eddie munson dramatically puting a knife to his heart and literally throwing himself to the ground to make chrissy laugh he’s my bestie my beloved i would die for him
i desperately need them to make a big deal out of will meeting eddie
like, eddie and those theatrics of his as a plot device to help make it clear that even though mike’s been distant, he definitely hasn’t forgotten about him. i’m thinking like, a bow, hand to the heart, the whole deal. eddie’s like “will byers!!! will the wise!! the artist!! the legend!!” and obviously, the classic: “little wheeler won’t stop talking abt you :)))”
So I’ve been thinking and (knock on wood) I’m pretty sure Eddie is gonna die. I mean there’s been a lot of hero talk surrounding him.
On the last day of the D&D campaign he says “Don’t try to be heroes. There’s no shame in running.” Then later runs away (rightfully so) after the whole Chrissy thing. He spends the entire show so far running away or at least being the most hesitant person of the group to do anything heroic.
“So I uh did the thing that I do now apparently. I ran.”
I think he’s going to die saving one of the gang.
Eddie Munson is not going to run, he’s going to become the hero.
summary:reader hooks up with Eddie, seemingly out of character for her, and accidentally steals his shirt.
warnings: 16+, a lot of swearing, kissing, suggestive dialogue, also they’re both seniors so I wrote it as them both being 18.
word count:2.6 k
a/n:yes, I know I basically fell of the face of the earth, but I binged st4 and this idea just immediately popped into my head because I’m so down bad for Eddie.
_______________________
If you ever told me that I would be in the back of a van, musty with the stench of old weed, I’d laugh. If you ever told me that the van in question belonged to Eddie Munson, I might have thought you hit your head on concrete to make you come to such a conclusion.
But no one’s telling jokes. And no one has a concussion.
I am, in fact, with a conscious mind, hooking up with Eddie Munson in the back of his beat-up van while the remnants of some of the senior class are sitting around a bonfire. Or doing what I’m doing, but with someone who isn’t him.
An array of cloth and blankets, which are more loose threads than actual blankets, are scattered under us. What a gentleman. The fabric scratches against my bare leg. Part of me wonders if these blankets are in such a condition from other sexual escapades. Or maybe he is just terrible at keeping his things neat and tidy.
My head rests on the back of the front seat, and I feel the worn fabric against my scalp. The metal from his rings feel cold as his fingers slip under the back of my shirt. His breath is hot on my neck, and the rational part of my brain is screaming, ’what the fuck are you doing?’ but rationality has left the conversation.
His hair is silky smooth, and he smells of the bonfire that is still burning outside. He smells good. Woodsy, of pine, maybe cigarette ash, all things I usually avoid. But, I guess today I’m plunging headfirst into a sea of foreign territory.
I have never been one to do things half-assed.
He pulls away for a moment, his dark eyes like a pool of ash that was previously ablaze. There’s a gnawing at me to trace the tattoo resting under his collarbone, to ask him how it felt. His stare ignites me because I’m realizing that he’s hot, and I’m confused, and maybe I do have a concussion.
“Eddie!” Someone shouts from outside. I’m suddenly more aware of my surroundings, the rational part of my brain coming to the forefront.
That’s enough to pull me out from whatever trance I was in and start gathering my things, aiming to get hell out of here before I do something else that I might regret later.
“I can tell them to fuck off. You don’t have to go,” he says, grabbing ahold of my arm. His voice is low and raspy at the edges of the syllables.
He uses his free hand to brush my bangs away from my eyes. I instinctively shiver. Partially from the coolness of the metal decorating his fingers but also because I feel myself almost wanting to stay — haunting in itself.
Get a fucking grip.
Eddie and me, for a lack of better words, run in different crowds. Sure, our paths have crossed a couple of times. Emphasis on a couple. Not enough for him to leave a lasting romantic impression. But enough of an impression, nevertheless, for me to never have entertained the idea of us ever becoming an us in any sense of the word.
“No, no. I should go,” I rush the words, almost as fast as I slip my sweater back over my head.
And that’s how I left a shirtless Eddie Munson in the back of his stuffy van. So fast that he barely managed to get a word out, and I hoped to god he never will.
I don’t even bother to close the van when I hop out. My shoes leave a skid trail on the dirt from where I’ve slid across the ground.
Robin leans against a wooden fence, surrounded only by a few people, none of which served any importance to me at the moment. I quickly march over, grab her arm and pull her hard enough to let her feet stagger against the dirt.
“Let’s go,” I say.
She doesn’t ask any questions and I don’t offer any explanations.
