Chapter Text
“You know I want to be with you.”
“Oh yeah?” he said back, voice light and playful. His smirk was flooding his face, all well-intentioned and sugary sweet.
“Mhm.”
The pool water lapped around you while he laid on his stomach, black towel underneath his shirtless figure. His fingers fiddled with yours to keep pulling you close to the edge. As you looked up at him, illuminated by the hot pink neon glow from your inner tube, you couldn’t help but swoon like a teenage girl. His hair appeared nearly fuschia, darkened by the shadows of the night and the reflection of the porch light behind him.
With a smug yet playful smile, he let out a hum before asking, “And why’s that, sweetheart?”
“Maybe I have a crush on you,” you said softly.
That smile turned into a smirk as he took a strand of wet hair and put it behind your ear, giving him a better look at your face. You nearly blended in with the water, your turquoise bikini matching the color exactly.
Usually, you wore a one piece to keep the world from commenting on whether your body looked good enough. It was hard enough to love your skin as it was—natural, textured. Stretch marks and cellulite. Scars from childhood mistakes. The exact opposite of whatever airbrushed magazine cover you or any of your peers were on, dolled up like plastic Barbies and whatnot.
But he had gotten you this bikini. Stood you in front of a mirror and traced the outline of your waist and your tummy, chuckling whenever you quivered from his touch. Whispered how gorgeous you were in your ear. Reminded you that no one else was around. You were safe.
(Even if his closest bodyguard, James, was standing outside his front door.)
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Mhm,” you mumbled, nodding.
“Had no idea,” he nearly whispered.
It felt right to be quiet. The hot California air had finally cooled for the night, the neighborhood surrounding Eddie’s house seemingly devoid of human existence. The Los Angeles skyline skimmed the horizon only when you chose to peek above his fence. The illusion of seclusion when you pretend this was a guarded castle.
“I know. I hid it so well.”
“Exceptionally. You’re a master of deception.”
“Mm, thank you.” The two of you chuckled softly before you tried to gently clear your throat. “So are you going to keep teasing me or are you going to tell me how you feel?”
His eyes searched yours, as if he was trying to find something but couldn’t quite remember what it was. “You already know what I want,” he said.
“Yeah, I do,” you lied, praying your insecurity wouldn’t bleed through. “Which is why I want to hear it out loud.”
Scooting closer to the edge of the pool, he began to kiss your hands.
“I.” Kiss. “Want.” Kiss. “To.” Kiss. “Be.” Kiss. “With.” Kiss. “You.”
You couldn’t help but smile. It felt like bliss, knowing that you weren’t the only one feeling this way. All the others were a jumbled mess of Maybe Later and Just Not Looking For A Serious Relationship Right Now. The girls wanted to play the field. The boys wanted something almost too casual. Those outside the gender binary would kiss and flirt at the bar and then ghost you on the dance floor.
But he…oh, he was something else entirely.
“Do we go out on a real date now?” you asked. “Or do we just skip to the sickly sweet, hot and raunchy sex?”
“‘Hot and raunchy’?” he questioned, laughing at your word choice.
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Sorry, was I not sexy enough for you the first six times?”
“Never said that, darling.” The nickname had you nearly kicking your feet with schoolgirl affection. “And to answer your question, I think I should take you on at least one proper date before I blow your back out again.”
You couldn’t help but snort. “After three and a half months?”
“As if we were honest about being official until a few weeks ago.” You couldn’t disagree with him on that. “Besides, it’s better late than never.”
“What a gentleman.”
And he was.
Eddie Munson was nothing short of the nicest guy you’d ever liked. Maybe the nicest guy you’d ever met. He opened every door, from cars to hotels to bedrooms to the cages you'd thrown your heart into. When you left with him after your concert in Seattle, he sheltered you from the rain with his beloved leather jacket. He made you cum twice before he even dared to touch himself, worshiping your body like it was sculpted by the gods. Not to mention the homemade meals and the constant protection from the paparazzi whenever possible. He knew what the media had been doing to you. He hated it. Despised it.
And amidst it all, he still wanted you.
Even the mere thought of it still made you weep sometimes.
But Eddie’s smile began to falter. “What do you reckon the verdict will be when they see us?”
