Disjointed: Twenty-Six

Disjointed: Twenty-Six

Summary: Jealousy is as fierce as the grave.

Word count: 8.4k

What to expect: Smut/Lemon (-18 kindly dni) Angst.

A/N: Howdy, friends. Welcome back! I hope you guys enjoy this one. Let me know if you do!

Special thanks to the hive for brain storming with me. Because this one was annoyingly difficult. ❣️

The new year in the surgical ward meant scut work for everybody. The only surgery cases coming in were from the emergency room, and even then most patients were trying to bargain their way into just being patched up until the later months once they paid off the newly reset deductible. No one wanted to pay for surgery without the little percentage that insurance covered once the out of pocket payment was met for the year.

With there only being an average of three cases a day, the idle nursing staff were responsible for the mind numbing task of taking inventory. All the instruments had to be counted, re-logged with their serial number, and reordered if there was any deficit. The same went for the supplies in the wing, such as soaps, solutions, dressings, and everything else under the sun a doctor may need during a procedure. The autoclaves, oxygen tanks, and other necessary equipment had to be serviced by the manufacturing company and given the bright orange sticker that signified a passed inspection and logged into a binder in case anyone from the state quality control agency came snooping.

The downside to this was that with six unoccupied nurses doing the same task for twelve hours in the morning shift, and twelve hours in the evening, everything had been completed within a few days. Dr. Erlich wasn’t too keen on paying six nurses to sit around and gossip about Fisher being caught with his pants around his ankles in the chapel with Delia, so Dr. Erlich made Beatrice reintroduce flexing.

At first, only working six hours a day made you worry about losing too much money, but when the check from all the accumulated overtime from December hit, the concern was quickly forgotten.

You had never received a check large enough to have a comma in it, so when you did all your financial worries subsided for just a second. Eddie wanted to blow it on a microwave, but you talked him out of it. Instead, the money went to a house full of food which Eddie said was the first time he ever got to buy name brand cereals instead of generic, and a couple pounds of top sirloin steak. Eddie looked too damn excited over slabs of beef to not give in to his plea, and when he pulled “Think of Wayne. A Sunday spent grilling steaks? It would mean the world to him,” it was impossible to deny him. Not that you were planning to anyway—he was so cute when he thought he was getting away with something.

The rest of the money went into the bank for a rainy day. Well, more like what you owed Steve for the tools, what Eddie owed the shop, what you both owed the hospital, a prom dress, and whatever incidentals that were flung your way. It fucking sucked being in debt. And no matter the cushion in the account, the thought of owing so much was a looming shadow over everything. Would saving the $1.87 difference between Chocolate Sugar Puffs and Coco-Puffs really matter much in paying off the collective debt total of over $10,000? Unlikely. Even so, the guilt of having a simple novelty weighed heavily on you once the rush of being able to “afford” such a thing wore off.

Eddie sure enjoyed having you home before him, and it felt almost like normal again. It was…weird at first to have him missing from the house after school. He often invited you to come to Gareth’s garage when he went to band practice. Sometimes you did, sometimes you didn’t—not wanting to be the clingy and annoying girlfriend loitering about. And without another girl to hangout with in the small garage, it was easy to feel that way.

Eddie having a job was even stranger. You drove him to work on Saturday mornings in his cute jumpsuit looking dangerously sexy, leaving you alone in the house until late afternoon when you went to pick him up, his idea to squeeze a few extra minutes together.

Having time to yourself outside of sleeping was totally new. As much as you loved him, Eddie being absent was kind of nice once you got used to it. He wasn’t around to ask for things he was either too lazy or too blind to see (‘Where’s the remote? Are we out of ketchup? I don’t see it in the fridge. Have you seen my bandana?’), nor did you have to sacrifice a sizable bite of food to what was known as ‘the husband tax’ when he got a peek into your cereal bowl. (‘Really, babe? I said a bite not a nibble.’) You could watch the TV in peace without Eddie’s constant commentary drowning out the actor’s line of dialogue, and you were able to explore your own body in a way you hadn’t since moving into your new home. Of course it didn’t feel quite as good as when Eddie used his fingers on you, but the ability to try without an audience or potential interruption made up for it.

Now that you were the one coming home early on the weekends when Eddie worked, you took over making dinner. You checked on the tenderness of the beef roast in the oven, hoping Eddie would like it. You had yet to find something he wouldn’t eat, but you feared the day was soon to come.

“Another hour or so,” you muttered to yourself after poking the hunk of meat. Checking the time to see when dinner would be ready, you hadn’t realized that you were supposed to already be on the way to the garage to pick up Eddie.

Though you’d rather he put off working and stay focused on finally graduating, you couldn’t help but be proud of him. He hadn’t skipped any scheduled shifts, nor did he show up late. He told stories of his coworkers. There was Travis, his son Trevor, Caleb, and an old guy named Scooter that left most of his brain cells back in the 1960s. Eddie seemed to get along with them, you supposed. He never said that he didn’t, nor did he come home bellyaching about any of them. Besides the time one of them microwaved fish for lunch and had the whole break room smelling like ass and a half for two days.

He had plenty of stories about customers who tried to bandage something in their car with the wrong part, laughing and snorting as he called them idiots. Much like when he talked about DnD, You honestly hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about, but you nodded and agreed with him wholeheartedly anyway. It was nice seeing him passionate about his work, and knowing that he was doing what he could to help shoulder some financial responsibility made you feel much more secure with him in a way you hadn’t realized you weren’t before.

It was also a real treat to see him sweaty, grimy, and tired from what Wayne would call a day of honest work. While Eddie was attractive in almost any state, seeing the skin of his taut biceps glistening with sweat and marked with smudges of motor oil was oddly alluring.

Pulling into an empty parking space, you quickly killed the engine and started to jog into the storefront. While the glass thermometer on the doorframe said it was 25 degrees outside, each inhale of cold air felt like a flurry of pin needles stabbing your nose and throat. It didn’t matter that you were in your warmest pair of fleece bottoms and winter coat—the few seconds of exposure had the chill seeing into your bones.

You sighed with relief as the warmth of the lobby met the skin of your frozen cheeks. The owner, a ginger bearded mountain man named Trevor, leaned back in his desk chair to peek through the open door of the office. Once he realized it was you, he gave a small wave, let you know Eddie was still messing around in the garage, and turned his attention back to his desk disappearing from sight.

Trevor was the only coworker you had been formally introduced to and it was awful. Apparently he thought Eddie was pulling his leg when he said he was married and no, it wasn’t a shotgun wedding since there wasn’t a teenage pregnancy involved. With those missing elements, Trevor believed Eddie was just talking out of his ass because why would a guy his age ‘saddle himself with a ball and chain so early in life without reason?’ The sentiment was insulting enough, but the fact that Trevor said it to Eddie in front of you like you couldn’t hear him was horrifically disrespectful. Eddie laughed awkwardly and made haste in ushering you out of there before anything else could be said.

The other guys you met only in passing—a wave from the van or in Scooter’s case, when he came to the car window to presumably introduce himself, but somehow decided reciting Ronald Regan’s entire filmography in alphabetical order was a better conversation starter. Another bizarre encounter Eddie had to intercept.

The wall adjacent to the garage was made of glass panels for customers (and likely Trevor) to see the progress being made in the garage. Eddie was at his workstation wiping down his fancy chrome set of tools before filing them away. It seemed no matter the weather, Eddie couldn’t be bothered to keep his jumpsuit on all the way. Though, at least this time he had on a long sleeved shirt to accommodate the cold before tying the sleeves of his canvas suit around his waist. You couldn’t help but smile at him. Hair pulled back just enough by his bandana to keep his bangs from his eyes, but allowed his wild curls to frame his smudged face, Eddie was as handsome as ever.

Unfortunately, you weren’t the only one to think so.

From seemingly out of nowhere, a slim woman no older than twenty-five with blue eyes and blond hair teased to high heaven sauntered into the garage, taking extra care to swish her hips with each step of her heeled boots.

You made no attempt to hide your eye roll. Who wears heeled suede boots when the street is filled with black ice? Was she asking for a broken neck just for the sake of fashion? The rest of her outfit made even less sense. Sheer tights covered her legs under a tight sweater dress with no coat or hat in sight. If you still worked in the ER, you felt comfortable betting money in seeing her skimpy ass on a gurney seeking treatment for pneumonia.

Your annoyance with her impracticality just to show off her body turned into full fledged anger when she stood next to Eddie, grabbing his wrist with a manicured hand and smiling up at him through her lashes.

The pathetic attempt at a pout on her cherry red lips sent your heart racing fast enough to where your chest began to ache. The hussie couldn’t have missed the ring on his finger, the one thing that damn near sparkled on his dirty hand, which of course happened to be the one she was grabbing. As soon as her thumb started to sweep over his wrist, a move you often did to him when you held his hand, you saw red.

Scoffing aloud to yourself, you marched toward the glass window pane with flared nostrils and a clenched jaw. Surely once she saw you smiling at her with eyes full of venom and flashed your ring at her, she would get the hint and take her paws off your husband.

But, as you neared the window, your own reflection pulled your attention away from your mission.

Where this mystery woman had styled hair, your own was tucked under a knitted beanie that Eddie’s big head outgrew long ago. Your puffy maroon winter coat made you look like the feminine version of the Michelin Man, not a full figured woman like her. Slimming sheer tights and heeled boots made your fleece pajama pants and no-slip work shoes look downright barbaric.

Actually, the longer you compared yourself to her, the more you realized you looked homeless rather than just homely. Your hands were dry and cracked from the cold and insane amount of times you washed your hands at work, and your face bore no makeup.

Rage melting into despair, you watched Eddie, still seemingly unaware of your arrival, nod to whatever she was saying with a lopsided grin on his face—big enough for one of his dimples to dent his cheek.

While you didn’t expect Eddie to shove her across the garage, you did expect him to at least look uncomfortable or try to weasel out of her grip. Maybe find an excuse to point out his wedding band and force her to acknowledge its existence. If he’d just look to the left and through the window, he’d see you standing right there. But no. He remained engaged in whatever conversation he was party to.

Your heart sank farther into your stomach the longer he remained in her grasp. The desire for him to wiggle away from her molded into the realization that maybe he didn’t want to. Though it pained you to say it, she was pretty, and if he looked at you at that moment, he would see that you weren’t.

You tried to tell yourself that you were being ridiculous, but you didn’t have enough time to complete the thought. Because when that woman curled his hair around her finger and giggled at him, you had seen enough.

——

No one ever accused Eddie of being a genius, but he didn’t have to be one to know you were mad. He could see it through the hazy mist from the garage as he pulled the door shut behind him.

He hoped it had something to do with work, but again it didn’t take a whiz kid to know that it wasn’t.

Eddie hadn’t seen you arrive or make your way into the warm sanctuary of the store, but he did hear you stomping back out to the car loud enough to wake the dead. He directed the customer that insisted on tangling his already matted locks with her eagle talons to Trevor in order to work out the payment—something she not so subtly tried to convince Eddie should be lowered—as he watched you climb into the passenger side of the Mystery Machine and slam the door so hard it made him worry about the window cracking.

If the stomping wasn’t a sign, you getting in the car that way certainly was.

It had become a bit of a game between the two of you when you came to pick him up. Once you saw him starting to lock up his box, you’d go back to the van and sit in the driver’s seat while he gave you enough time to do so. Then when he made his way over, he’d tell you to ‘scoot your boot’ and either offer you the easy or hard way out. ‘Easy way’ was him being charged 1-3 good kisses before you slid over to the passenger side. The ‘hard way’ was a smart smack to the thigh and Eddie trying to climb his way onto your lap until you relented and moved out of the way—still often followed by the same parameters as the ‘easy way’.

Maybe Trevor said something to you that made you mad enough to decide sitting in the car was better than waiting in the warmth. It wouldn’t be the first time Trevor said something stupid in front of you.

Preparing to hear about what his asshole boss said now, he climbed into the van and placed his tools on the floorboard behind the seat before attempting to smile at you.

“What did he do this time?” Eddie asked as he clicked his seatbelt into place.

Instead of looking at him and launching into a story about what went wrong in there, you clutched your arms tighter against your chest and looked out of the passenger side window.

“Helloooo?” he questioned, waving his hand around the side of your head. “I said, ‘what did he do this time’?”

When you still didn’t answer him or turn your head his way, he grumbled a ‘Guess I’ll just go to hell then,’ before pulling out of the driveway and onto the main road. He didn’t turn on his Judas Priest tape just in case you felt the urge to spill the beans, and got increasingly worried the longer you remained silent. By the time he passed the corner store three miles from the shop, he finally got a word from you.

At first he didn’t hear you, having spoken too softly for him to make out more than a syllable or two. When he asked you to repeat yourself, you once again didn’t speak any louder than a whisper.

“You’re mad because Trevor called you pretty?” Eddie guessed with confusion. “I can’t exactly hear you when you’re talking to the window.”

“She was pretty,” you replied a little louder.

“Who?”

You finally turned to meet his gaze with a blank expression. “The woman at the shop. Couldn’t have missed her, Eddie, she wasn’t but a hair width away from your face.”

He nearly swerved into the left lane when he snapped his neck to look at you with utter disbelief. Dumbfounded, he asked, “What?”

You rolled your eyes and went back to looking through the window.

Eddie kept staring at you as he wracked his brain for the reason behind the bite in your words, and only one possibility came to mind.

“You mean the chick with the she-mullet?” he questioned incredulously.

“I don’t know. Was there more than one girl with her hands in your hair today?” you snapped bitterly.

Eyes flickering between the road and what he could see of your hidden face, it took a second for the implication set in. When his brain made the connection, he started cackling.

“That’s what’s got steaming coming from your ears?” he chuckled. “Jealousy?”

When you didn’t respond, he laughed even harder.

“Babe, come on,” he continued to snicker. “You have no reason to be jealous of anybody, okay? You know I’ve only got eyes for you.” He leaned over to give you a peck on the side of your head, but you moved farther away from him.

Eddie smirked. “Really? Come on. Give me a kiss.”

You ignored him completely.

Eddie’s grin slipped from his face. With furrowed brows, he leaned over to try and catch your line of sight. “Hey,” he frowned. “You know I only have eyes for you, right?”

He was once again met with silence.

Pulling up to the stoplight, Eddie tried again. This wasn’t funny anymore. “Y/N. Please tell me you know that.”

Startling him with your sudden movement, Eddie’s eyes bulged as he took in your expression, scowling at him like he just said this most offensive thing you’ve ever heard.

“I don’t think even you know that,” you spat.

Eddie’s frown turned into bewilderment. “The hell does that mean?”

You huffed sharply before answering. “It means exactly what I said. How do you know? That you ‘only have eyes for me’?” The use of air quotations sent aggravation prickling through Eddie’s nerves. “You’ve only ever been with me, so you don’t know that.”

Eddie couldn’t be more confused as to what you were on about. When he said as much, you sighed in exasperation.

“I’m saying that you’ve only been with one woman. Me. You don’t know any different.”

“So? Who said I wanted different?”

“It’s like saying your favorite flavor is strawberry when you’ve never been offered any other kind. Once someone dangles a taste of rocky road in front of you, then what?”

Lost in staring at you incredulously, Eddie hadn’t realized the light had been green for several moments before the car behind him started to blare the horn in rapid recession. Eddie raised his hand up in a quick apology before accelerating. Though he should have kept his eyes on the slick road, he couldn’t tear his glance away from your angered glare and wonder if you were really putting down what he was picking up.

There was only one way to find out. Trying not to be offended, Eddie asked, “You’re saying I’m only with you because you’re the only girl who’s ever paid attention to me?”

“Am I wrong?” You challenged bitterly.

“Fucking—YES!” Eddie shouted angrily. “You’re absolutely fucking wrong about that!” Forcing himself to focus on the road, he kept his face twisted with fury. “Nice to know that’s what you really think of me. How would you know, anyway? I’m the only dude you’ve ever really been with. Are you only with me because I paid attention to you?”

“It's different for me,” you replied sharply.

“Why? Cause you had a ten second tumble with some guy in your friend’s car?” he spat venomously. “I wouldn’t exactly call that trying another flavor.”

You scowled at him. “No, asshole. It’s different because I love you more than you love me.”

Eddie’s foot slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road, surging both of you forward into the dashboard. For what felt like the hundredth time in the last few minutes, Eddie shrieked, “What? What did you just say?”

You couldn’t be serious. This had to be some sort of sick joke. Things had been fine. Better, actually, now that you weren’t as busy. He hadn’t felt this close to you ever—not before New Years at least. The phrase from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas often ran through his mind when he looked over your sleeping form at night—Heart growing three sizes and whatnot. He couldn’t have possibly gotten it this wrong.

“I thought you finished your period last week. Are you on it again? Because you sound fucking insane.”

“This whole time, Eddie, I’ve had to convince you that I want you. I’ve had to show you over and over and over that I choose you. I’ve been away from Hawkins. I’ve been to college. I have gone out on dates before you. I know you’re the one I want. Seeing that harlot all over you made me realize that you probably only think you love me because yeah, I’ve been the only one around.”

He wasn’t sure if it was because you were saying these things so matter-of-fact or that you looked like you truly believed them, maybe a combination of both. Whatever it was, his eyes started to sting from the pain of his heart breaking.

“And you got all of that,” he began with a croak. “From a chick with a mullet trying to get a discount on her oil change?”

Your bottom lip started to tremble, though Eddie could see your effort in trying to stop it. “Well. If not her, then I’m sure someone out there in the real world will turn your head.”

The sound of another blaring horn snapped him out of his thoughts, remembering he was just sitting in the middle of the single lane road. Eddie wiggled his nose in an effort to keep his tears from betraying him and hit the gas.

“You’re wrong,” he sniffled discreetly. “So very fucking wrong.”

The remainder of the short drive was as silent as a morgue. Eddie propped his elbow on the ledge of his window and leaned against his knuckles as he drove. He’d glance over at you periodically, but you stayed in the same position—whole body turned towards the passenger side door and pressed against it like a lifeline. Shoulders trembling every once in a while let him know you were crying though he couldn’t hear a sound.

He couldn’t decipher what he was feeling. Offended as all hell because you thought he was some loveless loser who will just take whatever he can get. Pissed off that you were treating him like an ignoramus that was too stupid to know what or how he felt. Aggravated that you would try to tell him to his fucking face that he didn’t love you the same as you did him. And most of all, devastated that you believed it.

He sighed heavily when he spotted the rusted sign for the trailer park. The irony was not lost on him that it was he who was usually on the other side of the conversation. Of the two of you, you were the sensible one. The one who kept things grounded. The one who managed the episodes of catastrophizing that took place every one in a while. Watching you believe wholeheartedly in something that couldn’t be farther from the truth was new to him.

He knew exactly what you were feeling since it had been a battle he often lost with himself, and unfortunately the subject of a few disagreements. He knew why he felt that way—He was broke, still in fucking high school at 20 years old, immature at times, and the best night of his week was playing a board game with a bunch of kids at least thee years younger than him—most not even old enough to drive a car.

But why would you think you weren’t good enough for him? And why was some random chick touching his hair against his will the catalyst? It’s not like he did anything wrong. He didn’ flirt, touch, or do something that could be perceived as cheating. So what the hell?

He fully intended to ask these questions once you were both at home and no longer at risk of holding up any more traffic. But when he pulled into the drive, you opened your own door and bolted up the concrete steps. He tried to catch up to you to at least open the door for you, but flung it open yourself and nearly took him out with it.

The house wasn’t as warm as the store front, but 60 degrees was far more comfortable than 25. His stomach growled at the smell of hot food wafting through the air, and he quickly kicked off his boots to enjoy dinner.

He carefully approached you as you pulled a chipped ceramic pot from the oven, setting it down onto the coils of the stove. “What’s to eat?” He asked delicately.

You pulled off the mismatched oven mitts and threw them onto the counter with more force than necessary before mumbling, “Food,” and storming off down the hall.

Eddie rubbed his palm over his forehead as he watched you slam the bedroom door shut. He didn’t know how, but he was going to have to fix this.

——

Numb was the best way to describe your current emotional state. No longer upset, not angry, not even hurt. Just void of any and all emotions.

Though he didn’t believe you now, Eddie would realize you were, as usual, right. You were sure the more he hung around other women, the less he’d want to be with you. There were plenty of prettier, interesting, more feminine girls around that would love him. It was an easy thing to do.

Goofy, endearing, handsome, selfless, talented, and kind—these were only a few things that made Eddie one of the best people you’d ever met. Sure, he was fucking stupid at times and would get carried away with Dungeon Master persona around his friends, and by god did you wish he’d stop waiting until you were mid shower to burst into the bathroom to take a shit—but all that aside, he was without a doubt a good man.

It seemed unfair you were only a placeholder until someone better came along.

Buried under the cold sheets of the bed, you shuffled as close to the edge as you could. Trying to fall asleep as a way to escape your thoughts of him when you were surrounded by everything Eddie was nearly impossible. He was everywhere all the time—his scent on the sheets, random strands of his hair stuck to your clothes, the smiley face he drew on the top of your oxfords for work, the occasional hickey or too that had to be covered by makeup. You gave up on the idea of trying to drift into blissful unawareness and just blankly stared at the posters on the wall, not really seeing them.

Mindlessly picking at the singed hole in the gray sheet, likely from Eddie’s smoking days, you nearly jumped out of your skin when the door suddenly flung open.

Keeping your back towards the door, the scent of Irish Spring invaded your nose. You hoped he would go to the living room and watch Mork & Mindy or something, maybe fall asleep out there so you didn’t have to be near him right now.

But of course that didn’t happen. Instead of going away, Eddie’s weight made the lumpy mattress dip beneath him as he settled next to you. You rolled your eyes and burrowed deeper under the blanket.

“Why?” He asked aloud.

“No,” you answered simply. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Well that shits because I do,” he argued. “You had your time to mope. Now let’s fix it.”

Sneering, you replied “There’s nothing to fix, Eddie. Just drop it.”

He sighed and shuffled around. “You know I do have eyes right? You’re not the first girl I’ve ever seen, and I’ve talked to other chicks before, too. Just because I never did anything with them before you doesn’t mean I saw you and went ‘Wow. She kissed me and now she’s topless. I’m never gonna have this chance again. Can’t let her go.’”

You scoffed. “That’s not what I said—“

“Yes, it is!” he snapped. “You’re making it sound like you’re the only chick to ever look me in the eye and that I’m fucking desperate. And I’m not.”

Electing to ignore the point he made, you said, “I know you have eyes, Eddie. That’s what I’m saying. You’ll see someone prettier and that’ll be it. You’ll come home reminding me that this was supposed to just be for the insurance anyway and that we can still be friends later even though we both know you won’t mean it.”

“Why do you suddenly think I’m gonna run off?” he asked. “You’ve never thought that before—that I know of at least—so what the hell makes you think that now?”

True, you never considered it before. But you also never saw anyone else give Eddie the kind of attention you did. You didn’t think you had any competition since it has always just been the two of you and a bunch of dudes, save for Robin and Nancy. But seeing someone better looking at him the same way you do…

You rolled over onto your side to face him and propped yourself up on our elbow, unknowingly mirroring his exact position. He hadn’t bothered to put on anything other than his boxers, letting water droplets from his wet hair slide down his chest and arms—a sight that made your frown deepen.

