Chapter Text
Normally on a crisp night like this, Eddie standing on the concrete stoop of the Hideout’s loading bay (a glorified back porch) meant that Corroded Coffin was about to perform at their Tuesday night gig. He’d smoke a cigarette and shoot the shit with the guys until around nine o’clock, when they’d unload his van into the cramped, beer-sticky, black-painted, red-lit backstage area, which was really more of a corridor.
Once inside, the band would slouch on their amps against the poster-scabbed walls and roll their eyes at the screeching of a shitty opening act. If there wasn’t an opener, they’d forge ahead, ferrying their equipment onstage single-file, like leafcutter ants scurrying down a branch with their precious fertilizing clippings…only instead of growing fungi, Eddie’s band aimed to cultivate in their (admittedly small) public an appreciation for the finer aspects of metal.
(Hey, Eddie didn’t zone out through all his science classes. Besides, mushrooms were metal as hell. Tasty? Hallucinogenic? Deadly? Who the fuck knew? Besides, both fungi and heavy metal flourished in the dark, and both took a lot more work than most gave them credit for.)
But this wasn’t a normal night.
For one thing, there wouldn’t be an opening act. It was only a quarter past six. The guys had already set up their gear an hour ago (except for Eddie’s amp settings, which he would entrust to literally no one ). They’d moved his van to the front of the building for Eddie and Chrissy’s getaway later, promising to stow his equipment at Jeff’s house tonight.
(Eddie supposed that was why Jeff had driven his family mortuary’s hearse here, because of the room in the back…and why hadn’t they ever thought to have that be their gig vehicle? Corroded Coffin rolling up in a hearse ? Jesus Christ, it was fucking perfect.)
Thinking of perfect entrances, Eddie’s thoughts tap danced back to tonight, where images jostled against each other, waggling their jazz hands to get his attention. He imagined himself and Chrissy onstage for about the five hundredth time today, holding hands and kissing after saying their vows…and shit, his fingers were trembling again.
Eddie was jonesing so hard for a cigarette he was about to vibrate out of his skin. He paced back and forth on the little concrete pad, flapping his hands vigorously to try to dispel the nerves that seemed to have taken up roost there. What guitarist could play worth a shit with shaking hands? Not him. A cigarette sure would’ve been nice right about now.
But he'd quit the cancer sticks when he graduated. Five months later, Wayne still hadn’t managed to hold up his end of that bargain. A suicide pact , his uncle had recently started calling it, though it had been the old crank’s bright idea for both of them to stop smoking if Eddie graduated, and damn if he didn’t do just that.
Well. Eddie couldn’t let Chrissy down now, just for a case of nerves. She’d taste it on him when they kissed, and that wouldn’t do, no sir, no way, no how.
Not tonight.
Under the dilapidated porch cover, big enough for two people to stand under (maybe three, if they were skinny), the Hideout’s back light was, as usual, burned out. This provided the surprise benefit of improved conditions for stargazing. Here in the industrial part of town, where a lot of the old brick buildings sat windowless and abandoned, there wasn’t much light pollution. Almost a new moon, too, just a pale crescent like the toenail clipping of some slovenly god. The deep, velvety blackness of the sky seemed impossibly distant, but the bright stars and planets looked close enough that Eddie might grab them if he just reached up.
Stilling his hands, he tilted his head back, inhaled the cold, and breathed out steam, thinking, as always, of a dragon. Maybe they were the only gems in his hoard, but the stars winked down at him like they knew something he didn’t. Eddie winked right back, smiling like a doofus.
Stars, for all intents and purposes, were in the business of forever. And now, tonight, so was he.
At this very moment, Eddie’s bride was getting dressed, assisted by Mad Max and Killer Nancy, in the green room that flanked the stage. He was glad Chrissy had some girlfriends to fill the maternal void—but no, he wouldn’t ride too far down that crazy train of thought. Eddie shook his head to scatter tooth-gritting visions of the awful harpy whose only claim to fame, in his book, was giving birth to the love of his life.
Best to focus on now , and the future.
