Chapter Text
“You may all go. Muson, with me.”
As the class filed out, Eddie stayed in his seat waiting for the last stragglers to leave. He picked at his nails, a dark navy blue polish chipped on three of his fingers, random and making a statement. Wimsung cleared her throat and Eddie tore his attention away from his nails. She inclined her head towards her desk, beckoning him forward. He obeyed.
She pushed a red folder in front of him. “Go on, open it.”
He eyed it and then her. Mrs. Wimsung was a sneaky old crook. Whatever he was going to find in the folder could potentially be a flattened cat carcass (metaphorically, of course) or a belated birthday card. Nothing in her movements revealed any hints.
Hesitantly he lifted the front flap.
“Come on,” she urged. “It doesn’t bite—well, it might emotionally.”
The folder lay open on her desk. HCC , it read in blue italics. Eddie’s heart dropped. Hawkins Community College .
“I’m not going to college, Wimsung. I can’t even get out of here.”
“I have the greatest optimism that you’ll be free soon enough, I just wish you would exercise your talents just as freely.”
“I have to stay with my uncle.”
“I have, not once, heard you say you don’t want to go, it’s always some poor excuse blaming someone other than you. Do you want to go? I have a lot of sway at the college.”
Eddie hesitated. To take or not to take, that was the dilemma. She pushed the application closer to him.
“Think about it, alright? There’s still a lot of time before applications are due.”
He nodded silently.
“Good. Take that folder and get out.”
He cracked a grin and saluted her. “Yes, Ma’am. Have a nice day.”
“Wrangling teenagers in Hawkins? Never .”
With the folder in hand, Eddie let the classroom door close behind him as he took off down the hallway, banging a rhythm out on a few lockers as he passed. Last class of the day: over. Done. Escapism lay only beyond the green doors of Hawkins High.
Escapism may have laid beyond the doors of Hawkins High, but his get-away car was still parked a couple yards out. The walk to his van from the school was a bitch; always had been, always will be. His boots crunched down on the browning, sun-tanned grass as he climbed the small, yet steep, hump to the student parking lot, fidgeting with his phone as he went. The red folder had found itself a home in the dark depths of his bag.
Eddie clicked the screen of his playlist, scrolling a bit as his ears filled with guitar riffs; dialing the high school ambiance down to zero. Pocketing his phone allowed his hands to be free, roaming the autumn air to the beat of the music.
Chain the sun and it tears away
Almost out. He was almost away from it all, until he would be dragged back at the ass crack of dawn. But for now: almost out.
To face you as you run, you run, you run
Behind the smile, there's danger and a promise to be told
You'll never get old
“--ey!”
So live for today
Tomorrow never comes
“Hey!” Eddie’s headphones were instantly ripped out of his ears as his arm was yanked backwards. “I’ve been calling you!”
He whipped around, steeling himself for the incoming onslaught. A foul name, a punch, a kick, maybe some spit. Instead he got a sweet face and hesitant, sparkling eyes. Which only dropped Eddie’s hackles by ten percent. Never trust the girlfriend.
“What the fu –hell, Cunningham? My headphones!”
He checked that his phone was still secure in his back pocket and snatched his headphones from the grass.
“Sorry,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes slid past her and connected longingly with his van. Just a few more yards. Eddie ran a hand through his hair impatiently, leg shaking as his restlessness slowly amounted. “What is it?”
She starred.
“What?” He barked again. “Your boyfriend send you or some shit? Tell him it’s two dollars for a roll and five for a bag. And that I don’t deal at school per se , so it’s not on me.”
“No, I— I don’t need drugs.”
“No one does.”
“No, no,” she dropped to the ground, her cheer skirt floating down beside her, and began rifling through her bag. “It’s— I just—“
“Look, Cunningham, this interaction has been… something. But I’ve really got to go. Shit to shoot. Y’know the drill.”
He gave her a spazz of finger guns as a fuck off and laughed a little to himself. Instead of getting the memo, for the second time, she swiped whatever she had been looking for out of her bag and stuck it out to Eddie. He took it hesitantly. White, crumpled, and so obviously something he didn’t want to deal with.
“An envelope? Cunningham, no one writes letters anymore.”
“I thought it’d be romantic.”
And if that didn’t put the brakes on Eddie’s brain, then what he read in the letter certainly was a swerving mess careening over the guardrail.
Dear Steve Harrington,
I think you’re very handsome. But even if you were ugly I’d still like you. Because you are smart and kind too. It’s hard to find all those things in a guy. But even if you were only two of those things, I’d still be into it. But you’re all three. Just to be clear.
