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lis-likes-fics · 2 years

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None of Your Business

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader Warnings: Angst, abusive father (for real, not great), violence, enemies to lovers, slow burn, language, smoking, mentions of alcohol, degradation ig, Eddie being Eddie (maybe a bit meaner)... A/N: Took me three days to write it and it’s 18.7k words (i am so proud of myself rn), so if this flops, I will be ugly crying for the next three months to compensate for it. Anyway, thank you and enjoy.

"Okay, class."

The instructor walks along the table, setting rubrics on the desks of people in the room. Some pay attention to her, others simply ignore her presence as they continue talking to their friends.

"I need you to pick your partners for this out of class project due in two weeks." She turns back to her desk. "One partner," she emphasizes. "Not two, not three. Just one. I'm looking at you Mr. Tenley. Please and thank you."

Eddie doesn't move from his seat as chairs and desk scrape against cold linoleum floors. He's still at his desk, tossing a paper ball in the air as he sticks his tongue out over his lips.

By the time he gets up to find a partner, he finds that everyone's already paired as he looks around himself. He gives Jeff and Gareth a pointed look as their hands clap in a high-five. They see him, tired looks and annoyed sighs as he shakes his head at them. He plops back down in his seat. The class has an equal number of people, so there has to be one person left without a partner.

"Raise your hand if you need a partner."

Eddie's hand lifts and so does one other person's. As he sees them, takes in their identity, his eyes wide and he curses under his breath.

The teacher sees it, too. "Ah, Jesus," she huffs to herself. "Congratulations," she sighs, "You're partners." There's no joy in her voice as she says it. She's more exhausted than anything else.

"What?!"

Eddie's head whips around when your voice joins with his in a cry of absolute frustration. You glare at him and turn back to the teacher.

"There are two others absent. Can't we just pick them?" You try to reason, but she's too tired and too annoyed to listen.

"No," she shakes her head. "They will be partners when they return."

Eddie scoffs, "But–"

"I don't want to hear it," she cuts him off. She points a finger at the both of you, "You're partners and that's that."

You turn your head back to Eddie and scoff, flaming eyes glaring into his own. He's seething, you're seething, and the teacher can only roll her eyes and curse under her breath as she watches the both of you openly hate each other. It would be entertaining if it weren't so damn annoying.

You pull into the trailer park with the roll of your eyes. You see Eddie's trailer and huff as you get out of your crappy car. You look up at it, staring as you shake your head and work yourself up to walking forward. You readjust your jacket over your work clothes, an oversized white jacket stained with a faint tint of dark red paint.

You walk up to the trailer, and shake your head at yourself once again. You knock on the door and it swings open on the second rap of your knuckles against it. Eddie looks you up and down, face fallen as his eyes stare down at you. There’s no “hi” or “what do you want?” He skips any small talk.

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just meet at your place?” he wonders, raising a brow.

“Not an option. You hiding something from me?”

“No, I just don’t want your stench around my house. I’ll be cleaning for days just to get it out.”

You roll your eyes and shove past him, “Move over.” Your shoulders bump into each other aggressively, and he moves his body to the side lazily. The door closes behind him while you walk into the trailer, looking around the walls with furrowed brows and an upturned nose.

Eddie walks forward behind you as you drop your bag beside the table in the living room. His hand is held up at his side, a movement that’s far too flourish-y for his own good. You hum and he scowls. “What?”

You signal around the room. “I was expecting the walls to be crawling with bugs, but…” you turn to him with a raised brow. “Instead, I get cups and caps.” The walls were lined with baseball caps of all kinds, a type of decoration that confused you. You would never ever admit the spark of interest that came from those and the variety of coffee mugs accompanying them.

You shake your head. Eddie ran a hand through his mess of dark curls—ones that were darker than usual. Had he just washed them?

You hate that you noticed that.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, “I expected you to just ditch me, but here we are now.” You raise your brow at him. He truly has such little faith in you that he believes you would let your grades slip because of a rivalry?

He’s right. You’ve done it before. You won’t be doing it again, though, you got pulled back because of it.

“Are we gonna work or not?” you huff, rolling your eyes and sitting down at the table. He sits on the couch, farther from you and much more comfortable than you would be on the floor. He doesn’t say anything about how your ass is probably going to start hurting soon. He doesn’t care all that much.

Throughout the time that you are at his place, working on the project that you really wish could be done individually, insults are thrown around the room as you try to cooperate for once. He calls you an old hag, you call him a dirty pig, you call each other freaks. They don’t slow or calm down. It’s the only thing you can agree on.

That your insults are the only thing you have in common.

He watches your eyes shift constantly during the hours that you’re there. They constantly find the clock on the wall or the watch on your wrist. You watch the time like it will attack you if you look away for too long.

All too suddenly, you rise to your feet like you’ve just caught sight of a spider. You dust off your pants and gather your things too quickly. “I have to go,” you tell him as you stuff all your things in your bag and throw it over your shoulder.

Eddie leans back, throwing a piece of popcorn in the air to catch it. It lands on his pale cheek and he watches it fall to the couch. “Can’t stand me that much?” he questions, sifting through the popcorn for another piece.

You look up at him again and roll your eyes as you watch him plop the piece that had fallen on the couch into his mouth. “I have to go,” you repeat, more firmly this time. You make your way toward the exit.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” he calls after you.

You shake your head and avoid a humorless chuckle, “Shut up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Drop dead.” You slam the door harshly behind you and rush to your car as Eddie just laughs, throwing a handful of the butter snack at the door—something he’ll have to clean up soon.