The wedding would be a small-ish affair, with Max as maid of honor and Dustin as best man, no extra groomsmen or bridesmaids, probably only thirty-two people, tops. Thirty-three, if Caleb Cunningham managed to sneak out. Eddie hoped—
The security door’s thunk-squeak and a flash of dim red light from the back corridor made him spin around, heart thudding…
But it was only Jeff, looking cool as a cucumber and mighty dapper in white Nikes, black jeans, a black tuxedo t-shirt, and black tails. He sidled up with a brown bottle of Coors in each hand, caps already popped. The door closed behind him with a familiar ka-chunk .
“Thought you might need this,” he said, handing Eddie a beer. “That guy Murray’s already got the bar open.”
“Uuuhhh.” Eddie’s stomach dropped precipitously. “Who’s gonna pay for that?”
With their budget (or lack thereof), he and Chrissy hadn’t planned on an open bar—just one punch bowl for kids and another (spiked) for the adults and adult-adjacents (which included him and Chrissy, thank you very much). In fact, the Hideout’s owner, Bruce, had locked all the alcohol up when he’d opened the venue for them at four. The old grizzly bear now sat in the office on the side of the stage opposite the green room doing paperwork with warnings of premature death if anyone fucked up any of his shit.
Jeff shrugged. “Murray said not to worry about it. He knows a guy.”
“What is this, the Mafia? He knows a guy . The fuck does that mean?”
“He and Hopper brought in a bunch of stuff. I didn’t look too closely. Maybe it’s a wedding present? I don’t know, man, I just took what he handed me. ‘ For the groom ,’ he said.”
Maybe things would go better than his bachelor party. Dustin hadn’t planned for adult beverages, forcing Eddie to swipe the bourbon from the Wheelers’ dining room to share with a morose Jonathan. He’d then had to raid his own stash of beer at the trailer. At least he and Steve had chugged a couple on the way back to Mike’s before sharing the remaining few with the sheepies.
In the corner of his eye, the stars winked at Eddie again. Who was he to argue with free alcohol?
He grinned. “Well, cheers to that.”
They clinked their bottles together and drank.
“Who all’s out there?” Eddie asked.
Jeff snickered. “Damn, you are nervous.”
“Laugh it up, fuzzball.”
Jeff, the vocally talented shit, responded with a pitch-perfect Chewbacca growl.
They drank standing up (in its entire life, the stoop had never been so much as swept, as far as Eddie knew), listening to the distant whizzing and clunking sounds of the auto plant a couple blocks away.
Wayne, of course, was at the Hideout tonight, his first time since shortly after spring break when, at Eddie’s request, he’d accompanied Chrissy on her first Corroded Coffin experience and fended off the five drunks until they knew who she was going home with. Wayne was now doing some last-minute decorating with Joyce, who’d brought a shit ton of Christmas lights, but surely they had finished up by now.
Perhaps to calm Eddie's jitters, Jeff decided to regale him with one of the latest stories from the mortuary.
“...and Dad—very tactfully, I gotta say—told those ladies there was no way their mom would fit into that dress, but they insisted, man. Sentimental reasons . What could we do? We had to cut the back of the dress and just, like, drape and tuck. Drape and tuck. Drape and tuck.” He illustrated with his free hand.
“What the fuck, dude.” But it worked, Eddie was laughing. His sense of humor had always skewed toward the macabre, and now, working in his family’s funeral home, Jeff was like the National Enquirer of dark shit. “Lady’s backside's gonna be chilly in the afterlife.”
“That’s what I said!” exclaimed Jeff.
They both cackled.
“We’re going to hell, man,” said Eddie, setting him up for the punchline.
“But hell has such innnnnteresting people,” came Jeff’s reply in a Bugs Bunny voice.
Meeting Jeff’s eyes for a split second, Eddie wondered if this was the last time they’d share that joke. He looked away and brought the beer to his lips.
Thunk-squeak . Eddie had another heart attack.
But it was just Gareth’s wide-eyed face peering around the security door, followed by the rest of him. His suit pants were too short and his hair was combed weird, but Eddie appreciated the effort.
“You ready, Eddie?”
Aw, the kid sounded anxious. Never mind that Eddie’s heart thrashed around in his ribcage, Randy Rhoads-style.
Eddie knocked back the rest of his beer and chucked it with a shattering crash into the metal garbage can beside the door.
