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For most of his life, Eddie Munson knew he would die an early death. Call it a sixth sense or something, but there was always a voice, whispering at the back of his mind to live it up because he wouldn’t have much time.
So Eddie lived it up to the best of his abilities.
He went on tirades in the cafeteria during lunch, he wore leather jackets and nail polish and silver jewelry, he tattooed whatever he wanted on his skin, he listened to music that made him happy without shame or fear.
Eddie kissed boys and loved them and held them close, knowing if he gave into the fear society had hammered into him, he’d never get the chance.
For all his living it up, Eddie still heard the voice. The voice that motivated him to be confident and thrive. The voice that held his heart in a tight, cold grip. The voice that told him every taste of danger drove him closer to his grave.
Except, as confident and self-assured as he was, Eddie was still scared. Terrified, actually. Absolutely terrified of the moment death would come for him. Sure, he put on a brave face, but at his deepest level, he was undeniably and completely terrified of death.
He was scared of the darkness, the cold, and if that small voice that chilled him late at night, the one that spurred him into spontaneity, was just a fraction of the real thing, and if that tiny taste already made him run, blast Iron Maiden, Dio, Metallica, smoke and drink until his eyes rolled back and he couldn’t hold up his head, made him do whatever it took to drown out the voice, then what would Eddie do when he was faced with real death?
What would he do when the voice was actually right because let’s face it, for all the living it up Eddie did, he still partially doubted. He hoped for whatever it was worth that the voice was just some irrational fear and he would go on to live a long, fruitful life.
Maybe he’d graduate, maybe he’d try college then drop out to start a band and be a rockstar like his kid self had always wanted.
If you asked his uncle, he’d say Eddie was made for greatness. Eddie was born to be in front of a crowd, playing his guitar to hordes of screaming people.
Maybe rockstar Eddie would find a gorgeous man who loved him and kissed him and held him, and maybe that life, the life outside of the trailer park, with the gorgeous man and the sleek guitars would finally, finally, be enough to silence the voice.
Because the voice told him he’d never see that kind of greatness or comfort. Eddie would die before making anything of himself. He was destined to be a sixth-year high schooler, loser, freak, who worshipped the devil and sold drugs to stay alive.
No one would remember Eddie Munson, and no one would miss Eddie Munson because he’d die before anyone could ever know him, and as much as he hoped, prayed to whatever would listen, and begged the shadows to let him live, he knew death was his destiny.
He knew his life was a sick joke. A punishment, maybe. And for what? What could he have possibly done to deserve such a cruel fate? Society told him it was the love he had for other boys, the beauty in their rough edges, and the harshness of masculinity that both intimidated and excited Eddie. Society told him he deserved an early grave because he was sick, diseased, a mistake. And what was the biggest fuck you to an unforgiving universe if not loving harder?
Eddie loved boys more than he could articulate. He loved the way their chests looked, their backs. He loved the addictive danger that was kissing boys in dark alleyways and dancing with them at clubs. The way Eddie saw it, if he was already destined to die for his sins, what would it matter if he sinned a little more? If he let himself fumble around with mysterious boys under the cover of the night? let that stupid voice taunt him as he held a stranger’s hand and kissed him like there was no tomorrow because he never knew if there would be a tomorrow.
Eddie lived like every kiss, cigarette, and DnD campaign was his last. His existence was founded on indulgence and love.
And when he saw Chrissy die, Eddie knew death was coming, creeping closer like the mist rolling over a cemetery. He could almost hear the vultures circling his corpse, the blood dribbling out of devastating wounds.
So he ran. He ran goddamn it because Eddie Munson refused to die.
He wasn’t done living it up, he refused to have his last moments be him selling ketamine to a seventeen-year-old. He’d already decided his dying moment would be explosive, memorable; because if he couldn’t live a life worth remembering, he sure as hell would die a death people talked about for centuries.
When Eddie hid in the boat house from whoever was snooping around his hideout, he suspected this was his time. Some townsperson with a need for vengeance would find him holed up underneath the boat and beat him to death or shoot him or stab him, or whatever else it took to kill a suspected murderer.