•••
The video store opens at 10 a.m., and I know Robin is working the morning shift because she has complained about it for the past two days. And I think that I’ve gotten this Eddie situation to settle in my brain long enough where I just need to let it out.
I grab my bag that’s resting on the back of my desk chair, the straps falling limply over the edge. I hadn’t taken out anything from last night, and I’m sure there are clothes tucked inside that desperately need to be washed. I unzip the top pocket and begin tossing some things into the laundry basket laying against my door, or throwing them on my bed to be put away later; socks, headphones, a beaded bracelet, Eddie’s Hellfire Club shirt.
Wait. Eddie’s Hellfire Club shirt!? The same shirt he was wearing last night. I see a light smear of my pink lip gloss under the neck hemline.
“Shit, shit shit,” I curse repeatedly.
I can’t throw it in the laundry basket because someone will find it. If someone finds it, they’ll ask me about it. I’m great at lying but not that great at it. Mom goes through my room at least once every other day, and I think my safest option – to ensure my personal dignity – is to keep it with me in that bag.
I roll it up real tight and smush it to the bottom in the tightest corner possible. If I press hard enough, maybe it can disappear, or disintegrate, and I don’t have to think about what happened with Eddie Munson again.
Wishful thinking.
I throw open the doors of the small storefront at 10:05 a.m. Robin, obviously anticipating someone else, sighs loudly, bracing herself for the day to begin. Her features relax when she notices it’s just me, but that’s quickly replaced with confusion: furrowed brows, narrowed eyes.
“You’re up early,” Robin says.
I saunter up to the counter, leaning all my weight on my elbows, resting them on the surface. It’s sticky. I recoil and move a few inches over.
“So are you,” I reply.
She surveys me for a few moments, studying my expression. She knows something is off.
“You can tell me while I restock these videos,” Robin says, reading my mind.
She wheels a cart from behind the counter, nearly running over my feet. I follow her around the aisles: romance, horror, sci-fi. Robin tosses them onto the shelves, not in particularly neat stacks. She takes some time to peruse, picking up a few flicks to read the short synopsis at the back that usually no one cares to read in full. Robin acts more like a browsing customer than an employee.
I attempt to work up the courage to explain this situation in the most sensible way.
However, it comes out most unpolished. “I hooked up with Eddie Munson yesterday and I accidentally stole his shirt.”
Robin whips around, her shoulder knocking over a display of copies of Back to the Future. She doesn’t make any motion or intention to pick them up.
“You stole Eddie Munson’s shirt?” Robin asks, eyebrows raised.
“That’s what you’re focusing on? About ten hours ago his tongue was in my mouth, Robin. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
Behind Robin, a woman makes eye contact with me, quickly ushering her child away from the situation. I attempt a friendly smile, but she scowls as she walks away and out the door.
“You just cost us a customer,” Robin jokes.
“Steve will understand.”
A group of kids come crashing in, faces smeared with remnants of the slushies they are holding with sticky fingers. They run to the section of R-rated films, touching it with their blue raspberry, cherry, and berry blast-covered hands. They can’t be any older than twelve.
“Hey!” Robin yells. “I’m not losing my job over you twirps. Don’t touch those!”
Their eyes widen, but not before the herd of them charge right where Robin and I are positioned, which is conveniently near the exit. One of the kids loses his balance, sending his half-filled cup of flavoured ice sugar, that’s nearly melted, all over my shirt. Which, of course, is white. And now see-through.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, glaring at the little culprit. They disperse quickly, nearly falling over each other to push the glass doors open.
I walk back towards the counter, flinging my bag on top. I rummage quickly through it, hoping I didn’t take out every single item of clothing in there that could save me. The Hellfire Club shirt stares back at me, a little ball in the corner, taunting me.
Fucking Eddie Munson.
“Do you have an extra shirt?” I ask Robin, desperation riddled in my voice.
“I don’t think so.” She leans against the counter a few steps away from me, staring with a sympathetic gaze. I want to die.
“An employee shirt? Those little vests? Maybe Steve left a jacket or something behind?” I lay my hands on her shoulders, shaking her a little. “Any piece of fabric, I will take anything! I will wrap a scarf around my body and walk out of here with my head held high.”
Her lips make a thin line, and despite her feeling sorry for me, I know that she’s secretly amused. To be fair, if it was her, I’d think it was pretty funny. But this is the kind of funny story that we look back and laugh about in a few weeks time. Now is way too soon.
The door swings open again, and by the powers of the universe itself, it’s Eddie fucking Munson. What did I do to deserve this bad karma?
