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Eddie Munson doesn’t consider himself a religious person. He’s dealt with too much shit in his short life to really care about whether there’s a higher power somewhere in the universe or not. If anything, he’d say he’s always been left to his own devices, so fuck whoever’s supposed to be looking after him. Theological matters are not something he’s ever been particularly concerned about, anyways.
Having spent the last ten days bound to a hospital bed, however, Eddie’s had plenty of time to reflect on his pathetic existence and the string of unfortunate events that have led him to this situation. In these ten days, he’s thought about his parents more often than he has in the last ten years -his father leaving for good after being in and out of prison for months, his mother’s untimely passing when he was too young to understand she was never coming back, and the sharp pain that floods his chest if he dwells on the thought of them for too long. He’s thought about Wayne, constantly taking extra shifts at the plant so he could put food on the table, and how he’s repaid him by failing senior year once, and then a second time. A triple-senior loser drug dealer, always being too much -too loud, too weird, too freakish-, but never enough. Not attractive enough, not smart enough, definitely not rich enough.
He’s also thought about death, and how closely he tasted it. The harrowing tangibility of his own mortality, sticking to his skin until he was coated in it, until he couldn’t breathe, washing over him like a tidal wave. He’s thought about Chrissy, and Patrick, and Nancy’s friend Fred, who weren’t as lucky as him. About how scared he was when Dustin found him, choking on his own blood, scared of dying, of dying alone, scared of what was waiting for him, scared that he wasn’t seeing any holy light amidst the darkness and he was supposed to, right?
And all he feels right now is guilt, because he’s thought about all of that and still, the main object of his musings the last ten days has been you. That’s why he’s considering that surely there must be some kind of deity, that there must be a heaven somewhere, because you’re an angel.
Soft in the way you speak and in the way you move, delicate when you touch him, Eddie still can’t believe that you’re not a figment of his imagination. In this aseptic limbo, the best part of his dreary days is getting to spend time with you. You, sweet as sugar, lovely as can be, arriving with the early morning light and leaving at nightfall when someone else forces you to go home and get some rest.
You didn’t even have it in you to pretend to be mad at him when he woke up, disoriented and confused, covered in bandages, every inch of his body sore and in pain. “You scared me half to death, Munson,” you’d said, looking at him through teary lashes, “don’t ever go playing the hero again, please.” It was a whispered imploration, so gently spoken that he could only nod his head yes.
He’d do anything you asked him to.
Ever since he met you, there’s a strange new feeling nestled in the pit of his stomach, or maybe just above, by his heart, and Eddie can’t quite put a name to it, can’t make sense of it, because he didn’t know who you were two weeks ago.
The feeling is warm and light, a comfortable weight in his chest that blooms in flowers and vibrates through his bones when you walk in the room, when you sit by his side and quietly start talking to him. About nothing, about everything -news about Max, who’s doing better by the day; a book or movie or song you like and think Eddie will enjoy too, the puppy that came up to you that morning on your way to the hospital-, whatever crosses your mind is good. And he listens willingly. He likes hearing your voice and its cadence, he likes how everything you say seems deliberate and how your smile shines through your words.
He felt it first in the cold, humid boathouse, as you sat side by side on the wooden floor for two days, your leg pressed against his and both of you scared to death. Eddie found solace in your company, in how you chose to stay with him even though you had, quite literally, just met him.
“We’re not leaving him here alone, Steve.” You’d said, an unexpecting determination settling in the frown between your eyebrows.
And you didn’t, even though Steve tried to dissuade you and Max and Robin shared a worried look. You stayed, and told him things would be alright. You sat down next to him and let him hurt in silence when he needed to, and vent when his thoughts became too much.
You stayed, you sat and you listened to him without judgment, and suddenly you were looking out the window as the sun set outside, and your face was painted in shades of gold and lilac and Eddie had never seen anything quite as beautiful as you.
Minutes blended into hours and lighthearted comments turned into lengthy conversations inside that boathouse. In the rare times Eddie felt safe enough to let his guard down, his usual playful demeanour surfaced. Somehow, you found his knack for the dramatic hilarious, and countered his witty remarks with your own, good-natured and sprightly, with just the right amount of mischief to keep up with him.
The feeling blossomed in his heart and took shelter between his ribs, a nice kind of ache, one Eddie wasn’t used to, but that felt strangely familiar, as if he had been born to feel it, to find you, to know you. Damn his fantasy books and their promise of adventure and true love, and damn those metal songs for tricking him into thinking freaks like him could find the one, too.
