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hellmunsonfire · 19 days ago

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Fracture

part 1

You fall in love with Eddie Munson the way you fall asleep—gradually, then all at once.

He smells like peppermint cigarettes and cheap whiskey, his voice is a gravel-coated melody, and when he leans against the hood of his van with those sharp cheekbones catching the moonlight just right, he doesn’t look real. He looks like the kind of boy your parents would’ve warned you about, if your parents had been around enough to warn you about anything.

Eddie calls you “trouble” with that crooked smile of his. You call him reckless. But he’s soft when you least expect it, careful with the way he touches your shoulder or laughs too loud at your terrible jokes. In his eyes, you’re not the mess you feel like—you’re the spark. The magic. The one worth writing songs about. And you love him for that. Even if you’re lying to him every day.

Because back home, nothing feels magical.

Your house isn’t a home; it’s a minefield. Every creak in the hallway floorboards makes you flinch. Your brother slams doors like it’s a sport, shouts like he’s being paid for the volume. He blames you for everything—your mother leaving, your father working himself to the bone, the silence that settles in the kitchen like dust. You don’t fight back anymore. You just absorb it.

Eddie doesn’t know any of this.

You craft stories like paper cranes, delicate and fleeting, each one meant to keep him at bay—away from the truth. He’s asked about your family a hundred times, probably more. Wonders why he’s never met them, why you always change the subject. He says it gently, with real curiosity, not suspicion. But the questions are becoming harder to dodge. And the excuses? They're running dry.

You tell him your cousin is staying over and you have to keep an eye on her.

That your dad’s an early riser and hates noise past nine.

That the dog pees everywhere when left alone too long.

That the landline is broken and someone might call with an emergency.

That you’ve got an early rehearsal with a classmate, a babysitting gig, a sick neighbor, a night class, a migraine.

Eddie raises an eyebrow now. He doesn’t buy it anymore—not really.

One night, as you’re leaning against the cold brick wall behind The Hideout, your arms crossed and breath fogging in the winter air, he turns to you and says, “You know… sometimes I think you’re secretly out there fighting crime at night. Like, you disappear right after the show. No warning. Very vigilante of you.”

He’s teasing.

But not entirely.

You force a laugh, make some vague comment about being mysterious. But your heart isn’t in it. Because there’s a question hanging in the air between you—one he’s too kind to press, but you feel it every time his eyes linger a little too long, every time he reaches for your hand and you hesitate just a second too late.

Eddie doesn’t want to push you. He never does.

You’ve done a decent job holding it all together until now. All the little lies you’ve told, the stories you’ve spun, they’ve worked well enough to keep the truth at bay, at least for a while. But tonight isn’t like the others. Tonight is different. Tonight is the night that might change Eddie’s life forever—if things go right, if the scout likes what he hears, if Eddie plays like you know he can. If he gets chosen, he’ll be working with the record label he’s dreamed about since you first met him, when he was still just a boy in a dusty garage with a guitar covered in stickers and hands that shook from too much caffeine and not enough belief in himself. A few weeks ago, when he told you about the audition, his voice was trembling—not from fear, but from how badly he wanted this. He said he didn’t care about the crowd or the lights or what he was wearing or even the label guy sitting in the back row with a clipboard. He only cared about you. He needed you there, no matter what, no more excuses, no last-minute disappearances or strange, half-finished explanations. He wanted to look into your eyes while he played, wanted to pull courage from the way you look at him like he’s more than he thinks he is. You said you’d be there. How could you not?

But the audition is at 9 PM. And that’s already hours past when you’re supposed to be home. It’s the kind of thing that makes your chest tighten even before the sun sets. All day, you try to come up with a way out. Maybe you can say you’re sleeping over at a friend’s house, though you know your brother would never believe it. He keeps a mental list of all your friends and judges them as if their names alone are crimes. Maybe you can say you have a group project, or that you got asked to babysit, or that someone’s dog got loose and you had to help find it. It’s all ridiculous. And you know it. But you also know that you’re running out of options. You think maybe, just maybe, you could sneak out, slip through the side door, walk the two miles to The Hideout and be back before anyone even notices. It’s risky. Insanely risky. But you’ve rehearsed every step in your mind like choreography—how fast you’d move, how quietly you’d shut the door behind you, where you’d hide your shoes so they don’t make noise on the tile. You even plan out which streets you’d take, which alleyways are dark enough to shield you from the world, how to breathe through your panic without turning back. Still, none of it feels real. Not yet.