Eddie folded it up gently and then crushed it in his palm, as if it would change anything, as if the letter wasn’t already creased and scrounged. “What do you want me to do with this? Blackmail?”
In Cunningham’s defense, she finally curled in on herself, eyes hesitantly lowered as she glanced between Eddie’s hand and her letter. “I just want you to proofread it, please. I need it to be good.”
“Me?” Eddie laughed. “Out of all the people of Hawkins High you chose me —local freak —to proofread your love letter to Steve Harrington? I can’t help you.”
“I just need a few words. Good ones-–”
“I am not writing a letter to Steve Harring—”
“You have those—good words.”
“I have good words? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Like, you—I was the one who received your essay in Mrs. Wimsung’s class. I know you can write.”
Fuck. The one time he had tried in a class and it rabbitholed him to present day.
It’s difficult to read her. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what she actually wanted from him—because face it, there’s no way Chrissy Cunningham would actually be asking for love advice from him .
Eddie shrugged. “Don’t pull me into your tragedy, Juliet.”
“No, hey! I’m desperate. I need help. From you, please.” She gave him her best smile: eyebrows slightly tilted, left side of her mouth pointed more upward than the right, eyes looking up at him.
Unfazed, Eddie sighs. “Look, Cunningham, you obviously didn’t get sent the huge ass memo stating that cheerleaders don’t ask for love advice from freaks like me. It’s literally plastered to the front side of the school, you should go check it out.”
Her smile fizzled and she curled her fingers into her palms. “It’s not exactly advice, and I just did.”
“You’ve got some teeth behind all that sweetness?” He found himself entertained at the idea, but not entertained enough. “My answer is still no, I have enough shit to deal with as is.”
Eddie swerved on his heel and pointedly ignored Cunningham as he struted away towards his van, cutting off any and all objections swiftly and smoothly. Like hell he would fraternize with a King of High School for a Queen of High School—his enemies . Not for weed, not for grades, not for recognition, and not for—.
“I can pay you!”
Eddie paused, his casual gait tensing. But maybe money wasn’t too bad. He leaned back on his heels and swiftly turned back around, a wide, giddy smile adorning his handsome face. “You should have started with that. You want a wordsmith? You’ve got yourself a wordsmith, Cunningham.”
Fingers slipped into place as they clamped their hands together in an affirming handshake.
Eddie roved his eyes over the letter once again
But you’re all three. Just to be clear.
“Okay, look. This whole thing is a mess.”
Cunningham visibly deflated, head bowing into her hands, shoulders closed inward. It was clear she had thought it wasn’t a not-mess. It was corny as hell and embarrassing. If Eddie had written it—which he supposed was what he was being asked to do—it wouldn’t have been so straight forward. A nice slow burn, if you will. Something to beat around the bush and feel out Harrington.
“I just meant the grammar is shit. These short clipped sentences are written like a preschooler. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Jesus Christ.” Eddie rubbed his temple, sixteen and still answering rhetorical questions. A migraine was coming.
“I just wanted to write from my heart and make it genuine and true.”
“Right, but that doesn’t mean it has to sound like thoughts bouncing around in your skull. Let’s paraphrase it, cut out some of the rough parts, round the edges….”
Something short, sweet-ish, and not so creepy. Something that would be open ended and the start of a conversation, nothing that would come on too strong so quickly. Maybe a few lines with a bit of rhythm would shake Steve Harrington’s world.
“We need to take this slow, Cunningham. With a letter you can’t just jump on him, you need to build a connection.”
She looked off into the distance, eyeing the autumn treeline. “All good love stories have their fair share of longing.”
—
Early morning text message, a licked envelope, second bell for first period, and a dead end corner to hand off Cunningham’s contraband. Quick. In and out. The most miniscule exposure time to the Queen of High School’s presence.
“You sealed it.”
Eddie turned on his heel and stalked away.
“No, I mean,” Cunningham called out to his retreating figure. “I’m sure it’s good.”
Eddie had bared his soul for Cunningham to Harrington. Of course it was good.
—
“It had, like, six horns and a pointy little beard. The details were incredible , man.”
“I’m sure it was the ring of the century, and that’s why you didn’t buy it.” Eddie shot him a razor-sharp grin.
“No man, I don’t deserve to have it,” Josh continued. “That ring is in a league of its own, and owning it, I would never do it justice. You might though.”
Josh had been held back as well, both of them just missing a gpa worthy of graduating, yet Eddie was certain Josh would be breaking the barrier this year and leaving Eddie behind. He might have been a little too content having a friend stuck in hell with him.
