Chapter Text
SEPTEMBER 1985
I.
It’s a shock, no doubt. Eddie Munson runs into someone and they apologize to him? A first, that’s for sure. He laughs at the sheer absurdity as you ramble on.
“Sorry, that was me. I wasn’t paying attention, didn’t clear the hallway.”
Neither of you dropped anything or ended up with bruises, he’d honestly just clipped your backpack as he walked down the hall. He pardons you with a wave of his hand, and then actually takes a look at you. “Moore’s class, homeroom right?” he asks, fairly certain.
“Right,” you nod.
“New kid.” He says. He’s seen Pam Fanucci showing you off like a new Swatch she got for Christmas. He’s not sure why; you’re pretty plain as far as that crowd goes. No trendy clothes or swanky jewelry. Unremarkable hair-do. He’d have said forgettable or boring, but not to your face. Especially not now that you’ve groveled for bumping into him.
You stifle a sigh, he thinks. “Yep. That’s me.”
“How’s that going?” Eddie can’t help himself, it’s too easy.
“Being the new kid?” you ask, eyebrows up so high he almost regrets it.
“Yeah,” he pretends to be genuinely invested in your answer. You either see through the ruse or don’t care to answer, smiling in a way that hides your lips entirely. There’s a laugh he doesn’t entirely mean to let out but you seem grateful for the ease it creates.
He’s staring past you at the Drama class door, closed with a sign on it frowning when you nod at it, questioning his gaze. “Was gonna talk to Birdie about something,” he explains, uncertain if you know the Drama teacher’s nickname by now.
“They’re holding auditions right now. I’m waiting for a friend.” You inform, and he realizes his own evening now consists of waiting around for this to end.
“Any idea when they’re over?” Eddie wonders if he rolled his eyes. Wayne’s been very vocal about him doing that lately. ‘Like you’re thirteen again, Eddie.’ He’ll say, throwing a hand up.
“No, sorry. I don’t think Pam’s gone up yet and she wasn’t last so… a while?”
Eddie clicks his tongue and nods, “Thanks anyway.” He makes it a few feet into the main hall, planning on waiting it out in his van when you call after him.
“I like your-” you stop mid-sentence as he pivots to look at you. “Uh, jacket? Vest?” You’re squinting at his chest and he’s squinting back at you much the same.
“The back,” you clarify, “Dio?”
“You like Dio?” You definitely didn’t look like the type.
“Yeah,” you say, a little offended, “Well, I liked the Holy Diver song. That is Dio, right?”
“It is.” He’s staring at you hard now, trying to figure out if you’re messing with him or maybe just trying to sound cool. “Just Holy Diver?” he quizzes, waiting to see if you’ve got a game.
“Oh, um… I liked the other one,” Your eyes close as you hum under your breath, mentally chasing a name. “Rainbow in the Dark! I liked that one. I didn’t really see which-” You walk around him, trying to see the back of his jacket, he realizes.
“Last in Line,” he tells you. “It’s from a concert in Chicago last year.”
“Good?” you ask, and you look like you truly want to know.
“Yeah, awesome actually.” He shrugs. “Last in Line’s probably as good as the Holy Diver album.” Eddie thinks it might be better but there’s a chance he’s biased. “You don’t look like the type,” He tells you. “You seem like more of a-”
“I listen to a lot of radio,” you cut him off before he can put a finger on what he would’ve guessed you listened to. You’re eyeing the patches on his vest and he can see the wheels turning. He’s left wondering if you recognize the names or not. “I probably lean a little more towards the uh, light, kind of metal. Van Halen, Whitesnake.”
“They’re not…terrible,” he concedes. Scratches his chin and adds, “Slide It In was pretty good, actually.”
“I have that one.” You nod in agreement, smiling with one side of your mouth.
Pam steps out into the hallway and frowns at him while she calls your name. “Can you hold my stuff for a minute?” You slip over and take the bag she holds out, the two of you exchanging words he can’t hear. Eddie has an instinct to just turn tail down the hall, leave the conversation where it landed. Pam’s back in the room, door clicking loudly behind her before he makes good on the instinct.
“She’s up in a minute. Says there are like four people after her so maybe 20 minutes?” He doesn’t register what you’re saying at first. “Until they’re done.”