You get in your car and tear your path back to your house, walking up to the door and opening it with a hesitant hand. As you look around, your dad’s passed out on the couch, a beer can in his hand and a bowl of chips lying on his lap.

You let out a relieved sigh and creep into your room. You sit your stuff down by your door and plop down on your couch. You don't even change out of your work clothes before you lie down and pass out on your sofa. It's been a long day.

A few days pass of you and Eddie working at his place after work on weekends and school on weekdays. Your sessions have become a little more bearable, but they aren't your favorite part of the day.

But it keeps you outside of your own house, so you don't mind it nearly as much.

You're both sitting on the floor, across the table from one another. You reach over the table for the bowl of popcorn Eddie decided to provide today. You think it's some form of a passive-aggressive apology for being late to your sessions. He got caught up working on a Hellfire campaign and took forever coming to get you, since your piece of shit car had finally broken down.

You hold the handful in your palm for a moment as you write something down before bringing it to your mouth. You hadn't seen Eddie's eyes lock on the back of your hand. His brows are pulled together tightly as he looks at it.

There's a band-aid going across your hand, not a plastic one decorated with Kermit the Frog, as he's seen you wear from time to time. It seems you've upgraded as he watches you gently scratch the tan fabric of your bandage.

When your sleeve slips down your arm, he finds a scar, one that comes from a burn, rather than a cut or scratch. He tilts his head, glancing back between your face and the scar. It's small, a nodule near your wrist that's already healed over as a nasty looking scar.

"What happened there?" he asks, unable to keep quiet about it anymore. He subtly motions to your hand. You look down at it and pause, looking at him with reluctant eyes before shaking your head and looking away.

"Nothing," you tell him. "Mind your business, Munson."

He's a little confused by how hostile you are. Maybe it's a touchy subject. He continues anyway.

"Looks like a burn to me," he says. He doesn't specify what kind of burn, although he knows. He has his own on top of his thigh, an accident from when he'd gotten sidetracked while holding a cigarette and accidentally burned his skin with the hot end.

"I said it's nothing," you insist.

Your aggression is clear. He tries to ease the air a little with a joke, you had both gotten relatively along thus far. No need to ruin it now.

"What, did you slip up or something? Miss your mouth and get your wrist?" His teasing smile drops a little as he thinks about that. A look he doesn't mean to seem judgemental turns toward you and the burn as his top lip lifts up and threatens to reveal a shiny cuspid tooth.

"How the fuck do you do that?" The question was more for himself than it was for you, but you didn't hear it like that.

"Fuck off." It's nearly a snarl the way you say it.

He raises his hands in surrender, leaning back against the couch. His hair rests over the seat, "Hey, I'm just teasing."

"Well, stop teasing, Munson." You spit his name like it's venom in your mouth. "Mind your business."

His eyes widen and he sits back up, his back straighter than it was before. "Damn, fine," he mumbled. "Jesus…"

He slumps back, crossing his arms over his chest. He picks up a pen and starts "working" again. He does less working than he does scribbling random doodles on a piece of paper. You'll probably reprimand him soon, but he doesn't really care.

He's bothered now. You had gotten so defensive over a question about an old scar. It irks him, makes him wonder what your problem is. He tries to convince himself that he doesn't care, but he finds that he does. Whether he's just curious or it's something more and something so fucking annoying, he doesn't know. He hates that he's worrying about you. He's spent so long making himself one of the reasons you stay upset.

He keeps watching as you scratch the bad-aid. The skin that peeks out from under it is starting to turn red. He notices the adhesive beginning to weaken as the bandage starts to peel off of your skin. He's about to tell you to leave it alone when it falls off.

The bandage falls to the table. It reveals an angry red and yellow ridge on your skin, a fresher burn than the one he found on your wrist. His lips part as he takes in the sight of it. You don't notice the bandage fall until you go to scratch again and your fingers meet the bare skin.

"What's up here?" Eddie asks. He reaches across the table and takes your hand, careful of the blistering burn as he goes to examine it.

You panic, "Stop. Let me go!" You try to move your arm back, but he's stronger than you.

He moves your sleeve out of the way, further down to your elbow. His eyes widen as he takes in the burns. There are at least five dotted down to your elbow. Most of them have healed, but there are still a couple of scabs on the surface.

A writhing feeling lingers in Eddie's stomach. It's unsettling, uncomfortable, as he contemplates the possibilities of what these burns could possibly be from. They're all cigarette scars, old and new.

"Did you do this?" He looks up at you, accusations in his eyes as his brows knit together. There's more concern than there is frustration, but you misplace it as judgment.

"No, I didn't do this," you tell him, yanking your hand free from his grip. But just as quick as you're free, he has your arm again. You try to wiggle free. His other hand comes up and grips your elbow tightly, although he doesn't hurt you.

He shakes his head and takes them in. He scoffs, "Are you hurting yourself?"

Your breathing kicks up, more panic and anxiety seeping into you. You wish he would let you go, but he's stronger than you are, especially when his hand grabs your elbow the way it does.

"No," you speak, shaming yourself for the pathetic tone you say it with.

"Then who did this?" he questions, gesturing to your arm and the burn scars traveling up the length of it.

"It's none of your business." Your words are quieter. You avoid his gaze like it would physically hurt you to look at him. He lets go of your arm and you pull it to your chest, moving your sleeve back up to cover them again. You scoot away.