What does feel real is the look on Eddie’s face when he talked about tonight—the way his whole body seemed to light up, like he could already see the stage and hear the applause and taste the freedom he’s been chasing his whole life. He doesn’t even care if he makes it or not, not really. He just wants to know he tried, and he wants you to be the person who sees him do it. The person who remembers how far he’s come. You know that to him, this is more than an audition. It’s a declaration. A moment he’ll carry with him forever, whether it ends in a record deal or not. And the fact that you might not be able to give him what he asked for—the fact that you might break your promise again—makes your skin feel too tight for your body.

It’s almost nine.

You’re still in your room.

Not where you’re supposed to be—not where you need to be.

You’ve already changed into the outfit you picked days ago, folded it under your pillow so it wouldn’t wrinkle, hid your shoes behind the curtain where he wouldn’t look. Your jacket’s zipped halfway. Your fingers tremble a little as you reach for the window latch. The cold from the glass bites your skin, but it only sharpens your focus. Your heart races. It’s not fear, not entirely. It’s adrenaline. A rising, shaking kind that threatens to spill from your chest.

Down the hallway, your brother’s music is blaring. Something angry and loud, distorted guitar riffs that rattle the picture frames on the walls. You hope it stays that loud. You hope it drowns out the sound of the window creaking open, the shift of your weight on the sill. If you’re lucky, he won’t even notice you’re gone until you’re already blocks away. Maybe not even then.

Just once. Just one night.

You want to do something for yourself.

You’ve spent your whole life under the shadow of other people’s choices, locked inside rules you didn’t make, punished for things you couldn’t control. You’ve never really had a moment to claim as yours. Not a birthday. Not a celebration. Not even a quiet second that felt like it belonged only to you. There was always a door slamming, always someone yelling, always a reason why you didn’t deserve it.

Eddie’s the only one who never treats you like you’re broken. The only one who doesn’t flinch when you go quiet or weird or anxious. The only one who’s stayed. And tonight, he asked for something. Just one thing. "No excuses," he said, cupping your face with both hands, his forehead pressed to yours. "I need you there. Just you."

And how do you say no to that? How do you let him play without the only person he asked for?

You open the window. And that’s when the door swings open.

Not with a knock. Not with a warning. Just the sharp crack of metal-on-wood as your brother barges in like he owns the place—because he kind of does. You freeze. He sees you immediately. You’re not out the window. You’re not even halfway there. But you��re dressed, ready, the curtain is swaying a little too suspiciously.

His eyes narrow. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

You turn fast, swallowing hard. "Nowhere. I was just—trying on clothes. For tomorrow. School stuff."

It’s a weak lie. But it’s the best you can come up with on short notice. You force a shrug, gesture vaguely toward your outfit. "I don’t know. I might wear this tomorrow. Just checking how it looks."

He stares at you for a long second, expression flat and unreadable. Then his lip curls into that familiar smirk. The one that says /you’re pathetic/. The one that says I see right through you.

“You? Giving a shit about how you look? Since when?”

You say nothing. You never say anything when he gets like this.

He snorts, shakes his head, mutters something under his breath—some insult that lands more like a slap than a word—and slams the door behind him as he leaves. The music goes up even louder.

You sit on the edge of your bed.

Your hands are still shaking. But now it’s not adrenaline. It’s defeat.

He didn’t believe you. Maybe he didn’t buy it, maybe he did, but it doesn’t matter. Now you can’t go. Not with him already suspicious. If he catches you trying again—if he decides to follow—who knows what he’d do. To you. To Eddie.

Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them. You blink hard, clench your fists, try to push the feeling down. But it’s no use. It burns.

You’re going to miss it.

You’re going to miss him. And he’ll be standing there on that stage, searching the crowd, looking for your face. And you won’t be there. Not because you didn’t want to. Not because you didn’t care. But because this house has always been a prison. And tonight, the bars are made of guilt.