“But you didn’t take a picture?”
Josh looked at him flabbergasted. “I completely forgot that was a thing I could do .”
Eddie threw back his head. “You’re killing me.”
In the corner of his vision he saw green. Cunningham in her cheer uniform, waving him over with broad, perfected movements. She might as well have had a large neon sign with his name on it. Real discrete.
“Hey, Josh. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Huh?”
“I forgot my, uh—I forgot my book in Mrs. Wimsung’s room. The next time I see you, you better have found a picture of that ring on the internet.”
Josh shrugged. “I’ll try, man.”
His world spun as Eddie rolled his eyes. He broke off from Josh and retraced his steps, passing by Cunningham on his way in a general direction of Wimsung’s room. Before reaching her classroom however, he pushed his way through a pair of green double doors and stepped out onto cracked asphalt, continuing his stride further down the path. Cunningham wasn’t too far behind.
“Hey, he wrote back,” he heard her call.
Eddie halted.
“Look.” Cunningham handed over the letter.
Two sentences. Neat handwriting.
Dear Chrissy,
I like Whitesnake too. Wouldn’t have plagiarized them though.
SH
Fuck.
“Did you use one of your bands’ lyrics in my love letter?”
“Hey, watch your tone, Cunningham. You asked me to write a letter for you and I did. And it looks like it worked.”
“I paid you!”
“No, look, this is good . We’re still in the game. He responded and we are still in the game.”
Cunningham let out a small puff of breath, a soft oh . “Now what?”
Eddie gave her a lopsided grin. “We write back.”
He steered her towards the library. A quiet, inconspicuous place for research, lounging, and best of all, for pretending to be someone who is concurrently pretending to be you to produce a love letter for the you being portrayed by a person pretending to be someone else.
Dear Steve:
Okay, you caught me. Sometimes I hide behind other people’s words. It’s safe. In a world consumed with pitting humans against each other, it’s better to simply concede and hide behind those who have already succeeded. Which, by the way, is a mindset that is completely opposing what I’m doing now, so you better be honored.
I’ve lived in Hawkins my whole life. I listen to music and hang out with my friends. I attempt to keep my head down, but—
“It doesn’t sound like me.”
“That’s because I’m the one writing it, Sweetheart.”
“It doesn’t sound like you either.”
“Uh, uh, uh. No. Let the magician do his magic.”
She laughed at that. Cunningham appeared to be more relaxed today, leaning into Eddie’s space, bopping her head around, smiling. As if she didn’t fear the rumors her friends spread about him or felt the oppressive boundary high school put between them, effortlessly bounding over the line like part of her cheer routine.
Eddie, for as scared as he was that this was still a twisted trap, was starting to relax around her, allowing his body to unwind only a tad when Cunningham came to him with a new set of thoughts.
“Eddie, I don’t listen to music often, though. I cheer. Put in something about the upcoming game.”
“That's not subtle at all Cunningham, you’ll scare him off. You can’t just invite him to a fucking game in your second letter.”
She thought it over as she watched him continue to write. “Okay, maybe later. But please change the music bits, I don’t know who Lucifer’s Friend is.”
“The only thing we know about Harrington is that he has nice hair, is on the swim team, and apparently knows the hard rock band Whitesnake—which means he has some good fucking taste in music.”
“But it’s not me .”
“Then make it you.”
Cunningham scrunched her nose. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Eddie shifted his weight to the opposite leg and put his pen down. “You like him and you want him to like you back. But, we don’t know if you have any qualities he would like.”
She smiled, her imperfect teeth on full display. Charming. “You’re right, Munson. I need to attract him.”
“Last name, Cunningham? Looks like we’re about to get shit done.”
“It would appear so, Muson.”
He couldn’t suppress his grin any longer, the corners of his mouth lifted as his eyes bunched up, sparkling. He bumped her shoulder lightly with his own, their t-shirts brushing together. And then she bumped back.
“Yo, Chris.”
Eddie and Chrissy bolted away from each other as if burned, Eddie found his elbow too close to the adjoining table and bashed it into the wood at an excruciating angle. The group that had called for Cunningham swiveled their attention to Eddie, disgust coloring their faces.
“What’s the freak doing in the library? Is he looking for books on sacrilegious sacrifices?”
“I’m surprised you know such a big word,” he sneered back, hackles raised.
Cunningham cleared her throat from where she had ended up after flinging herself away. “What is it, Corey?”
The group's demeanor changed astronomically after Cunningham spoke up. They turned away from Eddie as quickly as they had faced him, attention already focused on something much more worthwhile. Out of all the insuIts, instant indifference was always the worst. He rubbed his elbow absentmindedly.
