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It’s the incessant, hurried knocking at the back door that has you reaching for anything that could be used as a weapon. Your breath catches in your throat as the knocking refuses to cease; each strike against the door quickening the pounding of your heart and the rush of adrenaline in your veins.
“Who is it?” You call out, hoping you sound even a shred intimidating as you step closer and closer to the door.
The knocking stops. “(Y/N)! Let me in!”
“Eddie?” You frown, unlocking the door. Your frown deepens when you see the distraught look on his face; the terror brimming in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” You ask, letting him in. “What’s happened?”
He pauses in the kitchen. Turning to you with the explanation ready on the tip of his tongue, but worried that you wouldn’t believe him and throw him out. He opens and closes his mouth so many times he loses count. He can’t be sure if what he’s seen actually happened, or just the result of a bad trip. “I don’t know if what I’ve seen is even real,” Eddie stresses, running his hands through his hair.
A brief moment of déjà vu settles over you as you think back to when you said those same words to Steve Harrington last year through the course of events at Starcourt Mall. The clear distress combined with the outright confusion had the nightmarish memories flooding back in a rush.
It’s a while before you can speak, and when you do, your voice is quiet. “Do you want a drink?” You offer, moving to the fridge. “Tea? Soda? Juice?”
“Why would I want a drink?” Eddie questions, momentarily distracted from his troubles.
You shrug, wanting to delay the inevitable. “My mother firmly believes that the world can be put to right over a cup of tea.”
Eddie shakes his head, refusing your offer of a drink. Instead, he moves through your house, finding himself in the living room, pacing back and forth on the shag rug your mother bought in the late seventies and adores with every fibre of her being.
Taking a seat on the couch, you have a front row seat to watch Eddie argue with himself over what had happened before he arrived at your house and knocked on your door. It was clearly upsetting, you note, catching sight of the slight shake to Eddie’s hands.
“Are you ready to talk?”
“She’s dead.”
“What? Who? Who’s dead, Eddie?” You question immediately, sitting up straighter in your seat.
“Chrissy Cunningham.”
“What were you doing with Chrissy Cunningham?”
“She was buying from me; she needed to calm down,” Eddie explains, his hands gesturing wildly as he continues to pace back and forth. “I left her in the living room whilst I went to find what she wanted. When I came back…”
Eddie breaks off, closing his eyes as he relives the horrors of the evening. There wasn’t a logical explanation for what happened in his uncle’s trailer, and instead of informing the police, he ran away. He jumped into his van and began to drive, finding himself outside your home, needing the familiarity of you.
“What happened when you came back?” You ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“She was in some sort of trance,” Eddie murmurs, keeping his eyes closed as the images of the night play on a constant loop. “She wouldn’t come out of it no matter what I tried and then she lifted off the floor.”
Eddie pauses, opening his eyes as he tries to find any disbelief written on your face. When he finds none, he continues. “She lifted off the floor and her bones cracked into pieces; I swear I can still hear them. Then her eyes caved in, and she was dead.”
Within a matter of seconds, Eddie is bent over gasping for breath as the reality of the situation finally sets in. He curls into himself; his arms wrapping around his bent knees as he tries his best to calm down to no avail. He couldn’t save her. No matter what he tried; he couldn’t save her – he wasn’t the hero of this story.
“Eddie,” You coax in a calm, even voice. “I need you to calm down. Take a couple of deep breaths and come back to me.”
You lay a hand on Eddie’s shoulder; squeezing his shoulder tightly before beginning to rub his back. Words of comfort are whispered as Eddie continues to try and regulate his breathing. “Are you feeling better?” You ask after a minute; your hand rubbing comforting circles in the space between Eddie’s shoulders – a soothing, monotonous motion that Eddie focuses on to calm down.
“A bit,” He answers, his voice rough with emotion.
“Sit down,” You mumble, patting the empty side of the couch. “You haven’t rested all night, sit down and take a moment.”
Eddie does as he’s told, cuddling one of the many crocheted cushions to his chest as he slips back into his memories. “I don’t know what to do,” Eddie confesses in a small voice, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“For now, rest,” You answer, brushing your hand through his hair in an effort to calm him down. “We will look at everything again in the morning, but for now, you’re no use to anyone if you don’t rest.”
A low hum of agreement leaves Eddie’s lips, the action barely more than a whisper of breath against your shoulder. Eddie cuddles the cushion tighter; pressing it against his chest as if it would stop him from breaking apart.
You continue to run your fingers through his hair; repeating the motion until you feel Eddie begin to relax under your fingertips. His grip on the cushion loosens as his eyes slip closed and he loses the battle against sleep.
Remaining in your spot, you think over Eddie’s recount of his night. Dread settles deep within your gut, turning your veins to lead as you think through the theory that the Upside Down may be involved with the unfortunate and untimely death of Chrissy Cunningham.
An unexpected snore leaves Eddie: a snuffle follows before he settles back down. The sound briefly distracts you from your lamentations and a small but fond smile crosses your lips as you gaze down at the metalhead snoring away on your shoulder. It could all be sorted in the morning – the Upside Down, the aftermath of Chrissy. It could all be sorted in the morning. For now, rest was what mattered.