"Tell me and I'll stop asking," he says, a compromise. He needs to know. He doesn't know why he needs to know, but he does.

His insistence eats away at your nerves. You hate that he's asking, that he's paying you attention like this. If it gets him to shut up, you'll say it.

"Fine!" you exclaim. "It's me, alright?" You deflate at the lie, staring down at your hand as you poke lightly at the burn. It doesn't hurt as much, it's just irritated. You would never willingly do this to yourself, especially not so repeatedly.

“Why the fuck would you do this to yourself?” he asks, standing and rounding the table to sit in front of you. You did not expect him to do that, come closer. You assumed he valued his distance from you since he always sat so far away. Honestly, you didn’t mind it. It was comfortable for you, too. But this felt…strange, and not necessarily in a horrible, awful way.

You clench your jaw, pulling your knees to your chest as you face him. “Why is it any of your business?” you counter, raising a brow as you try to get him to leave you alone.

He scoffs, raising his hands in the air like the answer is obvious. “Because a decent person would ask, and I’m not as much of an asshole as you think I am,” he insists. His words linger in the air as you both consider them, but he doesn’t let the silence stretch too far for fear of an over-examination that might reveal something that neither of you are willing to admit—that you might not actually hate each other as much as you thought. “What’s going on with you?”

You look down at your hands to avoid having to look at him. Your voice is quieter than you mean it to be when you speak. “A decent person would leave me the fuck alone and let me handle my own problems.”

Eddie’s lips part, annoyed by your words but not allowing him to be swayed by them. You’re just trying to get on his nerves, as he usually does with you. It’s how the two of you function, how you behave, it’s your entire relationship. “Something tells me you don’t meet a lot of decent people.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, although there’s no humor in your tone. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

He can’t keep himself from getting offended by that. He leans back, his face nothing if not offended. “What are you talking about?” he questions.

You lick your lips and roll your eyes, “Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” he responds.

You scoff, your lips spread in a smirk. It’s not a taunting one, it’s one in response to his words. You’re more upset than you are trying to be upsetting. “Right,” you mutter. You look down at your phone and he watches as panic takes your face again. You whip your head around to look out of the window. It’s darker outside as the evening creeps in.

“You know what,” you say. “I gotta go. See you later, Munson.” You stuff your things in your bag even quicker and messier than usual. You swing the bag over your shoulder and storm out of the trailer before he can say anything else. The door slams behind you even louder than any other time you’ve slammed it.

Eddie sits back and stares at the door with a raised brow, crossing his arms over his chest. After a moment of silence, the door opens slowly once more. Eddie can’t keep away his smile when he sees you standing there, holding the strap of your bag as you stare pathetically at the floor. You shuffle in your spot and mumble under your breath, “Take me home.”

He lifts a brow, a stupid grin on his face as he teases you. “No please?”

You intend to sound harsher this time, but you sound the opposite as you try to push away a strange smile. “Take me home.” He stares at you for a moment, thinking. Then he stands and grabs his keys from the table. He walks over, stopping way too close in front of you. If you leaned in, your head could rest on his chest.

He looks down at you, his head tilts just enough to where his hair tickles your cheek and rests on your shoulder. "It'd be my pleasure," he says.

He sets his hand on the door frame above your head. If the door was not open, you would be boxed in between him and it. So close, all you'd have to do is push up on your toes and you could kiss him.

You're brought back to the presence when you feel a rush of gentle wind behind you. You're late.

You turn around and walk back out to Eddie's van, tossing your bag on the floor as you sit. He takes you home, drives up to the curve on a silent ride there. You grab your bag and sling it onto your shoulder. Your hand lingers at the door for a moment as you stare at the house, which gives no light through the windows.

As Eddie watches you hesitate, that same unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach returns. You're about to open the door when he puts his hand on your upper arm. "Hey," he stops you.

You turn to look at him. He pauses and lets go of your arm, opening the center console and passing you a new band-aid.

When he looks at you, he swears he can see your eyes glossing with what he assumes to be tears. But you don't look at him long enough for him to see clearly. You glance down at your lap and grab the bandage silently, opening the door and leaving.

He stays until you're safely inside the house. He's about to leave, to drive away and see you again tomorrow. But his eyes suddenly turn back to the house when he sees a golden light shine through the curtains.

He sees two silhouettes, one is yours and the other belongs to your father. There's a muffled shout, one of a deep voice that is clearly agitated. Your voice follows, although he can hardly hear it. It's so quiet, barely a mumble. He can tell you're scared. It creates something in him that writhes in him. He doesn't like it.

He watches as your father takes your arm. He can't see much, just that you reach for it. There's a long moment where it gets quiet, leaving only the sight of your father grasping you. After a moment that's far too long, he lets go and walks away. Your figure lingers there for a moment before you bend down out of view and stand once again. You're looking at something in your hand before you walk away.

Eddie doesn't realize how tightly he's gripping the steering wheel until he looks away from the window. His knuckles are white. When he releases it, his fingers ache and he blinks back to reality.

He shakes his head at himself, debating whether he should storm inside the not. The more he thinks about it, the louder your words echo in his mind.

"A decent person would leave me the fuck alone and let me handle my own problems."

"Mind your business, Munson."

"It's none of your business."

Eddie sighs to himself and shakes his head. He starts pulling away, slowly at first, testing the limits of his cowardice, before he's tearing a path back to his home.

"It's none of your business, Munson," he mutters to himself. The shame sets in deep.