But it grows heavy sometimes, a lead blanket that weighs him down and makes him feel vulnerable, minuscule. When his insecurities take over, it’s easy to believe the darkness that clouds his brain, his own voice humming harsh cruelties, reminding him of everything that he is -loud, weird, a freak- and everything he’s not -not enough, never enough, and not Steve fucking Harrington.
How could he ever compete if he doesn’t even compare?
Although you’ve mentioned before that Steve’s like the brother you’ve never had, it’s hard for Eddie not to read too much into the way he looks at you, or how easy it is for him to reach out and touch you, how easy it is for you to lean into it, and just how fucking much Eddie wants to be the one by your side… well, at all times.
Like right now.
It’s late. Eddie’s not sure exactly how late, but the sky outside is the colour of dark blue ink, splattered with stars, and the rusty orange glow of the streetlamps is casting shadows across the floor of his hospital room. He’s just woken up from a long nap, one of the many his body demands every day (who knew that almost dying would be so exhausting?) and the chair beside his bed is empty, your jacket draped over its back, your perfume lingering in the air.
He sighs deeply, eyes closed, sinking against the pillow. There’s an ache in his bones that doesn’t seem to go away despite all the painkillers the doctors have put him on, and it clings to him like the cold in the room. He’s tired and he’s cranky, it’s hard not to be when inhaling feels like breathing fire and he’s only allowed to get out of bed to go to the toilet; even harder when he looks out the ajar door and sees you, leaning against the wall next to Steve, eyes closed, your head on his shoulder.
The boy’s hands are respectfully tucked between his legs, and his gaze is trained on the floor. You are muttering to one another in low voices that Eddie can’t make out, but you look exhausted. Harrington, of course, looks straight out of a magazine with perfect hair and fancy clothes.
Eddie stares forlornly, eyebrows furrowed and pouting lips. He wishes more than anything to be the one to ease the worry on your face, the one you go to for support, for company, for advice. Still, the weight in his ribcage and the lump in his throat are too heavy to call your name, tell you to come and sit, tell you that he’ll let you rest your head on his shoulder and he’ll even hold your hand, ask you to please let him.
It’s a sensation he knows all too well, the bitter resentment of feeling like the second, third, last, worse choice. He’s good at pushing and pushing it down until it becomes nothing but a dark smudge at the back of his mind. This time, though, it poisons him from within until it’s all he tastes in his mouth.
And the worst part is he can’t even hate Steve. He’s been kind to Eddie. He helped him get out of the trailer park alive, he’s come to keep him company every other day, and he’s actually a pretty nice dude. Could he really blame you if you fell in love with Steve? He doesn’t believe so, but his throat constricts at the thought.
But as if you could read his mind, you open your eyes and find his gaze with yours. Suddenly, the sullen expression is gone from your face, the corners of your mouth are curving upwards and you're moving away from Steve and into the room.
"Hey, you're awake!" Your voice is soft, barely a loud whisper, and the dim light from the hall obscures your silhouette for a fraction of a second as you rush through the door and plop down on the worn-out chair by his side.
Eddie doesn’t miss the way your hand falls to rest on the bed, close to his own, twin sets of fingers twitching, tips tingling, eager for contact. He doesn’t dare move, but he looks up at you and you’re wearing the sweetest smile he’s ever seen in his life, the type of smile he’s never felt worthy of receiving.
His voice is hoarse with sleep and stuck emotions when he mutters, “Yeah, hi. You’re here.” The boy gasps when he feels the gentle touch of your fingers on the back of his hand, drawing circles and waves that ripple through his blood and tint his cheeks pink. Your smile widens, becomes softer, and your eyes mirror the look in his, shiny with unspoken affection.
“I’m gonna go see Max and then I’m out.” Steve, leaning against the rails of the bed, throws a thumb over his shoulder and nods his head at you. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”
You shake your head no and tuck your hand in Eddie’s, and he swears he sees the sparks flying where his skin and yours touch. “I’m staying here tonight if that’s alright with you.” A gentle pressure of your fingers brings Eddie’s attention back to your eyes. “Is it?”
He nods, the most subtle movement, almost a blink-and-you-miss-it gesture, but enough for you to chuckle and tell your friend to go.
“Alright then,” Steve pats Eddie on the shoulder, more gently than anyone would expect from him, that fervent need to look after people shining through, so characteristically Steve, Eddie has learned, “you take care of each other, yeah? I’ll swing by tomorrow.”