“What do I look like to you right now?” You questioned.

Seemingly irritated, he ran his eyes over your body and shrugged. “Annoyed?”

“I’m serious,” you deadpanned.

“So am I!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know what answer you’re looking for! Cold? Comfortable? Like you’re ready to go to sleep?”

You huffed. “How about like I should be begging for change at the stoplight on Main?”

The corner of Eddie’s mouth ticked up into a small smirk. “You’d make a pretty sexy panhandler.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Eddie, just stop!” You shouted angrily, throwing your hand up in Exasperation.

Eddie threw his head back and let out a frustrated groan. “Can we stop playing guessing games? Just fucking tell me what your damage is. Since when have you not believed me when I call you sexy?”

You studied his disgruntled face with equal agitation. “You didn’t move!” You yelled. Flinging yourself onto your back and crossing your arms over your chest, you continued. “There was another woman with her hands on you and you didn’t move.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Uh, well, she’s a customer so I can’t exactly suckerpunch her in the throat,” he replied sarcastically. “And I did move after she grabbed my hair. Actually had some of it pulled out ‘cause it got stuck on those beads or whatever she had glued to her nail.” Eddie wiggled closer so he could look you in the eyes. Brow furrowed, he said, “I get being jealous, but I don’t understand why you think some random chick is gonna all of a sudden whisk me away.”

“I told you,” you spat. “She was pretty.”

“And you’re not?” he challenged.

Attempting to keep him from seeing the pained expression on your face, You looked away from him and directed your gaze towards the hand drawn Led Zeppelin poster on the opposite side of the room without answering him.

Eddie’s annoyance fizzled into concern as his face softened. “Wait—seriously?” he questioned with disbelief. “You really think that?”

You scoffed at his dismissive tone. “My hair is always in a bun or ponytail. I’ve had the same clothes for the last two years. My hands are about as smooth as sandpaper and look like they belong to an old man. Wouldn't even know how to stand up in a pair of heels let alone walk in them. Probably smell like bleach and guts all the time from work.” You wiped away the rogue tears that seeped from the corner of your eye and sniffled. “I’m about as glamorous as a fucking turnip.”

Unable to keep the sob at bay any longer, you turned your back to him once again. Or at least attempted to. Eddie wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you with him towards the middle of the bed despite your verbal insistence through throaty sobs to just leave you alone. You didn’t want him to lie in an attempt to make you feel better. You knew you weren’t going to be like the girl from the shop, or as cute as someone like Nancy with her permed hair and stupid round bambi eyes.

“Hey. Hey. Stop,” Eddie demanded softly as he fought against your determination to get away from him. He managed to get you on your back, and cage your head between his elbows as he braced himself on his forearms. When you tried to wiggle away, he put more of his body weight on yours. “Look at me.”

Hiccuping, you tried to calm yourself down enough to oblige even though you really didn’t want to. He wiped the wetness from under your eyes and cheeks, and even went as far as wiping your nose with his bare hand before wiping it on the sheet without a second thought.

“Gross,” you muttered quietly.

Eddie ignored your comment and rested his forehead on yours, forcing you to look at him, though you were fairly certain that you were now cross-eyed as well as snotty and tear stained.

“Wanna know what I think?” He asked gently.

You sniffled and cleared your throat. “Not really.”

Eddie chuckled lightly. “Well, too bad, because I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

He leaned on his arm so he could free up his other hand to grab yours. Bringing your fingertips towards his mouth, he places soft kisses to each one.

“These hands are beautiful because,” he paused to turn your palm over to pay equal attention to your knuckles and wrist. “They heal the sick and wounded. Create kick ass food. Keep mine company. And hey, the hand jobs are pretty stellar, too.”

That earned a watery chortle and an eyeroll from you as you tried to pull from his grip. “Just what I always wanted to hear—“

“I’m not done,” he scolded, lacing his large fingers between yours and placing a final smooch on the back of your hand. His lips traveled up your arms in a session of gentle kisses until he made his eyes level with your again.

Pressing his lips on your forehead, he continued. “The brain you got in here could make us millionaires if we got you on Jeopardy. Got a lot of knowledge, wicked ideas—I mean wicked as in cool—and wit sharp enough to carve glass. Oh, and the crinkle right here you get when you’re scowling at me? I know I’m not on your nerves until I see It.”

He made sure to give every bit of your body a visit from his lips. Saying your eyes were his favorite color and he loved the way they lit up with joy over small things—like when you noticed the dishes were washed and put away. He claimed your cheeks were perfect real estate for raspberries and made sure to gift one to each side before adding, “oh and here, too,” and burying his face in your neck to provide another. He smiled at the quiet laugh you let out at that.

Stroking your bottom lip with his thumb, he grinned. “Gorgeous lips, devilish tongue that you most certainly have used for evil on me, and the voice of an angel.”

“You're so full of it,” you said bashfully.

“Full of love,” he jested with wiggled eyebrows.

You leaned in to press your lips to his, but he pulled back. “No can do, sweetheart,” he shook his head. “Cause if I do that I’m not gonna be able to finish my guided tour.”

You wanted to argue with him that he could indulge just a little, but he refused and continued his journey down your cloth covered chess.

“You’ve got to know how much I love my girls,” he said. Propping himself up on his elbows to get a good handful, he stared at you with his mouth agape. “You came to work in the freezing cold with no bra on?” he said gleefully. “Fucking hell you’re gonna kill me.” Not bothering to lift your shirt up, Eddie’s tongue went to work.

Despair was rapidly morphing into desire at the sensation of his teeth gently scraping across the sensitive flesh—the texture of the cotton adding extra stimulation. Closing your eyes to get lost in the feel of it, you hand found refuge over his kneading one.

He moved on faster than you would have liked, giving attention to your sternum. “Got a good heart, too. Loves pretty hard when you decide someone earned it. Damn sweet if you ask me.”

Though initially brushing off his attempt to make you feel better, it was starting to work. He lifted your shirt to give two well placed hickies above your belly button to make it look like a face with an open mouth. Snapped the waistband of your lounge pants and said that they were his favorite because your ass jiggle like jello with every step you took while wearing them.

Despite the countless times you’d been wrapped around him, being under his adoring scrutiny had an element of discomfort that he seemed to ease away with the delicate trace of his fingertips along the way.

He skipped over where you really wanted him, once again citing he’d get to it at the end so he could remain on task. Sliding your pants and underwear slowly down your thighs, decorating them with feathery kisses along the way sent your chest heaving with ragged breaths. Eddie’s lips dusting lightly over your knees, caressing your permanently sore calves in the way he knew you liked as he continued toward your ankles was becoming more and more dizzying.

“Ew, don’t kiss my feet!” you exclaimed through giggles when Eddie got too close to your toes.

“Why not?” he mused, ignoring your request completely. “I think they’re cute.”

Mouth tickling the tops of your toes, you winced and wiggled until he pulled your pants off completely and repeated the journey up the other leg, grazing over your belly again, and adding an afterthought when he got to your other hand.

“How could I forget? These hands are also willing to cut people who’ve tried to kill me so that’s a nice perk, too,” he smirked.

Settling his hips between your thighs and nudging his nose against yours, he asked quietly, “Now that I’ve told you how beautiful you are, can I show you?”

A small frown tugged against your lips. The issue wasn’t if he loved you now, but later. When you expressed this to him, Eddie sighed and cradled the side of your face, thumb gently caressing your cheek.

“No one is gonna take me away from you. Not now, not in ten years when all the twizzlers I’ve ever eaten start to catch up with me, not when I’m fifty and graying. You have to trust me on that,” he said sadly.

That was rich, coming from him. How many months had you spent telling him the same thing? “And you?” You retorted with a raised brow. “Do you trust me that I’m not gonna high tail it alongside some jerk with a scalpel? Or hop on his tour bus when Mellencamp comes back for his other knee replacement?”

He snorted. “Since I know for a fact you think he looks like a foot, I can confidently say John Mellencamp doesn’t worry me.” His thumb trailed down to your bottom lip and lightly traced over it. Voice losing all humor, he said, “I know it’s taken a hot minute but yes, I do trust that you’re not gonna disappear on me.”

The tension that seemed to have been there since christmas, or maybe even before, eased away completely. Eddie must have sensed it too, because his faint smile grew a little more lopsided. “Let me show you.”

He was so gorgeous with those big round umber eyes and downright kissable lips. Tucking a piece of his drying hair behind his ear, unable to hide the smile that spread across your face at the shudder Eddie gave when your fingers brushed against it, you gave a small nod of approval.

Light as a feather, Eddie slotted his lips against yours as he continued to cradle your face. You slowly moved your mouth against his, slinking your arms around his bare back and relishing in the weight of his body fully pressed against yours.

Parting long enough to remove your shirt, he last article of clothing for you, Eddie kicked off his boxers and went right back to where he was—the heat of his cock brushing against our center. You tried to slide your hand to grasp him, but he pulled your hand away, interlacing his fingers with yours and held it by your head firmly against the mattress.

Eddie took the whine of disappointment as an opportunity to lick into your mouth. Tongues curling around each other, your breathing became more and more ragged. The warmth from his body, the feel of his chest brushing against your peaked nipples, his hot breath fanning across your cheek with each exhale from his nose was intoxicating and banished all thoughts from your brain.

Trailing his mouth down your jawline and finding a new home in the crook of your neck, electric jolts pulsed through you as he rolled the flesh there between his teeth, nibbling and sucking hard enough to surely leave a mark. In desperate need of friction, your hips bucked on their own accord, sliding deliciously against his hardened length pressed against your center.

Though he groaned and panted against the other side of your neck where he was trying to give a matching mark, Eddie didn’t pay much mind while he worked on driving you insane with the placement of his lips, the rolling of your nipple between his fingers, and tickle of his breath on your neck. At least, not until the head nudged your sensitive button and made both of you gasp.

“Relax,” he whispered, returning his face level with yours. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Opting to acknowledge all intentions of that statement, you kissed the tip of his nose and whispered back, “I know.”

His mouth found yours once again, languidly mounding to yours as his fingertips drifted down the side of your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake until he reached your knee and hooked it around his waist.

Your fingers began to ache with how tightly you were gripping his back. Feeling him poised at your entrance but making no effort to go any further was maddening. “Eddie,” you whimpered against his lips and opened your eyes to meet his. “Please.”

“Don’t close your eyes,” he instructed, lips still touching yours. “I want you to look at me.”

It was a struggle to do as he said—slipping in slow enough to be borderline torturous, but you obliged and watched his kiss-swollen lips open in a silent ‘O’ as he pushed himself in till the hilt, a simultaneous exhale fanning over each other’s face.

Eddie tightly gripped the doughy flesh of your thigh wrapped around his waist as he steadily rocked his hips against yours. He had never been this delicate before—this slow—and it was wonderful. Taking the time to fully enjoy each other without rushing to quench a primal need, feeling the goosebumps erupt across his skin as you slid your hands down his back, memorizing the flex of every muscle. His thrusts were slow yet powerful, taking your breath away with each bump against the spot within you that only he could reach.

With foreheads touching, noses nudging, and lips skimming in the ghost of a kiss you each inhaled the other’s moans and gasps, the breathless “I love you”s and sigh of each other’s names. Taking what the other gave and breathing as one.

Complying with his command to keep your eyes on him was becoming more and more difficult. Tummy tightening from the tantalizing friction of the coarse patch of hair on his pelvis grinding against your clit was pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Eddie slid his arm under the small of your back, angling your hips in a way that shattered the coil in your belly almost instantly.

Eddie wasn’t far behind, sliding his tongue against yours in a sloppy kiss as he groaned through his release while you mewled through the aftershock of yours.

Sweat slicked chests heaving in unison, you didn’t break away from Eddie’s kiss until the pulses of pleasure subsided. He rested his head in the crook of your neck, catching his breath and preening at your touch as you happily carded your fingers through his hair, peppering his shoulder with kisses and reveling in the salty taste of his skin.

There wasn’t a more perfect moment than this—being held tightly against Eddie’s naked body, the ache in your abdomen sated, all doubt of being inadequate now or later were long gone. This memory would be your first line of defense when the voice of doubt decided to make itself known. Eddie loved you with everything he had: body, mind, and soul. There was no way to part without losing half of himself, or taking half of you with him.

“Okay,” you hummed in content. “I believe you now.”

“Good,” he replied. “But I must warn you, if you ever say I don’t love you like you love me ever again…I don’t know what I’ll do but that shit hurt. Probably keel over and die honestly.”

You frowned at the recollection of your foolish words. “I’m sorry. You’ll be glad to know you convinced me otherwise.”

Eddie pulled his face from the refuge if your neck and rested his head on his propped up palm, his other hand fiddling with the opal pendant between the valley of your breasts. “Yep. I love you even though you lied to me.”

You blinked at him in shock. “Lied to you?” you repeated harshly. “When the hell did I lie to you?”

“So I’m in the garage working on your rickety Nissan and I’ve got the stereo on. A Lesson in Violence is playing and I’m certain I’m in a dream because goddamn it you keep surprising me. And then, all of a sudden, I hear this opening riff to a fucking Ratt song!” he scoffed. “The woman who has claimed for years that she hates hair metal has Lay It Down on a mixtape. A mixtape with Exodus on it no less! Total treachery.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to bite back the smile of being called out. “It’s one song, Eddie. And it’s a song that makes me think of you! It’s not like I’m gonna go out and buy a copy of Out of the Cellar.”

Eddie deadpanned. “I’m disappointed you can even name an album of theirs.”

“How do you know I was right unless you know it, too?” you challenged with a smirk.

Eddie dodged the question. “Want me to ask Gareth if you can borrow Pyromania? I’m sure he’d lend it to you if you asked real nice.”

“You’re the one that was learning Def Leopard songs, not me,” you teased. “I like one Ratt song! I don’t tease you for liking Woody Guthrie or Hank Williams, good lord.”

“Hey, you hush,” he replied, flicking your sternum. “I never said I didn’t like country. I’ll own my obscure tastes instead of hiding them like some dirty secret. Besides, do you think Wayne owned any other 8 tracks besides Waylon—“

Eddie’s train of thought was cut off by a loud bang that sounded way too close to the house for comfort. He looked at you with a furrowed brow, silently asking if it was his imagination or if you heard it too. You both remained silent, staring at each other for reassurance as your ears strained to hear for any more noise. Sure enough, you heard a muffled clang and felt the trailer rattle.

“Someone’s in the house.”

————————————————————

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roommates [chapter 2]

modern!eddie munson x fem!reader

series summary: Eddie Munson broke your heart once. Now, you have no choice but to move in with him. chapter summary: Moving in, you realize Eddie has changed in more ways than one. You reminisce about that night. warnings: 18+ cussing, angst, sort of enemies to lovers lol; lmk if i missed anything word count: 3,4k a/n: part 2 loves!! let me know what you think i'm nervous about this chapter! LOVE YOU ALL tysm for the positive feedback *mwah* inspo for eddie's tat from here ps! i'll only be taking 50 tags this time, and it's pretty full already.. 31/50 oops

chapter one ↡ masterlist ↡ askbox

chapter two ♫♪♩·.¸¸

It was almost 3am when you made it to Eddie's place. You took an Uber since Eddie claimed his precious baby, aka the shitbox van he still had, was at the shop until tomorrow, or today in this case. Eddie flipped on the lights and waltzed in, his arms open wide as he twirled around the living area.

''Tada!''

You were pleasantly surprised at how nice his place was. It was a bit messy, like he said, but you immediately felt drawn into it, intrigued to dive into the place. It was Eddie's and this was an unfiltered look into who he was today.

The living room was airy, a beige loveseat with an array of random throwpillows that didn't match each other at all in front of the TV, a a slightly dusty glass coffee table sat in front of it, topped with an unwashed mug and half empty glass of water, with a colorful Aztec rug underneath. The kitchen was white and modern with all the necessary appliances, sat against a natural red brick wall that made the space look cozy and warm. The only bathroom you were to share with Eddie was smaller than the one you had before, but big enough to fit a single sink vanity, a round mirror on the wall, a shower with a glass door and a small, but comfortable clawfoot tub. You noticed a couple shampoo bottles on the floor in the shower, along with a loofa hanging from the shower faucet. Ending in the bedroom that would be yours, it was accentuated with a king size bed, two nightstands on either side, with a big closet and a smaller dresser. It was probably the only room in the apartment that felt lifeless at the moment, you couldn't wait to transform it into your own space. Before you went to turn around, you noticed the door to the adjacent room was cracked open. It must have been Eddie's, you could only make out a few posters on the wall and a candle sitting on a nightstand, next to a bottle of lotion and a box of tissues. Gross.

Overall, you gave it a solid 7 out of 10. It was definitely an upgrade from the tiny trailer he used to live in.

''It's nice,'' you said.

''It's home.''

You nodded, hiding the yawn that tried to escape.

Eddie nodded his head towards the bedrooms and started walking in the same direction, you following suit. ''So, fresh sheets are in the dresser, towels are in the bathroom. I have a spare key lying around somewhere that I can give you tomorrow. For everything else, we can figure it out along the way.''

You nodded, holding your hands behind your back so he wouldn't see your nervous fingers rubbing against each other. ''Thank you, for this. It's only temporary, until I can get my own deposit together. Then I'll be out of your hair.''

''You don't have to thank me. It's the least I can do.''

You stopped, standing in front of the adjacent doors like the neighbors you now were. It's the closest you've been to him in a long time, both literally and figuratively. He was taller than you, in the best way, with the top of your head fitting under his chin perfectly. You braved to look up at him, finding him already looking down at you. He averted his eyes as soon as they met yours though.

''Okay.''

''Okay,'' he repeated, taking a step back. You gripped the strap of your bag and pushed your door open.

''Good night, Eddie.''

''Night.''

In the safety of your new room, all alone, you took a deep breath. You dropped your overnight bag onto the mattress and fetched out your favorite pajama set, changing into them. You placed your bag next to the bed and opened the dresser, finding your bedding. The pillowcases and duvet cover were easy, but the fitted sheet seemed to fight back every chance it got, slipping off one corner when you went to the opposite one. Groaning out loud for the millionth time, you went to try again when there was a knock on your door.

''What the hell are you doing? It sounds like a porno in there,'' Eddie's muffled voice came from the other side of the door.

''You wish. I'm just messing with the sheets,'' you shouted back, now on top of the mattress on all fours, pulling the sheet over the upper left corner. Gently, you held your hands in the air when it didn't budge and started to shimmy your way to the other side, when the sheet snapped back again and hit you straight in the face.

''Ow!''

''Are you okay?''

The door burst open, Eddie barging in, naked. Okay, he wasn't completely naked, he was wearing tight black boxers that left little to the imagination. You and Eddie never slept together in high school, but you did other things and you remember very well how his body felt against yours, or how warm he always was. You were crouched on your side, holding one side of your face, your mouth drier than the Sahara desert seeing Eddie like this. You'd never seen him naked either, only with his shirt off and you were right about him working out. His chest was more toned than before, his stomach rippled with the smallest dusting of abs, a sharp V line that you never noticed before, ending in the light thatch of hair on his abdomen that disappeared into his boxers. He had more tattoos too, he'd once shown you all of them. He had more smaller tattoos littered on his arms, just various simple doodles really. His right thigh was covered in colorful ink, starting from under his boxers and stopping above his knee. The one piece of ink that caused you to have a near aneurysm was the one below his belly button, three phrases all lined up under each other, like a tiny poem above his pelvis. Stark black ink, all capital letters.

TRUST ME LOVE ME FUCK ME

''Y/N!''

''Huh? What?''

Eddie was looking at you, brows furrowed, but his eyes held their typical mischief. He'd caught you staring, that was obvious. Even a blind person would notice that ogling.

''I asked if you were okay?''

''Y-yeah, sorry. Got hit in the face with the sheet, stupid thing won't hold down.''

Eddie snorted and held his hand up for you to grab. You took it hesitantly and he helped you stand up. ''Here, you get that side, I'll grab this one.''

Working together, you got the sheet on the bed in twenty seconds tops. You elected to ignore the way his back muscles rolled or how his thick thighs moved so smoothly, no thigh gap in sight.

''Are you working tomorrow?'' he asked.

''No, thank fuck.''

''Need me to tuck you in?''

''Goodbye, Edward.''

''Cute pajamas, by the way!''

Pushing Eddie out and slamming the door in his snickering face, you fell on the fresh sheets, barely being able to pull the covers up when you were already sleeping.

♡

Ten hours later, you were up and hauling in six boxes full of your personal belongings that you had retrieved from your old apartment. Eddie was still asleep when you left and you didn't want to wake him either. Last night was a set back for you, a mere hour after you swore to yourself you wouldn't fall for him again, you were wishing you had x-ray vision to see through those tight boxers. You blamed it all on being exhausted, you let your guard slip. Then again, that lower belly tattoo he had stayed with you all morning. He had always been a pretty guy in your eyes, but this... upgraded version of him was something much more obscene. He was his same self, personality wise, but that fact added with how good he looked in his almost mid twenties, how he carried himself with more confidence than ever before, was enough to kill a woman.

You were pushing a box of clothes across the hardwood floors, when the door to Eddie's bedroom opened, the sun from his room shining into the hallway. He was wearing pants this time, a pair of grey sweats so low on his hips, you could easily spot that tattoo again. No shirt, of course, but his messy hair was up in a bun, which you thought was cute. He'd never worn it like that. Eddie crossed his arms, leaning on the doorframe.

''Excuse me miss, are you looking for a big, strong man to help you with these boxes?''

''Yeah, you know where I can find one?''

Keening in victory, you grinned at his unamused glare towards you. Pointing your head toward the entrance, you told him about the last box.

''Thank you,'' you said, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. Eddie placed the last box next to your bed, grunting.

''Jesus, what do you have in here, a body?''

''Books,'' you deadpanned.

''Oh, what kind?'' he asked, looking around the room.

''Eh.. fantasy, romance, one Kamasutra book.''

Eddie's head whipped around so fast, his bun wobbled on top of his head. His already big eyes were ready to pop out any second. You giggled, which burst into a full belly laugh when he realized you were joking. He rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath, marching out of the room.

You busied yourself with unboxing everything. You hanged your clothes in the closet, lining your shoes up at the floor of the wardrobe, storing your bras and panties in the drawers of the dresser, leaving a couple bottom drawers empty. You stacked your new unread books on your nightstand, patiently waiting to be read. The room started to come together nicely - the dresser was topped with picture frames, one with your mom and the other with your friends at a night out, all looking at the camera with your glasses raised. The final box contained the last of your things, tiny items mostly. Your shampoo and conditioner, a make up bag, other skin care amenities, your bright pink vibrator, a gift from one of your friends, that you quickly stashed away into the top drawer of your nightstand.

