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Eddie’s, like, ninety-five percent sure he's dead. Maybe it’s more like eighty. Sometimes it's more like a hundred. Sometimes it's more like zero.
He knew that being chewed up by demobats and having the life choked out of him would hurt. Duh . Eddie’s not an idiot. Only sometimes. Only right now.
But having to feel chunks of flesh pulled from his body; ripped open like some dead carcass. Back arched to pull and grasp and push — all attempts to save himself proving to be fruitless. Lacerated by teeth with little to no kindness to spare. Excurating scream torn from his throat.
It definitely wasn't great. And he didn’t feel like a hero. For that — he was sure.
They let up in an amount of time that feels like hours. Or minutes. Or seconds. Eddie doesn't have the brain functions to count right now. They seem to be pulling their attention to the red that cascades from the exposed pieces in his stomach that really shouldn't be missing to begin with.
So he lays there; choking on his own blood and trying his best to breathe. It’s difficult; sends bursts of white hot through the interspaces of his ribs. Makes him cry. He cries, cries, cries.
He cries when Dustin hunches over him. Tries to grab the pieces of Eddie and put them back together again. Eddie grits his teeth through it — ”I didn’t run this time, right?”
Dustin shakes his head and sniffs, reassures that no, no, Eddie, you didn't run. Didn’t run away from something that he hadn't even needed to run away from in the first place. Dustin doesn't say that. Eddie wants him to. Just so he knows it’s real.
Eddie tells him to look after the lost little sheep — because that’s the only thing Eddie’s proud of himself for. Herding up the freaks and outcasts. Making them feel like they belong somewhere — belonged with him .
All he had were those kids.
Which is thoroughly, and utterly pathetic. He gets why Steve keeps the little suckers around. They’re annoying and stubborn and persistent with the things they want — they’re teenagers, after all.
But they’re good. They care and protect. Retain a troubling amount of trauma for fifteen year olds.
Eddie tells him he loves him. Needs him to know that. Dustin sobs it back and Eddie lets himself slip away. He doesn't have a choice, really.
If he’d have the power to rewind; he’d go with Dustin back to his trailer and squeeze him until his eyes popped.
Who was he kidding?
Eddie ‘ the hero ’ Munson. Doesn’t have the same ring to it as ‘ the freak ,’ anyway.
It’s only when he’s fading that it dawns on him; Chrissy probably would’ve hated Metallica.
Eddie thinks he might be in a hospital when he wakes up. It’s the only thing he can think of when he sees a swimming red behind his eyelids. He’s aching, like, bad . Throbbing and bruised. Pulled open.
To his disappointment, all he sees is fuzz when he comes to. Like he’s just being woken from a long nap. Everything blurred.
There’s no IV. No tubes and wires and needles stuck in him. No people with bags under their eyes waiting for him to wake up in stiff chairs. He hasn’t been to a hospital since fourth grade when he’d gotten a broken nose from John Lewinski after trying to kiss him under the monkeybars at recess.
That had been quite the rude awakening to the fact that ‘ his kind’ ’ wasn't right.
Whatever. No kissing for Eddie now. Dying a virgin makes him want to laugh. In, like, a demeaning way.
Eddie can’t see himself. Which would be troubling if it wasn't for the fact that he’d probably throw up if he saw the state of his rotting corpse. Tiny holes in his throat. Super macabre.
If he saw himself on the TV screen during Harrington-Henderson-Munson-Buckley-Wheeler (Christ, they really should’ve changed the name) movie night — would he think it was cheesy?
Would Nancy spill nail polish on the ground by accident as she covers her eyes? Cower away under the quilts? Would Robin laugh at her like it was the funniest thing in the entire fucking world?
Would Dustin roll his eyes and bitch about the awful SFX? Would Steve shush all of them and tell them to shut it or everyone would have to walk home?
What he knew — Eddie would cough smoke and giggle and clean up the polish because he was a nice sleepover guest and he was fucking terrified of Nancy’s nuclear family.
He just closes his eyes again. Because it was nice to see nothing. And it felt good not to burn.
He wishes he could hear something else that wasn't static.
Eddie’s tongue tastes like blood and salt. Metallic enough to make him gag. He spits on the ground and it comes out red. Figures.
