The fluorescent hum of the Hawkins High hallways was a constant soundtrack to your life, a familiar drone that usually propelled you from one A-grade class to the next. You were a creature of habit and excellence – every textbook opened, every note taken, every choir rehearsal attended with unwavering dedication. You were the quiet, kind face everyone recognised, the one who always had the answer, the one whose voice could soar with effortless grace, filling the auditorium with melodies sweeter than any summer breeze. You were, in essence, everything Eddie Munson wasn’t.
Eddie Munson, of course, was his own kind of soundtrack: a cacophony of ringing chains, stomping combat boots, and the thunderous, growling bass of a thousand unseen heavy metal anthems. He was the perpetual senior, a legend in his own right, known for his Dungeons & Dragons campaigns, his band Corroded Coffin, and his infamous 'freak' status. While you meticulously planned your future, Eddie seemed content to live fiercely in the present, challenging every norm, shredding every expectation.
It started subtly, as most significant things do. You don't know when the feeling started. Perhaps you were lingering by your locker, lost in thought, when his booming laugh from down the hall snagged your attention. Or maybe it was after a particularly gruelling choir practice, the last one out, when you found yourself passing the music room just as Corroded Coffin’s raw, untamed energy vibrated through the walls. You paused, just for a moment, captivated by the sheer, unapologetic passion.
One day, you were in the library, attempting to decipher a particularly dense passage of Shakespeare, when a leather-clad elbow bumped your table. "Whoa, sorry, angel eyes," Eddie rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft as he steadied a teetering stack of forgotten textbooks. He looked up, his dark eyes, framed by that wild, glorious hair, meeting yours. A startled laugh escaped you. "Angel eyes?"
He grinned, a flash of white against the dark, mischievous glint in his pupils. "Well, you're certainly no goblin glower, are ya?" He leaned against the table, completely unbothered by the stares. "What's got the resident brainiac looking so vexed?"
You, usually poised, found yourself flustered. "Just… Macbeth. It's convoluted." "Ah, good ol' Billy Shakes," he chuckled, picking up a copy of Paradise Lost from the cart next to him. "Heavy stuff. Needs a soundtrack, really. Something with a bit of a kick." You found yourself smiling, genuinely amused. "I don't think Milton had thrash metal in mind." "Probably not," he conceded with a shrug, "but imagine the drama! The fire and brimstone would really pop with a killer guitar riff."
That was the conversation that broke the ice. From then on, Eddie started seeking you out. He’d find you in the cafeteria, opting to sit with you and your usually quiet friends, regaling you with tales of band practice or a particularly epic D&D quest, his hands gesturing wildly, his voice rising and falling with dramatic flair. You, to your own surprise, found yourself drawn into his orbit, captivated by his energy, by the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about his passions. You saw past the chains and the bravado, glimpsing a sharp mind, a fiercely loyal heart, and a soul that just wanted to be understood.
And he, in turn, saw past your perfect grades and polite smiles. He saw the flicker of curiosity in your eyes when he talked about distorted guitar riffs, the way you tapped your foot almost imperceptibly to a beat only he could hear, the genuine laughter that bubbled up when he made a particularly outrageous comment. He saw the kindness that radiated from you, a warmth that seemed to thaw the perpetual chill he often felt from the world.
The feelings developed slowly, like a melody building to a crescendo. You’d catch yourself thinking about his laugh in the middle of a chemistry lecture, or wondering what wild story he’d have to tell you the next day. You’d notice the way his gaze lingered on you, sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, a softness in his dark eyes that belied his usual theatrics.
One blustery October afternoon, as you were gathering your sheet music after choir, he appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, looking every inch the rockstar, albeit one lurking in a school hallway. "So, uh, rumour has it, you're the voice of an actual angel." You blushed, adjusting your sheet music. "Don't be silly, Eddie." "No, seriously," he pushed off the frame, stepping closer. "Heard you sing at that assembly last week. Gave me goosebumps, man. Real ones." He held out his arm, showing you. You giggled, your heart doing a strange little flutter against your ribs. "You were at the assembly?" "Had to support the arts, didn't I?" he teased, then his voice dropped, losing its usual boisterous edge. "Look, uh, I was wondering… if maybe you'd wanna, you know. Go get a slice of pizza? Or, uh, catch a movie? Or, like, conquer a dragon in a desolate wasteland, maybe?"
You looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw the unexpected vulnerability in his eyes, the slight shift of his weight, the way his fingers fidgeted with a ring. He was asking you out. The Eddie Munson, the 'freak,' the loud, dramatic senior, was asking you, the A-star student, the choir girl, out. And you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was exactly what you wanted.
"I'd love to, Eddie," you said, your voice soft but firm. "Pizza sounds great. No dragons, though, not yet." He beamed, a wide, triumphant grin that made his whole face light up. "Excellent. Pizza it is, then. And who knows, maybe one day you'll be slaying monsters right alongside me."
Your relationship blossomed, a vibrant, unexpected bloom in the otherwise predictable landscape of Hawkins High. People stared, of course. The 'freak' and the 'angel' – it was an odd pairing, a juxtaposition that seemed to defy the natural order of things. But you didn't care. Not when you were with Eddie.