“Got it.” He lets his eyebrows fall back into place. “Thanks. Clear the halls better next time, yeah?” He doesn’t know why he says it. Just comes out. He leaves you in the hall holding Pam’s bag with a haphazard salute and heads for his van to wait the next half hour out on his own.
II.
It’s about a week later in Moore’s class when he finds himself thinking of the Whitesnake album the two of you had talked about. At first Eddie’s not sure why but after staring aimlessly at the chalkboard it dawns on him that the poem the teacher’s going over has startlingly similar lines to one of the songs. Sugar coated and silver-tongued stand out in bold now that the thought’s occurred. Spit It Out, he thinks. The appeal of the album had been largely in the amount of innuendo that it squeezed in.
You’re behind him a couple of seats. He’s been sentenced to a front row seat this semester, and probably deserved it. Still, he can turn in his seat just enough to see your face. It takes a minute for you to notice his gaze. Your eyes flit to the teacher before you raise your eyebrows at him. He smirks, laughs to himself looking at the blackboard again. If you haven’t caught it yet he’s not sure what he can mouth to make it clear.
He's pretty sure you followed his gaze though. Eddie glances back just in time to see your eyes go a little big and your mouth twitch as you swallow a snicker. You manage to smooth your face back to indifference but he notices how you staunchly refuse to look his way again.
He slows in the hallway outside the door as nonchalantly as possible, waiting for you to exit the class. You move past him but dawdle as well, only daring to look at him once you’re all the way out of the classroom. You close your eyes almost instantly, finally letting out the laugh you’d held back in class. “That song’s gonna be stuck in my head all day now, thanks.”
“Worse ones to have trapped up there,” he teases.
“Yeah, such a pious tune to accidentally sing in trig class. Day: ruined.” You’re down the hall before he can come up with something worse to say.
When you walk toward his table in the cafeteria he manages to catch your eye, and you smile despite yourself. You circle your finger around a couple times by your head and mouth “still up there” over the crowd.
There’s another brief exchange in the hall after fourth period. He thinks you’ve had to have forgotten it by now, which means he can trap it up there again if he plays his cards right. You walk by, books tight against your chest in an effort to make yourself as small as possible to get through the herd of students, and he leans away from the locker.
Except you’re singing I roll my dice with a heart of ice at him before he has a chance to even hum a bar. Eddie snorts without thinking, folds easily – he hadn’t expected that from you. He’s disappointed in himself but he’d be lying to say it wasn’t the highlight of his day.
Eddie isn’t about to start kidding himself this far into his high school career, though. It’s only a matter of time before one or all of the parent-approved friends you’ve got tell you how you should steer clear of him. The daggers Pam Fanucci had stared at him from the drama room threshold weren’t the sharpest in recent memory but they served as proof you weren’t far enough down the social ladder for him to make a habit of hanging out with.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t try to ‘ruin’ your day one last time. The tape’s in his Chevy already. He’s only gotta put it in and fast forward about a song or two in on the second side. Gareth’s sitting shotgun, asking what they’re waiting for about five times before you exit the building, heading for the parking lot. He waits until you stop to talk to some girl whose name he doesn’t remember before cranking up the volume.
It doesn’t take more than ten seconds to get the van backed out of the parking spot and pulled up alongside you. You’re looking at the sky and shaking your head, trying to say something through your laughter.
“I can’t tell if you’re trying to help or hurt, honestly.”
Eddie doesn’t say anything, just grins. He peels away and a few of the other cars slam on their brakes, clearing a path. All in all, not a terrible day.
III.
“Shouldn’t you be gone by now?” Eddie asks, as if he isn’t still hanging around the school parking lot at half past closing bell. You’ve set up camp on the brick wall, one leg tucked under and a particularly uninteresting looking book half-open in your lap.
“Waiting on my ride.” You shrug.
Eddie leans out his window a little to glance around at the cars left in the lot. Todd Douglass’ is not among them.
“Which is…” he leads.
“Todd is busy. Uh,” you falter. “Well, wherever he is-”
“He has his hands full?” Eddie offers, smirking.
You snort, smirk back. “Something like that. You know, it’s a party I wasn’t-”
“Invited to?” He can’t help himself, doing his best not to actually wiggle his eyebrows.
“Wasn’t interested in attending,” you correct. “A, um, need-to-not-know basis.”