Hours later, your things were put away, Eddie had gone to work, you had taken a 30 minute power nap and were now standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on your hips, lips pursed. Now what? It sounded silly, but until now, it hadn't even occurred to you that you now have to live with Eddie. He said you wouldn't see each other much, but you lived in the same apartment, thinking you would never see each other was just wishful thinking. You thought about just chilling in your room or watching TV in the living room, maybe read one of those books you bought. But looking around the place, it was clear that it needed a good clean. A deeper investigation into Eddie's fridge, cabinets and drawers indicated that you were headed for a long night.

Lucky for you, Eddie wasn't completely helpless, or perhaps they were Steve's input into the apartment, but you found a pair of rubber gloves, a sponge and a couple of cleaning products. You cleaned the fridge, throwing out an expired carton of milk and a moldy lemon, rearranging the items so they made more sense. The cabinets weren't that bad, so you only took everything out to dust the insides. You perfected the silverware drawer, swiped down the kitchen counter and every other flat surface you could find, loaded up the dishwasher and turned it on, fluffed up the throwpillows on the couch and with a strong finish, found a vacuum and swept the whole apartment, excluding Eddie's room. You stayed out of his room, feeling like you were violating his privacy, no matter how nosy you were. Or maybe that's what you told yourself, maybe you didn't want to take a peek because the last time you saw Eddie was in his old room, in his trailer he shared with his uncle. The day that he broke your heart.

It was a hot summer night, the brisk walk to Steve's house still managing to coat the back of your neck in a sheen of sweat. Late night on the 4th of July weekend, the streets were empty, most people still in town celebrating the long weekend. The closer you got to Steve's house, the louder the thumping music got, dulling out the chirping coming from the bushes lining the street.

Pushing Steve's front door open, you were instantly hit with a thick haze, cigarette smoke lingering in the air as nobody had bothered to open a window. Teens and barely legal adults were lining the hallways, dancing in the living room to your left and playing beer pong in the kitchen to your right while Michael Jackson's Bad boomed through the entire house. You were looking around for your friends, but didn't see any of them, neither did you see the wild haired metal head who had asked you to be his date for tonight.

You shot Eddie a quick text, asking where he was. Feeling silly still standing in the hallway, you pushed through the crowd, dodging a couple making out near the bathroom, ignoring the wolf whistle when you passed two guys sharing a cigarette. Clutching your phone in one hand, you used the other one to try and pull your skirt down, suddenly feeling alone and too exposed. You'd hoped to impress Eddie tonight, putting together an outfit you didn't usually wear - a Nirvana crop top with a dark green pleated skirt, black fishnets underneath, finished with a brand new pair of Dr. Martens.

In your - then naïve - heart, you hoped tonight would be the night he'd finally ask you to be his. You'd been going out for weeks now, hanging out in his trailer, studying together, driving around in his van. Eddie always sought you out in school, smiling when he found you at your locker. He'd kiss you every time he dropped you off at home, hold your hand when you navigated the endless rows at the library, buy you cotton candy at the annual fair, call you every night to wish you sweet dreams. Isn't that what boyfriends did? Even your group of friends had started asking questions, Robin specifically. What were you - friends, lovers, strangers?

You knew Eddie and his upbringing, which is why you never pushed him for answers. The timeless classic of 'what are we' always scared every guy off anyway. You figured he had a harder time coming to terms with his feelings. However, the more you spent time together, the harder you were falling for him. Hell, you'd already fallen off that ledge a while ago and you were only sinking deeper and deeper. He was Eddie, your Eddie. Sweet and thoughtful, the way he always hummed a song when you cuddled together in front of the small TV in his trailer. You always found it hard to fall asleep when he wasn't there, lulling you to sleep.

Nearing the back of the house, you could hear splashes and cheering coming from the backyard. Breathing a sigh of relief, you picked up your steps when the double doors came in sight. Before you could make it though, someone called your name and grabbed you by the shoulder, spinning you around.

''Woah, look at you!'' Steve cheered. ''You look amazing.''

Steve pulled you in a quick hug, swaying a little bit when he pulled back. You wanted to laugh, he looked like a drunk child, bobbing his head to the music, his hair even more fluffy than usual. His eyes were rimmed red, popping open a can of beer.

''Thanks, Steve-O.'' You pushed his chest, giggling when he grabbed your hand to steady himself. ''Where's Eddie?''

Steve looked over your shoulder, scratching the two freckles on his left cheek. ''Uh, he's here somewhere. Think I saw him going to the upstairs bathroom.''

Your stomach dropped, Steve only did that when he was nervous. Why was he nervous?

''You sure? I think I heard him by the pool,'' you challenged.

Quickly grabbing your arm, Steve started pulling you towards the kitchen. ''No, no, I think that's Carver and his boys. Let's make you a drink! You look great by the way, did I mention that?''

''Steve, stop. What's going on?''

''Nothing! Just want to make you a drink, come on. What'cha want? Bloody Mary maybe?''

Steve's grip on your wrist was firm, you wouldn't be able to just pull free. Falling to dirtier tactics, you mumbled a sorry before kicking him in the back of his knee, your arm being freed when Steve tumbled to the ground, grunting.

''Y/N, wait! Don't go outside!''

Shooting a quick look back, you quickened your pace when you saw Steve getting up from the floor, rushing after you. You rushed to the back doors, the squeals and laughter getting louder. Pushing through the doors, you stopped in your tracks by the edge of the pool. Eddie was in the water with his back to you, his shirt off, but you could see his black jeans through the wavy water, his arms around Chrissy Cunningham's bare waist, her bikini clad breasts squished against his bare chest. Her arms around his neck, legs crossed on his back, she hung on to him like a koala, head thrown back in laughter.

Your arrival had gotten their attention, Eddie's head turning towards you, the toothy smile on his face dropping instantly.

''Oh, Y/N, you look amazing!'' Chrissy gasped.

Eddie said nothing, did nothing, as the two of you just stared at each other, his brown eyes shameful while yours were filling with tears, blurring your vision. Your struggled to take a breath, feeling like your lungs had just been ripped from your chest, never mind your stupid, optimistic heart.

Steve sighed behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, pulling you away. He cleared the party, lead you to one of the guest bedrooms, helped you under the covers and stayed with you the entire night, sitting on the floor next to the bed, while you wept until the early hours of the morning. The next Monday, you saw Eddie near his locker, his head bowed when you passed him in silence. His left eye was blue and purple, top lip busted. Too hurt and tired, you chose to ignore Steve's bruised knuckles when you grabbed lunch with him that day.

It was always a weird game, thinking about the time you spent with Eddie. Your heart treasured the good times, but then your head caught up, slicing those thoughts in half and showing you the pain underneath. You remembered that night so vividly, having gone through the events in your mind more times than you could count.

Then you remembered seeing him at graduation. Flinging his diploma around, his graduation cap long gone somewhere with his busted white sneakers peeking out underneath the blue skirt. He was happily chatting with Wayne, who patted him on the shoulder and looked so proud of his nephew, his son really, that for that one moment you forgot about everything and let yourself be happy for him. That was until Chrissy came along, her ponytail swinging in the air and kissed Eddie on the cheek, their fingers touching. You would have gone over there and slapped that goofy look off of his face if it weren't for Robin and Nancy calling your name, causing Eddie's eyes to look up, his smile dropping instantly.

You were so mad at him, still are if you think about it longer than five minutes. Ever since then there has been a sick battle going on between your head and your heart, like you said. In your heart, you believed he felt something for you as well. Then your head comes knocking, telling you to look at the facts.

It's all true, your head said, he didn't like you, never really wanted you. You were a game to him.

You missed him at times, the boy that you once loved, who he used to be. Your first love and your first heartbreak. But what was once said and done cannot be undone. Maybe it was time to forget about the past and focus on the present. Maybe you'd forgive him enough to become friends again. They say time heals all wounds, but so far, you were still stuck in that day, unhealed and betrayed and you had no idea how to move on from that.

♡

tags: @emma77645 @mopeymopeymouse @thebrookemunson @gaysludge @1paire2vans @somethingvicked @tiannamortis @aysheashea @sidthedollface2 @casmosmoon @aliceheart247 @madaboutjoe @mibizmental @figmentofquinn @munsonzzgf @siriuslysmoking @cancankiki @cxlpxrnia @eddiesguitarskills @tlclick73 @wendyfawcett @joannariesland @munsonzlsvr @flirtymunson @akiratoro420 @lolalanaie @ceriseheaven @usedtobecooler @hellfirewhore @sweet-villain @sweetsweetjellybean

Disjointed: Twenty-Two

Series Masterlist

Summary: Eddie figures out what he wants to do with his life.

Word count: 5.7k

What to expect: Smut/Lemon (-18 kindly dni). Money struggles.

A/N: Howdy, friends! Welcome back! Hope you guys enjoy this one. Let me know if you did! For my friends oversees, if you need help understanding the high way robbery by Uncle Sam aka taxes, I can clarify. I say this because it varies from state to state. For instance, I never heard of income tax until someone from PA was bitching. TAXES UPON TAXES UPON TAXES UPON….

You figured the first paycheck after switching to surgery was short because of the off pay period. However, by your second check, the earnings were significantly less than before the raise, not taking into account the garnished wages for Eddie’s surgery. It seemed impossible to be this short without reason. Not wanting to look stupid by going to Human Resources for answers, you pocketed the pay stub and went to the only other person that you could trust besides Eddie.

“Y/N? Everything alright?” Wayne questioned when he noticed you outside of what used to be your apartment. “I don’t need to bust his skull open, do I?”

“No, nothing like that,” you giggled, allowing yourself to be ushered into Wayne’s apartment. You had been here only twice since he moved in and surprisingly, it was just as clean as the day he moved in. He bought himself a new little TV that sat on top of a TV tray a few feet away from his recliner. His mugs and hats lined the previous blank walls in the same exact order as they did the trailer. He seemed happy here.

“Sorry to impose, I know you have to work soon,” you said as you sat down at the little round table you had left for him since it was too big to fit in the trailer.

Wayne poured two coffees and set one in front of you with a can or powdered creamer. “No, no. It’s alright. What’s got you frownin if it’s not your boneheaded husband?”

Despite the wedding being months ago, Eddie being referred to as ‘your husband’ still made your heart skip a beat. You pulled out the envelope with your check and slid it over to Wayne to examine and explained the problem. “I don’t understand how that can be?”

Wayne gave you a sad smile. “Taxes, honey.”

“Taxes?” you repeated. “I picked the same allowances as I did when I first started. It shouldn’t be different, right?”

Wayne shook his head and pushed the document back towards you. “You must have gone up a bracket. That extra money put your gross income over just enough to make it to where you’re gonna get taxed at a higher percentage. And with that nice little chunk of change coming out for that surgery...” Wayne sucked his teeth. “Things gonna be tight.”

Your frown deepened as you read the itemized list of deductions for taxes, medical and dental insurance, and the payment to the hospital. You were missing nearly $300 dollars from what you were originally making in the ER. The raise wasn’t the selling factor of the career change, but had you realized the amount you would be deficient, you would have insisted on keeping the same wage.

“Eddie not putting anything in?” Wayne questioned.

You shook your head. “No, not for this. We decided that he’ll cover groceries, gas, and the phone bill. I’ve got the light bill and anything else.”

“That boy needs work. Honest work,” Wayne emphasized with a grunt.

“No, he needs to get the hell out of high school,” you sighed.

Wayne chewed the inside of his cheek, blue eyes doing that annoying x-ray thing that made it feel like he could see right through your soul. Eddie had mastered the same look and it was no wonder where he got it from.

“I know it’s easy to forget, but he’s a grown man. He doesn’t need to be coddled. If you need help, you tell him to help.”

“I’d rather he not find an excuse to avoid finishing school. If I tell him the extent of things, he’ll abandon graduation completely and he’s too close to the finish line for that.”

Wayne hummed in thought. “Weekend job wouldn’t kill him. If he’s got hours to fiddle with that guitar and write stories, he’s got time to pull some weight.”

It wasn’t that Eddie needed the time off to study in order to pass. The fool knew well enough what he had to do in order to graduate, he just never wanted to. Even with how much people hated him, Eddie found comfort in the halls of Hawkins High School. But now it was past time for him to leave and join the rest of the world. You wouldn’t take the last few months of comfort from him if you could help it. Coming home with only $180 a month would just have to do.

Not wanting to sulk in front of Wayne, you tucked the ugly paycheck into your purse and switched gears. “How are things with Peggy?”

Wayne let out an irritated groan and rolled his eyes. “Between you and Ed I’m gonna get sick of hearin that woman’s name!”

“Not good then?” you questioned.

Wayne exhaled heavily and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. “She wants to be taken care of and truth be told, Y/N, the only person I wanna take care of now is myself. I’m tired. If I wanna spend Friday night watching Green Acres then that’s what I’m gonna do. I don’t wanna have to go to her brother’s house for dinner just ‘cause. I think I’ve earned the right to put myself first.”

He was right, of course. Wayne had lived his life taking care of others. First it was Wyatt and his mother, then it was Eddie, and now in his early fifties the man didn’t seem to have caught a break until now. It was understandable that the last thing he wanted was to be obligated to another person’s feelings. You told him as such, grinning as the tips of his ears started to redden, just like Eddie’s did when he was feeling bashful.

He walked you to your car and bid you a good day, once again advising you to kick Eddie’s ass into a sandwich shop for some extra cash. You smiled politely and disagreed before heading home.

——

Who the hell was banging on the front door at seven in the morning on a Saturday? Eddie hoped they would go away, but when he heard muffled yelling from the other side, he forced himself out of bed and put on some pants.

“What the hell—what are you doing here?” Eddie questioned in shock.

Wayne didn’t answer and promptly shoved his way inside, bringing in the crisp December air with him.

“Well good morning to you, too.” Eddie grumbled, burying his fist in his eye socket to wake himself up.

Wayne unzipped his bulky Carhartt coat and threw a stack of colored pamphlets and a newspaper onto the crowded coffee table. Eyebrows raised at his uncle, Eddie tentatively grabbed a few and immediately rolled his eyes as a man looking far too happy with a plunger smiled up at him.

“Not this again,” he muttered, letting the pamphlets drop from his cold hands.

Every few months for the last three years, Wayne would get it in his head that Eddie needed to figure out the rest of his life in one sitting. He’d come home with various information on trade schools or circled ‘Wanted’ ads in the paper and give them to Eddie along with a less than encouraging speech about becoming an adult.

“Yes, this again!” Wayne snapped. “You gotta do something, boy! School's out in a few months and something tells me you still haven’t figured out what you’re gonna do with yourself.”

Eddie sighed and threw his head back against the couch. “Cause I haven’t.”

Wayne removed his coat the rest of the way so his arms could be mobile enough to smack Eddie upside the head if needed. “Well you better figure it out quick. You already spent two extra years avoiding it.”

“There’s just nothing here for me to do! Nothing that I’d like, anyway.”

“Electrician,” Wayne offered.

Eddie shrugged, not really into the idea of potentially being bar-b-q’d by a rogue outlet in someone’s house. Not to mention the idea of being in someone’s home that he didn’t know was very off putting.

“Plumber.”

Eddie scoffed. “No shit for me, thanks.”

“HVAC.”

“Don’t wanna be climbing in people’s attics in the summer and sweat to death.”

Wayne went through the list. Mechanic, too boring and monotonous. Cashier, the worst fucking idea ever. Stock boy, somehow worse than cashier. Firefighter, didn’t have a death wish. Mortician, afraid of dead people. Cop, even Wayne laughed at that.

“I don’t know who put it in your head that you gotta love your job, but that’s not true. No one loves their job,” Wayne ranted. “You’re never gonna find a profession that’s perfect or feels like a damn party every time you clock in. So get that shit outta your head right now.”

Eddie sighed. He knew banking on Corroded Coffin wasn’t really a lucrative plan, but the dream would never die. He just didn’t want to be bored. He wanted to like what he did for nine hours a day, not suffer through and count the seconds until he was able to leave. He wanted a sense of fulfillment, purpose, and couldn’t stand the idea of just standing around and scanning soup cans for two dollars an hour.

“I wanted to drive trains when I was coming up but did I get to do it? Do you think working in a damn power plant gives me any sort of satisfaction? Hell no. But it does give me a roof over my head and food on my table, and that’s what should be important to you. So what if you gotta do the same shit every day? It’s life, Eddie. You bite the bullet and do what you gotta do for you and yours even if you gotta clean toilets.”

“Wayne, do you really think I’d stop slinging to clean toilet bowls?” Eddie challenged. “Nothing in these papers is gonna pay me more than what I already make now. Bills get paid, there’s enough left over for take out once a week, and I don’t have to forfeit my soul. We’re doing just fine. I have plenty of time to figure out what I want to do.”

Frustrated by Eddie’s response, Wayne scratched at the white scruff on the underside of his jaw. “Ed, I’m gonna tell you something that needs to stay between you and me, got it?” Wayne said sternly. Eddie straightened up in his seat suddenly worried about the edge in Wayne’s voice.

“Y/N showed me her take-home now that she’s switched shifts, and boy, you’re not fine.”

Eddie’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

“She seems to think that if you went to work, you’d give up on school. And I’m not getting into anyone’s business, but boy, you’re the man of this house. You need to act like it and take care of your family. Don’t matter if washing dishes doesn’t pull in the same money as peddling, don’t matter if it’s not a stimulating occupation. You do it because she needs you to.”

Eddie wasn’t sure which was more upsetting: you conspiring with Wayne again or having to be talked to like this because of it. Why didn’t you come to him? You were the one always rambling on about being a team or a unit or whatever and why that meant you had to help him. You elected to pay for his surgery against his will and barred him from doing anything the only thing he knew how to make up for it. He made it perfectly clear how much he hated being supported like this, which is why he insisted on taking over some bills to begin with.

How could you do this? Tell him ‘don’t sell this, don’t sell that. Don’t worry about anything. Focus on school’ to then turn around and tell Wayne the truth about the financials? Going to Wayne for help when you were so insistent on refusing him felt a lot like being stabbed in the back.

Eddie put his elbows on his anxiously bouncing knees. “She ask for money?” he croaked.

“Lord no,” Wayne chuckled. “She’s just like you—rather sell her own blood than do that. Proud morons, both of you. No. She came asking about why her check looked so skinny since she was supposed to be getting more every two weeks instead of less. Asked me not to say anything so you could enjoy your last few months of shenanigans.”

Eddie’s anger morphed into something else. Maybe betrayal wasn’t the right word. Guilt. Eddie felt extremely guilty. Once again you were putting him before anything else. You married him so he could have insurance. Volunteered your wages to be garnished in order to pay for the surgery he couldn’t afford. Switched schedules to spend time with him. Took a big enough hit to the wallet to cause concern, and now you were perfectly content with letting him think the only thing he had to worry about was passing American Government just so he could avoid reality for a little while longer.

Eddie felt lower than a worm in the dirt.

Wayne seemed to have picked up on Eddie’s new mood and patted his knee. “Don’t go worrying about what was or why, just think about what you wanna do and go out there and do it. You’re not without skill, Ed. You know cars, you’re good at math, you’re good with people when you wanna be. Hell, I’m sure you could even get a job with me if you wanted.”

Eddie did not want that. Call it pride or arrogance but Eddie didn’t want to work as hard as Wayne for pennies in return. He’d seen first hand how the plant aged his uncle (though Wayne insisted his white hair was due to Eddie’s tomfoolery) and he didn’t want that for himself.

He’d also seen how your career of choice had burned you, too. He hated to admit it, but that piece of shit doctor really did cut you a favor by getting you out of the ER. Eddie wasn’t sure how many more stories he could survive the retelling of if you had stayed for the three years as previously intended.

“I promise you, Ed, there’s no better feeling than being able to take care of your woman and your home. Once you get that first check after doing some honest work, you’ll see what I mean.”

He doubted that very much since Wayne never had a woman to take care of to begin with, but kept the thought to himself. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he picked up the newspaper and scanned the few advertisements listed.

It didn’t take but a few days for him to figure out what he wanted to do, and it was wholeheartedly heartedly decided because of your bizarre reaction.

——

You hated feeling stupid. It didn’t happen often, but when it did you wanted nothing more than to bash the face in of whoever was making you feel that way. This time it was your own beloved.

Eddie was fumbling around under the hood of your Nissan, huffing and puffing and letting the occasional “are you shitting me?” slip from his lips.

Driving home after work, your car started to violently shake any time you went over 40 miles per hour making it almost impossible to hold the steering wheel steady. When you did eventually make it home, you asked Eddie to take a look at it.

“When was the last time you had it serviced?” he asked, pulling a yellow tab and wiping black gunk from the end of the metal stick against his shirt.

“Right before I came back in May, ” you answered, watching Eddie dip the stick and wipe it on his shirt again and again.

“What did you have done?”

You stared at him blankly. “An oil change.”

“And?” His brows disappeared behind his brown bangs.

“What do you mean ‘and’? I got an oil change. That’s it. He didn’t say anything else needed work.” you replied defensively.

Eddie’s face fell. “When did you get this thing?”

“Emily’s mom sold it to me right after graduation.”

“And in the last two years you’ve only had an oil change? Never checked anything else? Air filters, brake pads, fuel injectors—“

His line of questioning made you feel two inches tall. Not only did you not have a clue what he was talking about, the shock and hint of a smirk on his face made it that much worse. Which is why you were now riddled with embarrassment and fury. You didn’t like not knowing things.

“No, Eddie. I haven’t done anything to it besides an oil change when the light comes on,” you snapped.

“The light?” he repeated slowly.

You were getting increasingly annoyed at the way he was looking at you, eyebrow cocked and the corners of his lips twitching. “Yes, the yellow one that looks like a faucet.”

Eddie’s laughter came out in a sputter.

Cheeks ten degrees hotter than normal and fuming, you demanded, “Don’t laugh at me!”

Of course the site of your face scrunched up in irritation made him laugh harder, placing his oil stained hand onto the center of his chest.

Becoming genuinely angry, you turned on your heels with a huff and tried to yank your wrist from his hand as he attempted to stop you from walking away. Your efforts to escape were futile. Eddie is annoyingly strong and yanked you back into his chest. “Sorry, babe, but since you’re the brains of this operation and there’s finally something I know that you don’t….I’m gonna enjoy it!” Much to our irritation, he placed obnoxious wet open mouthed kisses on the side of your face, ending each one with a loud smack. When your only response to his back-handed apology was an annoyed glare, he sighed. “Really? I don’t get bent out of shape when you know something I don’t.”

True, you may be overreacting a bit, but it was upsetting all the same. “I don’t laugh at you,” you snapped.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Eddie rapidly kissed the side of your mouth until you relented and turned enough in his arms to give him access to your lips in a silent acceptance of his apology. His grip on your waist tightened, pressing his growing erection against your hip.

“‘My god, Eddie,” you mumbled against his lips. “Are you ever not hard?”

He nipped the tip of your nose and grinned. “What can I say? You’re sexy when you’re mad. Gets me all riled up.” You squealed and tried to shove him away as he dove his face into your neck and blew raspberries against the sensitive skin.

When he had enough of your giggling and writhing in his arms, he released you with a final kiss on the cheek and a slap on the ass. “Alright, you go on inside and I’ll see if your rollerskate here will survive the night.”