You don’t remember exactly when your eyes close. One moment, you’re curled on the edge of the bed, face buried into your knees, tears soaking into your sleeves, and the next, the silence swells around you. The storm outside hums like a distant lullaby, rain pattering against the window while the shadows of your room blur into one another. You slip into a fragile kind of sleep—not restful, not deep, but heavy enough to pull you under. It's impossible to say how long you’ve been out. Maybe two hours, maybe three. Your room is still dim, lit only by the faint orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the rain.

Then a noise cuts through the stillness, sharp and sudden.

You stir, at first unsure whether it’s part of a dream or something real. There’s another sound, and your breath catches—something tapping against the glass, light but deliberate. You sit up, heart racing, and glance toward the window, expecting maybe the wind or the tree branches scraping against the pane. But as your eyes adjust and you push the curtain aside, your breath freezes in your throat.

Eddie is standing outside in the rain.

He’s soaked, his curls flattened and dripping into his eyes, his leather jacket gleaming with water. He looks up at you, his expression hard to read—somewhere between heartbreak and fury—and in that moment, every bit of guilt you carry tightens in your chest. He had asked for just one thing. One night. One moment. And you couldn’t give it to him.

Before you can react, he moves. You watch as he grabs the lowest branch of the tree just outside your window, his boots finding balance on the wet bark. It’s not a difficult climb—your window isn’t that high—but the tree is slippery, and the rain hasn’t let up. Still, he doesn't hesitate. Like nothing else matters. Like getting to you is the only thing keeping him standing.

Within seconds, he’s at the ledge. You open the window with trembling fingers, and he climbs in without waiting for an invitation. Water trails behind him, dripping from his jacket to the floor, but he doesn’t seem to care. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and when he speaks, his voice is low, strained.

“Where the hell were you?”

It’s not yelled. It’s not sharp. It’s not even fully angry. It sounds... tired. Like the question has been sitting on his tongue for hours, festering, hurting.

You try to answer, try to form something like an explanation, but the words catch in your throat. And just then, something shifts in his eyes. He really looks at you. The tear stains on your cheeks, your swollen eyes, the way you’re standing frozen in your room like a child caught sneaking out.

“Wait... have you been crying?”

He takes a step forward, then another. His expression, already raw, collapses into something softer. Alarmed. Worried. He reaches for you without thinking, his hands brushing over your arms and shoulders like he’s afraid to find bruises he can’t see. His fingers trail gently down your sleeve, his touch hesitant but warm.

“What happened?” His voice is barely above a whisper now. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t wait for permission—he scans your face, your body, checking for something, anything, that might explain why you're here and not where you promised to be. There’s a kind of desperation in the way he looks at you, in how soaked and cold and wrecked he is. And yet none of it seems to matter to him—not the rain, not the cold, not even the show he missed. All he sees is you.

“Eddie, you have to go. Right now.”

Your voice comes out sharp, choked with panic, and your eyes dart toward the door like it might burst open any second. The air in your room feels too tight, too fragile, like the walls might collapse from the pressure of this moment. “Please. I’ll explain everything, I swear. Just—just not now, okay? I’m fine. I promise I’m fine. I’ll tell you tomorrow, I swear it on everything.”

Your hands are on his chest, pushing gently, not really trying to move him but begging him with every touch to understand. But Eddie doesn’t budge. His boots are still dripping on the floor, his hair plastered to his forehead, water sliding down the collar of his jacket, and yet he doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on yours, wide and hurt and searching.

“No,” he says quietly, and that one word lands like a stone in your stomach. His voice is firm, but not cruel. “Tell me what happened. Why didn’t you come? You promised. You looked me in the eye and you said you’d be there.”

There’s a tremble behind the edge in his voice, a crack that gives him away. This isn’t just anger—it’s betrayal, confusion, fear. “You said no matter what. You said it like it mattered to you. And I waited. I stood there, and I waited for you to walk through that door. And every time someone came in, I thought—God, I thought it was you.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a sudden sharpness, the hurt finally bleeding through. “I hope you have a damn good reason, because I’ve been trying to figure out what I did wrong. Why you wouldn’t show up. Why you wouldn’t even call. I thought you might’ve gotten hurt or—or maybe you changed your mind, maybe I’m not worth showing up for, I don’t know.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and trembling, and when you meet his gaze again, you can’t look away. His brown eyes are locked on you, too deep, too honest, and too full of something that looks dangerously close to breaking.