That’s funny, he thinks. You’re funny. He almost says so when something stops him. Reality, Eddie reasons.
There’s a look on your face as Todd’s car, seemingly summoned by the small talk, revs onto the pavement in front of your perch. Eddie’s not sure if he sees it well enough to call it disappointment. Maybe it was annoyance. Either way, you don’t actually say goodbye but you do throw your chin in his direction as you pull open the back door of the Buick.
IV.
Douglass was less than reliable, he’d noticed that. Eddie dragged his feet on enough group projects to write essays on the subject but even he’d been appalled by Todd’s brazen dereliction of duty. You had been posted up on the wall yet again when he’d left, Gareth in tow for a ride home and a rundown of the next day’s setlist.
But now you’re slumping down Melvald street, headphones on and hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets. He takes a chance, spins the wheel all the way around on the empty street and pulls up next to the sidewalk, slowing to keep pace with you. You drop the headphones to your neck and look at him like he’s strange, but Eddie’s used to that. From everyone, why not you too?
“You turn down an invite to another party?” he jokes, double checking the room he has to the next stop sign. Still no traffic.
“It’s not a terrible day and I had my Walkman,” you tap the mechanics around your neck and shrug. Eddie looks at the mist on his windshield. It’s not enough to turn on the wipers yet but the darkness looming overhead has already tempted his headlights on.
“It’s raining,” he says to you, wondering if you’ll contradict him. Of course, you take the bait.
“Drizzling.” you answer back. The windbreaker you’re wearing is definitely damp, Eddie can tell from the way it hangs off of your shoulders, tight to the top of your arms.
“It’s only going to get worse. You want a ride?” He leans over and throws the metal pail in the passenger seat over his shoulder. You stop on the sidewalk, mouth open and one eye closed, ready to argue. Your impending refusal dies as loud clap of thunder breaks out. Eddie grins, daring you to tell him no now.
“You sure?” you frown at him.
He can’t reach all the way across the cab to open the door for you so instead he beckons you with a wave. “Come on.”
The sky waits a moment while you tell him where you live, the apartments about 10 minutes up the road, and then opens up before he pulls away from the nearest stop sign. Eddie doesn’t say ‘told ya’ but his eyebrows do. You breathe out a sigh before saying “Thanks” and sounding like you mean it.
“What’re you listening to?” he asks as you open up your backpack to shove your headphones in.
“Something to make you think less of my taste, I’m sure.”
“You can put it in if you want,” Eddie says, ejecting the tape currently in the stereo. “I won’t make fun of you.” The look you give him does nothing to hide your doubt. “Unless it’s like, really bad.” He pauses for effect and adds, “Sunglasses at Night bad. It’s not Sunglasses at Night, is it?”
You open your mouth and close it again, a mischievous smile sliding across your face as you pull the tape out of your Walkman and shove it into the deck. He can’t see enough of it to even take a guess at its contents.
He’s been listening to the same Slayer album for the last week, reasons a change of pace might do him some good. Your taste can’t be that bad, if previous conversations are anything to go off. He’s pleasantly surprised when the tape kicks in. Lou Gramm’s not hard to recognize.
“This the one with Urgent on it?” Eddie knows the answer, but Foreigner’s not exactly metal and he likes letting you think he’s got discriminating taste.
“Yeah. It’s next, actually.” Sure enough, the song kicks in almost immediately.
“So, you only listen to songs you can’t sing in trig class?” he asks, undecided if he’s trying to rile you up or set you at ease.
“Well, that’s what rock music is, isn’t it.” You shrug, leaning back a little.
Eddie’s not convinced you’re actually touching the car seat yet but it’s something. “Is what, exactly?”
“Something my mom’s always said,” you explain, another sly smile on display, “It’s not really rock and roll if it isn’t pissing off someone’s parents.”
“I take it she’s not a fan of this album?” He’s trying to miss puddles when he asks and instead misses the look you shoot him.
“No, she likes it. Never said she was one of the parents it was pissing off. All the Van Halen vinyl we own is hers.”
“Why is your mom sounding cooler than you all of the sudden?” Eddie jokes as he rolls to a stop and glances over. You’re still too far forward in your seat to look comfortable.
You purse your lips before answering, pretending to be offended, he thinks, as you stare up at the red light. “She probably is, truth be told.”
