Work Text:
Ding!
Your microwave pings to life, and you pop open the door to reveal the piping hot bag of popcorn. You gingerly pull it out with your thumb and forefinger and split the bag. A cloud of butter-scented steam erupts from the bag, and you upend it into a bowl.
Eddie should have arrived ten minutes ago, but growing up with the often-scatterbrained metalhead has gotten you used to the fact that he is always late.
You pause for a second to remember the moment you first met. Your first day at Hawkins Middle School, having transferred from out of town. You remember clutching your books anxiously as you stood in the hallway, an awkward child of eleven, when a kid your age with a buzzcut and a guitar too big for him ran headlong into you, knocking you both to the floor.
He’d stammered his apologies, checked to make sure his guitar wasn’t damaged, then stopped to help you gather your books and point you in the direction of the chemistry class.
You saw him again at lunch, in the cafeteria, playing some dice game with his friends. Then again the next day, reading a comic book under the bleachers. Then again, riding his bike past you. And again, and again, and again, until eventually you fell into an accidental friendship that only grew stronger as you both grew older.
Then, two years ago, he’d gone away to summer camp. You cried all day when he left, convinced he’d come back with some new best friend, having forgotten all about you. Six weeks later, all he’d come back with was a new grungy style, a love of heavy metal, and hair longer than yours.
It was a good change. Your eyes had turned to dinner plates when he’d knocked on your door, and you’d seen his long shaggy brown locks tossed about his shoulders in messy curls, his jawline filled out and his shoulders broadened. He looked strong.
That had been the first time you’d wondered if the things you felt for Eddie Munson weren’t entirely platonic.
Now, he at nineteen and you at eighteen, your friendship, his guitar-playing skills - and your not-entirely-platonic-feelings - are stronger than ever.
You take the bowl of popcorn into the front room and set it on the coffee table. Impatient, you check your watch. Fifteen minutes late, Eddie. You’re definitely getting worse.
Then the rumble of tyres outside your house makes your heart leap into your chest, but you try to play it cool as you watch his beat-up old ’71 Chevrolet van pulls up to your house. You dash to the kitchen to grab him a can of Tab out of the fridge, and wait for him to come in. You’ve known him long enough now that he doesn’t even knock on your front door.
You hear the handle turn, and you pretend you weren’t waiting for him to arrive like an over-excited puppy. You affect a grin, but when he enters the kitchen, your face falls.
“Eddie?!” you exclaim. “What the hell happened?”
His left eye is swollen shut, and there’s a huge bloody bruise on his temple. His lip is split and there’s another cut on his cheekbone. You rush at him and throw your arms around him, and he winces.
“Wo-hoah, easy, sweetheart,” he groans, and gently pats you on the head. “Don’t want you cracking any more of my ribs.”
Tears spring to your eyes as you pull away, your hands over your mouth.
“Oh, Jesus, Eddie… what happened? C’mon, come sit, I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
He tries to grin, only wincing again, and follows you. You grab the first-aid kit from the top kitchen cupboard as he drops himself into a chair at the table, clutching his middle and groaning.
“Maybe you should go to the emergency room--”
“Nah, it’s okay,” he said, though his furrowed brow and pained expression tell you it’s definitely not okay. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. Just need a little TLC, y’know?”
You bring the first-aid kit to the table and take out some bandages and antiseptic. You can barely see through your tear-blurred eyes.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, a frightened croak of horror. You gently dab the cut on his cheekbone, and he hisses and grunts in pain.
“What d’you think? Jason and his buddies,” he said.
You sigh. “Shit…” you whisper, and shake your head. Jason Carver has had it in for Eddie for the last two years of high school. Just because Eddie is different. It gets under your skin how everyone treats him like some kind of demon. Just because his dad was a bad egg, doesn’t mean Eddie is too.
“I hate that they’ve done this to you, Eddie,” you say softly, and shuffle a little closer to get a better look at his wounds. You carefully adhere steri-strips to the cut on his cheekbone, then start to work on his lip. “You’ll need ice, for that eye.”
“Yeah… yeah…” he seems lost in thought. His one good eye is focussed on you, but you’re too busy concentrating on sterilising his wounds to notice.
“Hey, uhh… have your eyes always been that colour?”
You freeze. Your hand hovers over his lip with an antiseptic wipe clutched between your fingers.
“… huh?”
His split lip twitches into a slight smile.
“Your eyes. I, uhh… I never noticed the colour before.”
You’re stunned. What is he saying? Is he… noticing you? What’s going on? Okay. Don’t panic. Breathe. Just act cool. Act casual. Be cool, be cool, be cool.
You clear your throat awkwardly. “Well… uhm… They--they’ve always been this colour.”
His smile widens, full of wonder, and then he winces as the smile tugs the split and his lip begins to bleed.