“ Boom-boom-boom ,” growled Eddie, “here comes the groom.”
If Gareth and Tommy had worried about the pre-wedding gig being stuffy , their fears were laid to rest within sixteen bars of “Wasted Years.”
On the opening riff, Robin (bless her kooky little heart) had pulled Vickie and Steve by the hands onto the dance floor at the foot of the stage. With Harrington out there as bellwether, the flock of sheepies (tugged into the fray by their girlfriends) weren’t far behind.
So yeah. They were off to a good start.
Jeff’s vocals were as strong as Eddie had ever heard them, with Tommy’s backups perfectly pitched. Eddie had never seen the bassist so dressed up—how big were the shoulder pads in that silver jacket? He hated to tell him (though of course he had), the guy was channeling some serious Spandau Ballet (which earned him the one-fingered salute). Even Gareth danced in his seat behind his drum kit, the sleeves of his white button-down pushed up, skinny black tie askew, jacket hanging on a spare mic stand behind him.
Eddie was just grateful to have something to do with his hands (and his brain) to kill time until the ceremony started. During their second song, Rainbow’s “I Surrender,” a tune both Eddie and Tommy actually liked singing backup for, he scanned the decorated space over the heads of the flailing dancers.
Will Byers and their Lord and Savior Eleven (with a little help from Mike) had knocked Eddie and Chrissy’s wedding cake out of the park. The two-tiered chocolate monstrosity (frosted black but decorated with red roses) dominated the merch table, which was covered with a white tablecloth, courtesy of the Wheelers, and adorned with some of Joyce’s twinkling white string lights. Dessert plates, forks, and napkins lay prettily around the cake. Another table, similarly decorated, held barbecue sliders, paid for and picked up by Wayne from Bullocks Bar-B-Cue.
Opposite the tables stood the old wooden bar, its battered, sticky perimeter also decorated with white lights. Behind it, Dustin’s mom was helping herself to something from the industrial fridge…and whaddaya know, Murray had indeed delivered, somehow. A dozen or so six-packs of brewskis had been stuffed in there next to Bruce’s lemons and limes. A keg stood beside the bar, with several pillars of red plastic cups on the counter.
Eddie smiled as Mrs. Henderson raised her beer to the guys onstage while Murray scuttled over with a bottle opener. After assisting the lady, he tipped an imaginary hat to her and left the opener on the bartop. Murray was a weirdo, but he knew how to party. Eddie could respect that.
Along the empty glass liquor shelves ( seriously , who did Bruce think they were, thieves?), multicolored Christmas lights reflected in the large mirror behind them. Identical colorful strands swooped along all four walls, even behind the band, adding to the festivity. Across from the stage, white lights crawled around the restroom doors. Between them, multicolored outdoor bulbs framed the double entryway that separated the stage and bar area from the lobby, which contained the front ticket booth and coat room.
A dedicated spotlight hit the disco ball above the dance floor and threw starlight everywhere, including the “aisle,” an old, black carpet runner that another band had accidentally left behind ages ago, which Chrissy would walk down later from the venue’s lobby toward the stage.
The Hideout, as Wayne might’ve said, cleaned up pretty good.
Movement to Eddie’s left caught his eye…but it was only Max exiting the green room. She looked only slightly awkward in an aqua dress and flats (so she was a girl, and that color really brought out her eyes). On her way toward Lucas, the redhead was intercepted by Erica, who grabbed her hands and basically forced her to dance, grudging smile, rolled eyes, and all.
Eddie spotted Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, dressed to the nines in dark gray suit and mauve silk dress, standing next to the double entry. They appeared a bit lost as their son and his girlfriend leaped around with the other younglings.
A slim shadow emerged from the front ticket area—Jonathan Byers, in a dark suit with his camera hanging from a thick strap around his neck. He approached Ted. Something in one hand glinted under the lights. Wait, that wasn’t…
Holy shit, it was .
A crystal bourbon decanter. The very one Eddie had swiped from the Wheelers’ dining room last weekend, which Jonathan had waltzed off with after their deep-and-meaningful conversation on the lawn. Empty now, of course. His other hand offered a bottle of bourbon, to replace what he’d guzzled.