“I’m not doubting it,” he agrees as he eases away on the change to green. It’s taking a lot of effort to be passenger-considerate but he thinks he’s pulling it off.
“So, do you only like bands you can put on your vest?” you ask, and Eddie wonders if you had been pretending after all. It’s incredibly derisive. Could have cut him to the quick if he wasn’t made of metal already, as it were.
“Jacket.” He corrects.
“Jacket,” you placate. There’s no venom in your voice but Eddie’s an expert in anxiety, really wants to be certain.
“I have favorites, but I listen to a lot. Helps to keep an ear to the ground.” When he looks over the pull between your eyebrow asks ‘why’.
“Gotta keep up with the competition and all.” He waves a hand in the direction of the radio.
“You a musician, I take it?” Your head hits the headrest for the first time and Eddie feels his shoulders drop two inches. Took long enough.
“Guitarist.” He answers a little too proudly.
“Any good?” There’s a smirk on your face that says you meant to crack him up.
“Probably as good as all the other assholes who pick up a guitar in middle school.” He says, thinking it’s true. There’s a not-terrible lull in the conversation as the chorus of a new song plays. One about dark silhouettes at tables.
“Hey for what it’s worth I didn’t mean it about your mom being cooler or whatever, that was a joke.”
“I know. I mean, you’re not wrong. No one’s gonna look at me and think ‘she’s cool’. At all.”
“No, you’re-” You dare him to disagree with a single look.
“Okay, probably not. You do dress kind of…” Don’t say boring, he thinks. Struggles for a moment to come up with something else. “Safe.” He’s pleased with himself for that one.
You don’t look hurt but you are rubbing your hands on jeans awkwardly. Shit.
“My last few schools had dress codes. I didn’t have to worry about what other kids thought. Then we get here and I’m looking at all the clothes I have like, what am I an extra in a rerun of Welcome Back Kotter?”
And not one of the ones with any lines, Eddie thinks but doesn’t say so. You look like you can see him keeping his snark to himself.
“Pam calls it ‘retro’,” you muster your best impression of condescension. He thinks you’ve ended the conversation but you keep glancing over at him and pull your bottom lip all the way into your mouth like you’re waiting on him to say something.
“I have absolutely nothing to add,” he assures you.
You shake your head. At him or yourself, he doesn’t know. “Wanna hear the worst part?”
Eddies eyebrows shoot up and he says “Yeah…” like it’s the dumbest question he’s heard.
“Before we moved, I had, um,” You won’t look at him while you’re saying, pretending to be very interested in the windshield. “The uh… the Marcia Brady haircut.”
Eddie tries not to laugh before you do but it’s really hard. Luckily you’re snickering almost as soon as he is. He gestures to your hair and says, “But you made it into the current decade! A little late it sounds like, but it looks good.” He bobs his head reassuringly. Maybe unconvincingly.
You make a big show of rolling your eyes. “Thanks,” you groan, then point to the left. “It’s this one.” You’re already ejecting the tape to throw it back in your bag as he pulls into the complex.
He parks into the spot you point at, assuming your door is close. It’s not pouring or anything now but there’s no reason to make you walk a mile in this weather. You grab the door handle as his hand hits the box of tapes in the floorboard.
“Hey, uh-” he says before you can get out, the thought only half formed. “I’ve got the Last in Line cassette if you wanted to listen to it. Borrow it.” Your hand falls back onto your backpack.
“Sure, if you don’t mind. Actually,” you pull your bag up and onto your shoulder. “I have a few blank tapes – I can just make a copy if you wanted to wait.”
“Yeah, that’s cool.” He hands you the tape and watches as you hop out cautiously. Eddie often forgets how big of a drop it is himself. Wonders if he should’ve warned you before you got out. He rolls his window halfway down when you stop on the sidewalk in front of the van and cock your head at him.
“You gonna wait in the car?”
“I didn’t wanna impose,” he explains. And then the look is back on your face again: he’s strange.
“You can come in? If you want, I mean.” Your shrug says it really isn’t a big deal one way or the other.
Eddie’s left trying to remember the last time a girl from school invited him into her house and it’s… it’s been too long to count. Years, now. He turns the car off and jumps out onto the wet pavement with as much nonchalance as he can. “Yeah, alright.”