It took all of two seconds for Eddie to decide death by vengeful neighbor wasn’t memorable enough and he launched himself at the person who turned out to be Steve Harrington.
After that moment, it took a shockingly short amount of time until Eddie realized that Steve Harrington was one of the best people he’d ever known.
Steve the Hair Harrington, who cared for Eddie in a way no one ever had. Steve watched out for him, delivered food for him, believed him, and protected him.
Eddie was so used to being ignored that even the most minuscule attention of Steve had him needing more.
The group Eddie found himself surrounded by was a family, dysfunctional as hell, sure, but they protected each other and loved each other, and the way that Steve included Eddie and protected him made him feel love like no other.
Steve was everything Eddie could never be, never even hope to be.
Steve was confident and shameless, even without the constant pressure of never having enough time. He was brave and effortless and threw himself into danger in a way that Eddie couldn’t because he was so, so scared of dying.
The voice spoke to him of the cold, expansive nothingness that was waiting and beat a sense of unending fear and hopelessness into him that shaped him into who he was at his core, a coward who would always, always run. Run from a fight, from a pretty boy, and from death.
That was the ultimate reason Steve wasn’t anything like Eddie. Steve wasn’t a runner. He would put himself in front of his friends and sacrifice himself millions of times before allowing someone, even thinking of allowing someone else to die for him.
Steve gave pieces of himself to those he loved. Pieces in the form of protection, trust, support, and love. Eddie saw how much Steve complained about babysitting, but was always the one in charge of the kids, protecting them, and helping them. Eddie saw the way Steve looked at Robin with such adoration in his eyes and the way he truly cared for Nancy. Eddie should’ve hated Steve, but in reality, he fell in love. He loved Steve’s kindness, his courage, and his endearing stupidity.
Somehow, Eddie had found himself holding a piece of Steve, not necessarily in the way Steve was with the others, but Eddie knew it when Steve would lock eyes with him and flash him a thumbs up to ask if he was okay, and when Steve would ask him if he’d had enough to eat, if he was warm enough, and Eddie knew especially when Steve had looked him in the eyes and asked him to run.
Steve had looked at Eddie with overwhelming fear and concern in his eyes and asked him to run when things got bad.
When Eddie played Master of Puppets on top of his trailer, he could almost see it, that life he would’ve had. The fans screaming his name, the comforts and luxuries of a long life surrounding him. He could see Steve, Robin, Nancy, and Dustin in the crowd, cheering for him. Eddie could see Steve mouthing, “I love you,” and Eddie could see himself winking in response. Eddie could see himself surrounded by love and sheer adoration, remembered for all eternity.
Then the bats came, and Eddie found himself and Dustin, side by side, fighting.
Eddie found himself standing at one side of the gate, and Dustin on the other. Eddie heard the bats leaving and Steve was all he could think about. Eddie was scared and in love, so he ran, but this time, he ran towards the danger. He wanted, needed, to be someone Steve could be proud of, maybe even someone Steve could love. Eddie had lived his life the absolute best he could, and he needed to say one last fuck you to the universe by keeping the love of his life alive. So Eddie screamed for the bats and biked into his grave.
Eddie fought for his life in the center of the bats, and he could hear the voice laughing.
A deep, chilling laugh as the bats dove and bit him.
He could feel the burn of razor-sharp teeth in his stomach, but still, he stood. Stood for Steve, for Dustin, for his uncle.
Tears streamed down his face as he heard Dustin screaming his name.
Eddie knew this was his time. He felt it in his bones. The voice kept laughing and urged him on.
Keep going, Eddie, It whispered, give me everything you have, give yourself to me.
When the bats fell to the ground, and Eddie collapsed into Dustin’s arms, all Eddie could think of was the people who he loved, who for the first time, had loved him back.
He whispered, “never change, Dustin Henderson,” and he thought to himself,
Please be proud of me, please remember me.
With that, the voice in Eddie’s head finally slipped back into the shadows, taking Eddie with it.