“My Cherry isn’t a roller skate. It’s a tank,” you replied defensively.

Eddie turned his back to you and disappeared under the hood of the 1970 vehicle. “It’s a roller skate, babe! Might even be a dead one!”

You rolled your eyes and watched as the back of Eddie’s shirt rose up and exposed his olive green boxers. The sight caused an overwhelming urge to run over and give him a wedgie, but you resisted. Knowing Eddie, he’d likely rip your clothes off in the middle of the yard, not at all worried about neighbors seeing. Going inside the shared home, not realizing how cold it had become outside once the warm air of the living room thawed your chilled cheeks.

Thinking of Emily’s mom being the one to sell you the burnt orange—you hated to admit that Eddie was right in his description—rollerskate in front of the house made you realize you hadn’t talked to Emily in months. The last you spoke to her was to get advice on how to approach Eddie after that horrific night in the emergency room. Taking the phone off the hook, you dialed the memorized number of the once shared apartment in Terre Haute and checked on dinner in the crock pot as the ring chimed in your ear.

No one answered, so you left a brief message telling her your new number and to not be alarmed if Eddie answered the phone. You didn’t want to tell her about the marriage on a voicemail, so you opted to just say that you lived with him now.

You hoped she would be happy for you, but you knew she would be mostly upset that you hadn’t called her sooner. To be fair, phones work both ways and she never bothered to call once you moved back to Hawkins. When you got your schedule from the hospital, you shared it with her to let her know what times you were available to chat, but somehow you were always the one to dial out. The realization of this pattern hurt your heart a little as you idly stirred the stew in front of you.

Before too long, Eddie came into the house. If you hadn’t heard the clattering of the screen door, you’d be able to tell he was close just by the potent smell of motor oil stinging your eyes.

“God, Eddie, I can smell you from here!” you exclaimed, lowering the D&D monster manual to scold him.

Your throat went dry and your heart started to race. He looked so damn good. Hands blackened by oil and grime that somehow accentuated the thick veins that trailed from his knuckles to his elbows. Some debris was smeared on his forehead and tip of his nose too, like he wiped his hand over it and didn’t realize he’d left behind a mess.

You tilted your head as you continued to survey him. He was starting to fill out now that he was being properly fed with more than stale cereal and packets of questionable deli meat. The physical therapy that helped him regain the strength in his arm was doing wonders for his biceps, something you didn’t mind telling him as you traced the sinews of his muscles through his pale skin when in bed together. His hair was getting ridiculously long, well past your own, but you’d be lying if you said you’d want him to cut it. The frizzy waves turned into soft, bouncy curls once you introduced him to the wonders of hair conditioner.

He wasn’t the silly boy you had known in high school—Taller, broader, jaw and cheekbones much more prominent and angular. He was a proper man, and all yours.

Eddie was always handsome, but for some reason seeing him look like he was auditioning to be a chimney sweep for a Mary Poppins production incited a rapidly growing ache in your belly that could only be cured one way.

He raised his stained eyebrows at you, a small confused smile plastered on his lips. “You okay over there?”

You needed him. Immediately. You lifted yourself from the couch to close the short distance between you and stood on your toes to crash your lips against his. Eddie held his hands up in mock surrender, trying not to touch the starched white uniform you had yet to remove.

“Wait—“ he muttered against your lips.“Mmm—let me wash my hands,” he said through the side of his lip. You ignored him by wrapping your arms around his neck and yanking him closer to you. He tried to protest again, but instead of allowing words to come out, you slid your tongue against his. He relented, lowering his hands to cup your cheek, inevitably chalking your skin with matching soot.

Absorbing the rumble of his moan, you let yourself melt into him, pressing your chest flush against his terribly stained shirt and letting him steer you to the couch. Except, Eddie isn’t very good at walking with his eyes closed and ended up tripping over his own feet, sending both of you toppling onto the plush carpet of the living room floor with him breaking your fall.

“You okay?” he asked breathlessly, as if it was you that just knocked your head on the floor.

You answered by straddling his slim hips. His brown eyes immediately started to bulge as his eyes raked over your chest.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, nodding towards the black blemishes smudged across your chest.

Smiling deviously, you grabbed his wrists and trailed his palms up your body, smearing a trail of grime in their wake. Eddie smirked as he kneaded your clothed breasts. “Don’t tell me you wanna be a dirty girl, Mrs. Munson.”

Giving in you your lust, you let all inhibitions fly. “What can I say? I love me a dirty man,” you winked.

That seemed to have done the trick. Eddie ripped open the front of your uniform so hard that the buttons were long gone and without hope of being reattached. Giggling as he tried to yank the offending material over your head, you assisted him in removing the horribly stained dress and tossing it aside.

Eddie grinned mischievously as he smudged black grease all over your chest like fingerpaint.

“You’re lucky you're so sexy like this because this stuff reeks,” you informed him. You pushed his shoulders down but Eddie didn’t budge.

“I don’t think so,” he mused. Wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, he flung himself over to roll you underneath him.

“Hey, this was supposed to be my way,” you grumbled, lightly knocking your forehead against his in a soft headbutt.

Like battleing rams, Eddie pushed against your forehead with his own until you accepted defeat with a huff. Smiling smugly, he made quick work of ridding you of the cotton briefs that kept you hidden from him and shimmied his pants down enough to get the job done. “This is your way, isn’t it?” he breathed, teasingly sliding the hard tip of his cock against the swollen bundle of nerves that made you jolt with each pass. “I wanted to wash my hands first.”

He lined himself up and pushed all the way to the hilt in one powerful thrust, making both of you moan loudly against each other’s parted lips. Instinctively, tangled your fingers into the unruly curls at the base of his neck and rested your forehead against his.

“Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this,” he admitted, sliding his arms under the small of your back to lift your hips and somehow push himself even deeper into you as he held you close.

Your favorite lopsided smile grew across his face at the yelp that escaped you from the dizzying new angle and the sensation of your walls clenching him as tight as possible. He experimentally drew his hips back a little before slamming back into you.

“Eddie!” you gasped, the grip on his hair tightening tenfold as a plea for him to do it again.

“Yeah, baby?” he replied, nudging the tip of your nose with his as he repeated the powerful thrust. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” you panted feebly against his lips.

He withdrew himself until only the tip remained and teased, “Didn’t hear you,” before launching back in.

Body trembling from the strength of his thrust, “YES!” you screamed pulling his hair with all your night in an attempt to tether yourself back to earth as he kept up the wonderfully brutal assault on the overly sensitive spot only he could reach.

And that’s the only coherent word he could get out of you while he continued to cure the ache in your gut. You cried out to every question he posed to you, not even paying attention to what he was asking, lost in the euphoria of the animalistic pace he set.

“God, you feel so fucking good, baby,” he rambled through gritted teeth. Yes. “Gonna let me fuck you like this every time I get dirt on my hands?” Yes. “Love you so fucking much, fuck!” Yes.

Clutching onto him like your life depended on it, you let yourself revel in the fervor and depth of his rhythm, hitting right you wanted over and over and over again, finding it difficult to remember to breathe. You unraveled when he buried his face into your neck, squishing his pelvis harder into you and providing the last bit of friction needed to send you off the deep end.

Broken sobs and choked up whimpers that were supposed to resemble his name rushed from your lungs as you twitched and convulsed beneath him, fully surrendering to the electric shockwaves of your release. He wasn’t far behind, groaning loud enough to make the inside of your ear tickle before crushing you with his full body weight.

“My face has a heartbeat,” he panted into the crook of your neck.

Dazed and unable to keep your eyes open, you slid your palms up and down his muscular back as you hummed in agreement.

You thought you heard him speak, but couldn’t comprehend a word he said. The fierce fire that had been set by his rugged appearance had been satisfied, leaving you halfway between consciousness and sleep. You rested your cheek on the side of Eddie’s head and stayed there, relishing in the comfort of his body heat and the tickle of his hair against your face. You could have easily spent the rest of the evening on the floor under his weight, too blissed out to care about the potent stench of grease and oil burning your nose.

“Are you listening to me?” he chuckled, propping himself up on his elbow and dancing his fingers around your smudged collarbone. You shook your head, still trying to fight the urge to fall asleep with him still snug inside.

“I said your car is a mess. Need new rotors, brake pads, lower control arms front and back, fuel injector needs to be cleaned out, both air filters replaced, tires rotated—shit just new tires all together, really,” he rambled. “Might be cheaper to just buy a used car from Harrington’s dad.”

The post-sex giddiness was fading rapidly at the thought of trying to afford a new car even if it was used. Either way, you were going to have to pay an arm and a leg for repairs, and that was something you just couldn’t do right now.

You pressed your finger over his delectable mouth. “Shhh. I don’t wanna think about that.”

Eddie raised his eyebrows at you. “Now who’s the one hiding from reality? You really are a Munson.”

You hummed in agreement, sighing contentedly as his resumed fingerpainting your chest.

“Well, you convinced me, Lady Munson,” he announced. “You’ll be married to a grease monkey for the rest of your days.”

“Oh yeah? What did I have to do with that decision?” you giggled.

Eddie cackled. “If you’re gonna attack me like that every time I walk in with a little dirt on me, you can sign me up for lifetime employment at Jiffylube.”

A knock on the door killed the reply on your tongue. Much to your protest, Eddie detangled himself from you causing you both the hiss. He pulled you up along with him, joints popping and cracking from the shift.

Eddie noticed you checking him out as he put himself back together. “Avert your eyes, pervert!”

“Don't be so damn sexy, then.” Not having much energy to take the ten steps to the bedroom, you collapsed onto the scratchy gray cushions of the couch and pulled the throw blanket over your body to cover up.

Eddie opened the door to reveal Lucas and his redhead girlfriend, Max, who also happened to live across the way.

“Sinclair. Mayfield,” Eddie said. “What can I do you for?”

Lucas looked everywhere except at Eddie. “H-hey. Uh…can we borrow some eggs?”

Eddie raised his eyebrows at the two freshman before him. “Eggs?”

“Y-yeah. Need some eggs f-for a cake. It’s her mom's birthday.”

Eddie snorted and waved the freshmen inside. You quickly snapped your eyes shut and clenched the blanket closer to your bare body, pretending to be asleep.

“Don’t know about borrowing them, but you can have them. Don’t need the shells back.” You heard the fridge open and close.

Lucas chuckled awkwardly. “Good one, Eddie.”

“Asking for eggs got you this nervous, Sinclair? What’s wrong with him?” He must be talking to Max.

“Nothing—!”

“—He’s being weird about having to wait for you,” she sneered.

“Max!” Lucas pleaded in a voice much higher than it usually is.

“Wait for me?” Eddie repeated in confusion.

“Yeah. Wait for you,” she answered sarcastically. “We’ve been waiting for this place to stop shaking so we could come over.”

“Shaking? What do you mean sha—? Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

Slowly and discreetly as could be, you pulled the blanket over your face in order to hide from your embarrassment. How long had they been waiting? Or even watching the place?! Did the trailer really noticeably shake the entire time? Enough for people to notice?! You could never look Lucas in the eye again. And to think he was just now becoming a cute little fixture in your life during Saturday night hang outs.

Eddie ignored the insinuation as he ushered the two freshmen out of the house, demanding a few slices of cake as repayment for the eggs provided. As soon as they left, he ripped the blanket from your body and beamed.

“Have you no shame?” you scoffed, lightly shoving his face out of yours.

“Pfft. What's there to be ashamed of? I’ve been the butt of virgin jokes for years. Excuse me for enjoying the fact that people know that title has been laid to rest.” He slapped your bare thigh until he was satisfied with the loud clap of skin on skin. “Come on. Let’s eat. Food smells amazing.”

“Wash your hands first,” you grinned, fully enjoying the scowl that settled across his handsome features.

————————————————————

Part 23

Howdy, friends. If I missed you please please let me know. It’s not a slight im just shit at record keeping. 🙃

@ethereal27cereal @lmili @loveshotzz @sweetsweetjellybean @superblysubpar @2clones-1kamino @manda-panda-monium @b-irock @trashmouth-richie @certifiedtrashmouth @livasaurasrex @mrsdollardog @churchmuffins @chickpeadumpsterfire @sidthedollface2 @eddiesbabe95 @awkotaco24 @munsonzzgf @bebe0701 @idkidknemore @callofcunthulu @beep-beep-sherlock @a-time-for-wolvess @newlips @whoahoney @magicalchocolatecheesecake @sammararaven @tlclick73 @heyyimmisunderstood @figmentofquinn @brittanyyydamnit @thikkiesixx @jo-harrington @katanaflower @mandyjo8719 @devilinthepalemoonlite @kaitlynnlo @trixyvixx @chickennug90 @sreidz94 @lem0nb0ii @younganxiety @theanxietyqueen17 @letmeadoreyoux @lesservillain @

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, angst, hurt/comfort. minor spoilers for the show 'The Last of Us,' episode three.

first | chapter eleven : angel (14k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #35-#36. #36, the title song, doesn't appear in the text, so you can play it whenever it feels appropriate.

@e0509 @bexreadstoomuch @mimsthebannished @tlclick73 @courtneymaisy

I've been afraid all of my life

Crippled with anxiety, shame and doubt

And sometimes, sometimes I'd like to shout

At the top of my lungs and just let it out

What has that fear ever done for me

But hold me back?

What has jealousy and hate ever done for you

But remind you of what you think you lack?

So give me love and give me compassion

Self-forgiveness and give me some passion

I love you even if you don't love me

I love you even if you can't love me

Angel— First Aid Kit

There’s a moment upon waking on Saturday that you feel the same as you did twenty-four hours before. The moon is round and full; your earth is cold and numb. Its beams are peaceful, tranquil, sterile as they glint off your frosted leaves. You have not yet recalled the warm light that awakened your growth and left it just as quickly to the dark of twilight, the whisper of smoke that flowed into your lungs and left you breathless with poignant longing. You have not yet noticed the puffiness of your eyes, the rattle of your breath in your lungs, or the deep, rending ache at the bottom of you. 

You blink, and as the late sunlight falls across your eyes, you remember.

Penny had found you howling on the floor, puddled in your charcoal despair. Your sister’s arms clasped you tight as she sputtered her distressed confusion, begging you to tell her what was wrong. You’d worked it out in bits and pieces— explanations choked through trembling lips, halted by the gasps and sobs and whines of a wounded animal. You’d felt like a child when she rocked you, shushing you softly, petting your hair like your mother had when you’d come home from elementary school scraped raw from your friends’ rejection. In the moment, you hadn’t cared how childlike you’d become, more than eager to relinquish your twenty-four-year-old self to the comfort of your sister’s surety. She wiped your face clear of the tracks of your mascara, the color dark like charcoal to stain the sleeves of her sweater. It stained Penny, but in doing so, she took it from you— took it until your tears dried up, until your muscles trembled with relief and fatigue. Penny held you on the kitchen floor as you wrested back control of your body. You scrubbed your hands over your wet, flushed face, whimpering into your palms until you finally quieted. 

You picked yourself up then, moving through the steps of recovery: retreating to the bathroom to wash your cheeks, to run your wrists under warm water, to take deep breaths until they were no longer labored, the entire time avoiding the sight of your swollen face in the mirror. When you’d emerged, Penny was thumping the knife against the cutting board, holding firm as you offered in a small voice to take over again. Obstinate, your sister refused you, directing you to the couch with a firm hand and concern shining in her eyes. She finished your stir fry, serving you a bowl you thanked her for with a brief smile but ate listlessly before turning in for an early night. 

After the tease of Eddie’s presence, no longer can you feel pleasantly numb. Instead, now that the well of your tears has dried, you just feel empty. Bereft. Like the earth has been churned, disturbed; turned over and left wanting for what has been removed. But when you heave a deep sigh, breath stirring the motes floating like fairy dust in the shaft of light spilling from Penny’s beloved window, you reach tentatively down to find that your growth is still there, standing tall. When you run a finger lightly up its stalk, it trembles within, leaves quivering a response to your tentative touch. It hurts, like the soreness of a bruise, but it does not waver. You trace the green up to where it vines around your ribcage, tendrils peeking to greet your exploration with a gentle touch. And as you pull yourself out of bed, for the first time, you fully accept your growth. Yes, there is pain where it has been cut deep by the sharpness of flinty words and languished in the cold light of the moon, further wounded by the sudden reminder of what you have lost. But there is also strength. Your growth holds your bones, cradling them securely; its fruit has not fallen or begun to molder and rot. The realization that it cannot be uprooted— that it is a part of you— is not one of grief as it was last night. Instead, it is the acceptance that what Eddie tended inside you cannot be culled. No matter what happens now, you have what you need to thrive.

This recognition carries you through your morning routine completed many hours late, and you emerge from the shower with renewed vigor and a healthy flush to your cheeks. Where you might have clothed yourself in baggy comfort intending to spend the day on the couch wrapped in the television's mind-numbing noise, you instead dress to make yourself feel good in your skin: structured skinny jeans, a clingy long-sleeve, and fun earrings. The swelling around your eyes is soothed by cool eye cream, and the flush in your cheeks is accentuated by a fresh face of light makeup. Your hair isn’t left limp to dry slowly on its own. Instead, you style it, facing yourself head-on in the bathroom mirror as you run your fingers through soft strands. You’re pleasantly surprised to see bright eyes and the dimple of a smile that doesn’t feel forced, so far from the anguished girl you’d been the night before.

Penny is equally as surprised when you wander into the kitchen, stomach growling from the late waking hour, closer to evening than to morning. “Hey,” she greets you cautiously, jangling keys halting in her palm, eyes wide and locked on you as you duck to root in the refrigerator for sustenance.

“Hey!” You return her greeting warmly, your fond smile growing when you notice the worry furrowing her brow where she’s poised near the front door, coat half-on. “You heading out?”

“I— yeah.” She confirms even as she starts to reverse the motion, shedding her coat as she explains, “I didn’t think you’d be up for a while. I was gonna get the ingredients for your cake. I can wait and keep you company, though.” She hangs the coat on the rack, tacking on, “I’ll just go later.”

Your brows jump at the reminder. Before last night’s unexpected visitor, you'd told her about the cake you were planning to make this weekend for your coworker Sherry’s birthday on Monday. A box cake didn’t feel like enough to repay the years of kindness the motherly woman had bestowed on your office, so you’d resolved to make it from scratch: a decadent chocolate cake with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee as the secret ingredient. It’s not as difficult to bake as it might sound, but you do need to buy semi-sweet cocoa and powdered sugar for the buttercream frosting.

“Don’t you have Charlie’s awards thing tonight?” 

Penny exhales a long, weary sigh. “Y/n. I’m not going anymore.”

What ensues is a brief sisterly squabble in which Penny insists on staying home to take care of you, and you insist that you need nothing of the sort. “Look at me!” You exclaim, arms thrown wide in exasperation. “Do I look like I need you to baby me?” You soften. “I’m really okay, Pen. Charlie will be so disappointed if you miss his ceremony. It’s not every day your boyfriend receives the medal of valor in firefighting.”

Your sister huffs, grumbling, “It’s not the medal of valor; it’s a medal of valor. There’s more than one.” She runs her eyes over you, assessing, hedging, trying to penetrate through any facade you may be putting on. When she sighs again, this time in resignation, your smile widens to a beam. “Fine.” She concedes. “We can go to the store together, and then I’ll go to the ceremony.”

With a sharp huff, you cross your arms. “Pen—!”

Penny doesn’t win that argument either, begrudgingly acknowledging that you’re right; she wouldn’t have enough time to get ready if she accompanied you to the grocery store. You scarf down some food and make a list of your shopping for the week, and by the time you hear her clicking back to the front door, you've finished your list. You see her clasping her earring, now bedecked in high heels and a pretty dress. “I’ll be back tonight,” she promises you from the threshold. “Text me if you need me, okay?”

The tenderness in her voice is clear, and you look up from your list to flash her a soft, grateful smile. “I will, Pen. Love you.”

“Love you.”

–

The trip to the grocery store just down the street from Penny’s house is both mundane and soothing. It’s dated, but the aisles are always clean, and you slip into the anonymous sea of people doing their Saturday afternoon shopping, a small smile of contentment blooming on your face as your cart squeaks rhythmically with your easy steps. Methodically, you mosy down each aisle, reaching soft fingers toward fruits and vegetables, grains and rice. As you go, you scratch them from the handwritten list nestled in your purse, placed conveniently in the top basket of your cart. The routine of it all— the normalcy— brings comfort.

You reach the baking aisle near the tail end of your list, with only the dairy aisle left to be visited. The speakers are playing ‘Ain’t It Fun’ as you plop the floppy bag of powdered sugar absentmindedly into your cart, eyes scanning the shelves for the semi-sweet cocoa powder. You step back with a contemplative pooch to your lips, brows perking when you finally spot it on the top shelf. It’s pushed back from the edge, likely one of the last ones, not commonly restocked. You move in until your front is nearly pressed to the shelves, biting your lip as your wiggling fingers flop for the plastic tub. Futiley, you meet nothing but air and metallic shelving. You plant your hands on your hips, reassessing with squinted eyes and a more exaggerated pooch when you register a tall presence at your side.

“What’re you trying to get?” 

The unfamiliar man is middle-aged, donning a checkered shirt and kind crow's feet that crinkle in their practiced creases when he smiles encouragingly at you. You turn shy eyes back to the shelf. “The semi-sweet cocoa,” you say, motioning to the top shelf. “It’s too far back for me.”

Wordlessly, he reaches up, hand disappearing from your sight as it wedges between other containers of chocolate. It comes back quickly with your treasure, and the man drops it into your grateful hands.

“Thank you so much,” you say, and he meets you with an easy smile and a wave of his hand. 

“‘S nothing. Have a good one.” 

He’s turning away as you smile back. “You too—”

A familiar voice from behind interjects, feminine and light. “I can't believe I ever fell for that. Your innocent little sweet girl routine.”

Light but mocking. Feminine but laced with venom.

You freeze with dumbfounded shock, hand poised on the bar of your cart as your eyes flick and catch bright blue.

Chrissy.

Her appearance is startling, and not just because you never would have expected to see her here outside the city. She looks disheveled in a way only cool girls can pull off, but as your eyes dart over her, you realize that Chrissy isn’t artfully disheveled. She’s actually disheveled: hair a tangle of waves piled into a messy bun atop her head, face creased with old foundation, body wrapped in a puffy cardigan, its bulk on her tiny frame making her shoulders appear frail where they’re bunched by her ears. Her frame is tight with tension, arms crossed, dainty fingers digging tight into the fuzzy material, scrunching it in the crooks of her elbows. And on her face is an expression you’ve never seen: eyes big and glassy but sharp like steel, bow lips contorted in a sneer. There’s something beneath the surface of her powdery-soft skin, and it’s writhing like the coils of a lithe snake, poised to strike.

Chrissy’s hard stare doesn’t waver in the face of your wide-eyed surprise. Instead, she jolts out a hand, pink nails flashing to points at the end of her thin fingers. “Show me the texts, y/n. Eddie deleted them all.”