This guy , Eddie swore to Ozzy.
Ted looked too amazed to be angry, and to Jonathan’s credit, he didn’t seem to be ratting Eddie out for snatching the booze in the first place. Ted fished in his pocket for his car keys, and the two strolled back the way Jonathan had come, presumably to stash the bourbon and decanter in his car trunk.
The Sinclairs arrived next, entering with Ted and Jonathan as they returned. The couple looked sharp in a deep burgundy velvet dress and a black suit with matching burgundy bow tie. They sidled toward Hopper and Joyce near the food tables, nodding at Lucas and Erica, who still danced with Max and the rest of the group in the dorkiest mosh Eddie reckoned he’d ever seen.
Jonathan now wove gracefully in and out of the crowd, camera in hand, snapping candids to document the silliness for the Munsons’ wedding album and/or future blackmail attempts.
The Munsons .
Eddie’s fingers nearly slipped on the Warlock’s neck when it hit him yet again that this was happening . He was moments from staring eternity in the face and saying I do to Chrissy Cunningham.
As though summoned by the drumbeat of his heart, motion to his left drew his attention. Nancy crept like a shadow in her long, dark priest’s frock (he’d cackled for a solid five minutes when she showed up actually wearing the requested garment, looking like some young Nosferatu with a perm). Behind her, Chrissy emerged from the green room…
Eddie forgot to sing backup.
His fingers stilled on the guitar as the last chord he’d strummed reverberated into what should’ve been the next two measures’ worth, and he was vaguely aware of Jeff plucking out the lead in his stead.
Apparently he’d forgotten to breathe, too, because his body gasped automatically, forcing air into his lungs. That spurred his fingers to movement, and he found his place in the music again.
But he couldn’t take his eyes off his bride.
Chrissy shone , awesome and blinding, like an angel or a flash of lightning, something ephemeral that you weren’t supposed to be able to catch and hold…yet Eddie had done just that. Chrissy had wanted him to, and he’d done it. They’d done it.
A sob caught within his hammering chest, and he shot Chrissy a quavery grin. His legs felt like stilts, rigid and flimsy, like they could barely hold him and his swimming head upright. His suddenly clammy hands slid with difficulty along his instrument’s neck and strings.
Could a person vibrate out of his own body? Or even actually die from anticipation? From happiness? What was a body to do with all this love?
Share it, obviously .
Anyhow, Eddie’s shattering body didn’t matter. What did matter was etching every inch of her into his brain so he’d never forget this moment.
As she made her way to the foot of the stage, Chrissy grinned right back, vibrating with her own happiness. Eddie stepped closer to the edge and injected extra flair into his guitar licks as his eyes raked over her.
Her champagne brocade gown was high-necked, with puffy shoulders, and long, fitted sleeves, perfect for a post-Halloween wedding. Last month she’d tried on several dresses brought down from the Sinclairs’ attic, mementos of Mrs. Sinclair’s high school dance days, and had politely set aside the strapless and short-sleeved gowns and settled on this one, telling Eddie later that she refused to be cold at her own wedding (which only made sense, if you asked him).
Closer to the stage now, Eddie spied her white sneakers peeping from underneath the hem of her wedding gown. He was glad she’d decided to wear her dancing sneakers instead of the old, uncomfortable silk kitten heels from her (thankfully) long-ago pageant days.
Chrissy’s bangs had grown out some since graduation, and she’d made a center part, with soft waves framing her face. The longer sides were clipped back in a simple rhinestone barrette, the rest of her hair hanging down between her shoulder blades in loose curls. Minimal makeup completed the look, with just the barest dusting of blush on her cheeks, subtle pink lipstick, shimmery bronze eyeshadow, and black mascara.
(Last night in bed, after handing out candy and watching the boob tube with Wayne, Chrissy snuggled close in Eddie’s arms. Neither of them could sleep, and she’d talked him through every step of today’s beauty regimen. So, yeah, he knew all about it. Manly men listened when their ladies told them things, if they knew what was good for them. Hell, he’d listen to Chrissy read the phone book to him if she wanted.)