And, with a soft smile, he leaves without waiting for an answer, leaving you two alone. A comfortable silence fills the room, one you’re both used to by now, as you stand and move around the space, placing your backpack on the windowsill, getting ready to spend the night by Eddie’s side. His skin still feels the ghost of your hand over his, its absence an emptiness that he yearns to fill again.
"You don't have to stay, you know that, right?" He whispers, the remnants of his jealousy still burning on his tongue, words fighting against his own willpower when he speaks next. “You should go home and get some rest. Go find Steve, go home.”
“Don’t be silly,” you reply, mirroring his tone but softer, sweeter, oozing a kindness Eddie’s not sure he’s earned. “I want to stay. Plus, I had a great nap earlier today.”
Eddie doesn’t understand why you’re so nice to him all the time, but he’s not about to argue. He falls silent, looking up at the ceiling as you sit down, bend your arms and lean on the edge of the bed. He can feel your eyes studying his face carefully, blinking slowly, and your lips turning upwards.
“Do you remember when we were hiding in Skull Rock?” You say, sitting down and bringing your knees to your chest.
“Yeah.” Eddie frowns. The memories of his days on the run are the most unwelcome ones.
Soaked and tired, covered in mud and sticky leaves, you sat side by side under the solid protection of the rock. Eddie was trying hard not to cry, not in front of you. It would’ve been the cherry on top of the cake, and the last thing he needed was to embarrass himself further.
He leaned his head against the stone and willed himself to calm down. He then looked at you through pinched eyebrows, calling your name softly. “I’m sorry.”
You rubbed your clammy cheek with the back of your hand and shrugged. “This is not your fault, Eddie.” It hurt to see the pained expression on the boy’s brown eyes, their usual sweetness replaced by pure despair, their spark gone.
“But it is.” The boy shut his eyes tight and ran a dirty hand through his hair. It felt gross, messy and knotted. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me. This sucks. I’m sorry.”
A cold hand wrapped around his, pulling it away from his face, and you were looking at him with so much resolve he almost fell backwards. “Eddie, I said I’d stay with you and I meant it. And I’d do it again, alright? I’ll be damned if I let you go through this alone. Okay?”
Eddie blinked and you blinked back at him. Your next words cut through the cold air of the early dawn like a knife, an arrow straight to his heart. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”
Your eyes now are softer than they were that night, but the conviction shining on them is just as firm, exuding reassurance and affection just for him, an affection you’ve never felt for anyone before but the boy in front of you earned in a matter of hours. “My word still stands.”
No, Eddie Munson is not a religious person, but later tonight, when he wakes up after a vivid, nightmare, he looks at your figure, curled up on that ugly, uncomfortable chair, so close to him that he can hear your soft breathing, so close he could caress your cheek if he reached out; and then he looks at the clear dark sky behind you, and the million shiny stars that frame you, rings of diamonds with you at the centre, and then Eddie whispers a quiet prayer, a humble plea, a wish for only him and the quiet of the night to know.
He asks for you to stay, once again, to stay as you have before, like you said you would; he pleads to keep the one good thing that's come out of this nightmare, the best thing that's happened to him in a long time, maybe ever.
Eddie Munson calls to the gods, the ones people talk about on the street and the ones he knows from his books and his games, and he confronts them -his life is a mess, where are they, where have they been all this time- and bargains -they owe him, they owe him this one thing, this wish that's hidden like a secret in his heart-, and whispers your name like a sacred prayer, very low and very carefully, cherishing every letter, kissing them as the air leaves his lips.
And he truly thinks you can read his mind, there must be a connection between you two, because your eyes flutter open, and they gleam in the faint light that creeps under the closed door when you look at him, and your mouth curves upwards in that sweet way you save for only him.
You look so lovely, with your hair tousled and your cheeks apple pink, so sweet in your big clothes that seem to swallow you whole -in his sleepy state, it takes him a second to realise you’re wearing an old black hoodie of his-, that Eddie feels his heart skip a beat, and two and three. It’s overwhelming, really, how much he likes someone he’s just met, someone he barely knows. It’s worse when he notices you’re looking at him the way he’s looking at you.
The chair scrapes the floor when you pull it closer to his bed, and you lean your head on the uncomfortable mattress, your temple against his shoulder. Your hand travels down his arm until your fingers can wrap around his, warm and soft against his calloused digits.
Eddie blinks back the tears that threaten to fall from his tired eyes. You’re real, and you’re there by his side, looking up at him through your lashes like he’s the only other person in the world.
He squeezes your hand. You squeeze back. Your twin giggles break through the silence of the hospital room. Maybe for now, this is enough.
The stars outside twinkle when he looks out the window again, the words dying between his lips. Thank you.