Your mouth goes dry at the demand, and your spread fingers twitch into a loose fist where your forearm rests on the cart’s handle, your wrist curling away from your purse. Your many late-night musical exchanges with Eddie flash in your mind, largely innocent aside from the occasional ‘sweet girl’ from Eddie and the daringness of your ‘Touch Tank’ send. Though, then there’s the last conversation from four months ago, arranging for you to come to see him at his show. Heat prickles down the back of your neck, discomfort tightening in your chest as you open your mouth to reply.

Not quickly enough, apparently, because Chrissy’s pressing on, that snake writhing with the twist of her lips. “Or,” she snaps, “maybe you’re too smart for that. Maybe you’ve deleted them all, too. Or maybe you’d stuck to calling him instead. Is that it, y/n? Have you been calling my boyfriend in the middle of the night, begging for his cock?”

You flush instantly hot with embarrassment as the crude word pops from Chrissy’s bow lips, eyes darting to the anonymous bodies in the aisle around you. Their eyes flash to the pair of you instantly with her exclamation. But the absurdity of the question, the utter wrongness of it, rouses you to action. Your voice is soft and edged with pleading as you turn to her fully. “Chrissy, what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She scoffs harshly, brows twisting up in incredulity. There’s so much venom in Chrissy’s voice that it’s hard to imagine it’s coming from her pretty mouth. “Don’t play dumb with me, y/n. I know you made up some excuse so he’d see you. ‘Oh,’” she whines mockingly, “‘my car is broken! Eddie, come save me!’” Her gaze goes flat. “And, of course, you convinced him to give you a ride home so you could fuck him in the back of his van.”

The weight of others’ silent gazes presses upon you from either side of the aisle. Deep mortification rises immediately and rushes down your spine, leaving you flushed and prickling hot with shame. It’s made worse by the knowledge that Chrissy’s accusations are on display for these anonymous others; their stares are oppressive as the viper strikes with dripping fangs. “Gonna deny it?” She spits.

There is the initial instinct to deny, to shrink away and hide. It would save face, rescue you from the judgment of those people pretending to shop, their ears honed to every word of juicy tension being exchanged in the baked goods aisle of the grocery store like a roadside spectacle. But it would be a lie. And there are firm roots at the bottom of you, anchoring you in the truth. 

So your green straightens your spine. White blooms tip up your chin. Your red fruit nourishes your tongue, unlocking your jaw as you gaze into the sharp blue eyes of your friend. “I won’t deny it,” you say, voice soft but not weak, gaze even. “Eddie did help me when my car broke down on the highway. He did give me a ride home. And we did sleep together.” 

Chrissy’s brow twitches minutely, eyes widening as you acknowledge it so plainly, making no attempt to evade the truth. She appears briefly to be at a loss for words, and it occurs to you that she must have expected you to argue, that you’d probably thrown her off by admitting the truth so readily. The remorse that leaks into your expression is sincere. “I know it was wrong. We shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have done that to you. You’re my friend.” A lump rises in your throat as her face flickers. “I know I can’t ever make up for it, but I’m sorry, Chrissy. I’m really sorry.”

Chrissy’s eyes are big and glassy, though they’re still hard, as if she’s refusing to let tears fall. Her face twitches— brow, lip, nose, jaw— and suddenly she looks so frail, like with just one small nudge, she’d shatter into dainty little pieces. 

Everyone knows butterflies are beautiful, bold and boastful in their colors and patterns. It does something to a person, that knowledge; they come to expect attention and praise. They come to think they’re entitled to it. So it’s unfathomable— impossible, really— to consider that a moth, with its thick body and more subtle colors, could possibly turn the head of one who’d long been allured by the butterfly’s charm. It defies all that the butterfly knows. 

This monarch— this queen— has suckled her whole life from milkweed flowers, storing toxins in her body. Bold, beautiful, and boastful; powdery-soft, yet unable to be anything but poisonous. Chrissy Cunningham, doomed from the moment she nibbled the leaves of the milkwood, the only sustenance the world provided.

Your sincerity is not enough, and it never could be.

A mocking scoff falls from bow lips, and Chrissy’s eyes narrow nearly to slits. “You're so full of shit, y/n. You’re actually trying to convince me you’re sorry when I know you’ve been trying to get Eddie to leave me for months. It’s sick.” She cocks a hip, and beyond her, a mother and her daughter amble by the aisle; the older woman cranes her head to keep looking as they pass.

Your eyes dart to them briefly, but you’re shaking your head before Chrissy even finishes speaking, quick and earnest with your reply. “No, Chrissy. When I broke up with Steve, I talked to Eddie a few days later, and I told him that we shouldn't see each other anymore. I haven’t seen him for four months. I hadn’t seen him,” you correct, “until he came by yesterday. To talk,” you tack on, not wanting to imply something unintentionally. Your eyes search hers, brow creasing but stable in your truth. “I am sorry for what I did to you, Chrissy. But I haven’t been talking to Eddie.”

She shakes her head before you’ve finished speaking, just like you had, but the motion is sharp and jerky as if to dislodge your words from between her ears. “What, did you two rehearse this or something?”

You’re about to point out that it’s not rehearsed, it’s just the truth, but Chrissy changes tack abruptly, dropping her arms to ball her fists at her sides. Her voice becomes shriller, more acerbic with each word. “What did you do to get him to finally do it, huh? What lies did you feed him, you homewrecker? You stupid slut!”

The words are like a verbal slap, but not in the way she intends. The unfairness of it— of calling you a homewrecker when you’d made the torturous decision to break things off with Eddie to try to do right by Chrissy— summons more heat beneath the collar of your shirt, but not from embarrassment. Your creased brow tightens to a frown. “Look, I know you’re upset, Chrissy, and you have every right to be. But I’m not a homewrecker.”

Gone are wide smiles made charming by crooked teeth. Cute giggles exchanged across restaurant tables are distant memories. Instead, Chrissy’s laughter is jagged, edged with mania— a rattle in her throat, like the tail of a venomous snake. “You’re right,” she says, blue eyes glittering as she sneers, “You’re not a homewrecker because you’re just a temporary fuck. Once Eddie gets you out of his system, he’ll come crawling right back to me.”

A smooth customer service voice interrupts the music above your heads, announcing a special on certain varieties of Halloween candy. It hits you again— the absurdity that this sensitive conversation is happening in the baking aisle of the grocery store. It’s more than absurd, really. It’s a violation. But Chrissy is still ranting, all pretense of softness stripped from her voice as it pierces over the announcement. “—asshole is lucky to be with me. Lucky I’ve put up with his dumb shit for all these years—”

More than anything, this is what makes your chest begin to buzz, indignation tightening in your limbs. You raise your voice for the first time, questioning heatedly, “How can you even say that? Eddie’s a good man, and he deserves—”

You’re cut off with a hiss. “What do you know about what he deserves?”

Your reply is firm, decisive. “He deserves respect.”

Part of you is satisfied to see how Chrissy’s porcelain face goes pink with utter rage as you imply that you respect Eddie more than she does, that you care for him more than she does. And it seems that perhaps that’s what does it— what shifts Chrissy’s motivation from wanting answers to wanting to strike you hard and deep, to sink her fangs into your flesh and inflict damage. 

Chrissy Cunningham’s beautiful face contorts into something ugly. “No self-respecting guy would ever really want to be with a girl like you, y/n.” Her eyes flick you up and down condescendingly. “That fat ass is only good for one thing—”

“That’s enough.”

You blink, almost taken aback at the sound of your own voice. There is no wobble; it is commanding, firm enough that Chrissy’s dainty jaw snaps shut as if compelled, closing her fangs away. 

The bite of her insult is the culmination of everything you’ve always feared. That you’re not pretty enough. Not good enough. Not enough to truly love. But where those words would once have sunk into the empty earth at the bottom of you, seeping through the soil to poison you slowly, you’ve since been tended, and your green is verdant and tall. 

Chrissy’s venom falls like rain onto your green. It sizzles as it slides along the soft plush of your vines and stems, but it does not reach your earth. Your leaves quiver, and they flick it away. 

You meet the eyes of your former friend directly, and you do not waver. “You can believe me or not because I know the truth, and nothing can change that. But I won’t stand here and have you insinuate that I’m less of a person because of how I look. I know what I’m worth.” You take firm hold of your cart, fists tightening around the handle, swinging it around to face her. Chrissy flinches, and you merely quirk a brow as you calmly maneuver the cart around her. As you come up even with her, close enough to reach out and touch the fuzz of her sweater or the tangle of the strawberry-blonde waves atop her head, you regard her with one last cool stare. “Eddie makes his own decisions, and something tells me he won’t regret this one.”

Chin up, head held high, you guide your squeaky cart with even steps from the aisle, ignoring the weight of the stares you gather as you pass. You haven’t hit the dairy aisle yet, but you veer toward the front of the store to pay, body on autopilot as your mind replays the last few minutes of your life.

Once you stop in front of the self-check-out kiosk, it starts to hit you— the wave of emotion that rises as your adrenaline wears off. You’d been utterly blindsided by the confrontation with Chrissy, and in the moment, all you could do was react. Now, you’re left reeling. What just happened? Your fingers tremble as you hastily swipe your items across the sensor, dropping them into paper bags as you try to conceal that rising feeling. Your cheeks puff as you exhale shakily, inserting your credit card, foot tapping against the tile until that mechanical voice reminds you not to forget your receipt. You snatch it from the machine and contain, contain, contain until you load your groceries in the trunk and slide into the driver’s seat of your old blue car. The vehicle is now a reminder of your shame, which was broadcasted by your former friend for all to hear.

In the safety of your car, the tide overtakes you. Bewilderment and humiliation crest, manifesting in a trembling bottom lip and the hot roll of silent tears down your cheeks. You sniffle but don’t wipe your cheeks; instead, you pull out your phone and call the only person who can clarify what the fuck is going on.

This time, you think he might not answer, but breathless smoke greets you at the last moment. “Hello?”

There’s a sense of deja vu as you hear Eddie’s voice on the other end, close but distorted slightly. The loud grind of something mechanical in the background disorients you further, and your breath hitches as you try to speak through the tears. “Hello?” Eddie repeats his greeting with an edge of urgency. “Y/n?”

The sound of your name on his lips forces the gasp through your lips, a shuddering exhale of desperation and relief. “Eddie,” you choke, and his urgency increases tenfold.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I—” you sniffle, fingers fisting on your thigh as you push through your trembling. You’re trying to tell him what happened, but the wave of your emotion has the thoughts swirling in your head, stuttering out through clumsy lips. “I was in the store, and— and Chrissy was— she said all this stuff, and I— I don’t know what’s going on,” you end with a helpless whine, a plea for clarity punctuated with another thick sniffle.

Eddie sounds nearly as helpless, though also confused. “Y/n, I can’t really understand you.” There’s a brief pause, and then a question asked as if he’s afraid of the answer. “Are you crying?”

“Mmm—” a choked little whimper is all you can manage, but it must be confirmation enough.

“Where are you?” Eddie’s voice is so gentle and concerned that the tears flow faster. “I’ll come, sweet girl. Just tell me where you are.”

You’re only five minutes from home; it makes no sense to have him meet you in the parking lot. You run your finger over the seam on the steering wheel, lips twisting as you ask, “C-can you just come to Penny’s? I n-need—”

You don’t even have to finish the sentence. “I’m clocking out right now,” Eddie says, and your finger halts in its path, stomach sinking.

“Oh—” Your dismay is clear in the smallness of your voice. “I forgot you work Saturdays.” You swipe beneath your eyes with your free hand, steadying yourself with a deep breath. “Nevermind, you can—”

You’re about to tell him he can just come over after work, but Eddie doesn’t let you. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he says, and then he’s gone without another word. 

As you stare at your phone screen, guilt prickles low within you, but it can’t overwhelm the sense of relief that Eddie’s insistence brings. You keep the promise of clarity at the forefront of your mind as you drive the short distance back to your sister’s house, trying to ignore the thrill of anticipation that blooms low at the thought of seeing Eddie again. Still, the implications of Chrissy’s confrontation begin to seep through your defenses. By the time you’re unlocking Penny’s front door, paper bags loaded in your arms, you’re quivering for an entirely different reason.

You unload the bags onto the kitchen island and shuffle to the bathroom, somewhat reluctant to look in the mirror and assess the damage. When you finally do, you’re relieved to see you’re not as much of a mess as you’d feared, especially compared to last night. And it’s not like you’re trying to hide that you’d been crying— Eddie already knows you were. Thankfully, your mascara hasn’t really run aside from a small smudge beneath each eye, and though your cheeks and nose are blushed and hot, and your lashes are clumped and wet, a few tissues get you back into adequate shape. 

And good thing, too. Because, though it’s nearly incomprehensible since it’s only been ten minutes, someone is knocking on your door, and you know it isn’t Penny.

Deepening light spills across the paper bags on your kitchen island like the smoldering embers of the day have flared once more before fizzling out. Golden hour, you think absently, eyes locked on the mahogany door as if you can see through to the man you know is standing on the other side. Your heart thunders as you shuffle closer, the tide of your emotions rising again, prickling at your eyes. Relief, trepidation, anticipation, hope, fear. They all rush through you, thundering with each frantic pump of your heart as your toes nudge against the welcome mat. The metal of the doorknob is slippery in your palm. 

Slowly, almost shyly, you open the door.

Eddie is rocking on the balls of his feet, one knee jiggling, fist tapping his opposite thigh in a futile attempt to release the tension, but the motions ease as he sees you. All that’s left is the rapid rise of his chest beneath a grease-stained gray tank, visible thanks to the coveralls tied around his hips. 

The first thing you register is that he’s dirty. Impossibly dirty. His pale quartz neck is glistening and smudged with it, and the pits of his tank are darkened with the evidence of his labor. His curls are tied back but loosely now, a single head shake away from coming undone; the dark pieces falling around his jaw are frizzy, and his bangs cling to his forehead. His face is darkened by grime left behind by hasty swipes of those calloused fingers, which you imagine must have pinched his chin in thought, scrubbed over his face in consternation, and scratched at his jaw when the drying sweat itched him. 

Eddie is utterly filthy. But when he raises his hands, grubby and dark like charcoal, you want nothing more than to feel him stain every inch of you. Your face softens, the relief of his presence unable to be concealed.

“Baby—” The choked endearment seems pulled from involuntarily, and your breath hitches at the tenderness of it. Eddie’s brow pinches, brown eyes melting like honey as his fingers extend, seeking you as if by instinct. His eyes flick from your face to his hands as they reach for you, widening as if he’s just noticed the grease marring his skin. 

Those calloused fingers jerk back before they make contact with you, and the abruptness has you jolting back too. You only just now notice that you’d been leaning in, swaying toward him subconsciously.

For a moment, you and Eddie just stare at each other, the relief of your reunion ticking into awkwardness as you simultaneously flinch away. Quickly, Eddie blurts, “Sorry, it’s just— I’m a fuckin’ mess—”

Your brows flash up as you rush to reassure him, bumbling over yourself as you step back to make room for him to come in. “No, it’s okay, really—” You huff a little awkward chuckle in an attempt to dispel the tension, biting your lip as Eddie clomps inside and pauses on the welcome mat. As he makes a brusque attempt to wipe off his hands on his coveralls, which are surprisingly less dirty than his skin, you offer, “You can wash in the kitchen sink.”

Wide brown eyes blink at you, and you flush without knowing why. “There’s more room there than in the bathroom,” you explain before realizing that maybe Eddie thinks you’re telling him he needs to wash up to come in the house. You hasten to add, “I mean, i-if you want to.”

He answers after a beat. “Yeah, no, that’d be good.” He’s playing with his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, a nervous gesture that you need to look away from immediately. You can already feel your moths stirring, and you haven’t even gotten any answers yet. You can't afford to be distracted.

You lead Eddie to the kitchen and he trails after you, lanky limbs tucked close to his body like he’s afraid to brush against anything. The farmhouse sink is deep, concealing Eddie’s ink up to the elbows as he wets them and pumps dish soap into his hands, scrubbing over the length of his arms, almost up to his shoulders. Dirt swirls into white porcelain as he runs calloused fingers carefully, though somewhat sheepishly, over his cheeks, mouth, and chin, then down onto his neck and over his collarbone, dripping water to darken the gray of his tank. 

Brown flashes toward you, and it's then you realize you’re hovering.

You whirl away, snatching up the paper towels on the island and plopping them down beside him. You nudge them a little closer, eyes trailing over the hair that curls delicately at the edge of his ear. “Here,” you say, nodding your chin toward the paper towels when he glances over. 

“Thanks.” You nod, backing off and busying yourself by unpacking the groceries from your paper bags. A loud rip draws your eyes from a container of bright red strawberries back to the sink. You suppress a smile when you see the ridiculous amount of paper towels Eddie’s torn from the roll, though you can’t help the exasperated shake of your head as you pile the powdered sugar and cocoa together, fidgeting with them to occupy your fingers.

“Where’s— oh.” You hear Eddie cut himself off behind you, ears honed to the heaviness of his bootsteps and the creak of the garbage can as he lifts the lid to drop the paper in. You swallow, nerves rising as all goes silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him damp but notably cleaner than when he came in.

Hesitantly, you offer, “Do you wanna sit?” You motion toward one of the stools at the island. He accepts your invitation soundlessly, jerking over, awkward like a newborn colt as he folds himself onto the wood. Gingerly, Eddie places his elbows on the counter, moving slowly in your space as if overly aware he’s invading it. And, sure, you’d invited him here, but you can feel it too— that foreignness, same as you’d felt with his dark presence on the couch that first time in your and Steve’s apartment. After four months, it's conspicuous and unfamiliar in a way the shock of his presence yesterday hadn't allowed you to truly notice..

You’re unsure whether to sit down or stay standing, unsure what to do with your hands, unsure what to say. But when Eddie glances at you and away, back and forth again with little hesitant flits of his wide brown eyes, you call upon the green that grows sturdy through your center. It was you who asked him to come; it should be up to you to begin this conversation.

“Sorry I wasn’t making sense on the phone,” you start. “But thanks for coming.” You glance at Eddie, and he nods, expression open and waiting. “I guess I’ll just… start at the beginning. I was at the grocery store, grocery shopping—” your cheeks pink at the inanity of the statement, and you throw a little sheepish glance at Eddie. “As one does,” you poke fun at yourself, and a corner of his mouth quirks in amusement, though it doesn’t assuage the concern in his eyes. Your fingers begin to itch, so you grab one of the paper bags, folding it as you talk. You speak over the crinkles, musing, “I was getting ingredients for this cake I’m making for my coworker. I turned around, and Chrissy was just… there.” The folded bag gets placed on the counter, and you smooth it with your fingers, wondering how Chrissy found you, not even at your sister’s apartment, but out at the store. Your nose wrinkles in confusion. “How did she even know where I was? I haven’t talked to her in months. I don’t even know—”

It dawns on you suddenly.

“She must have used ‘find my friends,’” you say, eyes darting to Eddie in realization. “I forgot I had that on.” You suddenly register your fidgeting fingers and force them to still; shyness blooms, but you push through. “...Is that how you found me?”

Eddie licks along his bottom lip. “No,” he answers, holding your gaze. “I asked Steve.”

You aren’t sure which is more of a shock: Chrissy showing up out of the blue or Eddie asking your ex-boyfriend, who knows you broke up with him because of your feelings for the other man, to help him find you. You blink, dumbstruck, voice a little weak. Reeling from the implication of it. “And he actually—?”

Eddie’s brown eyes are soft with the knowledge you share, and he doesn’t speak. He just nods.

A welling of emotions rises in you then: a potent mixture of gratefulness and wistfulness, of poignant, bittersweet appreciation as you consider how, even though you’d hurt each other, it hasn’t changed who Steve is at his core. 

Despite his mistakes, Steve Harrington is a good man.

You manage a little smile, and Eddie does the same. You find yourself hoping that maybe the threads that tie Eddie and Steve together may not snap after all. 

“So what happened?”

Eddie’s smoke voice prompts you out of your reverie, and your smile turns wry. "She cornered me in the baking aisle, demanding to see the texts she thought you deleted."

Eddie huffs an incredulous chuckle, but there's no humor in it. "I'm so fucking sorry." He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and mussing his bangs in a move that makes your yearning bloom, though you know he didn’t intend it to. "I was gonna talk to you later this weekend. I spent all last night collecting my shit off the lawn and moving into Gareth's place—"

You interrupt, incredulous. “She threw your stuff outside?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie chuckles, and there is some humor in it this time. It’s dry but present as he tips his head, adding, “She was... not happy.”

“I gathered that,” you say, not unkindly.

Eddie sobers, leaning back on the stool as he gazes at you. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “What did she say to you?”

Chrissy’s shrill voice echoes in your mind, a haze of diluted venom that mists your green.

—you homewrecker, you stupid slut—

—asshole’s lucky I put up with his shit for years—

—he’ll come crawling back—

—a girl like you—

Leaves sizzle, and white flowers shake; you avert your eyes, voice a bit small. “A-a bunch of stuff, Eddie. You don't wanna hear it all.” He accepts your reticence with a reassuring nod, and gratefulness dilutes the poison. Your eyes catch on the powdered sugar and cocoa, a welcome distraction you latch to. “I need to start baking this cake,” you say. You’re surprised when Eddie perks.

“I can help you.”

You’re reminded of the other time Eddie helped you in the kitchen. How nervous you’d been watching him talk with Steve and Chrissy over on your couch. How his body nearly brushed yours when he reached up to take down the crackers; how you’d feared he was trying to make a move when you weren’t yet ready. 

Now you know he wasn’t. 

Now you know he never would have.

Before you can suppress it, a mischievous smile tugs at your lips. Eddie spots it, matching it with a bemused smile of his own. “What?” He snaps playfully.

Your amusement is clear. “Remember when you dumped the crackers on the tray the first time you came to the apartment?”

Eddie husks a chuckle, scrubbing a hand again over his face. When it drops, you’re surprised to see a tinge of pink. “I was nervous,” he admits. 

Shock and delight. “Nervous around little old me?” You tease, eyes sparkling. 

“Yes!” The word bursts out of him as he leans over the counter toward you, the tips of his ears still pink when he flops back again. “I dunno,” he says, a little bashful. “I just didn't wanna mess things up.” 

To know that beneath the bravado and his dark ink exterior, Eddie had felt just as you had... Warmth blooms as your moth wings flutter. You’re instantly more endeared to him. “You didn’t mess things up,” you say quietly, and you know he sees it, hears it— the evidence of your feeling. You take a quick breath, continuing on. “Okay. You can help me with the cake.”

Eddie scrambles up eagerly as you pull up the recipe on your phone, setting it between you on the counter. Together you prepare to bake, moving around each other carefully, feeling out the unpracticed rhythm of sharing a space. Eddie surveys the ingredients and retrieves the wet from the fridge as you gather the rest of the dry. You brew the cup of coffee and direct him towards the utensils— spatula to the right of the sink, electric beater in the deep drawer beneath it. As you grease and flour the pan, he asks you how to set the oven. And all throughout, you find the clarity you’d wanted, punctuating your discussion with little directions and adjustments as you bake together.

