Work Text:
THE FIRST TIME Eddie wants to kill his new neighbour, it’s a Wednesday night and it's long past midnight. He knows she's the one making all that noise because it's not like Max Mayfield to blast her music for the whole neighbourhood to hear. The little redhead is far too glued to her walkman for that.
So there's only one other option he can think of.
A new trailer had been sold a week before, the one right in front his. If Eddie hadn't seen anything interesting in this event, he had no idea that the removal of the "for sale" sign would be the beginning of Hell.
He doesn't know what she looks like, the new neighbour, he just knows that she has an annoying tendency to think she's alone.
In itself, she's not doing anything wrong, and he should even be happy that she's blasting AC/DC and not some shitty music at this hour. However, he has a D&D campaign to prepare for the club’s meeting next week, so he has no time to waste. The shorties—by which he means Sinclair multiplied by two, Henderson and Wheeler—have been bugging him to create a new one since the memorable end of the previous one.
D&D is serious (at least for him), and Eddie won't be able to concentrate if he has to listen to that damn guitar one more minute.
The last straw is the Highway to Hell solo.
While another neighbour shouts a totally useless "stop this shit!", Eddie opens his door with a bang—surely waking up Uncle Wayne in the process, or not because he too has to put up with this nightly concert—which slams brutally against the wall of the grey trailer.
From his doorstep, he cannot see any light filtering through the curtains of the one opposite, but he does not trust this image: the neighbour is there and more awake than ever as Back in Black begins along its famous chords.
Three big steps to the trailer, three big breaths to calm down and three big knocks to call the neighbour.
Not even a second later, the door opens and gives way to her, the one he is meeting for the first time.
"Yeah?"
His words fade into his throat before he can utter them, the sight before him leaving him speechless. A cigarette in her mouth, barely hanging on, she looks at him with a blasé look, probably in a hurry to get back to her business.
Wisps of smoke form their hazy arabesques and intoxicate him, or perhaps it is the creature that has just appeared in front of him. To be honest, he doesn't know if he's dreaming or if it's reality, but the woman watching him seems to have come straight from his imagination.
Tattoos blacken and decorate her skin in a constellation of ink that he wants to admire but can’t—maybe he does sneak a peek—because they're hidden by a big Iron Maiden shirt that falls over bare legs. He swallows.
Why is he here again?
That's exactly the question the neighbour asks him. Her voice is low and hoarse, damaged by tobacco and probably other substances. It seems to have collected dirt, sown by something called Life. In any case, the neighbour seems to have seen and done some shit.
Eddie tries to answer. However, he can't take his eyes off the guitar hanging around her neck. It's simple, black but decorated with a few stickers that remind him of its owner's tattoos, and it's beautiful. Here's another point in common. Less so than his sweetheart, obviously, but it is metal, her guitar, almost as much as the one who holds it.
So, she was the one playing.
"Could you turn down your amp? I'm trying to get my campaign ready for my D&D club."
She scoffs, before muttering a "nerd" that he hears perfectly well despite the lowered tone. He thinks she did it on purpose. He doesn't really care. The word isn't said as aggressively as when Jason does it. It even sounds affectionate in her nicotined mouth (which he wants to taste but that's a detail for later, preferably tonight, late at night, and alone).
"Don't worry, I'll turn it down."
And without a goodbye, she slams the door, leaving him speechless from this encounter and perhaps, the mere sight of her. That night she keeps her word and Eddie can finish his campaign in silence.
***
THE SECOND TIME Eddie wants to kill his neighbour is when he is himself strumming his guitar one night to try to master the recently released Master of Puppets. The chords frustrate him because he can't string them together smoothly.
If that's the beauty of the art —the failure, the determination, the practice and ultimately the success—it's fucking annoying as of right now. And on top of that, he has to deal with his neighbour's solos, which are much better than his own. It's humiliating, and it doesn't help him to concentrate.
He lets out yet another grunt, a clear sign of his irritation, when at the other end of the path he hears Master of Puppets performed to perfection. She got to be kidding him. She must’ve perfect pitch, he thinks. Nobody can learn a song that fast, especially one like that.
She's beautiful, she's charismatic and she's a better guitarist than he is. It's him, only better, and just thinking about this makes him start to hate her as a string threatens to break under the pressure of his bloody fingers.
Or maybe it's not annoyance but rather misplaced frustration at his ineptitude to dare to ask her out.
"Nice solo!" he hears from his open window.
He thinks he's dreaming, but no, when he looks up, there she is, on the other side of the road, her guitar in her hand.
Tonight, she smiles and even waves at him. It's a nice change from last time. Her face lights up and becomes more beautiful. No cigarette between her lips either, although there is smoke coming out of the window all the same. It is far too thick to be from any Marlboro. The smell reaches him—Hawkins has been trapped by the wind for several days—and gives him the answer to the question he dares not ask.