As your father walks away from you, you take your arm in your hand. It hurts, you can feel warm blood beginning to rush back into the cold limb. He had gripped you so hard, your hand still tingles where the pin picks had settled in.

You wipe your face, getting rid of the tears that had begun to spill in your father's threat to you. This was the second time this week that you had been out past your curfew. You were surprised that all he did was bruise your arm in his iron grip. The new burn on the back of your hand was from the day before. He must have been feeling gracious tonight.

He disappears around the corner into his room. You steady yourself, hold your breath in your lungs to calm your mind, to slow your beating heart. You look down between your feet and feel a fresh wave of tears coat your eyes. They aren't scared ones, either. They're calmer, somehow. The kind of tears that spill when something touches your heart in a way that you can't describe.

They spill down your cheeks as you bend down and pick up the band-aid that had fallen loose from your fingers. The bandage is white, decorated with tiny blue Smurfs and all their varying personalities. Through your tears, some of them look like they may be dancing.

You smile.

You take the band-aid and walk into your room, sitting down on your couch as you stare at the white and blue strip for a long time. You feel yourself growing tired, your eyes droop and you're a little dizzier than usual. After an ice cold shower—you assume your father turned off the hot water again—you take the bandage in your hand again and place it on the back.

You bring your hand to your lip and kiss it. It smells faintly of weed as the adhesive glues to your skin. After that, you pass out on your couch.

Eddie's eyes find your hand for the hundredth time today. The Smurfs band-aid still sticks to it. It makes him feel special. He doesn't know why.

He's dropping you off at your place again after your working sessions. It's far earlier than it had been before, worried that you may get in trouble once more if he dropped you off too late. He didn't want you to get hurt again because of him.

As he pulls up to the front of your home, he slows to a stop and looks at you. You just nod and get out of the van, grabbing your bag on the way out. You hardly wave as you walk away. You aren't used to showing so much…civility toward him. But you're trying to put in the effort.

You close the door and walk up to the front door, looking over your shoulder at him before continuing inside. Your father's here. His car is waiting in front. You push the door open and step inside, glancing around before you close the door behind you.

Your father emerges from the kitchen, beer bottle in hand. Your eyes find him and you still. He finishes off his bottle and watches you.

He brings his wrist up, glancing at his watch. "You're early." It's true. You have about an hour until curfew. Eddie was very thorough. You nod but don't say anything. "You tryna cover something up?"

Your eyes widen slightly and you shake your head, bowing it as you turn toward the ground. "No, sir," you reply.

"Better not be. I'd hate to have to punish you for it," he says. You swallow hard and shake your head again.

"Good," he states. "If I find out you're doing shit behind my back, we're gonna make sure we get right back on the same page. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he repeats, more firmly this time. Then he loosens his grip on the glass bottle in his hand. It slips through his fingers and crashes to the ground, loud and shattering, and you flinch.

"Now clean this up."

You nod once again, setting your bag on the floor by the door and getting to your knees. You start gathering the broken shards of glass, dropping them carefully in your palm.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he speaks, suddenly gaining "kindness" as he steps forward. "Did you need help with that?" He kneels on one knee, picking up the last couple of shards and placing them in your hand. His fingers wrap around your second hand, covering it with his palm and using it to cover the glass.

He pushes down, the glass digs into your hand, cutting and scraping at skin. You purse your lips and squeeze your eyes shut, a whine escaping you at the sensations of slicing skin.

Before he can push any farther, there's a knock at the door.

Your father's head whips around. He huffs and stands to his feet, "Get up." You scramble to your feet. He walks to the door and opens it just enough to see anyone on the other side.

"Munson," he grumbles.

Eddie stands on the other side of the door, clenching your red-stained white jacket in one hand as he forces a smile.

"Hi," he says, attempting to glance over your father's shoulder to see into the house, to see you. He blocks Eddie. "She left her jacket in my car, just wanted to return it."

"Okay, you've done that. You can go now," he says as he snatches the clothing from him.

He tries to close the door but Eddie stops it with his foot, glancing over his shoulder once more. "Just wanna say bye before I leave," he tries to seem as innocent as he can, but it's hard when all he wants to do is put his fist in your father's face.

He successfully looks over your father's shoulder, and his eyes find yours. And then they find blood dripping out of your hand.

Anger floods Eddie's system, a blinding rage that makes him see red as she shoves your father back by his chest. He stumbles backward and Eddie follows him, pushing open the door and rushing to you.

"Are you alright?" he asks, reaching out for your elbow. Before he can, a hand curls around his arm. You don't have any time to process your father grabbing him. Eddie whips around and delivers a mean right hook.

You gasp and quickly back away from the chaos. You can't register much of what's happening. They brawl, being shoved against walls, grabbed by their shirts and punched in faces. You drop the glass, glad you're still wearing shoes as the glass lands.

It's when your father grabs Eddie by the lapels of his shirt that you can actually keep up with what's happening. He shoves Eddie to the ground and crawls over him. His fist collides with his face again, and again, and again.

You panic and rush over to them. "Stop!" you shout. You press your bloody hands to his shoulder and shove. As hard as you can, you shove him off of Eddie. He stumbles to the side, and you reach down to grab Eddie. You pull him unsteadily to his feet, grabbing him and your jacket as you rush out of the door.

Your father chases after when he finally gets back up to his feet. But you've already stuffed Eddie in his van.