“So, yeah,” you say. “Chrissy wasn't quiet about it when she confronted me. She knew about the van, and she accused me of trying to, like, convince you to—” you stumble on the word, heart leaping, though you try to conceal it— “b-break up with her.”

Blessedly, it’s easier to talk about this as Eddie cracks eggs into the metal bowl, tongue tip sneaking between his lips. But at the waver in your voice, his brown eyes find yours.

“Shit,” he mutters, dropping his wrists to lean against the counter. “Fuck, y/n, I'm so sorry. If I had any idea she'd do that to you…” Eddie sighs, eyes heavy with regret. You find yourself wishing you could take it from him. “I didn't say anything like that, that you wanted me to break up with her or something. Probably shouldn't have told her anything at all, but she just—" 

Eddie breaks off, glancing away, jaw tight. The pain in his expression is clear, and you think of claws in his back, blood staining hotel sheets. Though it had been a shock that Chrissy knew about the van, and part of you wants to be indignant that you’d been blindsided, you can’t really be mad at Eddie. You’d seen it for too long— the hold she has over him.

Had, your mind whispers, and wings flutter.

"It's not your fault." Eddie shakes his head, curls coming loose, but you don’t let him dismiss your reassurance. You pause with the electric beater in the bowl, poised but off, ducking your head to catch his gaze. Once he looks at you, you continue earnestly, "You told her the truth, Eddie. I'm not mad at you for telling her the truth. You did nothing wrong."

Eddie quirks a half-hearted smile at you, though he does look relieved. Satisfied, you start the beater, and he talks a little louder over the whir. "She made all that up about you in her head because, well." He looks away, and you keep your gaze on the chocolate mixture in the bowl, hoping it’ll be easier for him to talk without your eyes on him. It seems to be, because he continues, "I did try at first. To pretend nothing had changed. But Chris, she could always tell when something was off with me. The more I tried to tell her everything was fine, the more she'd push. The more she'd need me to do to try to convince her." He rubs at his knuckles, and you know he's missing his rings. 

"She started, like..." When he pauses, you look up to see Eddie watching you. "Well, I dunno if you wanna hear this." 

You take a slow breath through your nose to resist the rise of your anxiety. You want Eddie to feel free to share, just as he makes you feel. And part of you also just wants to know. "You can tell me," you assure him. "If you want to."

Eddie runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes dipping to his hands as he holds the bowl steady for you. "Couple months ago she started dropping all these hints, like, that she wanted me to buy her a ring. Came to a point that I started working overtime just to have more time away from home. Kind of delaying the inevitable, in a way, but... I dunno. I knew what I wanted to do long before I did it." 

You glance up again to see him looking at you, face so soft, and it makes your throat go thick. "I just knew it was gonna be rough," he continues. "That she wasn't gonna make it easy. But then yesterday, when I heard you—" 

He breaks off, and you turn off the beaters, resting them on the counter. Chocolate batter drips slowly back into the silver bowl, and you keep your eyes on it, trying not to let your lip wobble. Eddie's voice seems louder in the sudden silence. Hoarse, more labored when he continues. "When I heard you cry like that— God, y/n, I just... It just all clicked into place for me. Honestly, I didn't care anymore how ugly it was going to be." He looks at you mournfully, eyes glassy, and your green squeezes you until your sternum cracks.

You don’t hesitate to cup his cheek, wanting to convey the depth of your feeling. 

Compassion for his situation; heartache for the way he needed to rend his flesh to get free.

Understanding for why it took so long; forgiveness for what he did to you yesterday.

And a tinge of guilt. Guilt that you’d been the one to ask him to stay.

"Eddie—" His name falls from your lips in a tender whisper, and when he lists into your touch, you hitch a tiny whimper. 

"I'm sorry, sweet girl," he whispers. "I never want you to cry like that again." 

Your growth reaches and strives for him, chest aching as your chin quivers. “I’m sorry, too,” you whisper. 

Eddie’s brow wrinkles in confusion but crumples when you clarify in a tiny, trembling voice, “I’m sorry I told you to stay.”

The understanding dawns between his eyes, and it’s the blooming ache of a bruise between you. You both sit in the moment until the emotional whiplash of the last two days begins to overwhelm you, stinging at the corners of your eyes. 

And Eddie can see it written on your face. He takes your wrist in his calloused fingers, pulling your hand gently from his face to press a brief, chaste kiss to your palm. The press of his lips soothes the mottling of your hurt, and as he holds your hand against his mouth, your thumb draws tenderly along his cheek. 

The understanding you and Eddie share is the blooming ache of a bruise, but now, it can start to heal. 

He released you gently, and when he speaks again, Eddie’s voice is hoarse and quiet, but the question he asks isn't what you expect. He motions to the batter between you, asking, "You want this in the pan?"

You chuckle, and it comes out a little watery. "I think I'll pour it," you say, smiling at the wry twist to his plush lips. "No offense."

“Wow.” Eddie throws up his calloused hands and huffs disbelievingly through his nose, but you know he’s not really offended. You pour as he scrapes down the leftover batter with the spatula per your instruction, and he opens the door to the oven for you so you can push the pan in carefully. As it snaps shut, the sound seems uncannily like the final punctuation at the end of something. Your clarity has been gained; all questions have been answered. The task has been completed. As you stare through the glass window to the baking pan beyond, the silence lingers between you, beckoning the question. What now?

You break it a bit lamely. "Thanks for helping with the cake," you say.

"Yeah, sure," Eddie replies, scratching the back of his loosely-tied curls. You wonder if this is it— if he'll leave now. You're chewing on your lip, eyes darting to him and away again as he does the same. 

And then his stomach growls loudly. 

"Shit," Eddie deadpans, and when you giggle, he husky a goofy chuckle back. As your humor subsides, it segues into a very clear choice. Eddie can leave and go on with his night, have dinner on his own. 

Or… 

As the offer occurs to you, you suddenly feel shy; self-consciousness squirms within at the thought of being rejected. Still, you glance at Eddie hopefully. "You wanna order some food?" 

"Yeah." The word escapes in an immediate woosh, and Eddie’s crooked grin is unreasonably charming. "Honestly, I could eat that whole goddamn cake right now. Just, like, raw." 

You hazard a guess. "You like Chinese?" 

Eddie’s grin transforms to a slow, spreading smile, fond as it dimples his cheek. You flush under his gaze, but it's not uncomfortable. It's nice. "I love Chinese," he says quietly, and you wonder what has made this moment what it seems to be for him. Before you can wonder too long, Eddie breaks it. "Just none of that healthy shit.” He eyes you shrewdly as if suspicious. “I want all the MSG." 

You snort, glancing up from your phone where you’ve started to Google the restaurants nearby. "You can have whatever you want, Ed," you throw over your shoulder. Your wings flutter pleasantly as he beams that goofy smile you’re so fond of, crinkling the corners of his eyes. What a dork, you think, and there’s nothing but affection in the roll of your eyes.

–

Eddie is, apparently, pickier about his Chinese food preferences than he initially let on. He adamantly insists on Chinese donuts, and the first three restaurants you find don’t have them. The timer for the cake ends up beeping before you’ve even placed your order, but you can’t be too exasperated. How could you resist that pout of his? Full lips pink and pooched, brown eyes so wide and warm and shiny as he tips his head and leans in, coming eye-level with you as his loose curls brush your shoulder. It’s downright criminal, is the thing.

Eddie beats you to the oven, pulling on Penny’s frilly oven mitts as you concede and call in your order. You’re only half-listening to the tinny voice on the other end of the phone, watching Eddie carry the hot pan over to the stove. He sets it down with caution before spinning to you with an air of triumph. You complete the order and head over, standing beside him to peer down at your cake. It smells wonderfully of rich chocolate that’s still succulently moist, wafting damp steam that kisses your cheeks. And as you both hover over it, heads close together, it hits you suddenly how domestic this feels— just you and Eddie, alone in the kitchen, admiring the fruits of your labor.

Your green quivers, yearning. Your wings flutter almost wildly, almost overwhelmingly so. You speak to distract yourself from the feeling welling up from the bottom of you. 

"So, um... you wanna watch something? I have Netflix."

Eddie quirks a mischievous brow, and you flush, smacking his stomach with your arm. It makes him beam instantly. "D'you have HBO?" he asks, and your brow crinkles. 

"No," you say, and you swear he lights up brighter than the sun. 

"Oh," he chuckles out the word, eyes nearly crinkled shut with joy. "You're in for a treat."

You get him set up with the remote so he can log in to his account on Penny’s television and ask if he wants a drink. You fill glasses, placing them on the coffee table as the screen prompts Eddie to choose a profile: a big E for Eddie, a big C for Chrissy. You brace for the blow, for the sting, but it doesn’t come. 

Eddie clicks into his profile, leaving Chrissy’s behind, and you don’t feel a thing.

Still, when you sit next to him on the couch, you leave a healthy gap between you, a few inches to avoid presumption. Eddie doesn’t close the gap, but he doesn’t seem bothered, either. His legs are spread comfortably as he navigates the menu, and his eyes don’t leave the screen as you ask, “So, what’s this treat called?”

“The Last of Us.” His broad hands dance with that familiar frenetic energy as he motions while he explains. “It’s based on a video game from 2013, but you don’t need to play the game to get it. Basically, the premise is that a fungus infects people and turns them into zombies. Well, not really zombies because they're not actually dead, just mind-controlled. But it’s close enough. It’s a post-apocalyptic setting; lots of nature overtaking the land, so the landscape shots are beautiful. And the reason for the outbreak isn’t as bogus as zombie shows usually are. It feels like it could actually happen, which I really like.”

You chuckle, tickled by his keenness, and Eddie flushes at the amusement in your expression, smiling bashfully. 

Subtly, you nudge in closer, shrinking the inches minutely. You don’t need to feign enthusiasm. “It sounds good. Let's do it.” 

Eddie seems pleased. “Cool.” He leans back before popping up straight again almost immediately. “Uh, just, fair warning, ‘cause I know you don’t like scary stuff. There are no real jumpscares in this, but some of it is kind of creepy.”

Despite the unease you would typically feel about that, you find yourself genuinely saying, “I think I’ll be okay. If it gets too creepy, I’ll let you know.”

Eddie’s free hand twitches in his lap like he wants to touch you, but he settles for a smile instead before pressing play.

Your food arrives a third of the way through the first episode. You'd been riveted and are now dismayed by the knock on the door despite the hunger gnawing at your stomach. You tap Eddie’s arm urgently, drawing his gaze. “Pause it!” You exclaim, clambering off the couch, intent on making the exchange as quickly as possible to return to the action. When the noise of chaos suddenly cuts as Eddie obliges you, it brings a sigh of relief.

Despite how engaging the show is, you find yourself looking at Eddie as he slurps his lo mein noodles, brown eyes wide. “Look, see how it throws itself around?” He talks through a mouthful, indicating the infected chasing Joel and his daughter. “That’s ‘cause when the fungus takes over a person’s brain, it isn’t trying to be careful with the body anymore.” He shakes his head in awe. “Fuckin’ metal.” 

You suppose it’s kind of gross, the way he’s talking with his mouth full, but the expression on his face is so boyishly charming that you can’t bring yourself to care. Between Eddie’s eagerness and your shock and dismay at the episode’s ending, you're hooked instantly. "Can we watch the next one?” You ask eagerly, not missing the brief smug twitch of his mouth, the one that means, ‘knew you’d like it.’ 

"Sure," Eddie replies, sounding casual. But when he brushes your hair back from your shoulder, lips twisting as if he's trying to contain the depth of his happiness, you can see it leaking through his bright eyes. 

As episode two eases into episode three and you begin to edge into binge-watching territory without complaint, you find yourself drifting closer to Eddie with tiny shifts of your body. First, your knees turn inward, then your shoulders tilt. Then you’re sinking back into the cushions on an angle, all the while seeking Eddie's light, half-subconscious and half-aware, though the aware part of you does nothing to stop it. And he's doing the same thing: spreading his legs, leaning back against the cushions, taking up space as he edges toward the center of the couch. Eddie inches ever closer until you finally feel his coveralls brush your hip and the heat of his armpit against your shoulder when he throws his arm around the back. 

When Frank climbs out of the hole in the ground and is greeted with Bill’s shotgun, your knee bumps against Eddie's thigh, and you keep it there. When Bill takes over for Frank at the piano, Eddie shifts until his side is pressing lightly to yours. And as Bill and Frank fall into bed together, you look at Eddie and feel your moth wings flutter, that rushing giddiness, that nervous anticipation like this is a first date. Because, for you, there's just something about eating in and watching television cuddled up on the couch, just you and a special person. 

There always has been. 

As episode three progresses through the years of the characters' lives, you press even closer to Eddie, relaxing as you feel him lean into you in kind. You relish the novelty of what you feel: the peace of being alone, the shared experience of doing something mundane with him, the emotional journey this television show is taking you on together. You focus on the physical sensations, too: the rise and fall of his warm chest, the tickle of his curls against your temple when he tugs you in with an arm wrapped around your shoulder, and your head falls to the crook of his neck. You even relish his scent, spicy and smoky but acridly tangy like motor oil and body odor, reminding you of the sweat and labor of his day. But you don't care. In fact, you tuck your nose against the gray of his tank, inhaling slow and steady as you let your eyes slip closed for just a moment, breathing in as much smoke as you can bear. You feel relaxed— not quite at the edge of sleepiness, but so utterly, wonderfully content.

When Eddie pulls your legs onto his lap, the arm wrapped around you tightening around your shoulders, you lift your head and smile up at him. But the hesitant concern on his face is unexpected. Your sleepy contentment fades at his expression. "What is it, Ed?" 

You reach tender fingertips to smooth the crease between his brow, and his face softens when you do. "This episode... it gets sad," he murmurs, brown eyes darting between yours to read your reaction. "Are you sure you wanna finish it right now? We can stop."

You glance at the men on your sister's television screen, how the sun shines behind them as they feast on red, succulent strawberries— the spoils of the months Frank spent tending the plants in secret. You look back at the man who has you wrapped up in his tender embrace, cradling you securely. "It's okay," you say, lips curving in a sweet smile. "I wanna finish it."

Eddie wasn't kidding.

Your breath stutters in your chest, chin trembling as you try to hold back your tears. You're tired of crying— you're cried out, really, from these last two days— but watching this might leave you no choice. Eddie's thumb rubs a soothing pattern along your arm, plush lips shushing against your temple as you crowd close to his side for comfort. You curl your knees up, almost in his lap as you clutch at his free hand. Sadness weighs in your chest, but you can't look away. The pain is just too bittersweet, and Eddie's closeness is just too precious. 

The third episode is nearly over when the door creaks open, drawing your heavy eyes. Penny freezes in the doorway, and you see yourself suddenly through her eyes: the room dark save for the glow of the television, empty Chinese food containers scattered messily on her coffee table, and her baby sister tangled up with an unfamiliar man on the couch, eyes big and glossy.

You tense slightly, pinned by her wide-eyed stare, but you don’t move away from Eddie. "Hey," you greet her cautiously. 

"Hey." Penny matches your inflection before her eyes flick over Eddie, a brow quirking as her eyes scan him— heavily inked arm thrown over your shoulders, your legs in his lap, his earrings glinting, his hair long and dishevelled. You’re at the edge of offense when she says, not quite critically, “Dirty coveralls on my couch?” 

Immediately, Eddie jerks, jostling you as he moves your legs off him and makes to get up, stuttering an apology. “Shit, sorry—” 

But Penny seems to be amused by his earnestness. “Nah, it's fine,” she says, and Eddie’s eyes dart between you and your sister as if he’s assessing whether to take her at her word. You roll your eyes toward her, not missing the smirk she tosses you before pulling off her coat and hanging it on the rack. You just know she’d taken pleasure from making Eddie jump. 

You gently guide Eddie back to sitting, and almost reluctantly, he resettles. When you put your legs back in his lap, he holds them there with a warm palm, touch tentative now with an audience. You blush with pleasure as his thumb traces lightly, so lightly, over your calf. You distract yourself by calling to Penny, "How was the award ceremony?" 

"It was good," she replies, closer than you thought she’d be as she passes by the back of the couch, heading toward her bedroom. Her tone is casual but edged with a sense of knowing implication that makes you want to squirm. You whip back around to face the television, noting that the episode has since finished. Eddie pauses it before the next one can start. 

Penny’s arrival hasn’t quite put you on edge, but it has changed the atmosphere in the condo. You and Eddie are no longer alone, no longer quite as peaceful as before. And it seems Penny's arrival has shaken Eddie out of that place, too, because he says, “It's getting late.” 

You glance at him to see his expression is largely neutral. You, on the other hand, can’t fully conceal your disappointment at the significance of his observation— that it’s time for him to go. You nod, hoping it doesn’t appear as reluctant as you feel.

Eddie is hesitant, quiet as he watches you, and you think maybe that neutral expression isn’t neutral at all. Maybe it’s just carefully guarding against his own disappointment. It could be just your hope talking, and you’re starting to think so, but then Eddie is leaning a little closer, and his lips are brushing your temple, and he’s murmuring, “Do you want me to go?” 

A low flutter. A rush of green. Your throat is dry, and you swallow to wet it. “No,” you whisper back. “Do you want to go?” 

You peek up at him, and light glows in honey brown. “No,” Eddie murmurs. 

You take a slow breath. “Okay,” you say, somewhat louder, but voice still tiny. You bite your lip. “My bed is small,” you tell him. Negotiating. Mitigating expectations. 

Eddie’s lips curl with a slight, fond smile. “That's okay.” 

You feel your own smile spreading. You keep the exchange going. “You'll need to shower first.” 

“So will you,” he counters, eyes alight with his tease. “I’m filthy, and you've been cuddling me all night.”

You feel heat rise, glowing in your cheeks. But it isn’t with embarrassment, and it isn’t with arousal either. “Yes, you are,” you say, sweet and tender. “And yes, I have.” 

Eddie’s calloused fingers squeeze warm around your leg.

–

The bathroom is right across the hall from Penny’s office, which is now your bedroom. The heat of the water is steaming up the mirror, but you can’t see it because you’re already concealed behind the curtain, standing under the warm stream that beats against your back, wetting the ends of your hair. You’re listening to the drops hit the basin and bounce off your shower curtain, and you’re not doing anything else. Though you stepped under the spray several minutes ago, you haven’t touched your soap yet.

There are two doors that separate you from Eddie. He’s sitting on the floor in your bedroom, which you know because he’d clambered down cross-legged before you left the room. He’d chosen a spot on the hardwood, away from the area rug and the rumpled comforter of your twin bed. He’d told you he didn’t want to get any of your things dirty.

There are two doors that separate you from Eddie, but your green knows how close he is.

Now that you’ve had a taste of closeness, you feel his absence keenly. Your wings are fluttering, frantic to find him. The heated spray is prickling the backs of your arms, running down your legs, reminding you of your nakedness. Reminding you that you’re currently bare and the man you yearn for is just a dozen steps away.

You and Penny never lock the bathroom door at home; if it’s closed, you both know not to enter. Tonight is no different, making what you’re considering an actual possibility. But Penny is home now, and fearing what she might think is the source of your indecision. Still, your green is reaching, trembling, striving for Eddie, and your sister already saw you cuddling with him on the couch. 

You just want to be close.

You decide that if Eddie can hear you through two doors and over the stream of the shower, great, and if not, so be it. You call his name.

“Eddie?” 

A pause yields nothing but the steady thrum of water on the curtain, and then you try one final time, projecting your voice a little louder. “Eddie?”

After a long moment, you hear a creak on the carpet just outside the bathroom and then his hoarse smoke voice, a little tentative and muffled through wood. “Yeah?” 

Nervousness surges, but you pluck up your courage, pushing through the pause. Your teeth scrape your bottom lip before you release it, but your voice still comes out softer and higher than you’d like. “...Do you wanna come in?” 

Your heart is thumping in your chest, eyes darting as you concentrate on listening. There’s no reply, but you hear the door creak open and close again. Your heart thumps harder at the sound of rustling fabric, and you know it’s Eddie’s clothing dropping to the floor; the curtain shifts, and you step aside, making room in preparation for him. Wings flutter and flap, and green tendrils reach until you see that face— white framed with black, tinged now with pink— peek tentatively beyond the curtain. 

Eddie’s eyes wander over your naked form only briefly before returning to your face. “Hi.” 

Your mouth curls. “Hi,” you echo him, pinching the curtain back so he can step in. He does so quickly so as not to let the water out, and the curtain pulls from between your fingers when he tugs it back into place, but you don’t notice because you’re just looking at him. 

The pale quartz of Eddie’s body is inches from yours where he stands under the spray, blocking it from reaching you. The water is already washing the grime away and soaking his hair, smoothing curls nearly straight. You follow the path of the water down the ink of his chest and arms to where it drips over ruddy knuckles and from calloused fingertips; you follow other trails down his soft stomach, over the plane of his hip, down the sparse hair on his legs and to his pink toes.

Eddie’s toes are a revelation. You’ve never noticed his toes before. 

You look up again into honey brown and sway closer to touch the wet hair now flattened to his collarbone. Eddie reaches for you when you reach for him, and his calloused fingers brush your waist. And slowly, by degrees, you close the gap until Eddie’s warm front is pressed to yours. 

Everything is pliant and slick, even the heat of his soft length where it presses between your bodies. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, and his wrap around your waist; you embrace each other in the water, in the haze of steam and humidity. You sigh against him when he tangles his fingers in your wet hair, and you turn your head to press the side of your face to his chest. Eddie’s heartbeat is steady under your ear, and his arms are firm around you; he’s so solid within your grasp, so wonderfully and unbelievably here. 

You only pull back when water splashes you in the face; he smiles warmly when you blink and releases you to wipe it away. 

"C'mere," you say then. "I'll wash you." 

You take his arms, and he lets you switch your positions, so he's out of the spray. "Am I gonna smell like you?" He murmurs, not looking all that upset about it. 

"Yup." You grin, reaching around him to indicate the shampoo bottle on the shelf. "Shampoo is here." 

Eddie dispenses a pump while you squirt body wash into your hands; he lathers up his hair, giving you a chance to run your hands over his pecs and under his arms, washing out the hair there. You take more body wash and clean him gently, soft palms trailing over warm wet skin, washing away the grime and sweat as the dirt follows suds down the drain. You clean all of him— the ink on his arms, his pale sides, his hips, his groin, his legs. Even the backs of his knees, which you bend to reach. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve touched Eddie. You’ve touched probably ninety percent of his body in the five months you’ve spent together in your arrangement. But this time, it isn't sexual; it's just intimate. You know it, and he knows it. In fact, when you draw closer to reach around and start on his back, and between you, you feel him semi-hard and hot against your belly, he even looks sheepish. "Sorry," he mutters, but you reassure him quickly. 

"It's okay," you murmur, gazing up into his face. "Let me get your back." 

You swap places so that he's under the stream facing away from you, and you gather the length of his hair, draping it over his shoulder. You wash the rest of him, running your hands reverently over the muscles of his shoulders, down the slope of his back to the dimples at the base of his spine, and then over his butt. His hips twitch at the tickle of your touch, and you both chuckle. “Okay,” you say, and he turns around to face you again, cupping your neck with a thankful hand.

