rats are highly misunderstood. They’re not dirty, either. Pippin gets a bath every two weeks and I clean his cage every couple of days. No fleas. No stink.”
You weren’t going to contradict him in fear that he might throw the damn thing on you. Instead, you took the joint that was simmering in the ashtray and inhaled in an attempt to calm the nerves he just incited. He rambled on about how smart rats are and explained that he just put Pippin in a maze he built in shop class last year while you coughed a little less this time.
Munson took the joint from you and hit it himself. He pointed to Pippin rummaging through the maze. “I put little pieces of apple in there and he has to find it. Does a pretty damn good job at it too.”
”You couldn’t have gotten a cat or a dog?” you whined. “Something normal?”
Munson let out a pffft. “It wasn’t my idea to get him. Well, actually it was my idea but I got him for Barry as a gift. See, Barry had Boromir and Ferimir, but they died right before Fourth of July. Had some sort of virus or something only rats can get, I don’t know. He was pretty torn up about it. So I went to the pet shop and Pippin was the only one left. I got him and showed Barry when he came over for fireworks, but, you know. He never came back to take Pippin home.”
You stared at the black rat nibbing on a small piece of fruit, watching the way it held the apple in its tiny hands so carefully. If it was a hamster it would’ve been a sweet sight to see, but for some reason the sight of a rat doing it wasn’t as cute. Still, the grimace melted away as you watched Pippin finish his treat. Munson, while a pain in your ass, cared a lot about his friends, it seemed. Would Nancy have done such a thing for you if you had a pet die? Probably not. Not the thought occurred to you to replace her long lost cat either. And now here was Munson taking care of it in lieu of his late friend.
You sighed heavily. Munson was becoming more and more annoying. Or at least, finding out the good things about him was increasingly frustrating. Every time you were met with evidence that he really was a freak, he found a way to make it endearing—somehow always turning out to treat his friends better than anyone you’d ever known. Even you.
“That was kind of you,” you admitted. “I’m sure he was very touched by that.”
”Oh yeah,” Munson grinned. “He cried like a baby. It was awesome.”
You and Munson watched his pet run through the maze, taking turns hitting the shrinking cigarette of marijuana and talking about how rats were wrongly framed for the bubonic plague. By the third hit, you were starting to feel your muscles loosen significantly, and by the time the record started playing Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage, you were melting into the couch. Eyes drooping as they stared at the taxidermied bass on the wall, muscles feeling somehow heavy as lead and light as a feather at the same time, and your mouth hanging agape—your calves tingled pleasantly instead of the usual soreness from biking everywhere.
“Eddie?” you questioned hoarsely, your throat stinging from the unfamiliar smoke. You turned your head to see him with raised rows, his arms tucked comfortably behind his head as he reclined in the chair. “I think I’m high,” you whispered.
Eddie laughed loudly and boisterously, showing the sharp points of his canines and the dimples in his cheeks. He had laugh lines too. Deep ones, you noticed. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I think you are. How’s the pressure in your chest? Still feels like a fat kid sitting on you?”
Sweetheart. You quite liked the sound of that when he didn’t say it in the usual condescending way. You looked down at your boobs to see if the ever present squeeze around your heart was suddenly visible. Nothing was there--visibly or otherwise.
A sloppy grin slid across your lips. “Gone.”
“Mine too,” he smiled.
The grin on your face grew more and more lopsided the longer you stared at him. He was really cute in an odd sort of way. Big, round eyes that shone a rich umber in the sunlight. You liked how kind he looked when he smiled instead of sneered. His hair could do with some deep conditioning—always looking dry and frizzy—but you imagined he could have pretty, coily curls if he took care of it properly. He was lithe and muscular too. Youu noticed when he had his shirt off, but for some reason the way the muscles of his forearms flexed made your chest warm and bubbly.
Oh god.
The longer your eyes roamed over his body as he hummed alone to Pink Floyd, the farther south that heat traveled until it nestled between your legs—a sensation you hadn’t felt in quite some time.
No. Absolutely not. Not over Eddie Munson!!
It was the weed. It had to be. There was no other reason you were turned on right now. At least not by him! He was loud, irritating, good to his friends, and cared if you rode your bike alone—
“No!” you blurted accidentally.
Eddie looked at you with wide eyes. “Don’t like this song or something?”
Drooling slightly from having your mouth open, you shook your head and waved him off dismissively. You didn’t want to tell him what was on your mind. Instead you demanded in sleepy slurred speech he put on an ABBA album.
“‘Fraid you won’t find anything akin to that in this house,” he scoffed. “Zeppelin will do just right though.”