He's almost close to you as you get in as well. You slam the door shut and step on the gas, lucky the engine was still running. The van roars as you rush away, as far as you can to get away from him.

You don't hear Eddie calling your name. The adrenaline pumping through your veins deafens everything, all you can see is the road under the tires as it disappears in a blur of motion. When you feel Eddie's hand in the crook of your elbow, you jolt and look over at him.

He takes in the sight of you. Wide eyes glazed and body shaking, you struggle to catch your breath. He lets go of you, raises his hands up to show that he's not going to hurt you.

"Hey," he speaks softly. "It's just me." Your eyes clear up as you recognize him, calming yourself as you come back to the present. "Slow down," he says.

You realize then just how fast you'd been driving when you feel how hard your foot pressed against the gas. You ease up slowly, allowing a gentle pressure to the brakes to bring the car to a steadier speed.

"You want me to drive?" he asks, his voice just as gentle as he sits up a little more.

"You can't drive," you respond in defense of his blackening eye.

He nods, "I can drive. You shouldn't." He doesn't mean it as an insult to your skills or even the anxiety in your bones. You know that when you find his eyes on your hands. That's when you feel the pain set in, the sharp, burning pain in your palms that reminds you that you are currently bleeding.

You exhale sharply and nod, coming to your senses as you bring the van to a stop. He opens his door and comes around. You haven't moved yet, you're still sitting slumped against the seat as you stare blankly at the blood on the steering wheel.

He opens your door and stands there patiently. He sets his hand gently on your arm to grab your attention. You look at him, stare for a moment, and then move to get out of the car. He helps you, but he doesn't think you register any of it as he rounds the car to sit you in the passenger's seat.

Eddie gets back to the driver's side, closing his door. After a moment, you feel the car begin to move again. It's quiet for a long time as neither of you speak. Your eyes stare at the wheel, at his bloody knuckles and bloodening palms.

When you speak, it's so sudden. He almost doesn't hear you, your voice is so quiet. You're still in shock. "I got blood in your van." He raises one hand and looks at his palm. He puts it back and glances back between you and the road. "I'm sorry," you whisper, still not looking at him as you focus on the wheel.

He reaches across to you, setting his hand on the back of your hand gently. "It's fine," he says. "I got blood in my own van."

You look at him and he watches as you visibly soften, the last tugs of adrenaline seeping out of you and leaving you utterly exhausted. He offers you a smile. The rest of the ride is completely silent.

When you get back to his trailer, you start coming back to yourself. Reality crashes down and you take everything in. Eddie is hurt, your hands are bleeding, your father is probably furious right now, you're past curfew.

You open your door and get out of the car at the same time as Eddie. He takes in your movements, realizes you're back to yourself. The both of you walk up to the door of his home, which opens before you get to it.

Wayne stands on the top step. He takes in the sight of the both of you, and begins to worry. "Eddie? What happened to you?" he asks, walking closer to examine him. His eyes fall on you next, your tear-stained face, your bloody hands. "What happened, kid?" he repeats.

Eddie sighs. He doesn't want his uncle to see him like this, he worries enough. "It's fine. I'm fine," he insists. "Don't worry about me, it looks worse than it is. I'll clean up."

"Who did this?" he questions, moving hair out of his face to get a good look at the bruise forming around his eye.

"It's fine," he repeats, avoiding the question.

Wayne sighs, knowing he won't get an answer out of his nephew. He turns back to you, taking your hands by your wrists in a gentle hold. "What happened to your hands, kid?"

You swallow a lump in your throat at his concern. It seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. He worries just as much as Eddie. It warms your heart, makes you feel special to know that he cares enough to put time into knowing if you're okay. You have to remind yourself that most people would do that, most people would get worried if you show up on their doorstep with bloodied up hands.

It doesn't occur to you that he does care more than the average person after that.

"I'm okay, Mr. Munson," you tell him. "I…broke some glass and accidentally cut myself trying to clean it up… It looks worse than it is."

"Call me Wayne," he insists. He looks down at your hands again. His fingers begin to slide the sleeves of your shirt up just a little as he feels the small bump of your cigarette scars on your skin. You move your hands away before he can see any of them.

You give him a tentative smile, "Thank you, Wayne. I'm okay."

He sighs and looks between the two of you. "Stay as long as you need," he tells you. He turns to Eddie. "Get cleaned up."

Eddie nods, his voice a little teasing as he salutes. "Yes, sir." His tone shifts and his teasing finger points at him to punctuate his words. "Don't be late to work, young man." Wayne chuckles lightly and shakes his head as he walks away.

When Wayne drives away, Eddie takes your elbow again and guides you into the trailer. He doesn't pause for anything else except to close the door. He goes straight to the kitchen and turns on the running water. Adjusting the temperature, he sets your hands under the water and rinses away the blood. You stare at his face the whole time, taken aback by his attention.

His hands are gentle, calloused from years of guitar playing as he examines your palms. His brows are knitted together in concentration. "Come on," he says, gently leading you to the living room. He sits you on the couch, gives you no room to refuse as he goes for a first aid kit.

He returns in no time with the kit. He sets it on the table and opens it, kneeling in front of you. He scowls at his lack of tools. There's a ton of stray band-aids, some rubbing alcohol, some ointments. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Don't have much."

You reach into the box and pull out a roll of bandages, "This is fine." He looks up and stretches a smile before taking the roll. He all too carefully—somehow still clumsily—applies some of the ointment over the cuts and scrapes. When he wraps the bandages around your hands, it's with startling accuracy.