As Eddie let his eyes roam over the curves of her body and the smooth skin of her cheeks, he was glad they’d agreed ahead of time that the old superstition about the groom not seeing the bride before the ceremony was bullshit. Chrissy wanted to dance while his band played. If Eddie got to blow off steam by performing ahead of their vows, who was he to deny Chrissy a similar outlet of dancing on her one and only wedding day? As her husband-to-be, he figured it was his life’s mission to give her every bit of happiness he could, and if a thing was in his power, he’d do it. Fuck it, if his synth-pop-loving bride dug his metal band, wasn’t that fucking miraculous ?
Hell, miracles trumped superstitions any day.
Noticing she was alone, Steve and Robin descended upon Chrissy, each snatching a hand to get her moving even more, which she did happily, leaning in towards them as they shimmied and shouted back and forth in conversation. Buckley rocked a bizarrely dashing look in what she’d called her “formal” black jumpsuit ( With pockets! she’d gleefully informed Eddie when she and Steve had arrived an hour ago, dumping all their cassettes at the makeshift DJ table next to the men’s restroom). She wore a white blouse under the jumpsuit’s wide black shoulder straps and scooped neck, a shimmery gold necktie, black boots, and a slender gold belt cinching her waist. And even Eddie had to admit Harrington looked pretty sharp in a shiny midnight blue suit, white dress shirt, and skinny black tie. It went without saying that his hair was goddamn perfect.
(Nancy had turned up at about the same time as Steve, so Eddie could only assume their date last night had gone well. They’d done an excellent job since then of avoiding each other so as not to create drama with Jonathan. Hopefully Byers wouldn’t notice the fleeting glances and furtive smiles the two kept shooting each other.)
Steve twirled Chrissy, who whooped loudly enough that Eddie could hear her over the sustained strums within the chorus of their third song, “Sabbra Cadabra.”
As Chrissy came out of her shell in the months they’d been together, she’d become fond of tugging Eddie along as she learned to love dancing again. There was almost always music playing in the trailer if Wayne wasn’t trying to sleep.
Now, it didn’t matter where she was. If she liked a song, she’d start bouncing on the balls of her feet to the rhythm, shaking her hips or shoulders or bobbing her head. Thanks to Eddie, she’d even learned to pogo (one could never be too prepared to mosh) to a truly awful Muzak version of Duran Duran’s “Rio” at the Piggly Wiggly.
Yeah, the girl could dance.
Ignoring the background of Argyle’s larger-than-life flapping mating dance juxtaposed with the twitchy but funky movements of Eden, Eddie watched Chrissy ravenously. He could play most of Sabbath’s riffs in his sleep, and his fingers tickled the frets automatically. He had to focus a bit during the backup vocals during the chorus (multitasking was never his forte), but on the verses, he could take in Chrissy’s swaying hips, her stepping feet, her delicate hands with their pink-lacquered fingernails, her arms extending with exuberant grace. But mostly, he basked in her radiant face, bright eyes flashing with excitement as they caught his gaze frequently enough to know that she watched him, too.
He wasn’t above preening. During the extended outro, he sank to his knees right in front of her, plucking the bluesy piano bit from his strings and embellishing (okay, showing off ) with improvised arpeggios. Chrissy joined him at the foot of the stage, her face level with his torso. She reached out to palm his knees…but her fingers crept upward on his thighs like she and Eddie were the only two in the venue. She didn’t quest too high—no PDA in front of the kids—but she looked into his eyes in that sexy way of hers, the wordless you’re mine that he loved so goddamn much. How was he supposed to keep his shit together until later tonight, when she’d be his wife ?
(Eddie had to look back at his fingers so he wouldn’t completely massacre the music.)
While Jeff kept the rhythm going, Eddie leaned forward and stole a lingering kiss from his bride. He ignored the whistles of the crowd as Chrissy’s fingers snaked under his curls and wrapped cool around his sweaty nape. He felt like he could fall into her arms right there, ceremony be damned.
But forever wasn’t going to happen all by itself. They had vows to say. And he was so very ready to say them to Chrissy, in front of all the people who mattered.
With Herculean effort, Eddie pulled away, exhaling through pursed lips and shaking his head in awe at Chrissy’s effortless power over him. He stood up reluctantly to bring the song home, and he and Jeff jumped in sync on the final strum.