Your apartment is on the second floor and not much to talk about. The living room, kitchen and dining room are all pretty much visible from the door. Couple of doors on the left, one on the right. The whole place is basically brown. Brown couch, wooden table with matching chairs, wood laminate cabinets and laminate countertops. Nicer than his trailer, at any rate. Cleaner, for sure. There’s a mauve monochromatic picture of fake flowers in a vase over the table but that’s the only thing on the white walls.
You head into the living room immediately and find a tape to start copying the album. Your stereo setup isn’t half bad, if a little dated. There’s a console he’s pretty sure has a turntable in it on the opposite wall. You’re careful putting the cassettes in and rewinding them, tender even, ensuring both tapes are uninjured while recording.
Eddie says no on instinct when you offer a drink. Almost too fast, he thinks. “Lotta music,” he says as a way of changing the subject, pointing to the tapes lining the shelves of the stereo cabinet. “Someone in the family a musician?”
You laugh through your nose, “Not really. I can’t even clap on a beat. My mom’s never played music on anything but the radio as far as I know.”
“Aw, everyone picks up an instrument at some point. Not everyone sticks with it, that’s the difference.”
“Well, not everyone. We don’t even-” The words die on your lips as you stand in the middle of the living room. One minute you’re sucking your teeth and the next smiling ruefully at him. Eddie half-follows you to a closet, your finger up as if pressing pause on the conversation. You seem disappointed in its contents and motion for him to wait where he is, disappearing across the apartment and reemerging with a cheap gig bag.
“You were saying?” he asks, pointing at the guitar in your hand. You set it down on the table, nodding begrudgingly.
“Technically it’s my grandmother’s. Was. We got it when she passed. Pretty sure she bought it at a pawn shop.” Judging by the case, Eddie agrees. “Her and her sisters had this thing, I guess, where if one sister did something, the other two copied that one. And one of them started playing, like, the fiddle and so my grandmother decided to get a guitar and learn? I don’t think she ever did, but that had been the plan apparently.” It’s kind of nice, he thinks. He doesn’t have a sibling to one-up but the sentiment is easy to follow. You’re still talking which is also kind of nice, because he’s never heard you say this much.
“Which is odd, because from what I gather she used to play the harmonica when she was young. Or when my mom was young, I don’t know which. So why not just go back to that instead of trying to learn a whole new instrument in your 60s or 70s but who knows.” You’re unzipping the cover and taking out the guitar to hand to him. It’s definitely an acoustic learner, but there’s no scuffs and all the strings are still on it. “Not sure why we haven’t pawned it. My mom’s not exactly attached to it, with the short provenance and all. I’m sure not gonna take it up.” He’s tempted to try and commiserate over lost grandparents but he’s not certain he knows you well enough. Not certain he wants you to know him that well.
You’re poking through the case, unzipping the pockets and rifling through them. You pull an old skoal tin out of one and shake it. There’s something inside and Eddie’s kind of hoping for the worst but can’t picture a pawn shop that wouldn’t have found that before resale. You pry open the lid and scatter the contents on your dining table: a dozen or so guitar picks. Disappointing, but not without merit, he thinks as he picks up one with a familiar marbled finish. He keeps it in his hand without much consideration as he swipes through the pile of others. There’s a couple of Fender celluloids he’s pressing his finger on thoughtfully and you must notice his gaze.
“You can take ‘em, if you want. I mean, it’s not like I need them.”
“You sure?” Eddie asks, looking up from the table to be certain. You roll your eyes and pick up a couple of black plectrums, depositing them into the tin and shutting it.
“Take your pick, man.” Your eyes close and it’s obvious you hadn’t meant to make the pun. “Just take any ones you want.” He grins and pockets about four in addition to the one glued to his palm upon first glance. You shovel the rest into the tin and back into the bag along with the guitar.
The two of you pass the rest of the time with Eddie thumbing through the cassettes and a box of vinyl on the floor that hadn’t fit in the console cabinet. He pulls out a title, you tell him if it’s yours or your mother’s. There’s a couple of unexpected ones – that you have a Motörhead album at all, for one. That the AC/DC is ‘technically’ your mom’s. He notices you never mention a dad and considering his own personal experiences he gleans not to ask.
It's not the worst way he’s passed an afternoon he thinks, getting up from the living room floor as you put the Dio cassette in its case and hand it back. Not that he’s dumb enough to hope to make a habit of this, of course.