He notices you watching his face as he works and looks up. He slows for a moment before chuckling and switching your hands. "I, uh…" he trails off, you see his face flush a little. "I lift sometimes…to build strength for my guitar and stuff. Those amps are heavy."

You hum. Soon, he finishes and sighs, "There, all better."

He lets go of your hands, but you're quick to grab his. You turn them over and your thumbs graze over his knuckles. "You're not all better," you state.

You stand and push him onto the couch, switching places so you can examine him next. You set his hands down and cup his face. You know it looks worse than it actually is, but you can't help the guilt you feel. He'd done it for you. You hadn't even said thank you.

You take a wet cloth and start dabbing at his face. As you gently wipe away the blood to reveal a clearer face, you place your hand on his knee to prop yourself up. You can see his bruise clearer now, lightly tapping to see how much it hurts. When he winces, you huff and shake your head.

"Why would you do that?"

"What?" he asks, brow furrowed as he looks up at you. You repeat the question, this time a little further as you look him in the eyes.

"Why are you helping me out?" he counters. He grabs your wrist gently, indicating you cleaning his wounds.

You pause and shake your head, going back to your work. "Because otherwise it'll infect and turn all gross, and you'll get sick."

He raises a brow and licks his split lip. "You care if I get sick?"

You look at him with a stern face, rolling your eyes and shaking your head with a deep sigh. "Shut up," you say, wiping the blood from his lips with steady hands.

He gives a teasing smirk, one that quickly falls from his lips the longer he stares at your face. He doesn't know what to do with his hands as they rest on his lap. With your hand still on his knee, he feels like his hands in his lap are a strange place to keep them. He feels like a child as he picks at his bloodied rings. He notices your face inch closer, just so you can see what you are doing better. He raises his hands and tentatively sets them on your waist.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locking with him again. You lick your lips and turn back to his face to keep cleaning it. He speaks slowly. "I helped you…because no one deserved that shit. Not even you." He looks up and catches your eye. "Doesn't matter how much I hate you or how much you hate me," he hesitates, "if I let him hurt you like that, I might as well be doing it myself."

You stare at him, lips parted and breath slowed. Your eyes flutter and you shake your head, clenching your jaw once before muttering under your breath. "Stupid…" you set the cloth down and start picking up the roll of bandages for his hands.

"What?" He chuckles, although the sound is without humor. "I'm stupid because I want to help you?"

You huff, "You shouldn't try to help me!" You peel his hand from your side rougher than you mean to, beginning to wrap his knuckles as you shake your head in your frustrations. "This is my problem. I can sort it out myself, and I don't need you sticking your nose in my damn business."

He scoffs as you drop one hand to pick up the other. "Well, I'm sorry for trying to help you," he rolls his eyes.

You finish off the bandage and throw the roll back into the box. You let his hand drop onto his lap and look at him, jaw clenched and eyes hard. "Stop trying to help me."

"No."

The answer catches you off guard. It was so final and so quick. He did not stop to think about it, he didn't contemplate a thing. It was a no, plain and simple. He would not stop.

You shake your head, staring at his face. "...What?" you breathe.

"No," he repeats. "If I saw anything like that happening to you again, I'd get myself killed just to stop it."

You blink blankly at him, taking in his response. It surprises you. He cares so much about your well-being that he would put his life in danger to save yours?

Why?

And that's what you ask him. "Why?" Why would he hurt himself for you?

"I told you," he shrugs.

You shake your head, standing up straighter so that he has to look up at you now just to see you. "Don't give me that," you tell him, placing your hands on your hips. "Why?"

When he stands to his feet, you take a couple of steps back. He's still so close as he stands over you. His dark eyes are deep, filled with something you can't quite place. "Because you don't deserve that," he states firmly. He raises a hand to cup the side of your face. He doesn't know why he does it, but the heat of your skin feels good against his palm. He slides it down to cup the side of your neck and his other hand comes to join.

Your breath catches in your throat as you look up at him. Your hands raise to grasp his wrists, keeping his hands where they are. It feels nice.

"It's fucked up," his voice is almost a whisper, "and you're too good for that."

Your lips part as you stare at him. You don't respond, don't utter a single word. You lick your lips and his eyes follow the movement. It seems to remind him of just how close you are.

He steps away. You clear your throat and set your hand on his shoulder, moving him to sit again. You take the spot beside him and turn his face so you can start sticking his Smurf themed band-aids where he needs them.

The release bell rings. You walk out of the school, finding your way to one of the landlines further from a population. The area is quickly becoming vacant as you make your way to the phone. You dial the number you've had repeating in your head all day and listen to the droning sound of its ringing.

"Hello?"

You smile a little bit, but only a little. "Hey, Mom."

"Hey, hon," she replies. There's hardly any change in her voice other than recognition.

Your heart pinches a little, and you hate that you still care. "How are you?" you wonder, wrapping the line around your finger to give yourself something to do.

"I'm good," she says. "Kept busy." She chuckled weakly. She sounds distant, but that isn't out of the ordinary for her.

"I can tell," you mumble, trying to make some conversation. She's not really helping you out much. "Um… It's been a while…since we last spoke."

"Yeah, it has," she mumbles quickly. She pulls the phone away from her ear, and you can hear sounds from off the phone. There's giggling from a little boy, and a whining response from a girl.

Your mother's voice is heard speaking distantly off the phone. "Baby, stop doing that."