“Eddie,” you whisper, your voice splintering. But what else can you say? How do you explain living in a house that feels like a prison? How do you explain the fear that sits in your chest like a loaded gun, the way your brother’s voice can shut down your lungs, how it felt like everything you are—everything Eddie makes you feel—is something that has to stay hidden behind locked doors and locked windows?

You want to scream the truth. You want to tell him everything.

But instead, you take a shaky breath and whisper, “Please. Just go. Please, before he hears us. I’ll explain, I promise. But not tonight.”

“Who’s /he/? Who the hell is he?” Eddie’s voice sharpens, confused at first, then clouded with something darker. His brows knit together, lips parting like he’s just been slapped. “Are you—” He blinks, shaking his head. “Are you cheating on me?”

He says it like it physically hurts, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. He stares at you in disbelief, as if he can’t believe those syllables even formed between his teeth. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging his hands through his wet hair. “Fuck. Fucking hell.”

He swears under his breath again, barely audible this time, and then suddenly—his boot kicks into the heap of clothes on your floor, not out of violence, not really, but because he doesn’t know where else to put the feeling. He looks like he’s seconds away from falling apart, chest rising and falling too fast, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to cry. One more word, one wrong move, and he’ll break.

“Eddie—” you start, voice trembling, reaching toward him, but the sound of approaching footsteps cuts through the room like a blade.

You freeze.

The floorboards creak just outside your door. Familiar. Heavy. Your brother.

Panic slams into you so violently that it knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your heart pounds in your ears, erratic and loud, like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. You can’t move. You /can’t/ move. Every part of your body turns to ice, like you’ve just plunged into the Atlantic on the night the Titanic sank and you’re waiting for rescue that’s never coming. There’s no lifeboat for you and Eddie. Hell, there isn’t even a goddamn life vest.

And before you even know what you’re doing—maybe it’s instinct, maybe desperation—you grab Eddie by the arm, spin him toward the closet. “In there,” you hiss, pushing him toward the wardrobe.

He starts to protest, confused and heartbroken, but you shove him inside and slam the door shut just as the knob on your bedroom door begins to turn.

The door bursts open without warning, slamming hard against the wall, and you flinch where you stand. It’s your brother—of course it is. His face is a storm, brows drawn low, jaw clenched, shoulders squared like he's preparing for a fight. His eyes sweep the room with practiced suspicion, taking in every corner, every shadow. You know that look. He’s sure you’re hiding something. And tonight, he’s here to catch you in the act.

“Who were you talking to?” he demands, voice sharp and low, every word laced with accusation. His gaze flicks from your face to the window, to the bed, to the closet. Your blood runs cold.

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. Eddie. Eddie is in there. Silent. Still. Hidden behind a thin wooden door that suddenly feels like paper.

You swallow hard, force your voice to steady even though your knees threaten to give out. “No one. I—I was talking to myself,” you say quickly. “I do that sometimes. Just… out loud. Thinking things through before I sleep.”

He narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you think anything through?”

You don’t respond. You can’t. If you open your mouth, the lie might shatter.

He walks further into the room, slow and heavy, like a predator circling prey. His presence is suffocating. You step back instinctively, almost placing yourself between him and the closet without realizing it.

“You were getting ready to sneak out, weren’t you?” he accuses, nodding toward the window. “Thought I wouldn’t hear it creak open?”

“I wasn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Secretive. Jumpy. And now you’re playing dress-up in the middle of the night like some pathetic little freak.”

His words sting like ice water, but you say nothing. You can’t let yourself break. Not now. Not with Eddie listening to every word.

Your brother steps closer, lowering his voice but making it sharper somehow. “Is there someone here?”

Your heart stops. Your eyes dart to the closet without meaning to. Stupid. Stupid.

He catches it.

He moves toward the door—just a step—and you react without thinking. “No! There’s no one here!” you blurt out, panicked, stepping in front of him. “I just—god, why are you always like this? Why do you always have to control everything I do?”

He stares at you, his expression flickering—annoyance, suspicion, something darker. Then he scoffs, shakes his head, and turns away like you’re not even worth shouting at anymore.