It's weed.
An unhealthy jealousy takes hold of his body. He wasn’t the one who sold it to her.
His thoughts wander and he imagines himself smoking with her, both of them lying in her room, a metal vinyl ripping through the restful silence. His hand would caress her soft thighs, while she would play two or three chords and they would kiss two or three times.
"You've got good taste, Munson!"
She knows his name. He doesn't. That's enough to snap him out of his stupor.
"Thank you..!" he yells and waits.
"Y/N!"
Strangely enough, he doesn't care that she makes noise if it means she answers him.
It's a nice name, almost too much so when it's said in such a broken voice. But at the same time, it makes the sound addictive.
Eddie wonders what his name would sound like in her mouth when she's underneath him, and his mouth ventures down her throat, her stomach and even lower...
Stop. She may be beautiful and talented, but she's still fucking annoying.
"I'm not bothering you, am I?"
He should say yes, because of course she's bothering him with her chords flowing perfectly while his are jerky, but with those big eyes looking at him, how could he say anything but no?
"No, don't worry. I think you could teach me a few things, even.”
"I heard you, though, Munson. You’re good with your fingers."
He nearly chokes as a sudden wave of heat travels down his spine and goes straight to his lower abdomen. It’s an innuendo; it has to be. And yet, the girl's expression remains innocent, almost too much so in his opinion, but he's not thinking straight.
Fuck, he really needs to stop with the neighbour. Besides, it's a cliché, "the neighbour". It sounds like the pitch for some cheesy movie Harrington sells in his crappy shop, and Eddie's never been one for cheesy romances.
***
THE THIRD TIME Eddie is frustrated with the new neighbour is when she turns her amp up to max and plays another Metallica solo.
Immediately, Eddie is on his way, as he was that first night, to knock on her door.
He's exhausted.
The teachers are giving him a hard time about a diploma he won't get, Jason's critics have multiplied in the cafeteria, and above all, Henderson won’t stop making fun of him and his embarrassment when he talks about the neighbour.
According to the boy, he has a crush on her. This is ridiculous, and it pisses him off. No matter where he goes, even to the high school where she doesn't go and therefore where no one is supposed to know her, he can't escape her.
Everything brings him back to her.
So, this guitar solo is too much. He drums more than he knocks on the door, shaking the flimsy walls of the trailer. Immediately the music stops, and she appears in front of him. She has a joint in the corner of her mouth. The smell intoxicates him—or is it her fruity perfume?—but he maintains his stance. He won't let it happen this time. He's determined to tell her what he's thinking.
“It took you long enough.”
She takes him by the hand and pulls him inside. The decoration is basic, it's the posters of different bands that make her personality shine. It's much neater than his house, though, he must admit.
“You? Huh? What?” he stammers.
“I've been trying to get your attention for days, Munson. Days. My fingers are bleeding because you don't have the balls to come here. Seriously, you couldn't have put me out of my misery sooner? I mean... better late than never, but... Fuck.”
Eddie doesn't understand. It must show on his face. His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes are wide, his mouth is half-open, and his arms are flailing. Everything about him is in disbelief. Y/N sees it perfectly and sighs, exhaling smoke with it. Tangible frustration. She massages the bridge of her nose, as if this gesture will give her the courage to put up with him and his inability to think.
“I like you, Munson. I thought that was obvious.”
The neighbour, she pisses him off. She's beautiful, she's more metal than he is, she's a better guitar player than he could ever dream of being, and now she's even got more balls than him. That's the last straw.
“Oh no! No! No! No! I was supposed to say that! Fuck! It's bad enough that you've mastered Master of Puppets while I'm still struggling and now you're the one taking the reins and deciding that you have a crush on me. Hell no! I'm the one- humph!"
She seals their lips, kisses him hard, and that brief but obvious moment makes his heart beat a thousand miles an hour. Eddie thinks it's more to tell him to shut the fuck up than anything else but he indulges in the moment.
As she bites his bottom lip and leaves the taste of weed behind, he allows himself to tighten his embrace, his hands closing over her, touching the grain of her skin from the small of her back to her neck. Her lips are much sweeter than he thought they would be.
“Can you please shut up, Munson?” she finally says, exasperated. At least that's what she's trying to sound like, but she's far too cute as it is. Her hair is tousled, her lips swollen, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks warm to the touch. He can't help it: he steals another kiss from her, which she promptly returns.
“Does this mean you're going to stop playing at three in the morning to piss me off?”
“We could play together? After you explain the rules of D&D to me,” she offers.
His heart misses a beat, and he smiles.
That's the last time he's angry with the neighbour.