“Ow-- shit…” he touches his mouth, then looks at the blood on his fingertip. “God dammit… man, he really did a number on me, huh?”
You sigh. Eddie’s never been one for fighting. Sure, he’d defend the younger, smaller kids. But he always, always, got his ass handed to him. You fight the urge to hug him. Hug him tight and kiss him and tell him how much you adore him--
“You still with me, sweetheart?”
His voice breaks into your thoughts, and you start.
“Y-yeah. Yeah, sorry. Just thinking,” you say, and continue your careful ministrations. The antiseptic smell overpowers the smell of cigarettes lingering on his breath. You wish he’d quit. The smell always makes you gag whenever he lights up in your car.
You feel his eyes on you, and you look up, meeting his intense gaze.
“What are you staring at?” you ask, your voice a little husky. You see the cords of his throat roll as he swallows. His tongue traces his lips, snagging on the cut, and grimacing slightly at the taste of antiseptic.
“I… uhh…”
He averts his eyes. His cheeks flush red.
“Nothing.”
You feel the sting of disappointment. Time to take matters into your own hands. You’ve waited long enough. You’ve got a feeling. Now to test that feeling.
Fast and sharp like a flash of lightning, you dart forward and steal a kiss.
He jumps back.
“Woah--!”
His eyes widen and he raises his hands as if in defence.
“What the hell?”
Your heart sinks. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit shit!
“I-- uhm-- shit, I’m sorry! I thought-- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-- no, I’m sorry, Eddie, I’m sorry--!”
He looks stunned. You might as well have told him the world were coming to an end. And right now, for you, it might as well be.
“Eddie. Jesus, Eddie, please say something.”
“Uhhh…”
Oh shit. Now you’ve really fucked up. There goes an eight-year friendship down the drain.
His one good eye is wide with shock, and your heart pounds painfully behind your ribs, stoppering your breath with its rampant thundering. He needs to say something soon. The room feels like it’s spinning. You feel a hot lump rise in your throat, but you refuse to cry. You haven’t cried in front of him since you were fifteen and you broke your arm falling off your bike.
You want to run. Run and hide. Hide under your bedcovers like a child, curled into a foetal position and pretending it’s all just a dream. Just a bad dream. A bad, stupid, dumbass dream where a bad, stupid dumbass girl kissed her best friend and he reacted like she had the plague.
“… Eddie…?”
You hate how small your voice has become. Meek and stupid and quiet, like a frightened mouse. God dammit, why isn’t he saying anything?
“Eddie, I--”
His lips crash onto yours. His hands have wrapped around your face to hold you still, and his strong grip keeps you on your feet. Otherwise, you think you might just dissolve into a puddle. Now everything is spinning for a completely different reason. Your eyes close instinctively.
Just when you think you’re about to stop breathing completely, he pulls away, the gentle pressure and warmth of his lips vanishes, and your dazed eyes flutter open.
You swallow hard, and a soft incoherent mumble escapes your trembling lips.
“Humm…”
Eddie gulps and stares at you.
“Uhh… was that okay?” he asks, looking just as nervous as you were five minutes ago. A slightly hysterical giggle escapes your mouth.
“Uh-huh.”
“D’you… want me to do it again?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you say anything else right now?”
“Nuh-uh.”
Eddie chuckles, wincing again as his split lip tugs, but he takes your face in his hands again, gentler this time, and softly kisses you once more.
You move closer to him, your hands coming up to wrap around his neck, entwining your fingers in his long messy curls. You feel his breathing hitch, and a little moan vibrates through his lips into your mouth.
He whispers your name. It sends a tingle through your whole nervous system, and you feel electricity firing in your brain. You suddenly want… everything.
This isn’t like when you were eleven, and you pecked his lips on a dare. This isn’t like when you were twelve, and you went skinny-dipping at Lovers Lake. This isn’t like when you were thirteen, and just discovering your bodies for the first time, and realised that boys and girls were different in so many ways.
This is new. This is exciting. It’s everything you could have wanted. A flood of relief erupts in your chest. Oh, thank heavenly Jesus and all his little wizard friends.
He pulls away again and looks down at you, thumbing your cheek.
“Thanks,” he says dumbly.
“For what?” you blink. Is he thanking you for making out? That’s really dorky. But he smiles and runs his hand through your hair.
“For, uhh… for being braver than me,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for, like, two years, but I was never brave enough.”
“Two years?” you repeat, flabbergasted. How is it possible that his feelings towards you began to change, just at the same time your feelings for him began to emerge? Maybe his time away at summer camp gave him more than long hair.
He rubs his arm awkwardly. “Yeaaahhh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, dumbass. Just kiss me again.”
He grins.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He leans in again, and this time when he kisses you, he walks you slowly over to your couch, guiding you with gentle but eager firmness. You feel the back of your legs hit the couch, and you sit instinctively, and he leans over you.