“Because if I didn’t, you’d ruin what’s left of this family,” he mutters, moving back toward the door. “You’re just like her.”

His words hang in the air like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore. The room feels smaller now. Your chest tightens. Your skin burns, but not from embarrassment or guilt. It’s rage. It’s pain. It’s the echo of a thousand unspoken things lodged in your throat all at once.

You take a shaky step forward. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

He stops at the door. Turns slowly. A bitter smile plays at his lips, cruel and knowing.

“Why not?” he says, voice calm in the way that makes it worse. “Because it’s true? Because deep down you know you’re just as selfish as she was? Just as messed up? She left and now you’re trying to follow in her footsteps. Out the window in the middle of the night. Probably to meet some loser who doesn’t even give a shit about you.”

Your blood goes cold. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough. I know you sneak around. I know you lie. I know you flirt with disaster like it’s some kind of game.”

He steps closer again, pointing a finger at your chest. “And when you fall flat on your face, guess who has to clean it up? Me. Always me.”

“You don’t clean anything up!” you shout, voice cracking, hands shaking. “You just make it worse! You scream, you accuse, you break things and then act like I’m the one who’s ruining everything!”

His jaw tightens. “You have no idea what it’s like, trying to keep you in line. What people say about you behind your back. How you make this family look—”

“I don’t care what they say!” You’re practically sobbing now, voice rising with every word. “I’m not yours to fix! You treat me like I’m some kind of embarrassment—like I’m a burden you got stuck with, not someone you’re supposed to care about!”

He laughs. A cold, dismissive sound. “Care about you? How can I when you’re always acting like this? Like a damn child—”

“Get out,” you whisper.

“What?”

You’re trembling. “I said, get out.”

But he doesn’t move. “Make me.”

Then something shifts. A creak. A loud slam.

Before either of you can process it, the closet door bursts open. Eddie explodes out like a force of nature—wild eyes, clenched jaw, rain-slick hair falling in front of his face, his fists already flying.

Your brother barely has time to turn before Eddie hits him square in the jaw with a sickening crack. The sound echoes in the room like a gunshot. Your brother stumbles back, crashes into the desk, knocks over a lamp. Glass shatters.

“What the fu—” he tries to yell, but Eddie doesn’t give him the chance.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” Eddie growls, voice low and vicious, his breathing ragged with fury. “You don’t touch her. You don’t /get/ to treat her like she's nothing.”

Another punch lands, harder this time. Your brother hits the floor, dazed, clutching his face.

But Eddie doesn’t stop.

He drops to his knees beside him and grabs a fistful of his shirt, yanking him up just to slam his fist into his jaw again—once, twice—rage radiating off of him like heat. He’s not just fighting now. He’s unleashing. Every insult, every bruise you never showed him, every night you cried yourself to sleep—he’s pouring it into every hit.

Your brother groans, his head lolling, but with a sudden surge of adrenaline he swings wildly, catching Eddie in the mouth with a sharp right hook. Eddie’s head snaps to the side—blood instantly blooms on his bottom lip—but he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, it fuels him.

“Hurt me all you want,” Eddie spits, voice low and feral, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you never touch her again.”

And then—another blow, this one to your brother’s temple. He tries to fight back, but he’s slower now, uncoordinated. Eddie pins him down with a knee to the chest and throws one last, brutal punch.

Your brother’s head slams against the floorboard. His limbs go slack.

Silence.

Only your breathing. Eddie’s ragged, thunderous exhales. The rain tapping softly at the window.

He stands slowly, shoulders rising and falling like waves crashing on the shore. His hands are trembling, bloodied. His lip split, oozing crimson down his chin.

He flexes his fingers, and you hear the wet pop of his knuckles realigning. He doesn’t even wince.

With a final look down at the unconscious heap on your floor, Eddie leans over and spits—thick, red, and furious—right onto your brother’s chest.

Then he turns.

His chest is still heaving, jaw clenched tight, eyes wild and wet and burning into yours. He steps toward you, his boot pressing into broken glass with a crunch, and grabs your hand—tight, protective, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, voice sharp and low, thick with adrenaline and something deeper. “Right now.”

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