Her words makes your heart sink. Your eyes flutter and you look down at the phone line again. Her voice returns to the phone, and you can hear her more clearly. "What've you been up to? How's your dad treating you?"

You scoff, gliding your tongue over a sharp canine. You suddenly feel the large, fresh bruise on the brow of your left eye. "Okay, I guess…" you mumble. "But he's Dad, so…"

The first ounce of sympathy you hear from her throughout the whole call seeps in then as she sighs. "I'm sorry, honey." It's gone just as quick as you hear her voice again, directed at someone else.

"Hey, girl. What's up?" Her voice is pitched a little higher to appeal to the child who giggles as she responds.

"Needa show you something…"

"What is it?"

You sigh silently, looking down at your feet. You lick your lips and clear your throat. "You know what, I'm gonna let you go," you say, keeping your voice as light as possible as you feel it constrict with tears. "You sound pretty busy."

She doesn't humor you, she doesn't try to keep you any longer. She just agrees. "Okay, bye."

"B–" The line goes dead. The dull, droning sound fills the empty space with even more emptiness.

You feel your lip quiver and blink to try and clear the tears before they can even think of forming. You suck it up, like you've been doing for years, and return the phone to its place to silence the line.

"You alright?"

You turn around. Eddie's standing with a bag thrown over his shoulder. He shuffles in his space, staring at you with those big doe eyes of his.

You don't acknowledge his question, you can't bring yourself to. If he's asking if you're alright, it probably means he cares. From what you've experienced this far, he does.

That's what kills you.

"What do you want, Munson?" you speak. It's not hard to be annoyed or harsh. After the crappy phone call you just had with your mother, hardness isn't difficult.

He shrugs, almost timidly. He flicks the chain on his pants, twirls it around his finger as it jingles. "'M just asking…" he mumbles. His eyes look you once up and down. "You seem upset."

You clench your jaw. "Why do you care?"

You finally get the response you've been needing to answer your bad manners. He scoffs and you watch his bandaged fist tighten around his bag strap. "I don't have a dead heart, y'know. Whether we get along or not, I'm not a complete ass."

Okay, maybe not exactly like that. It hurts your heart for him to say it like that. You can hear a twinge of what you believe to be sadness in his tone.

You glance down at your shoes and shift your stance. "I guess I should stop being a complete ass to you…"

He blinks rapidly, staring at you like you just grew a second head. "Was that your version of an apology?"

"Shut up." You hide your smile.

He laughs at your reply. Then it's silent before he speaks again. "You wanna talk about it?"

Your face falls and you shake your head, "No."

He nods, understanding your request as he kicks a weed growing out a crack in the concrete. He peeks up at you through his bangs and offers a shy smile. "You wanna smoke about it."

He rattles the lunchbox in his other hand, his knuckles still wrapped in white gauze. You blink at him and then allow yourself to smile a little bit. "...Yeah," you mumble.

He motions to the direction of his van in the near distance. "Van's open," he suggests.

You smile.

You sit in your own little corner in the back of Eddie's van, a cigarette between your fingers as you lay your head back against the seat. Eddie's sitting across from you, his own smoke propped between his lips.

You have not talked much, enjoying the silence between the two of you as you sit in the van, which is parked outside of Eddie's trailer. He asked about your hands, still tightly wrapped in gauze bandages, about the bruise darkening your brow. You can tell it bothers him to see you as beat up as you are.

"He punched you?" Eddie had asked, motioning to the bruise.

"Yeah," was your answer. "He said he wanted me to 'know how it feels'." You were matching now. One of Eddie's punches landed on the same spot you were now bruised. It was just a flash of pain at first, but the throbbing hurt of it came after.

Eddie feels guilty now.

He watches how you hold your cigarette, not as relaxed as he would have as you ensure it stays away from your body when it isn't between your lips. You're far too careful with it, like you're afraid you could drop it and burn yourself.

Maybe you are.

Eddie shakes the thought from his head and lets out a breath. He looks up at you and asks hesitantly, "So…was that your mom on the phone?"

You glance up at him and stick your cigarette back into your mouth, taking in that deep breath for calm as you nod. "Yeah…"

You don't seem happy at all by the mention of your mother. Somehow, he isn't surprised. He remembers your mother before she moved, got out of Hawkins and what was keeping her back. She was kind, as far as he knew, anyway. But ever since she left, your relationship with her never seemed as prominent as it was before.

"How's she doing?" he wonders.

You try to fight your sarcasm as you flick the ashes of your cig out over a small ashtray between the both of you. "Just peachy." You fail horribly. He doesn't blame you.

He licks his lips before he continues, "How're you doing?"

You look at him quickly. He never ceases to surprise you with his questions, always asking the ones that no one ever asks. "What?"

It does something to him whenever you suddenly become shocked by his questions about your well-being. He's constantly reminded—slapped in the face—about how lonely you really are.

"How are you?"

You lick your lips as you come up with a response. "I'm…I'm fine."

He chuckles, "You're a liar."

You scoff. "Okay, fine…" you lick your lips and shrug your shoulders. "I'm shit."

He rests his elbows on his knees, reaching over and putting his cigarette out on the tray. "Why?" he wonders genuinely. "Bad relationship with your mom?"

You have nothing better to do, might as well tell him your life's story—whatever he doesn't already know anyway.