A thin, brunette hanging off of Corey’s arm smiled sweetly at her. “We’re all heading over to grab dinner at Starcourt and you’re our last pick-up. Come on.”
Cunningham left with them without another look in Eddie’s direction, a bounce in her step and a wide grin as she congregated with her friends.
—
Which is to say, if I knew what love was, I would quote myself. But, regrettably, I do not. Do you? Could you shed some light on what love necessitates? I’m sure you could, King of High School.
—
A solid shoulder knocked into Eddie, shocking him enough to drop his books and folders, his phone slipping out of his hand as well, and for the second time that week, his headphones were ripped out of his ears. Fuck. Shit. Dammit. Cruel laughter filled the hallway. Eddie steeled himself for freak and the many other creative insults that start with f , but the laughter died down and the kids went on their merry ways to class.
He took it as a win and bent down to scrounge together his stuff.
Blue shoes squeaked to a halt in front of his scattered papers. Eddie rolled his eyes, bracing for what unfortunate prank was about to unfold, because yeah, of course this wasn’t a win for him.
It never came.
Shoes, then knees hidden in denim, and then hands. Large fingers gently scraped the rest of Eddie’s papers together. He raised his head to a perfect smile and even more perfect hair.
“These hallways are warzones,” Harrington joked.
Eddie watched as Harrington neatly stacked his shit, tracing his hands’ movement with his eyes. Harrington picked up his phone, flipped it around in his fingers, and read the song title.
“You like Sabbath?” He asked, eyes glinting at Eddie.
Eddie felt the bite coming, the warm sting at the back of his throat. He kept his mouth shut.
“I listen to them too.”
Eddie quirked an eyebrow. Like hell he did.
“Well, I listen to some of their… softer songs. Like, Changes and Disturbing the Priest.”
“Yeah, man, you’re a real hardcore fan.” He shook his head in disbelief. Steve Harrington listened to metal. Changes and Disturbing the Priest were ballads, but metal was metal all the same. “Thanks for the help.”
“Yeah.” Harrington handed Eddie’s stuff over, slowly, stalling. “Anytime.”
The warning bell rang and Eddie grabbed his stuff from Harrington’s arms and stepped around him, headphones finding their way back into his mangled mess of hair.
When you’re a good looking person—and I know it makes me sound conceited, but it’s what I’ve always heard, and that’s why you’re writing to me, right? When you’re a good looking person, people want to give you things, when what they really want is for you to like them. Not like them as in “I like you”, but like them as in “I am like you”.
So, I’m like a lot of people, which is a lot like being no one.
– I’m re-reading and I apologize for being a downer; that’s the last thing you’re looking for from me.
“Can I text him yet?”
“No. Too soon,” he responded, distracted by Harrington’s words.
Cunningham eyed Eddie conspicuously, pouting her bottom lip. He made a noncommittal sound from his throat.
“I’m going to text him,” she declared. Her phone was in her hands in a matter of seconds and her fingers flew past her lockscreen passcode.
A zip of panic jolted through him as he ripped Cunningham’s phone away. “What happened to ‘the best love stories have a fair share of longing’?” he hissed.
“I don’t know if I’m patient enough, Eddie. I like him.” Her voice was deflated, resigned. “I like him a lot.”
Eddie sighed heavily, long and deep. He turned her phone off and handed it back over. She took it begrudgingly, dejected and gazing at it as if willing it would text Harrington for her.
“Look,” he said, voice comforting, “Harrington has been around. He’s a senior, you’re a junior. There’s a slight gap there, and if that’s an advantage or disadvantage, I haven’t a clue. But you aren’t like the other girls he’s grown up with, and casually hung out with, and flirted with, and have dated—okay? What I’m getting from these letters is that he’s looking for something different . So you need to be that difference, meaning , you can’t just text him like every other girl.”
Cunningham looked up at him through her bangs, doe eyes gratefully thanking him. “Eddie Munson”, she breathed, “you are a genius.”
“Hell yeah I am.”
I’ve always been drowned by the oppression of fitting in, if you can believe it. But I’ve got to tell you, the best part of being different is that no one expects you to be like them. Once you get past the hostility of moving against the grain, it’s exhilarating. Freeing.
Maybe you should loosen up, King of High School. See where it leads you.
Maybe….
“Yo, that was sick. You literally blew them out of the water.”
“You ate them.”
“Man, if I could swim that fast I’d never stop."
Eddie looked up from his phone. Just past the commentary box, on the far right side of the bleachers was Harrington’s bright smile, surrounded by a small gaggle of what Eddie assumed to be teammates.