You ignored him and tried not to watch the way his jeans hugged his butt when he stood before you to change the albums. With eyes clenched shut to keep your brain from admiring the length of his legs, you fell asleep before the first song began.
Dreams didn’t come—only whispers and noises from the room around you. You hadn’t realized you fell asleep until Eddie was shaking you awake by the shoulders.
You opened your eyes, trying to blink yourself into consciousness. Your vision was cloudy and your head was throbbing. Not to mention your mouth was fuzzy and dry—as if you swallowed a mouthful of sand.
“Time to get you home before the sun goes down,” he said, tossing a wash rag over your face. “Got a little something…everywhere.”
You mimicked him, touching your chin, and choked as horror and embarrassment flooded your veins. You quickly wiped away the river of drool sticking to the bottom half of your face.
Eddie slid his leather jacket on and waited for you to stumble from your spot on the couch. Your legs—once tingling and floating—now felt foreign and unstable. Munson snickered as you tripped over your own feet toward him, but he graciously caught you by the elbow and held your coat out to you.
“Easy, Tiger. That’ll wear off in a bit,” he said.
The cold air of the evening felt great on your warm cheeks, though you were still disoriented. Everything felt like it was lopsided and no matter how much you tried to straighten up and clear your head of the fog, nothing seemed to bring your senses back.
That is, until Munson heard your stomach rumble on the way to your house. He laughed loudly and pulled into the town’s only McDonald’s. Food sounded disgusting, but when the smell of deep fried food hit your nostrils and Eddie ordered two apple pies, two large fries, and two Big Macs, you were having to actively stop yourself from drooling again.
“And vanilla ice cream,” you hissed at him as he ordered through the speakerbox. “To put on top of the apple pies.”
Eddie looked at you in shock. “Shit yeah, that sounds good! And two vanilla cones, please.”
When the heat of the Apple pie met the cold of the vanilla ice cream within the confines of your mouth a few minutes later, you were moaning at the delectable treat.
“Has McDonald’s always been this good?” you asked through a mouthful of food.
“No,” Eddie chuckled. “You just the munchies. But I’ll admit—this apple pie ice cream is fucking amazing! Can’t believe I never thought of this.”
Both of you sat in silence for a while, too busy shoveling food into your mouths like starved goblins to talk. It was a first that you had no care that you were both making a giant mess of crumbs, dripping ice cream, and soiled napkins all over his van.
When Eddie had only a few fries left, he spoke. “Feeling better?”
You thought about that for a minute. Your head still hurt a little and you hated the way your throat tickled, but other than that you were fine. When you shared this with him, he only chuckled.
“No I meant from whatever else was bothering you,” he said quietly.
You eyed him curiously before answering. “A little,” you sighed. “I didn’t get into the University of Chicago. I mean, I did, but not really. I’m on the waitlist.”
“That shits,” he frowned. “Guess you’ll have to go to Hawkins Community or something in the meantime.”
“No,” you said sternly. “I’ll go to Terra Haute before I stay here a minute longer than I have to.”
He grinned. “Love Hawkins that much, huh?”
You wiped your hands of filth and took a long drink before answering. “I’ve been thinking…do you know how many people in school have died in the past couple of years? Barbara Holland, Barry Berman, Billy Hargrove, Heather Halloway, and all the other people who died in the mall fire. Kyle Pendergast in that car crash. Will Byers going missing. That’s weird right? No other town has this much tragedy.”
Eddie nodded. “Yep, I uh-gree. But they do that on purpose, you know?”
Your brow furrowed. “Who?”
“The government,” he answered. “They put labs and dangerous weird shit out in places no one cares about so they can do what they want without repercussions. Who cares about lowly Midwesterns?”
Normally you’d chalk up this kind of talk to usual Munson conspiracy theories, but with Barb’s death, you knew he was at least closer than usual to the truth.
“You’re killing my buzz,” you announced, and began turning dials to the radio. “Bring back the fun. I don’t wanna think about that.”
“You’re the one the brought it up!” he exclaimed. “Hey, don’t touch that! You’ll jack up my tape!”
It took a lot of convincing, but Eddie let you listen to one song on the Squawk. You were sad that it was Bowie instead of ABBA but it was better than whatever hell music Eddie put on for the rest of the ride.
“This is music. None of that disco crybaby stuff.”
“ABBA is not disco crybaby,” you argued. “And neither is Bowie!”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” he smirked.
Fun. You were having fun with Eddie Munson. If Barb could see you now she wouldn’t believe it. Hell, you could barely believe it! Smoking weed, eating trashy fast food, and laughing with The Freak—it was the least ‘you’ thing you’d ever done.
And yet, for the first time in a very long time, you felt like yourself again.
——
Part 7
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