In the ensuing silence, the crowd screamed for more. Even Mike, who was normally wound-spring-tight, and awkward El looked dance-drunk as they laughed arm-in-arm with a smiling, blushing Will. Robin and Steve hooted irreverently through cupped hands. Grins ruddied the most curmudgeonly of faces (Max, Erica, Hopper) and outright laughter shook the bellies of his fellow jesters and clowns (Argyle, Dustin).
This joviality was all for them, the couple about to say “I do,” which, to clarify , included Eddie “The Freak” Munson, Horror of Hawkins High, miscreant of magnitudinous measure, former drug dealer, perennial nerd, forerunner of fuck-ups fantastic and feeble.
When, exactly, had he morphed from outcast to outstanding? Had he, historically a person of interest, somehow become a person of distinction without even noticing? It had to be because of Chrissy, right?
But looking around, he realized more of his friends were in attendance than Chrissy’s. Of course his friends were all hers now, too, because what wasn’t there to love about her? She could assassinate Mister Rogers on live TV, and still charm a jury into letting her take over his show.
Eddie wasn’t sure the same could be said of Chrissy’s squad friends’ feelings toward him. Lorraine and Mary Beth didn’t quite seem to know what to make of him, but always managed to smile politely when he held doors for them at the movies and shit. But now they caroused along with the rest of the gathered guests, raising their plastic cups and whistling through their fingers.
Call him Mr. Congeniality, for fuck’s sake. He’d wear the crown and the sash.
Chest heaving like he’d just finished a marathon, Eddie brushed the stage dust from his knees, scanned the audience again, and strolled back toward his mic.
“Hey, friends, family, and fellow misfits.” He grinned his most devilish grin. “Welcome to our wedding!”
When he winked at her, Chrissy flashed him a broad smile as she bounced on the balls of her feet and clapped her hands. She couldn’t wait, either, and that did crazy things to his insides. Specifically, his hammering chest seemed capable of churning a whirlpool from his guts. (Gruesome and fun, title of his autobiography.) He barked a laugh, which settled things internally just a bit, so that the whirlpool slowed to a slower, steadier undertow.
But then Eddie’s heart soared with the cheers and raised fists of the kids on the dance floor, flying even higher with the drinks the adults lifted in toast. Jonathan hovered at the foot of the stage, snapping a quick pic of him before whirling to capture Chrissy, still flanked by Harrington and Buckley, with her fingers cupped around her mouth as she woo-hoo ed up at her groom.
“We’re about to get hitched, I promise,” said Eddie to the crowd.
This promise elicited more hoots and hollers. Henderson, with Suzie under his arm, made a production of checking his watch.
“But before we do, this last song is one I wrote a few months ago, back when I was still getting used to the idea of happily ever after . For what it’s worth, I hope we all get one.”
Eddie locked eyes with Chrissy, who watched him as though spellbound. With his pulse throbbing in his fingertips—because she hadn’t heard the song yet, though she and Wayne had been right there on the porch when he’d first started working it up—he stepped away from the mic and lowered his voice to speak only to her. “Chrissy, this is for you.”
She pressed a hand to her heart, eyes glittering like starshine.
Catching Jeff’s attention, Eddie counted off, and they strummed the opening chords together. The first verse had no bass or drums, just guitars and Jeff’s voice, smooth and plaintive on the long notes, with just enough edge to keep it metal.
Eddie had never considered himself much of a lyricist, so maybe the words to the song were no great shakes. He’d rhymed abyss with bliss , but whatever. The sentiment was there.
And Chrissy got it, he could tell. While Jeff’s vocals rose and fell, Tommy’s bass now providing a quiet, rhythmic drone, she watched Eddie, only Eddie. He kept his eyes on her, caressed the Warlock’s strings in gliding triplet runs.
To Eddie, the rest of the crowd around her blurred into the background, like the water lilies in one of those impressionist paintings, while Chrissy remained the realest thing he’d ever seen. Vivid and bright, she held his gaze intently, almost like she had a physical hold on him, and he never wanted her to let go.