You knew what that forlorn smile meant. You knew what this was doing to him, but it felt like nothing compared to what the outside world thought. It had been done to Whitney. Amy. Rihanna. Britney. Miley. Lindsay. Megan. Lizzo. Taylor. Hell, even Olivia, Sabrina, and Billie were being given hell now that they were emerging into adulthood.
And now it was down to you. Another female popstar thrown to the goddamn wolves.
Before you could think about how pessimistic it sounded, you said, “I’ll be labeled a slut and you’ll be considered a king. The cycle will only continue.”
The media were vipers. Predators. They wanted to hunt you down with cameras and watch you and Eddie Munson do something obscene. Vulgar. Just as his reputation had forewarned. The lead of a metal band (god forbid), along with the residual damage of “devil worshipping music” despite it not being the fucking Eighties anymore. However, in their storybook you were just the right kind of girl for him to corrupt.
He did anything but that.
“I don’t want it to be like that,” Eddie whispered, his eyes shining with the threat of tears. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I do.” You shook your head, trying to clear all of the voices and camera flashes out of your head. “I don’t know. I just don’t want this to blow up in our faces.”
At first, the label was furious.
You were a cutesy little role model for a demographic that you were not originally catering to. But the magnetic pull of a synthesizer flowed through you with the frizz of the vocoder and the glitter and the bright colors and advocacy and passion and the people—
You were helping people. Especially the teenage girls. You were giving hope and guidance to them. Reminding them that they could achieve dreams far beyond their wildest dreams. Even if they were queer. Even if they weren’t thin.
You were becoming an inspiration.
But after a while, you were seen as merely a PG-13 performer with all of the downfalls of being a woman, a popstar in her early twenties. Your life stopped being about you and started being about the narrative storyline of some fucking fairytale that you had no ability to write yourself, even if it was written in every song you released.
It was sick enough knowing that people who didn’t know you would write books about you some day.
But then you were seen at one of Corroded Coffin’s shows. Your music spiked on the charts despite the bizarre outrage at how different you were. The demographic your label originally wanted began to seep back in all in a matter of a few weeks. Back before you asked him about his feelings. Back before your confessions were frozen in the steam between you.
After that, the label wanted you and Eddie to play it up for the cameras. Stir up attention. Enjoy the ride, write the music, and then profit from the gossip columns and clout. Get more followers, more likes. Be endorsed by another fragrance subscription service or wireless headphones.
Make them money. Risk your heart in the meantime.
It was a gamble, but why wouldn’t someone bet on a losing dog?
“Favorite Beatles song right now?” he asked, drawing your attention away from the world outside.
You grinned. “‘A Taste of Honey’.”
“Ah, from Please Please Me." You nodded. "Sometimes I forget how good their first album was.”
“You know, it’s incredible to me that you know their entire discography and yet I’ve never once heard you listening to them,” you observed.
Eddie winked at you, opening his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the meow of a cat. Both of you turned your heads to see his black cat, Oz, pawing at the back door.
“Someone wants a treat, the spoiled bastard. At least Puppet has manners," Eddie said with a sigh before looking back at you. "Why don’t you come back in with me, hm?” he asked, lightly stroking your cheek. "Throw a movie on and cuddle or something?”
“Can we?” you pleaded. “Please?”
“Anything for you, sweetheart. Anything.”
He helped you out of the pool, grabbing a towel and drying you off, even going so far as to lightly ring the water out of your hair. He finished up with a gentle kiss to your forehead, the inner tube left forgotten and floating in the water.
“Hey, Eddie?”
His eyebrows knit together. “Yeah? What’s up?”
You could only wonder what it would be like if this didn’t end up in some fit of flames along the length of your graves. Caskets lying side-by-side, big fat crosses sitting on top like a pointed threat. His headstone littered with roses while yours drowned in spray paint. Eulogies and hymns crescendoing into a wave of madness as they repeated your fears back to you: Nothing lasts forever.
Or maybe you’d end up in a small house somewhere, making music together while you drowned out the rest of the world. One day where the chatter would flutter into a whisper and you could walk down the street of some coastal town and not get ogled at. The stars would align and you could say to yourself, It was worth it.
But it was only August, nearly swallowing you whole with the heat threatening to scorch your skin. Maybe yours more than his, but nevertheless there were going to be scars—
You knew to love him was to lose your mind.
And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
“For once, I think…” A smile met your lips. “Well, maybe it’s worth it.”