You adored his loudness, his dramatics, his unapologetic existence. You loved the way he would suddenly burst into a flamboyant monologue about the injustices of the school system or the genius of a particular guitar riff. You found yourself laughing more freely, speaking your mind more often, emboldened by his fierce individuality. You became his safe place, a quiet harbor amidst the storm of his own internal and external battles. You were the one he’d confide in after a particularly frustrating band practice, the one who would listen without judgment as he ranted about his uncle or the latest D&D campaign gone awry.
And Eddie? He completely and utterly adored you. He was always frantic for your touch, your presence. His hand would find yours in the hallways, his arm would loop around your waist, his fingers would play with strands of your hair when you were sitting together. He made you feel like a princess, a queen, the most magnificent creature to ever grace the earth. His compliments were extravagant, his affection boundless. "You're a goddess, you know that?" he'd whisper, pressing a kiss to your temple, making your cheeks flush. He actively encouraged your clinginess, pulling you closer whenever you leaned into him, murmuring, "Come here, angel. More. Always more." You’d melt into his embrace, feeling utterly cherished, utterly loved.
You loved it all. The contrast, the passion, the quiet moments stolen between classes when he’d just look at you with such an intense, loving gaze that it would make your breath catch. You were different, yes, but together, you were whole.
One day you woke up feeling like a truck had run over you, twice, then backed up for good measure. Your throat felt like sandpaper, your head throbbed, and a persistent cough rattled your chest. School was an impossibility. You called in sick, then crawled back under your covers, a miserable heap of sniffles and aches.
Usually, when you were sick, your friends wouldn't really notice. They were good friends, but busy, focused on their own perfect grades and extracurriculars. You never expected more. So when a tentative knock sounded at your front door just after lunch, you dragged yourself up, pulling your robe tighter, wondering who it could possibly be.
You opened the door, blinking against the autumn light, and there he stood. Eddie Munson, in all his leather-clad glory, looking distinctly out of place on your pristine front porch. He was holding a plastic bag, and his brow was furrowed with concern.
"Hey, angel," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Heard you were out sick. Figured I'd, uh, check on you. See if you needed anything."
You stared at him, genuinely stunned. "Eddie? You… you came all the way here?" The shock must have been evident on your face, because he immediately looked a little self-conscious.
"Well, yeah," he shrugged, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "Couldn't have my favourite person languishing in misery, could I? What kind of knight would that make me?" He reached out, gently pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. "Whoa, you're burning up, sweetheart."
A wave of warmth, far more pleasant than your fever, spread through you. He noticed. He cared. It wasn’t a casual 'get well', it was a genuine, full-fledged Eddie Munson mission of mercy. "Come on, let's get you back to bed," he said, gently guiding you inside. He surveyed your living room, then your kitchen, a sudden determined glint in his eye. "Okay, operation 'Kick This Bug's Ass' is a go. What's the damage report?"
You mumbled something about a sore throat and chills. He nodded sagely, already rummaging through your cupboards. "Alright. We need fuel. Sustenance. Something legendary."
Before you could protest, he was pulling out bread, butter, and cheese. "Grilled cheese," he announced triumphantly. "The ultimate comfort food. The warrior's feast."
You sank onto the sofa, watching him move around your kitchen with an unexpected domesticity. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tattoos, and his hair was pulled back haphazardly with a bandana he’d somehow produced from his pocket. He hummed a discordant tune as he buttered the bread, then expertly flipped the sandwiches in a pan, the smell of melting cheese filling your home.
When they were done, perfectly golden brown and oozing with warmth, he presented them on a plate. "Behold!" he declared, though his voice was muted, softened by concern. "The mighty grilled cheese. Guaranteed to restore your heroic strength."
He then did what you hadn't even dared to hope for. He sat down on the sofa, pulling you gently onto his lap. You rested your back against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart. He reached for a piece of the sandwich, breaking it into smaller, manageable bites.
"Open up, angel," he cooed, bringing the bread to your lips. You, feeling utterly regressed and childish but too weak to care, opened your mouth. He fed you, bite by delicious bite, his fingers occasionally brushing your chin, making your fever-warmed cheeks flush even deeper.
"This is… really good, Eddie," you managed, your voice raspy. "Only the best for my queen," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. As you ate, a particularly violent fit of coughing wracked your chest. You choked, gasping for air, feeling completely out of control. Eddie’s arms tightened around you instantly, his large hand coming to rest on your ribs, tapping a slow, soothing rhythm.
"Easy, easy, sweetheart," he murmured against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "Just breathe. You got this. I got you." His fingers continued their gentle drum against your side, a comforting anchor in the storm of your coughs. You instinctively melted further into him, letting his strength hold you steady, letting his presence calm the tremors in your body. His rhythm, his warmth, his unwavering presence – it was all you needed.
Once the coughing subsided, leaving you breathless and exhausted, you simply leaned back, your head against his shoulder. You felt small, vulnerable, completely undone by the illness. Normally, you were meticulous, put-together. Now, you were a tired, coughing mess. But Eddie didn't flinch. He just held you closer, pressing another soft kiss to your hair.
