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Ever since quitting the cheer squad, Chrissy Cunningham sat next to Eddie Munson every day at lunch.
He had seen her cheer friends’ confusion over the top of his book when Chrissy had taken her tray and plopped down next to him, daintily peeling the straw off her carton of milk, elbows almost touching his. Their confusion wasn’t enough to bring them anywhere near, though, since Eddie knew he smelled like weed and motor oil and had enough tattoos to scare off any daddy’s-money, body-glittered girls within a five-mile radius.
Chrissy had beautifully shaped nails and glossy hair and smelled like vanilla, and she sat next to him anyway. Most of the time she just picked at her food, drumming her fingers absently on the plastic tabletop. He felt her staring at him sometimes.
He wanted to stare back. Her eyes were, like, really pretty. And he was absolutely baffled at her presence.
She didn’t really try to talk to him, which was both a blessing and a curse, since he had no idea what she liked or hated or what her laugh sounded like, and he was a little scared to hear it, since he’d been two steps from a crush since middle school.
But he really wanted to talk to her.
He wanted to know why she’d been kicked off the squad. He wanted to know why Steve Harrington picked her up from school every day and her mother didn’t. He wanted to know what the worn book peeking from her bag was and if she’d made the bookmark that slowly progressed through the pages.
But it had been a week now, and starting something felt like breaking an unspoken rule, on top of being incredibly awkward.
Sitting in the back of the lunchroom sucked sometimes. Being that near the emergency doors meant heat when it was summer and drafts when it was cold. It was already below forty when Eddie’d rolled out of bed that morning, and as the day went by the temperature only dropped. The sky was a horrible slate color and he hadn't taken off his huge denim jacket all day.
Eddie swore under his breath when the wind rattled the windows and slid over in his seat, hoping Chrissy would take the hint when she came and sit further away from the doors. She was still wearing skirts even though it had been freezing all week, and if Eddie was cold in all his layers he had no idea how she hadn’t gotten sick or anything. He’d seen her sprinting across the courtyard before she’d come into the lunchroom, cupping her pink cheeks with gloved hands, wearing pink leg warmers over her white shoes.
It took her two minutes to shed all her layers and settle next to him. Her skin was still flushed. The tip of her nose was this nice color that matched her lipstick, and that very much wasn’t important or noticeable.
Trying to distract himself, Eddie fished his latest book from under his leg and propped it open against his tray, eyes straying as he kept the book from leaning into his ketchup.
There was something on Chrissy’s hand.
He almost broke the rule then, about to warn her about dirt or fuzz or whatever he’d first thought it was and then the pieces clicked into place and he had to look very quickly back at his book and pretend his ears weren’t turning red.
She’d drawn bats on her hand.
They weren’t that great, really, cartoonish Batman-type things that stood out against her skin, which, he noticed, was red and cracked from the cold. Maybe he should stop by the drugstore on the way home to pick up some lotion.
Maybe he should stop thinking so much.
He didn’t know how she’d even matched their pattern to the ones inked on his arm. It had been so cold that his forearms hadn't seen the light of day for a week. That meant she’d noticed long before she’d started sitting with him, and that thought was enough to make him forget completely about Paul Atreides and sand worms and whatever else was going on in his book because she’d copied his tattoo on her hand. In broad daylight. Where everyone could see and comment and know.
Chrissy waved a hand—the hand—in front of his face, waggling sparkly nails in front of his eyes. He must have been staring like a total creep.
“You okay?"
She sounded sweet, soft, a little raspy, like she was getting over a cold. Had she been sick? Is that why she’d been sitting with him?
“Uh—” He sounded awful, ugh—he cleared his throat—“yep. Mmhmm. Just fine. I just, um, I noticed your drawing. There. On your hand.”
She glanced down, jumped, blushed, and covered it. “Um—yeah. It—um. I got bored in class, and. I really like your tattoos. They’re cool. The bat one’s my favorite.”
They were talking, and blushing, and Eddie hadn't noticed she had this pretty little spot of amber in her right eye—
Wait, her favorite?
“You—you like my tattoos?”
“What, you thought since I was a cheerleader I can’t appreciate good art when I see it?”
Eddie noticed how easily the word was slipped off her tongue, just as easily as her gentle teasing. She was still flushed and fidgeting but her gaze was steady, challenging.
“No? I just…didn’t know you’d noticed, like, at all? It’s been cold, and I’ve had my arms covered, and you’ve apparently noticed my tattoos and have favorites and this is very shocking news, I’ll have you know, since I figured you were sitting with me because you were sick or avoiding your gross ex-boyfriend or something, not because you think I’m cool?”
Oh, her laugh was beautiful. He’d known it would be. He was gone. Two steps had turned into a running leap. He would burn his Tolkien books if it meant he could make her laugh again.
“Well, I was sick,” she said, “and I don’t like sitting with Jason.” She spun one of her rings over her knuckle. The nervous shake was back in her voice. “But, yeah. I think you’re cool. And I used to sit next to you in homeroom, remember? I saw your tattoo every day.”
“Right, sorry.” Eddie made a weird noise he thought was supposed to be a laugh, maybe, and it made Chrissy giggle. He rubbed the back of his neck, burying his fingers in messy curls.
“Uh. Can—can I see the drawing again?”
She obliged, holding up her hand for him to see.
Eddie traced the bats with his eyes, skipping over a slight smudge on the one near her wrist, gliding over the large one that spanned to her pinky. She'd added sweet little loops to the wings of the one in the middle of her hand. He was pretty sure the faded word with a bat half-covering it was his name.
Before he really knew what he was doing, he took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it.
Chrissy squeaked, squeezing his fingers with hers involuntarily.
"Chrissy Cunningham," he said, quietly, against her knuckles, "you have made my day." He was suddenly unable to stop a huge grin from tugging at his lips. He couldn’t be embarrassed anymore. His chest was bursting and buzzing and fizzing like he had PopRocks in his lungs.
"This," he hummed, rubbing a thumb over the art, "is the best compliment I have ever gotten."
She smiled back, shyly. Her eyes were sparkling even as her hands shook, as she adjusted the one he held to twine her fingers with his.
“I’m really, really glad, Eddie."