By the second chorus, Gareth joined in, driving an insistent, sensual rhythm to underscore the bass. And as the third verse swooped in with its platitudes about the cosmic sea and love’s mystery , Chrissy’s face crumpled.
Oh.
Chrissy was crying.
Nice going, dipshit.
Well, he should’ve expected it, because—around Eddie, at least—Chrissy wore her emotions like the grass wore morning dew, delicate and vulnerable. He should’ve predicted what his mediocre attempt at a love song would do to her on their wedding day.
Happy tears , she’d told him when he’d blurted out his proposal right after exam week. He’d been standing in the kitchen in his boxers while she, in one of his Sabbath shirts, had gamely chewed the pancakes he’d burned in the pan, all the while laughing with him as he laughed at himself. There’d been no judgment in it, of course. There never was, with Chrissy. He’d known since the moment she’d first kissed him after the Creel house that he wanted nothing less than forever with her...but there was something about the way their laughter mingled in the morning sunshine of the kitchen trailer that gave the feelings room to speak. Let’s get married , he’d said. And she’d stared at him with a mouth full of burnt pancake and burst into tears and said, I’d like that .
Now, Chrissy watched as Eddie strummed his guitar, and smiled as tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. Nancy, looking like some time-traveling mercenary in her priest’s frock, dashed to Chrissy’s side, yanked a handkerchief from an invisible pocket, and thrust it into her hand. Chrissy dabbed under her eyes to keep her eyeliner from running too badly, but Eddie could see her shoulders shaking with sobs, and all he could do was watch helplessly.
This wasn’t what he’d intended. Fuck!
He looked at Jeff and made a circular motion with his forefinger to indicate the band should keep playing. Then he turned down his amp, yanked the plug from his guitar, and slung the Warlock around onto his back.
Bracing a hand on the edge of the stage, he leapt down and ran to Chrissy, enfolding her in his arms so quickly that he might’ve startled her a bit.
“What are you doing?” she huffed, gesturing awkwardly with the hanky toward the band, her elbows pinned against his chest. “This is your song !”
He glanced at the trio. Only Gareth looked puzzled as he played the kick drum. Eddie gave him a thumbs up.
Turning back to Chrissy, he ducked to meet her eyes. “You think I’m gonna stand up there like a putz when my bride is weeping ?”
She tucked the small handkerchief into the wrist of one long sleeve and managed something between a laugh and a splutter. Her elbows were still trapped against him, and her hands flapped helplessly. “ Happy tears!”
“Well, duh , I know that.” He kissed one salty cheek. “I love your happy tears.” He kissed the other. “And I love you .”
His lips found hers, and they kissed and kissed, tongues winding within each other’s mouths, heedless of the heckling of the younger teens around them to get a room . So much for no PDA. Chrissy freed her elbows from between their bodies and threaded her fingers through his carefully conditioned and gel-scrunched hair, but he didn’t give a fuck if she made him look like he’d stuck a finger into an electrical socket.
“Oh god, Chrissy,” he murmured into her lips, knowing she probably couldn’t hear him over the volume of the music. His music. Eddie rested his forehead against hers briefly before pulling back to look into her eyes and speaking louder. “I can’t believe it. This is really happening.”
Chrissy’s fingers trailed along the lapels of his black jacket, and her eyes still shimmered with the threat of happy tears. She seemed almost mesmerized—by his song, the lights of the disco ball roving over their faces, their friends swaying around them with lighters raised…maybe even by Eddie himself, if he was lucky.
He reckoned he was.
“ Forever ,” she nodded, pulling him down to kiss him again.
Then they swayed side to side, holding each other tight, his back bowed, face buried in her neck and hers in his shoulder, while Jeff sang the final chorus, filling the Hideout with Eddie’s words.
It’s the universe, baby, no end in sight
You and me, out there
‘Til the far side of forever
And if Eddie sobbed a little, it was no one’s business but his and Chrissy’s.
Happy tears.
As his song reached its quiet end, Chrissy nuzzled close to his ear with a murmured, “Thank you, Eddie. It’s beautiful.”
It took Eddie a few sways to stop dancing and register the sound of Jeff’s voice over the mic as it said, “Give us a few minutes to clear the stage, folks. The moment we’ve all been waiting for is about to happen!”