"Medicine time, I think," he said gently, reaching for the bottle of cough syrup he’d found in your bathroom cabinet. You groaned, the sound muffled against his shirt. "It tastes awful." He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "I know, I know. A true villain, that stuff. But you, my brave warrior, are stronger than any foul potion. Just a little bit, and you'll be one step closer to conquering this beast. Come on, my brave, beautiful angel."
His praises, his unwavering belief, even in something as mundane as taking cough syrup, made you feel like you truly could conquer the world. You swallowed the syrupy medicine, grimacing, and he immediately had a glass of water ready for you.
"Good job," he praised, like you’d just won an Olympic medal. "See? Strongest person I know."
You were tired, a little delirious, and definitely childish. You just wanted to burrow into him and stay there forever. He seemed to understand, because he didn't try to move you. Instead, he reached for the remote.
"How about a movie?" he suggested, flipping through channels. "Something mindless. Something that requires zero brain power from my brilliant, but currently malfunctioning, genius." He settled on some B-grade horror flick, knowing you usually rolled your eyes at them, but today, you just needed to be distracted.
You snuggled deeper, your face pressed into the warm curve of his neck. The scent of him – leather and old worn denim and a hint of something uniquely Eddie – was comforting beyond measure. Your fingers, almost on their own accord, found their way to his hair. It was a privilege only you were granted, this free access to his wild mane. His hair was soft, surprisingly so, and you threaded your fingers through the dark strands, gently tugging, twisting. He just hummed contentedly, leaning his head back against the sofa, letting you do as you pleased.
You rubbed your face into his neck, a silent plea for more closeness, more comfort. You wanted to be as physically close to him as humanly possible, to absorb his warmth, his strength, to draw sustenance from his presence. The movie droned on, but you weren't watching. You were lost in the tactile sensation of his hair, the solidness of his body beneath you, the thrum of his heartbeat against your ear.
After a while, he shifted slightly, his arm tightening around your waist. "You're a real little barnacle, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice laced with affection, a soft chuckle escaping him. "So clingy."
The word hit you with the force of a physical blow. Clingy. The fever-addled part of your brain, already riddled with insecurities from being ill and vulnerable, twisted the innocent, loving tease into something sharp and critical. He thinks I'm too much. He thinks I'm annoying. He thinks I'm a burden.
A fresh wave of tears, hot and stinging, welled up in your eyes. You squeezed them shut, trying to hold them back, but it was no use. A sob hitched in your throat, then another, and suddenly, you burst into uncontrollable tears, your body shaking.
Eddie stiffened instantly. "Whoa, whoa, hey! What's wrong? Angel? Sweetheart?" He pulled you away from his neck gently, turning your face towards him, his eyes wide with alarm and concern. "What happened? Did I say something wrong? Oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I swear! I love when you're close, you know that! Please, tell me, what’s going on?"
His frantic apology, his genuine distress, only made you cry harder. You were a mess, a tear-streaked, pathetic mess, and he was so beautiful, so kind, so utterly perfect, and it felt so unfair.
"It's not fair," you choked out, pressing your face into his chest, your voice muffled by his shirt. "It's just… not fair." "What's not fair, my love?" he asked, his voice a soft croon, his hand stroking your hair, desperately trying to soothe you. "You're too pretty," you sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush of tears. "You're just too pretty, Eddie, and I just… I want to always and always touch you. All the time. And I can't and it's not fair!"
He paused, a tiny gasp escaping him. Then, a slow, gentle smile spread across his face, a look of profound tenderness that melted your heart even through your misery. His eyes softened, shining with a love so deep it took your breath away. He started to coo, a sweet, soft sound that vibrated through his chest.
"Oh, my sweet, sweet angel," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your wet forehead. "You think I'm too pretty, do you? You want to always touch me?" He chuckled, a sound of pure adoration. "Oh, my heart. My absolutely beautiful heart. That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."
He tightened his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "You can always and always touch me, my love. Always. You are the only one, you know that? Your hands are always welcome. Your head on my shoulder, your fingers in my hair, your beautiful face right here, pressed against me. Always."
He gently lifted your chin, wiping away your tears with his thumb. "And you are never, ever too clingy for me. Never. You're my anchor. My safe harbour. My everything. The more you want to be close, the happier I am. So, you keep clinging, alright? You cling as hard as you want. I wouldn't have it any other way."
You let out a shaky breath, your tears slowly subsiding, replaced by a profound feeling of being deeply, utterly loved. You buried your face in his neck again, no longer crying, but just soaking in his warmth, his scent, the absolute, undeniable truth of his words. He was your Eddie, your magnificent, loud, dramatic, beautiful Eddie, and he loved you, even when you were sick and snotty and childish and demanding to always touch him because he was too pretty.
He stroked your hair, pressing slow, lingering kisses to your temple. "Rest now, my love," he murmured, his voice a lullaby. "I've got you. Always."
And as you drifted off, nestled safely in his arms, the comforting rhythm of his hand on your back, you knew he did. You knew you were home.