“Your turn,” he says, and you pass him the body wash. He washes you carefully, calloused hands smoothing over your wet skin. Never lingering for too long; still not sexual, but not clinical, either. Sensual and tender, like he wants to take care of you. You sigh as you wash your hair, enjoying every touch as Eddie’s hands smooth over your shoulders and arms, your breasts and your soft stomach, the wideness of your hips, and the pliant fat of your thighs. He washes your legs, and you lean against him with a hand on his shoulder to lift your feet at his insistence. He nudges your arm so you’ll turn, and you oblige him, letting him wash your back with just as much care as you wash your face. 

Finally, the water begins to run lukewarm, and you both rinse off and finish up quickly. You grab Eddie a towel from the nearby rack, passing it over before gathering one to wrap around your body. The shower curtain rings clatter against the bar as you open it and step out, eyes catching on the rumple of Eddie’s soiled clothing on the floor and the plaid red of his boxers peeking from the pile. You purse your lips as you realize he has nothing to change into.

You turn to see him toweling off his inked arms haphazardly. “So, uh—” Eddie glances at you from beneath the damp tangle of his long bangs, and the sight of those warm amber eyes makes you flutter. “I just realized you don’t have any clean clothes,” you say.

Eddie’s brows shoot up, and he nods slowly. “Right,” he says, mouth tightening to a wryly amused line. “Well, shit.”

You giggle at his baldness, and his grin spreads almost involuntarily as he sees your mirth. “I’ll see if Pen has any of Charlie’s you can borrow,” you offer, slipping out the door and closing it behind you, hiking your towel a little more securely around your body as you knock softly on your sister’s bedroom door.

It cracks enough for her to poke her head out, expression expectant. “Pen,” you say, coaxing like only siblings can be, “do you happen to have any of Charlie's clothes that Eddie can borrow? Like some shorts and a t-shirt, or some sweatpants?” After a second, you resist a blush and tack on, “...or some boxers?”

She quirks a brow. “Isn't this the guy you were hysterically crying over yesterday?” 

You huff. “It's different now,” you grumble, and she just shakes her head fondly. 

"Lemme look." She comes back with a white t-shirt breasted with the firehouse emblem and a pair of comfy sweatpants. “No boxers, sorry,” she tells you. You nod and hold up her offerings, noting that both will be far too big for Eddie’s lanky frame. He’s not a small guy; it’s just that Charlie is a big guy. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Thanks,” you say, turning from the door. 

Penny stops you before you can get too far, and you whip around at the salaciousness in her voice. “Wrap it before you tap it,” she says with a smirk. 

You blush furiously. “Pen!” you hiss, “It's not— We’re just—” You huff, stumbling in your embarrassment. “We're just gonna sleep,” you finally get out. 

“Uh-huh,” she says as if she doesn’t believe you, but her eyes are soft when she sing-songs, “Goodnight, y/n.” 

“Night.” You grumble, bidding a hasty retreat back to the bathroom. You slip back through the door with your procurements to find Eddie with the towel now slung around his waist. You hold out your offering, and as he takes it from you, you realize you have another problem. Regretfully, you tell him, “I don't have a spare toothbrush.” 

“It's okay,” Eddie assures you, dropping the bundle of clothing onto the counter. “I can use my finger.” 

You squirm a little with self-consciousness, unsure whether he’ll find what you’re about to offer strange. “...You can borrow mine,” you finally say.

He looks at you, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s fine. I don't care.”

And where you thought maybe Eddie wouldn’t want to use your toothbrush, you find instead that as you pass it to him, he looks at it for a moment, smiling softly. Subtle, as if he’s smiling to himself. 

There's intimacy in this, too: watching Eddie use your toothbrush and rinse it off carefully before passing it back to you. You've had his dick in your mouth, and you've swallowed his cum, but somehow this— standing at the sink, brushing your teeth with the same brush he just used while Eddie drops the towel and pulls on Charlie's too-big clothes, toweling off his hair by ruffling it like one would dry off a dog— feels more intimate than anything you’ve done before. 

You dart across the hallway in your towel, retrieving a pair of plain cotton underwear and a loose t-shirt from the folded pile of clothes in your closet. You hear Eddie enter behind you, but you don’t hesitate to remove your towel and hang it from the closet doorknob, pulling on your panties and shirt unhurriedly. You tie up your damp hair with a silk scrunchie, watching Eddie pile his soiled clothing into a bare corner of your room to be dealt with later. Together, wordlessly, you straighten your sheets and comforter, tidying your tiny bed in the warm, subtle lamplight of your bedroom. It casts shadows over Eddie’s face, deepening the sharpness of his jaw and the definition of his brow. When he glances up, noticing you watching him from the other side of the mattress, the amber of his eyes stirs your green and feels like home.

Finally, it’s time for bed.

You click out the lamp, and in the darkness, lit by cool moonbeams illuminating your headboard's contours, you and your light maneuver onto the tiny bed. There’s nothing quite like the slide of your fresh, clean limbs against the smooth sheets, the way it contrasts with the warmth of Eddie’s body, the way your damp hair kisses each others’ necks as you nuzzle together, shifting until you’re both comfortable. It takes a little while to find a position that satisfies you both, and with some humor, you say, “Told you it was cramped.”

You can’t really see him in the darkness, but you can hear when Eddie chuckles, and you can taste his minty breath when it puffs spicy against your lips. His voice is a rumble you feel more than hear. "You weren't kidding," he murmurs. "But I don't mind." 

Eddie can’t see the way your face softens, but it does. "Me neither," you whisper. 

You feel his arm shift, and your eyes flutter closed as you feel the tiniest brush against your forehead— a seeking fingertip. His touch is featherlight as he moves hair off your forehead and then drags that same hand back to lightly pinch the shell of your ear, dragging those calloused fingers down to the lobe. "Goodnight, sweet girl." 

You seek him blindly too, searching with your face until your lips are skimming his cheek. Now oriented, you move your head down to press a soft, tender kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth. And when you feel him melt into the bed, muscles relaxing against you, your growth— that yearning, quivering green— finally settles into contentment. "Goodnight, Eddie."

–

When the morning light chases away the chill of twilight, you wake first. The first thing you notice, before you’ve even opened your eyes, is the uncomfortable dampness of your body. You're sweating with the heat trapped under the covers, your front overly warm where it's pressed along Eddie's, belly to collarbone. But you can't be bothered to move. You don't want to disturb him. 

When you open your eyes, it’s to a wholly charming sight: Eddie’s nose is whistling slightly as he breathes, his mouth is half-open, and he's drooling on your pillow. Your soft expression transforms when you notice, lips twisting into a delighted grin. He's gonna be so embarrassed that he drooled all over my bed. After a moment of amusement, you move your arm carefully, dipping your hand beneath the hem of his shirt to draw your fingers slowly, so slowly up his back. You feel him sigh and nuzzle closer to you, a tiny sleepy grunt escaping from his lips as he closes them. Your affection for him rushes so strongly through you that you're left almost dizzy. 

The room is lit with the pale light of early morning, and you stare at the freckle underneath Eddie’s eye, the long eyelashes dusting his cheek. He looks so peaceful, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes softened by sleep. You nestle your face closer until you can feel each exhale from his nose tickle your upper lip, and you close your eyes, basking in his nearness.

You don’t know how long you lay that way, tangled with Eddie, unable to tell where he ends, and you begin. Your lips are so close they almost touch when he shifts his face just slightly, and then they do— a tiny whisper of plush lips on yours, the slightest brush that has your moths fluttering to life. It almost seems incidental until you feel the arm slung around your waist tighten, bringing you closer. And Eddie might almost think you're still asleep if it wasn't for the fingers trailing absent patterns along his back.

Now that you know he’s awake, you return his kiss, pressing your lips to his with your eyes still closed. And in the light of morning that shines pink against your eyelids, before the world has fully awakened, the only sound that exists is the tiny smack of the kiss you give Eddie and the woosh of his contented sigh, a sigh you breathe in like gentle smoke.

When you move your head back, blinking your eyes open again to look into Eddie's face, the sight that greets you is new but so wholly, wonderfully welcome. 

Eddie's dark curls are splayed across your pillow, plush lips deep pink and puffy, eyes heavy with sleep but the color so deep and rich it nearly steals your breath.

Nine months ago, Eddie Munson was a stranger, sticking out like a dark mark in the pastel of the apartment you shared with your boyfriend Steve. He was foreign, unfamiliar; you didn't know him. 

Now, he smiles, and you know his gentleness; you know the light in his brown eyes. He who teased out the growth, who caressed the leaves between his calloused fingers, who shone tenderly upon it until it blossomed from the center of you. You're bearing fruit, the words of your soul, and you use them to nourish you both. 

When you break the silence, you don't exchange platitudes of good morning or question how he'd slept. Instead, you say, "I've never felt this way about anyone before." 

Eddie’s eyes search yours quietly until he husks a quiet question. "Not even Steve?" 

You don’t need to think about your answer. "No," you whisper. "Steve is a good man, but you see all of me in a way he never did." 

You watch Eddie’s throat bob in a thick swallow. "I think..." he whispers, wide-eyed and tentative. Like it’s a revelation; like it’s never happened before. "I think you see all of me, too." 

"I do." You brush the curls from his face, fingers like reverence incarnate. "I'm in love with you, Eddie."

And to see it— this man, who guards himself with ink and leather and chains— to see how you feed him with your words, how he swallows them up. To see how his expression becomes so vulnerable, pink on black and white; how he drops his armor and the gentleness of his eyes blooms over his whole face. You watch it, and you know it's something rare to behold. And then he speaks, plush lips spilling words that water your growth like rain.

"I love you, sweet girl. I love you." 

You’re blooming. You’re thriving. You’re rushing with the force of your joy until it stings the corners of your eyes. Eddie touches your face, wiping away the happy rain that has fallen and kissed your cheek. "Does this mean you're mine?" He asks, hushed and quiet, as if he’s afraid to hope for the answer. 

"Yes," you reply, fluttering toward the light that shines in beautiful brown eyes. "I'm yours, Eddie." 

A deep breath, a pinch of your brow. More than you ever thought you could ask for, but you do. You do. "And are you mine?" 

Eddie’s answer is immediate, husked like rich and heady smoke as he strokes your hair. "As long as you want me, sweetheart."

You want to say, Forever, Eddie. 

So you do.

"Forever, Eddie. I'll want you forever."

Eddie kisses your lips, and the taste of his mouth is sweet, sweet like ripe red strawberries, sweet with the promise of a thousand more kisses just like it.

"Then you'll have me, y/n. You'll have me forever." 

chapter twelve : epilogue (TBA)

ko-fi. ♡

I’m sick of modern celebrity drama. i want that vintage beef. famous people had plenty of drama that we don’t spend enough time exposing. I’m start starting a rag mag dedicated to digging up buried (literally) grudges. someone spill more tea about how harry houdini & arthur conan doyle went from besties to worsties bc one of them believed in ghosts and the other went around disproving them

Can't wait to see what's next! Loving your writing <3<3

BASIC BIOLOGY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART TWO) | PART ONE

word count: 7396 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list

Summary: you're paired with billy for a biology project. you only visit his house once, but it's enough for you to understand why he doesn't want you to come over again. when he starts showing up more and more in your life, you realize that it's basic biology: you were made for him, and he was made for you.

Contents: graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of injuries, angst, fluff, happy ending

A/N: i hope you like this chapter! Billy and his love starvation seem like they’d latch onto the first real love they get, and I tried to establish that here. Please let me know what you think! 💞

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

You don’t expect to see Billy again for a while. Even though he’d thanked you, sincerely, awestruck, you hadn’t suffered through the tense car ride for nothing. He clearly didn’t want to talk to you about it, and he assumes you’ll pry.

You don’t really blame him, either. Because you want to pry. You want to beg for information, plead with him to give you a rundown of what hurts and where, so that you can fix it all. And then you want to pry about any particular allergies of his father’s, so that you can serve him shellfish pasta and make his death look like an accident.

It turns out, though, that you see him the very next day.

You don’t have your own car, nor can you even drive. You’re scared of it, of the thought of that much mechanical power granted to a simple human being, and you’d much rather walk or take the bus anyways. Your bike has a flat tire, or you’d be using it to ride back from the store.

All you’d picked up was a bottle of coke and a pack of gum - juicy fruit. The coke sweats a stain through the pocket of your jeans, but it’s secure, and not grating callouses against your fingertips with its puckered cap. All you hear is the thundering roar of cars speeding down the street next to you, your feet slamming against the pavement as you power walk home.

You’re only ten minutes out, in the final stretch, when you hear a particularly loud engine. It’s gotta be from a muscle car, and you wait for it to pass so that you can look without being obvious. But it doesn’t pass, the engine revs and then chugs once more, slowing to a stop right beside you.

You’re not in the practice of looking over at cars that stop next to you on the road, something eerie about the situation. But when you hear a newly-familiar voice say your name, you stop in your tracks.

“Y/N,” Billy calls, leaning over the empty passenger’s seat to brace his hand on the open window, “Hey, you need a ride?”

His face is red. It’s subtle, and you think that maybe there’s- is that makeup over it? Either way, you know there’s a mark, and you know why there’s a mark.

“Uh,” You stammer, glancing ahead at the sidewalk, “I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“Where are you going?” He raises an eyebrow, “Aren’t you hot?”

“A little,” You become hyper aware of the sweat sticking to your forehead, the stickiness of your socks against your feet, “It’s fine, though. It’s only, like, ten minutes home.”

“Just get in,” He squints up at you, the sun in his eyes, “I’m heading that way anyways.”

“Okay..” You comply, ducking down to step off of the curb and fit yourself into his camaro, “Are you sure it’s not a problem?”

“Not at all,” He straightens up from where he’d been leaning out the window so that you can sit down, but he braces his hand on the back of your headrest. He uses it as leverage to look behind him to make sure he’s not pulling out into traffic, and when it’s safe, he peels away from the curb in what you now know is typical Billy fashion. Tires squealing, engine revving, confidence in his eyes.

“So,” You hum, digging the coke bottle out of your pocket so that you don’t smash it, “Why are you gonna be over by my place?”

“Oh,” he laughs, shaking his head, “I’m not. I just lied, knew you wouldn’t get in unless I said that.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, “Billy! You lied!”

“And,” He grins, nodding and readjusting his hands on the wheel as he turns you around a corner, “It worked, didn’t it? And now you’ve got a ride.”

“Thank you, Billy,” At your words you remember his own from the night prior, stiffening slightly in your seat, “Um, are you.. okay? Last night was.. Intense.”

“Yeah,” He takes a moment to answer, but when he does his voice is stronger than it was last night. He keeps himself preoccupied with ducking slightly to check his blind spot, “It’s nothing. I’m, uh- I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re okay, though.” You mumble, “Does it hurt?”

“Seriously,” He shakes his head, his curls flying around his shoulders, “Doesn’t matter. Just.. forget about it, okay?”

“Billy,” You gush, wanting so badly to respect his wishes for the sake of not starting an argument. But how were you supposed to forget possibly the scariest experience of your life?

“I’m not going to go around town blabbing,” You swear, “But don’t you think we should tell someone?”

“No,” He insists, voice sharp, “Because if he doesn’t get hauled in, then I get my ass beat, maybe even killed. And if he does get hauled in, then I’m the man of the house. And my summer job barely pays for the gas money it takes to get there, and Max is too young to work, and Susan probably doesn’t even want me, so then I’d be out on my ass, and- just.. No. It wouldn’t work.”

He’s heated now, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. His chest heaves with the breaths he wasn’t taking when he was rambling, and you let him catch up before you talk again.

“Okay,” You take care to keep your voice calm and soothing, “Okay, yeah, that makes sense. I won’t tell anyone, Billy, not if you don’t want me to. But.. but something has to give, y’know? I meant what I said last night,” You fiddle with the ridges on the cap of your coke bottle, “Come over anytime.”

He meets your eye in the rear view mirror, and no words are needed. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that’s reflected in his own, and beneath the cockiness that he slathers over himself, you see sincerity peeking through. He nods and it’s grateful, hopeful, even.

“You want a burger?” He sniffs, scrunching his nose and changing the subject. His hands are prying at the wheel, turning the car down a road before you can respond, but you’ve got leftover cash from the convenience store, so you nod.

“Sure,” You nod, “Uh, I guess I don’t owe you pizza money anymore.”

“No,” You’re glad that he takes it as a joke, instead of a painful reminder of the night before, “Max should be the one paying me, Jesus, I mean she ate half the box.”

“She’s a growing girl,” You scold him, “She needs her nutrients.”

“Oh, yeah, melted cheese and greasy pepperoni, real nutritious.” He scoffs, but there’s a smile on his face, “What’s your order, Doctor Nutrient?”

You’re tempted to order a salad just to fuck with him. But you don’t, you let out a breathy laugh and recite your burger preference. He nods, pulling up to the window of the only drive-thru fast food restaurant in town.

Part of you is that glad that you don’t go inside, and part of you is crushed.

On one hand, you’re sweaty from walking, and you probably don’t look your best because of it. You don’t feel like being in the public eye right now, you feel like curling up on your couch and relaxing for the rest of the day. 

But on the other hand, what is Billy feeling? Part of you, deep inside, a horrid little piece that wants to make you sad, tells you that he’s not going to go into a burger place with you because he’s embarrassed to be seen with you. That you do look sweaty and gross, and that he’s not going to risk his reputation for some girl in his biology class. You thought you’d had a sort of breakthrough with him, unlocked some part of him that no one else had, because of those minutes stuck hiding in his closet. You’d thought you were maybe even friends, not just partners for class.

But he orders and pays for a meal to-go, and you’re silent as his wheels screech against the asphalt as he pulls into a parking space.

“Here,” He hands you the tray that they’d given you, spreading a meager, flimsy napkin over his lap in its absence, “You take that, and just keep my fries in there while I eat this.”

“We can share it,” You offer, scrambling to balance the tray on the divider between your seats, but he pushes it back into your lap with a shake of his head and a large, strong hand, “No, no, don’t worry about it. One of us should have an easy lunch.”

“Thanks,” You murmur, choosing to stuff your mouth with burger instead of voice any of your internal monologue out loud. You eat in silence for a few bites, blaming it on your mouthful of food instead of your awkward reservations. But he glances over to get a fry, and sees you staring out the windshield, lost in space.

“Is yours drugged or something?” He teases, elbowing you gently in the side, “You’re zoning out, hard.”

“Oh,” You take a deep breath, chewing the last of your burger and swallowing it, picking at your fries, “No, I think I’m just tired from walking.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s good I picked you up, then. Where were you even walking?”

“Corner store,” You mumble around a mouthful of burger, “I wanted a coke. Oh,” You remember, sticking a hopefully-clean hand into your pocket to retrieve your cash, “Here, for the burger.”

“‘S fine,” He waves you off, “It was, like, two bucks. Don’t sweat it.”

“Billy,” You huff, “Just let me pay you back!”

“No,” He drawls, sipping from his fountain drink, “Stop arguing, or I’ll kick you out of the car.”

You fall silent, neglecting to remind him that you weren’t in his car to begin with.

“So,” His eyes flash over the stereo, and he breaks the momentary lull in conversation, “What kind of music are you into?”

“Anything, really,” You shrug, “I like it all.”

“Even pop?” His nose wrinkles, and he stares accusatorily at you from his seat.

“Pop’s fine,” You nod, “Classical is only nice when I’m trying to study.”

“Classi- Like, piano and shit? Jesus,” He laughs incredulously, “Are you ninety?”

“Hey,” Your mouth falls open, and you fall easily into teasing banter with him, “Classical music is not for old people! It’s for people who need music on to study but get distracted by lyrics.”

“Metal’s good for that, too,” He reaches across the center divider to snatch a fry from the tray, “It’s, like, 90% guitar, and half the lyrics don’t even make sense, anyways. Nothing to pay attention to.”

“I’m not surprised you like metal,” You hum, “Did a Mötley Crüe tape come with this car?”

“No,” He insists, and you catch the flash of his grin from the side of your eye, “I bought it on the way back from the dealership.”

He doesn’t want to drown out your giggles with music, so he waits until you take another bite to pop a tape in. 

“That’s real music,” He boasts as the sound blares to life, “None of that violin shit.”

“I like metal,” You promise him, foot tempted to tap to the beat of the drums, “It’s just not all I listen to.”

“Yeah, well it’s gonna be all you listen to in here,” He assures you, “I’m gonna turn you into a diehard.”

“You have all of, what, twenty minutes?” You laugh, “Billy, how often do you think I’m gonna be in your car?”

“Whenever you want,” He shrugs, “You think I’m gonna let you haul your ass around town without a car?”

“Billy,” You frown, swallowing roughly to stare suspiciously at him, “What are you talking about? You barely even know me, why are you acting like my chauffeur all of a sudden?”

“Barely even know you-” He scoffs, jamming a fry into the ketchup that’s pooled on your tray, “We’re friends, dumbass. That’s how friendship works, right? We do shit for each other?”

Your heart thuds to your stomach. Friends? An hour ago you wouldn’t have even called Billy Hargrove your acquaintance. Sure, you knew each other. Hell, you probably knew more about him than anyone else in school. But not because he told you, because you found out. It was an accident, a fluke, a mistake. He didn’t tell you on purpose, so it didn’t mean you were close. But maybe you were, maybe his borderline kidnapping of you was because he cared, because he liked you.

“Yeah,” You decide, “Yeah, we’re friends. And that’s what friends do. I just.. I can’t offer you much, can I? I mean, shit, you won’t even let me give you a $5 for lunch.”

His eyes narrow, and you’re nervous you said something wrong. He huffs out a sigh, jaw tightening, “Jesus, Y/N, are you gonna make me spell it out?”

“What?”

“You offered me a place to stay,” He mumbles, glaring daggers at his keys in the ignition, “That’s.. A lot, okay? And I appreciate it.” He says it almost angrily, and if you weren’t so taken aback, you might have laughed.

“So I don’t mind dumping you where you need to be. Or spotting you for lunch.”

“Thank you,” You echo his sentiment from last night, hoping that even though they’re about a burger and not a home, they’re just as sincere, “Thanks, Billy.”

“Don’t mention it,” He grumbles, stuffing the rest of his burger into his mouth so that he doesn’t have to speak.

Being friends with Billy Hargrove is interesting. He’s brash, abrasive, but he cares in his own way, you find out, when he stops hard at a red light and throws his arm out over your chest.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, gruff and stiff, “You okay?”

“Fine,” You nod, a little breathless from how the seat belt had rubbed against your skin, “You can pull over here, if you want. I can run around the back, it’s unlocked already.”

“I’m not dropping you off at the curb,” He scoffs, “I think I can manage your driveway.”

“Fine,” You tease, “I was just trying to make it easier for you.”

A small smile curves over his lips at your tone, and you know he’s not upset. You’re starting to realize that being friends with Billy is easy, as soon as you accept that he can be harsh. He’s not the type of friend to gush about feelings, you don’t think, preferring to quip back and forth, and you can handle that.

He pulls into your driveway, and spots a familiar red car parked three houses down.