Though I am not an athlete, my immediate reaction is to hurl myself over the counter. I silently wince as I land on my knees. I don’t think he saw me. My bag tumbles with me and my keychain jabs me in the nose.
There are other voices, making me feel slightly relieved that it’s not just the three of us in here. Robin glides behind the counter and crouches down beside me.
“Thinking about joining high-jump?”
“Ha, ha,” I deadpan.
“You should just go talk to him,” Robin says. “You’re going to have to face him eventually. If not here, then at school, or maybe he’ll just drive by your house every day. Or ride his bike, like Duckie.”
“When did you watch Pretty in Pink?” I question.
“Steve,” we both say in unison.
I shake my head. “I’m not talking to him like this! Look at my shirt,” I gesture towards my chest specifically. “It’s practically see-through.”
“I mean, it’s not like he hasn’t seen it before.”
I narrow my eyes at her, hoping that if I stare hard enough, I can blow up her head. I smack her in the arm. She rubs at the pinkish hue, “Jeez, okay, don’t talk to him.”
“What am I supposed to say. ‘Hey, we’ve only talked twice, and the second time you were touching my boobs, so yeah, how are you?’”
“I mean, a little direct but laying it all out there, I like it.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Okay, now I’m staying here all day. You can deliver me meals via the trolly with that broken wheel. I can make a comfy home here.” I pat the black rug that’s speckled with multicoloured dots.
“Or you can get up when he leaves,” Robin offers.
“That too.”
“Like…” Robin peers over the counter, “he is right now.”
Thank God.
The fabric of my shirt is sticking to my skin. I feel gross. I’m going to have to take a shower when I get home. I peel it off quickly and dab the part of my chest that is still somewhat wet from the slushie.
Is this how Carrie felt?
Thankfully the side of the counter is blocked off by a sign advertising a new movie that I can’t bother to read the name of. I fish for the stupid shirt out of the bag, unroll the stupid fabric, and slip it over my head. And the stupid thing smells like him too, and I’m not put off by it.
I shoot up quickly, only to be met with Eddie Munson, who is not leaving.
“I’m never speaking to you again,” I say low enough so only Robin can hear.
He looks at me, his dark eyes looking a shade lighter in the daytime. His hair is fluffy as ever, and he toys with the ring on his index finger. He looks at me, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and then he smirks when he notices the shirt.
Fuck.
“So I’m going to be…” Robin trails off. “Not here.”
Eddie moves towards the counter like we are the last two people in a poker game and he thinks he has the winning set. But I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Though I want to slide onto the floor, crawl into a hole and die, I feign confidence.
“Nice shirt,” he says, smugly.
“This ratty thing?”
“You look good.”
I stare at him, attempting to figure out what his little game is here. You look good too, I think. “I know,” I say, instead. He laughs, and it’s smooth.
“So…about last night,” he coyly gazes around the room before his eyes settle back on me.
“You dreamed about me and realized you couldn’t live without me?” I smile, the cheesiest and fakest smile I can.
His eyes flick from my eyes to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Something like that.”
I bite my lip, hoping the pain distracts me from saying something stupid. Something that I shouldn’t say.
“I’ll give you the shirt back, just give me a sec,” I say, hoping that halting the conversation here will allow him to leave faster.
I bend down to pick up the white shirt, doused in a red cherry slushie-sized stain. I could probably get Robin to unlock the door to the employee break room.
He notices the stain, “Keep it.”
“No, I don’t want it.”
“What are you going to do? Strip in the middle of the store?” He chortles.
“I can do whatever I want, I don’t need your permission.”
“The public indecency charge will say otherwise.” I let my smile break with that one.
“Ah, she has a sense of humour.”
“Fuck you.”
“You almost did.”
“Not going to be making that mistake again,” I shoot back.
He presses his hand to his chest, his mouth forming an O. “Ouch, that hurt.”
“Sticks and stones, Munson.”
He walks closer to the counter, his arm resting on the surface as he leans his weight forward, close enough that I can make out the ring of honey in his eyes, the light pitter-patter of freckles haphazardly scattered across his nose.
“Free later?” He asks, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. The indentation of dimples in his cheeks deepen.
“Oh, you’ll have to try harder than that,” I say, peering at him from under my lashes.
Instead of protesting, he nods. He slowly backs away, like if he moves slow enough, maybe I’ll change my mind. I’ve already made up my mind, I’m just making the chase more fun.
Steve walks in then. He looks towards Eddie, who is now leaving, then to me, then to Robin, then back to me, and then back to the empty space Eddie occupied.
“What did I miss?” He asks, slowly, attempting to piece together the dichotomy of the situation he just walked in on.