The afternoon sun streamed through a gap in the clouds, highlighting Harrington’s cheek bones and making his face glow. He said something to his group and they all erupted in laughter, patting him on the back and giving his shoulders a firm jostle. He looked happy, content.
If only he weren’t so far away.
Their eyes met from across the stands and Eddie packed his stuff up.
Is the rose red or does it merely appear to be red?
Galileo said that “names for some things reside exclusively in our sensitive body, so that if the perceiving creature were removed, all of these qualities would be annihilated and abolished from existence”, which is to say, the rose would still be there but its redness would not—red roses aren’t red in a room without a viewer. And it’s not that we can’t see their redness but that without it being seen, the redness really isn’t there.
Am I making sense?
Of course. People only see what they want to see; it’s easier that way.
“I see him around school everywhere. It’s torture.”
Eddie paused. “You see Harrington on a regular basis?”
“Yeah. Do you not?”
“No—Cunningham, why didn’t you say anything sooner? Does he see you too? Do you make eye contact? Do you talk ?”
“No, nothing like that.” She leaned on her elbow, head in palm. “I’m not sure if he also sees me, ‘cause if we did acknowledge each other, I would, at the very least, wave to him.”
“How about you don’t do that, and we stick to the letters.”
“What?” She balked, confused. “Eddie, how am I supposed—”
“If he wanted to talk to you, he would talk to you, Cunningham. Playboy Harrington would not miss his chance, unless—”
“Unless he doesn’t like me.”
He shot her a pointed glare. “Unless he’s enjoying the anonymity of the letters. Sometimes it’s difficult to carry certain conversations when you’re face-to-face with someone, awkwardness gets in the way and makes everything messy. Let him grow a sense of sanctuary from you.”
He turned back to his sheet music, scanning yet again for any uncanny rhythms.
“I’m going to text him,” she said so quickly that Eddie almost didn’t catch it.
“Cunningham, no—”
Her fingers stopped moving with a triumphant smile. She giggled a bit and dropped her phone into Eddie’s open hands.
Game tmwr come watch?
“We went over why you shouldn’t text him last week. How do you have his number?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” she responded casually.
“Not everyone ,” he muttered. He looked down at the phone screen, feeling anxious. What if Harrington didn’t text back? What if he did?
An ellipse popped up on Harrington’s side of the message. Chrissy gasped and Eddie bit his lip, both tense and waiting with baited breath. It disappeared.
“Awh–”
Eddie bolted up from the ground and punched the air, pulled at his hair, kicked himself over and over again. “Dammit. Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
“No.”
“Fuck, Cunningham.” Hands over head. Heavy breaths. This would be the end.
“Eddie,” she called out, voice fragile. “Eddie, calm down. He could be busy.”
He nodded his head excessively. Of course. Of course. He plummeted back to the earth, his ass hitting hard as his heels followed, head hung.
“He’s busy,” she repeated, convincing herself.
“Okay, okay,” Eddie mumbled. “Okay, we can salvage this. We can—we can drop him another letter with no mention of the text, and see if he responds.”
David Grohl wrote his song, ‘the sky is a neighborhood’ after stargazing. Isn’t it exhilarating that such a song can come from simply observing the night sky? He imagined that all of the stars he saw were places of life, and decided that it was a neighborhood. And that we all need to keep our shit together in order to survive this universe full of life. I’m trying to do that. I tell myself I’m trying to pull my shit together—keep it together.
Aside from stargazing, the lyrics were inspired by an astrophysics YouTube video. Fun, right? It basically talked about the atoms that comprise life on Earth and make up the human body are traceable to the beginnings of our universe. Stars that go unstable and collapse and explode and spill their guts, their fundamental ingredients of life are all over the universe, forming solar systems and stars orbiting planets. It all has the ingredients for life. We aren’t just part of the universe, the universe is a part of us too.
Most people would see this as optimistic. Infact, the entire student body would see this as a sign that we’re all interconnected and never actually alone or some bullshit. I also see it as optimistic. A universe full of life? Great! Move me away from this one and let me live a new one.
It’s possible.
“Eddie, I don’t know what you wrote to him, but I found a new letter in my locker this morning.”
“We got a response?”
“We got a response.” She smiled, imperfect teeth and all, repeating what he had reassured her with so many weeks ago, “we’re still in the game.”
On powder-blue construction paper was Harrington’s chicken scratch handwriting. Eddie smoothed out the deep creases and felt himself fall into the letter, as he had time and time again.
It started with the ending of Cunningham’s last letter.
It’s possible.