“Eddie-- wait, hold up…”
He immediately stops, and looks at you with concern in his big brown eyes.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? You okay?”
You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just worried that you aren’t.”
“Huh?”
You gesture to his beaten-up state.
“You just had the shit kicked out of you less than an hour ago. I don’t really think a frustrated make-out session is very good for you right now.”
Eddie frowns, then checks his reflection in the mirror on your wall. Grimacing, he looks back at you.
“Yeah, I guess I kinda do look like I’ve been through a meat grinder, huh?”
You smile, and tenderly brush his face with the back of your fingers. You want to keep going, but it wouldn’t be right. Not while he’s all bruised and beaten and bloody.
“Dammit,” he mumbles, and drops heavily into the sofa next to you, puffing out his cheeks and blowing out a long slow breath. You lean over and rest against his chest, careful not to put too much pressure on his bruises.
“You’re not mad at me, right?” he asks, and he sounds so worried for a moment that your heart gives a little thump of affection. You sit up and shake your head.
“Of course I’m not mad at you,” you say. “Eddie, I…”
Oh god. Just say it. Say it. Saaaaay iiiiittttt.
“Yeah?”
Your eyes meet his. Your pulse quickens. You feel it in every single extremity. Your mouth is suddenly devoid of all moisture and you trace your lips with your tongue.
“I think I love you,” you croak out. His eyes light up, and his mouth curves into a smile. Without another word, his lips are on yours again. Soft, plush, warm, a faint taste of cigarettes and antiseptic. His hand finds your cheek and caresses your jawline, his thumb rubbing against your skin. He’s always had such rough hands from playing guitar and fixing his van, but you don’t care right now.
His tongue slides between your lips, teasing your own, twisting and writhing within your mouth. You shift your body a little closer, your hands on his shoulders. He pulls you closer, and the swell of your breasts crush against his strong chest.
He makes a noise, and you pull away to find him wincing. He touches his split lip with a grimace.
“Sorry… got carried away…” he mutters, and grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabs his lip. The tissue blooms with red, and guilt grips you by the throat.
“I’m sorry too,” you say, and gently brush a lock of his shaggy curls away from his face. “Hey. Look at me.”
He does so. You smile. He’s too beautiful for words. It’s grossly unfair that he should be so beautiful. It’s those eyes that does it. Big, round, brown, deep, full of adoration. Doe-eyes, Robin calls them. She’s not wrong.
“You okay?” you ask aloud. He shakes his head. Not out of disagreement, but more out of disbelief.
“I think I love you too, sweetheart. Hope that’s okay with you.”
If he asked you to right now, you could probably fly. You nod wordlessly. It’s more than okay. It’s everything that’s better than okay. It’s all you’ve wanted to hear for two years.
Eddie Munson loves me.
“It’s absolutely okay,” you say in a very soft voice. The way he looks at you makes your insides quiver. But it wouldn’t be right to jump him right now, not when he’s beaten and bruised like this.
“Y’know,” he begins slowly. “When I’m better… how’s about I take you out?”
“You mean like with a rifle?”
He laughs heartily, and runs his hand through your hair, combing his rough fingers through your locks.
“No, dumbass, like on a date.”
A date? Holy shit. A date. Like… an actual date. Oh my god, be cool. Be cool. Be cool!
“Uhhh…”
Well done.
“I mean--” you clear your throat and giggle. “Y-yeah, yeah that sounds cool. Maybe like for ice cream or something.”
“Yeah, exactly!” He looks excited. “But like, when I don’t look like I’ve gone ten rounds in the ring, huh? Don’t want the villagers chasing me with torches and pitchforks, right?”
You grin. Hawkins is too small for him. The sooner he gets out of this backwater town, the better. And maybe… you can go with him.
“S’pose I’ll go get that popcorn. It’ll be cold now, but we can still salvage movie night,” you stand up and go get the bowl of popcorn and that can of Tab from the kitchen and bring it back to the living room. You feel his eyes on you the whole time.
“I wish…” he begins, then shakes his head. “Nothing, never mind.”
“No, c’mon. Tell me what you were gonna say.”
He sighs.
“I wish I’d been brave enough to tell you how I felt two years ago. I feel like we’ve lost so much time.”
He looks suddenly quite miserable, and you take his hands as you sit down.
“Hey, don’t get upset,” you say softly. “We’ve still hung out every single day. The only difference now is that we each know how the other feels. So… it’ll just be the same, right? Except, like, with more kissing?”
“And more?” he looks so hopeful; you can’t help but laugh.
“Oh yeah, lots more,” you agree. He smirks now, and you feel a little flutter in your stomach.
“Good,” he says. “Cause when I’m better, I’m gonna show you that I’m not just Freak by name.”
He leans forward and starts to kiss your neck, making you shiver.
“I’m a freak in the sheets, too.”