“You’re neighbors with Harrington?” His eyes shade over with something that can’t be good, considering his well-known feelings towards the other boy.

“No,” You shake your head, “No, that’s his friend’s house. He just drives him around sometimes, I think. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

You shoot him a grin as your head rests against the headrest of your seat, and he can’t argue with that. He rolls his eyes despite the growing grin on his lips, and he reaches over to shove you.

“Get out of my car,” He groans, “And- here,” He tears a shred of napkin off of the leftover stash from lunch, digging for a pen to scrawl his number, “Call me whenever you need a ride. Or good music to listen to.”

“I’m gonna go study to Chopin,” You leer at him from your front steps, and he lunges, reaching out the driver’s side window to reach for you. You shriek, jumping out of the way before he can grab you, and it pulls a long, hearty laugh from his chest.

“Take it,” He reaches into his glove compartment to pull out a tape, red-and-black designs etched over the front, “I’m not driving away until I hear it blasting from your window,”

“My parents are home,” You gush, fingers curling around the plastic case, “I can’t!”

“Headphones, then,” He insists, eyes alight with amusement, “I’m expecting you to know the words the next time I see you.”

It’s a hefty promise to make, but you do so with a smile on your face.

You don’t get much studying done amongst Metallica. It’s hard to focus on finishing your biology project when you recognize a song you’d heard earlier in Billy’s car, and you hum the familiar tune, thinking of the way he’d tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the drums.

You think you’ve figured him out. He’s vibrant when he knows he’s alone, when he knows he’s safe. He’d panicked hearing that car door, those voices outside. He’d been rough, jagged, hurtful. But in his element, flying down the road with music blaring from his speakers, he’d been happy. All he needs is a safe place, and you’re glad he has one, even if it isn’t his home.

Biology is easy to finish, because you only have to cover half of the slack from being sent home early last night. Billy knows which of the last two drawings to complete, and you tuck your finished ones away in your folder, pulling out a sheet of math work to tackle next. Unfortunately, it’s less simple.

Dinner comes and goes, and you’re still working by the time the sky bleeds black. You’d been using the light from the window to aid you in your homework, so when it finally covers you in enough shadow to make you squint, you give up and make for your light switch.

It flicks on with a click, and when you whirl around to settle back on your bed, there’s a face in your window. You scream, backing yourself up against the door in the split second before you recognize the features.

Billy is staring at you from the window, hand up to the glass. You hear commotion from downstairs, a quick shout of ‘Are you okay up there?’ and thundering feet towards the hallway.

“I’m fine!” You shout at the gap in the door, praying no one comes to investigate, “I’m fine, I thought I saw a spider.”

You stand there, petrified, staring at him as you wait for your parents to go away. The commotion dies down in seconds, but they feel like hours as they tick away, leaving Billy pressed to your window. When you hear the soft wheeze of a couch cushion, then the creak of bedsprings, accounting for them both, you relax, breathe out a sigh and step forwards.

Even through the glass, you can tell something is wrong. Billy’s right eye is starting to shut, and you don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. It looks swollen, and there’s a purple hue blooming over it.

You work on unlatching the window, and in doing so you press your hand flat against the glass. It lays inches north of his own print, and he shifts his hand up to meet yours on the other side of the window. It’s touching, but you don't’ have time to evaluate it when your fingers snap the latch out of place.

“Billy,” You breathe, gripping his forearm to offer him leverage while he hauls himself up and over your windowsill, “Are you okay?”

He lands on the floor in a heap, and your heart sinks.

“No.” He groans, voice soft and wheezy. When he moves he rolls to clutch his stomach, and the only solace you find is that there’s no bloodstain on his t-shirt.

“I ran,” He groans, keeping his voice just quiet enough to be inaudible from another room, “I- I didn’t have time to get in my car, I just-”

“Okay,” You watch his chest heave with the effort of speaking, bracing a hand on it gently, to stop him, “Okay, save your energy. I’m going to go get you water, and an ice pack. Then I’ll fix your face.”

He manages a weak nod, then a raspy, ‘Okay.’

You slip into the kitchen with only a sheepish grin towards the couch at your spider cover-up. Luckily for you, you’re jumpy around bugs, so it doesn’t look out of the ordinary.

You tuck the ice-pack into your pocket, and you’re wearing such a baggy sweatshirt that it’s covered up. The glass of water isn’t suspicious on its own, and you make it back to your room without any problems.

Billy has hauled himself up to sit against your bed, head tipped against the mattress. There’s still no blood, but his face is tilted towards the light now, and you see copious amounts of bruising that definitely hadn’t been there before.

“Jesus,” You breathe, reaching for his cheek. He tenses as your hand approaches, and you pull back before you can reach him. You stand there, arm outstretched, waiting. Your fingers are only inches from his face, a blotchy purple mark over his eye that spreads down his cheek like poison. You wait, for a sign, a sound, anything to let you know that it’s okay to touch him, and what you get is almost more shocking than the sight of him.

He tilts his head to the side, nudging his cheek into your hand.

“You can touch,” He croaks, breath short and hot against your palm, “I don’t bite.”

If you’ve learned anything about Billy in the past 24 hours, it’s that he doesn’t like the mushy stuff. So instead of gushing, instead of promising him that he’s safe now, that his father can’t hurt him, you say it with your touch, and shift your tone to teasing.

“Oh yeah?” You kneel beside him, brushing your thumb against the underside of his lip and smearing away wet blood there, “Melissa MacDonald says you do.”

He laughs, a short, wheezing sound, and his cheek presses further into your palm as it apples with his smile,  “Yeah? Well, she asked me to.”

”Freaky girl,” You hum, eyes glued to his lip. You use the towel that you’ve wrapped around the ice pack, bunching a corner of it up and wiping it over the split skin. It morphs into a grimace when you touch it and he hisses, hand reaching up to grip your side hard.

“Sorry,” You breathe, your exhale fanning over his face, “Sorry, just- give me a second.”

When you’ve managed to get the blood off of his lip you shift your focus to his abdomen, and suddenly realize what you’re about to ask is very suggestive.

“Okay, um.. What happened to your stomach?”

“He kicked me,” Billy groans, “Boots on and all.”

“Okay,” You see a dark purple bruise spreading over his stomach from where his shirt has ridden up, and you toy with the edge of the ice pack, “Can I-? I need to see it..”

“Strip me, baby,” He chuckles weakly, “You can take it off.”

It’s a button-up, once tucked in and now rumpled from the commotion. The top buttons are undone, so it’s not hard to slip the last two out, spreading each side apart to showcase a truly horrific amalgamation of cuts and bruises.

“Ok-ay,” You hum, eyes wide in terror, “Um, this is.. A lot. Should we go to the hospital?”

“No!” His eyes flash with fear, and he grabs your wrist, “No hospitals.”

“”But-”

“But I can’t tell anyone,” He reminds you, gaze now sad and defeated, “No hospitals.”

All you can manage is a nod, tears gathering in your eyes as you stare down at his bare torso.

“Like what you see?” He drawls, and you glance up to see his lip bleeding again from how he’d smirked and torn the cut open.

“Not at all,” You admit sheepishly, reaching a hand up to press and hold the towel there, “Billy, this looks like you escaped a warzone.”

“I did,” He mumbles around the towel, “He’s the enemy.”

“What did you even do?” You ask, prodding gently at a patch of skin and apologizing profusely when his stomach tenses because of it.

“Someone.. One of our stupid neighbors,” He recalls, “Saw you last night. Said my old man must be proud I've got girls sneaking out of my window at night.”

“And… he wasn’t proud.” You grimace, pressing the ice pack to the largest bruise. It spans over most of his lower stomach, and it looks more painful than you can imagine.

“No,” Billy groans, writhing against your bed, “He was not. Didn’t even wait to get inside,” He squeezes his eyes shut, which you’re sure hurts his right one, “Just grabbed my arm and smacked me right there on the driveway. No one cared. The neighbor, he- he laughed. Thought it was all some big joke, I guess. When we got inside he pushed me over in the doorway and pummeled me. He kicked my stomach, and he-” Billy cuts himself off with a hiss of pain when you start dabbing at a scrape on his chest, “Stomped on my face. He used a fucking fireplace poker, that’s the gashes.”

“You can’t go back,” You cry, barely withholding yourself from a long, loud sob, “Please, Billy, you can’t go back there. He’ll kill you!”

“No, he won’t.” Billy heaves, shaking his head, “He wants to, I’m sure. But he knows he can’t hurt me too bad, or people’ll notice. This was a mistake, he’s gonna be more careful from now on. He might be a monster, but he’s smart.”

“But- but what if this happens again, Billy? He gets angry, real angry, and he lashes out, and he uses a fireplace poker-!” Your chest heaves with sobs that you’re barely able to withhold, tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping onto his chest.

“Hey,” He shushes you, a hand over your mouth, then uses the other to wipe your tears away, “Hey! Don’t think about that,” he scolds, but you’re sure it’s meant to sound reassuring, “He’s probably freaked right now. He thinks I’m ratting him out to the cops, or something. So when I come back, he’ll be more careful. He won’t be sorry, but I don’t care about sorry anymore, I know he won’t ever be. He won’t kill me,” Billy promises you, finally dropping the hand that’s covering your mouth, “He can’t afford a body on his hands.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, blink away the tears in your eyes, and nod. He seems satisfied at your silence, watching with droopy eyes as you clean off his chest.

“I’m gonna get bandages,” You murmur, leaving the ice pack on his stomach and padding to the door, “Move it if you need to, okay?”

He manages a weak nod in return, and you make sure to shut the door behind you when you leave.

Gathering adequate medical supplies isn’t the problem, concealing them is. You have to fumble your way through tucking bandages and gauze under your shirt, and the bottle of antiseptic doesn’t fit anywhere but in your hands. You keep it tucked against your side when you rush to your room, though, and you hope no one notices.

Billy doesn’t even ask what you’re doing when you press a wet cotton ball to his injuries, and you shudder to think of all the times he’s had to patch himself up. Does he sit in his room against his own bed, drink in hand? Does he stand in the shower, soap cleaning out his wounds? Does he sneak to the freezer, pressing frozen peas to his eyes?

You sniffle, and BIlly’s thumb rubs under your nose.

You frown, ‘Gross,’ And he chuckles weakly.

“I’m covered in blood, sweat, and-” He glances down at the droplets on his chest, “Tears. You think snot crosses a line?”

“My snot does,” You grumble, laying a bandage over a scrape on his chest and biting the inside of your cheek in concentration.

“Fine,” He huffs, smearing his thumb over your cheek, “Have it back.”

“Billy-!” You gasp, hand flying off of his chest and rubbing furiously at your cheek, “Gross!”

You’d be more upset but he laughs, really, truly, genuinely, and you think that maybe you can live with it.

“Snotface,” He cracks, and if you think for a second too long about the heartfelt lilt to his voice, it sounds like a term of endearment.

It’s hard to maneuver him in order to wrap his more serious injuries in gauze, but with a little cooperation, he’s wrapped like a mummy. It’s probably a sloppy nurse job, but you’re all he’s got, and you won’t give up on him because things are hard.

It’s his face that you have the real trouble with. You squint as you scan his features, looking at bumps and bruises and scrapes and trying to assess how deep they are. Your fingers turn his face this way and that, prodding, prying, pushing, pulling, until you decide that the light from above isn’t enough to see his smaller injuries.

“I need to move you,” You speak softly, “Up onto the bed. Can you do that?”

“Help me,” He bargains, and you’re happy to lift him to his feet.

He slumps against you while upright, but it’s not long before you can push him back onto your bed. He practically melts against the mattress, letting out a guttural sigh that’s almost too loud.

With a flick of your bedside lamp he’s bathed in a soft yellow glow, face now illuminated for all its abrasions to be seen.

His split lip is the least of it, you recognize with a sinking feeling.

Leaning over his face is awkward,and it hurts him when you turn his head. You suppose his neck is sore too, and it leaves you at a standstill.

“I can’t see that side of your face,” You huff, “Could you- I mean, it hurts really bad to turn your head?”

“Sorry,” He grimaces, testing the movement out again, “Yeah. Just- sit on the bed.”

“There’s no room,” You protest weakly, his broad form filling out your twin bed, “I’ll have to turn you around, we’ll put your feet at the headboard and your head down below, but that’ll take a lot of energy, so we should just-”

“Stop talking,” He pleads, eyes heavy, “Just- get on the bed, Y/N.”

“There’s no room!” You insist once more, and he groans, sitting himself upright despite your protests.

His arm slings around your waist, surprisingly strong for the state of the rest of his body. You scramble to fight his embrace but he hauls you up and onto the mattress, your knees digging into his thigh.

“Sit on my stomach,” He instructs you, then remembers it’s bandaged, “Or- or my waist. Just- sit down.”

It feels wrong. A boy in your bed, your legs over his waist, your hand on his chest as you lean over his face. You’re careful not to press anywhere that hurts, and you dab carefully at a cut near his eye.

“I think this earns you the title of best friend,” He mumbles, his breath hitting your face and warming your nose.

“Oh, yeah? Who was my competition?” You bite your lip to stop from grinning, shifting your waist against his own so that you can reach higher on his face.

“I dunno.” He’d shrug if he wasn’t lying down, “My car, maybe? There’s a cat that hangs out behind our house.”

“I’m not as cute as a cat,” You hum absentmindedly, picturing poor Billy with a car for a best friend, “I think it’s got me beat.”

“I dunno,” Billy murmurs, reaching up to thumb at the space between your brows. It knocks your concentrated frown loose, and he chuckles at your dazed expression as you peer down at him, “I’ll call it a tie to keep the peace.”

You busy yourself putting a bandaid over the bridge of his nose so that you don’t have to look into his eyes. You’re worried about what you’ll find there, if it’ll be the scared little boy you’d seen in them last night, or a charming young man. You’re not sure how to handle either, but you smooth the sticky patches of the bandaid out over his cheeks to try and aid the former.

“Done,” You whisper, and brace your hands on his face.

“Thank you,” He hums, sincere and sweet, “Really, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” You promise, “But for your sake I hope you don’t have to come over here like this again.”

“Me too,” He laughs, a short, breathy sound, “So.. uh, you got a car?”

“No,” You shake your head, “That’s why I was walking earlier.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” He cringes, hoisting himself up onto his elbows, “I’ll have to walk back.”

“Not now!” You push a hand against his chest, gently landing him on his back again, “You- you can’t! You need rest,” You reason with him, “Please, Billy, just stay here tonight.”

“Usually the girls kick me out when their parents get home,” He jokes, his tongue poking out to run over his lips, which you’re sure are sore from the cut. You giggle breathlessly, only then realizing that you’re still straddling him.

“Uh-” You rush to slide off of his hips, landing with a thump on the floor, “Sorry. I’ll go… um, do you need a change of clothes?”

“If you’ve got something,” He tilts his head up to watch as you fumble through your closet, “If nothing fits it’s fine.”

Luckily, you find a pair of sweatpants that are cinched with a tie, as well as a particularly average sweatshirt he’ll fit into. You step out of the room so that he can change, and thankfully he doesn’t seem to need any help. You use the time to change your own clothes, and when you emerge from the bathroom, you push your bedroom door open to find him on your mattress again.

“Bed’s comfy,” He marvels, turned onto his side. He’s pressed against the wall, staring at you where you’re frozen in the doorway.

“It is,” You nod, “Enjoy it.”

“You, too.” He prompts, patting the sheets, “Get up here, Y/N.”

“No, I-”

“You just stuck your fingers in my bloody cuts,” He groans, scooting even further back against the wall with a strangled groan, “I’m not making you sleep on the fucking floor.”

Logically, you know you should argue. He’s proclaimed you as his best friend but you’ve really only known him for a day. But he’s made up his mind, closing his eyes so that he can’t even see you disagreeing. His arms are crossed, and his face is set in a stubborn frown, brows tugged together beneath a bandage on his forehead.

Though his eyes are screwed shut, he pops them open when he feels the mattress dip beside him. His frown morphs quick and easy into a grin, his arm slinging around your waist to tug you closer from where you’re practically sliding off of the bed.

“I told you,” He drawls, “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not worried about you biting, Billy.” You mumble, stiff where he’s holding you. He notices, grin dimming as he lifts his hand away.

He looks almost annoyed, “So? What is it? Are you an insomniac, or something?”

“No, Billy,” you frown, biting the inside of your cheek, “I’m not an insomniac, I’m worried. Are you okay? I’m not a nurse. And- and I’m not tired, either,” You spring out of bed, standing beside it instead of laying with him, “I’m not going to sleep.”

He lays there staring, eyes hardening over from where they’d cracked open to ooze happiness. You watch it happen, watch him change until he’s the boy you know from school, deep, cutting glares and harsh movements.

“Fine,” He huffs, fighting to keep his face straight as he presses himself up off of the mattress with his palms, “I’m gonna go. Clearly- just.. Bye.”

“No, Billy..” You rush to stop him from reaching the window but he sticks out an arm, shoving you away with the side of it. He keeps his hands off of you, and you’re grateful, but it still sends you stumbling slightly.

He hears the sound of your feet thumping clumsily. He tenses up for a moment, shoulders drawn closer to his ears and legs locking. But he feels your hand against his back, soft and slow and smooth, and with each brush of your fingers there a muscle in his body relaxes.

“Please don’t go,” You finally beg, your voice a sweet whisper. It seems to have been the wrong thing to say, because his limbs lock up again, back stiffening against your palm.

“I shouldn’t be here,” He grumbles, gruff and weak.

“Yes you should,” You assure him, “Because you got hurt, and I told you you were safe here. We’re friends, remember, Billy? That’s what friends do.”

“We’re not friends.” He scoffs, and you can feel him slipping away. Every second that you stand there, hand on his back, soothingly brushing over his tense muscles, he seems to drift away, until you’re not even sure he’s with you anymore, just a foggy silhouette on the horizon.

“You said we were friends,” You remind him, lips nearly brushing his back, “What changed? Why aren’t we friends now?”

“Because..” He starts, and you wait patiently for him to continue, rubbing lines into his back over and over again.

“Because I want.. Because- Because friends-”

“You can tell me, Billy,” You promise, testing the waters as you creep forward. Inch by inch you snake your hand around his waist, carefully avoiding the injuries you know are lurking beneath his unbuttoned shirt. When your palms meet over his stomach you lean your cheek against his back, hoping that if you can squeeze enough love into him, he’ll come back.

“This,” He hovers a hand over your own, glancing down at your touch on his skin, “This is what… friends do, right?”

“Friends hug,” You confirm, “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah,” He chokes out, raising a hand to his face to smear away a tear that you’re sure has slid down his cheek, “Yeah I want that. But- but you got up, so I- I didn’t want to freak you out. You obviously didn’t want to, so-”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” You brush your thumb over his toned stomach, thinking about the way he’d stared at you from your bed, eyes sparkling and arms outstretched, “It’s just that… I want to do right by you, Billy. And I don’t think you get that a lot, do you?”

“No,” He rasps, and he starts to relax, back no longer tense as you practically whisper against it.

“Right, so..” You reason, biting your tongue before speaking out of nerves, “I think that you live like you drive, Billy. You blow past stop signs and you nearly run people over, you speed. You go so fast that you can’t slow down anymore, and you need someone to tell you to do that, or else you’ll crash.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I want to make sure you’re not rushing things,” You can feel his heated skin beneath your cheek, only the fabric of his shirt separating you, “You just got beat up by your dad, because of me, and I’m glad that you came here, but don’t you think that sleeping together is going pretty fast? I know we’re not like- sleeping together,” You mumble, cheeks aflame, “I just don’t want you to get ahead of yourself. You can.. You can have a hug anytime you want, and… we can sleep next to each other, too, but I need to know that you want that. That you’re doing it because you want to, and not because you think this is the only chance you’ll ever get. I’m telling you to slow down, Billy, you don’t have to rush if you don’t want to. I won’t kick you out if you don’t sleep in my bed, you don’t owe me anything for helping you, and I want to make sure that’s really what you want, and not just something you think you have to do. I… I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow with a clear head and regret it.”

By now your lips have reached his back, brushing softly against the material of his shirt as he stands by your window. It’s shut now, no one can see you from the outside, but his face is turned towards it like he’s examining the neighborhood. He’s not tense anymore, but he’s not moving either, and for a moment you’re nervous about having said the wrong thing.

“I’m not going to regret anything.” He murmurs, fingers ghosting over your own as he sets his hand over yours, “I.. I’m doing it because I want to, not because you’re the only person that’s nice to me. I’m doing it because… because I want to be-”

“You want to be…?”

“I want to be… held.” He whispers it like a curse, like he thinks the roof will cave and the floor will crack open to hell if he admits it. Your heart aches for the lonely boy, the battered son, the scared child, and you squeeze him gently in a hug.

“Okay,” You nod, and you know he feels it against his back, “I’ll hold you, Billy. Get back in bed, I’ll hold you.”

This time he’s less confident; not as suave. He turns towards you with a trepidatious expression, eyes tracking your every move like he thinks you’re going to give up the joke, turn, point, and laugh at him. But you don’t, of course, instead you hoist a leg up onto your bed and lay down clumsily beside him.

The mattress isn’t big enough for the both of you, so it’s a good thing you’ve agreed to hold him. You’re not really sure how to initiate it, you just simply leave yourself open, uncovered, waiting.

“Where can I touch you?” He glances up at your face, expression clouded with nerves.

“Anywhere,” You say without thinking, then stammer to fix your mistake, “I mean- I mean not like anywhere, just- anywhere.. PG.”

“Okay,” He chuckles, eyes once more heavy with sleep, “I won’t feel you up, I promise.”

When he braces a hand at your waist, cautious, unsure, you wonder if he’s ever not felt anyone up. Has he ever laid beside anyone before, just for love? Not for sex, not for lust, but for calm?

He looks nervous to continue, so you lean into it. You roll yourself onto your side, slinging his arm that’s on your hip to lay over your back. He scoots forward to meet you in the middle, and with a hand on the back of his head, you guide his face to press against your neck. His chin bumps your shoulder, and he nestles it there snugly. It means that his eyelashes brush your neck, that his lips part to release a shaky breath against your collarbones, and his curls tickle your chin.

“Is this good?” You ask, your voice a murmur into the crown of his head. He nods, and the action knocks his head into your cheek. He mumbles out a hasty, ‘Sorry’, and you laugh it off.

“It’s okay,” You drag your hands up his back, fingertips barely grazing his skin that his shirt has twisted up to expose, “It’s okay, Billy. This is okay. You’re allowed to want this, you know? You’re allowed to like this. You deserve this.”

Billy thinks he deserves a lot of things. A kick in the teeth, a tight pair of handcuffs and a drab cell, maybe even the fireplace poker. But he doesn’t think he deserves kindness, which is why he’s so confused why you’re gushing it like a fountain. 

He’s the type of person to make himself unhappy so that no one else can do it for him. He shuts out love and light and life so that no one can steal it away, no one can send him reeling when they leave. But tonight - he’s not sure why, maybe it’s the stinging wounds on his torso or the tickle of your fingers against his back - he’ll love.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)