His fingers fly across strings, down strokes burning his fingertips. The reverb from the amp fills his ears like cotton. Dustin sits next to it. Tears stream as he shows off his pearls.
If Eddie’s jaw wasn't screaming; he’d smile back.
With red on his face and everything crumbling, he plays. Throws his head back. Music overtakes him and the first time in his life, he feels alive .
He’s alive when bats circle him. When Dustin screams. When his guitar whines. When Steve and Nancy and Robin stand over him and sob.
He’s alive — even when his heart rips out of his chest.
Death is not what Eddie thought it would be.
There’s no light at the end of the tunnel. No angels. No gateway to Heaven. No higher power, with, like, a halo around it’s head — floating on a cloud to tell him he was a good enough person to be here.
There’s no Hell either. No devils with pitchforks or flames around their feet. No Satan to chant that he’s a sinner , or whatever. At least, not for Eddie.
Pretty fucking bleak.
Maybe all of those things were real. Maybe he just wasn't treated to the fancy shit. Maybe he didn't deserve it.
An ashamed thrill runs up Eddie’s spine when he realizes that his parents and the church he was forced to attend to when he was little — the citizens of Hawkins —
They were all fucking wrong.
Unless standing in an endless void of black was Hell. Then, well, hats off to em’.
The ground is wet and seeps through the bottoms of his boots. Eddie looks down to see his reflection in the water.
Wettened red — fresh or dried, it’s hard to tell — stains his face, covers his neck. Drips down to the bruised ring around his throat.
Like he’s been crying blood.
His Hellfire shirt is completely soaked. It squelches when he pulls and snaps back to his skin. Gross. At least it sort of covers the gorey mess of his torso. He’s glad he’s dead. Or maybe not dead. Who knows.
It doesn't matter — because he’d kill himself before getting stitches.
A voice from above (below?) calls out his name. It echoes around the empty void. Like there’s walls or something. Like there should be walls.
There's no walls. Just a vast of blank. Pitch black. It’s suffocating.
Eddie tries to yell, but it comes out more like a wet, spluttered croak — ” Hello ?”
He waits with bated breath. His hollow chest aches along with the dull pounding of something he can't recognize.
No answer.
Well, wasn't God just playing funny tricks today?
Steve looks insufferable under the moonlight.
His hair is fucked; sticking up everywhere, pushed back a little. Sharp angles. Prominent cupid's bow and all. Leant back against the mouth of Skull Rock with infuriating ease.
He’s the perfect face-claim for a cheesy romance book. A knight in shining armor. A movie star. Every teenage girl’s dream guy. Eddie wants to combine their first and last names and write them in a fuzzy pink notebook.
Steve and Eddie kissing in a tree — K I S S I N G
Steve’s hands cup Eddie’s cheeks. Their foreheads press. Thumbs rub into the sides of his jaw. Eddie leans into it as much as he can — scared something will take it away. Something invisible prying into what’s theirs and ripping Eddie away from him.
“ Eddie …” Steve whispers against his bruised mouth. It sounds warm on his tongue. Dripping with honey and bliss. Like Steve likes it — like he wants to keep saying it. Eddie’s knees buckle and he holds onto his hips tight.
“I love you.” He says. Because he does. He loves everything. He loves so hard it fucking hurts. He loves and he wants to take Steve in his arms and pull so they can be one. Something unimaginable.
Something remarkable.
Steve doesn’t say anything. He smiles and kisses him. Eddie’s glad. It distracts him from the burning hole in his chest.
It’s hard to stop drifting when he’s already started.
It’s deafening lighting, red against blue. Bats and tears and Dustin and Metallica.
It’s white and haze and fuzz. Movie nights and the burning cherries of joints and Robin’s rasp and Nancy’s rogue nail polish. Steve and Dustin’s bickering.
It’s blood and his guitar and a loud buzzing in his brain. Broken friends. He’s living.
It’s everything black. Water under his feet. Someone calls. Eddie answers. Silence afterwards.
It’s Steve’s mouth; his hands — his doe eyes. Warmth. It’s Eddie… — it’s I love you . Eddie tells him to say it back. He never does. When he needs to; he begs.
It’s more of the same. A smothering repetition.
And sometimes — just sometimes — it’s the real, fresh, soft beating of his heart.