You take a while to respond, thinking of your answer with a sigh and another lungful of air. "When I was a kid," you finally answer, "my mom left my dad. He didn't let her take me with her when she left Hawkins and everyone in it behind, so I was stuck here…"

Your brows knit together as you think, focusing on your words and believing them too much…or maybe just enough. "I don't think she really cared, though, since I'd just be a reminder of my dad…" You sigh heavily, "I guess it worked out for her in the end because now she has a son and another daughter with this other dude. She cares about them more than she cares about me."

Silence stretches between you as the words sink into Eddie's skull and dig a hole in his heart. The way you said it, with almost complete certainty, was heartbreaking. He hates that he cares so much when you speak so sadly to him.

Or when you speak to him at all.

"I don't blame her," you say after a while. "I'd be a pretty shitty daughter for her."

He shakes his head, his hair bounces on top of his head as he does. "I don't think you would be."

You look up at him but you don't say anything. He knows you're processing his words, trying to decide whether or not you believe him, whether or not you'll take his words to heart. He can't tell if you will or not—you can't tell if you will or not.

Eddie breaks the silence. He gestures to a band-aid peeking out from under your jacket, it sticks to your shoulder, and he can catch a glimpse of Kermit the Frog's happy smile peeking out at him.

"Is that fresh?"

You look up at him and hum, "What?"

He gestures again, "The burn on your shoulder, is it fresh?"

You look at it and rub a wrapped-up hand over it absent-mindedly. "Oh, yeah."

He just nods, crossing his arms over his chest. He drums his fingers against his elbow. There's more silence for a few more seconds.

"How many scars do you have?"

The question has been on Eddie's mind since he learned of them. It nags at him, chews him up as he wonders just how much you've been suffering all these years.

You look at him with a furrowed brow, licking your lips as you set your cigarette in the ashtray. You cross your arms and shrug. "Why?"

You ask that question a lot. 'Why do you care?' 'Why are you here?' 'Why did you do that?'

Why?

He sighs this time and doesn't push. He shakes his head to brush off the question, deciding to leave it alone in favor of not risking whatever calm the both of you had managed to achieve.

When he doesn't respond, you lick your bottom lip between your teeth and think. And then you answer him instead.

"I stopped counting."

Eddie's lips part and he blinks blankly at you. It is not the answer he was expecting. He feels another flare of anger, but stifles it to avoid potentially concerning you.

You sigh to yourself and raise your hand up to your wrist, gripping the end of your sleeve. You rub it between your thumb and forefinger, thinking before you slide the sleeve off your arm.

You wore a tank top today with every intention of keeping your jacket on, but he seemed to sway you to do things you would never otherwise do.

As each inch of skin is revealed to him, you watch as Eddie's mouth falls open slightly. You pause mid-sleeve at his reaction but shake it off and keep going. When your jacket is off, you bunch it up and hold it close to your chest like a teddy bear.

Eddie swallows hard as he looks at you. Your arms are littered with burns. They decorate your skin, there must be at least ten of them on each arm. Under the neckline of your shirt, he swears he can see a couple of them pressed against your chest, even hidden on the side of your neck under a necklace.

Eddie shifts, scooting closer to you as his eyes create a trail along your skin. He slowly raises a hand up to take your elbow in his palm. It's a familiar touch by now, but it still creates goosebumps along your arm as his warm hand strokes against you. The texture of the bandages around the top of his palm inhibits the touch a bit, but it's enough that you can feel his fingertips tracing patterns into your skin and the ball of his hand pressing to your lower arm.

He pulls your arm forward to examine you, as if he's intending to count every single burn scar you have. He brings your arm so close to his body that you have to rest your hand on his side to keep from jabbing your fist in his stomach.

His eyes are glossy, but he blinks it away with the shake of his head. He doesn't let go, even as he lifts his head to look at you again. He locks eyes and keeps your gaze. "Any of them hurt?" he asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You shrug one shoulder before you shake your head. "No, just this one," you reply, tapping the band-aid on your shoulder. "Well, less hurt, kind of a distant sting—like after someone pinches you." He hums. "It was worse the first time, and then the second time," you trail off, "but…it hardly feels like anything anymore."

He swallows again, shaking his head. "That's fucked."

You nod slowly, your eyes never tearing away from his gaze. "It's fucked."

You stare into the deep brown of his eyes. They stand out against his face, gaze at you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. Sitting here so close in front of you makes you wonder how you could ever hate someone like him. His eyes glow with concern and kindness, he cheeks blush like roses. The wrinkles around his eyes are etched into his face from the smiles he flashes along the halls, especially when he hangs out with the other kids he's enlisted in his club.

"Why did you say you did it?"

You blink as you try to process his question. Why did you take the blame? You think for a long time, contemplating your answer with a sigh.

"In a way," you begin, "I did… You know because he usually only does it when I do something wrong. It's punishment, it's me paying for my mistakes. But, at the same time, I'd also be worse off if I told anyone it was my father who did it."

He doesn't like the way you think about it, the way you defend it and recognize it as something that needs to happen. He doesn't like how you accept it. It makes his stomach churn, it makes his jaw flex.

"Because," he mumbles, "he'd just give you more."

You shake your head, licking your lip. "Worse."

Silence.

Eddie's heart hurts. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he stares at you. He looks down at your arm, realizes he's still cradling it in his hands. He begins to let go, but you raise your free hand and cradle his elbow instead. He pauses and lingers. Then he re-establishes his hold on you as you hold his arm in return.

It's nice. It feels comfortable.

His thumb strokes along the side of your elbow. He swears his mind has completely blanked. It takes him a moment to remember what it was the both of you were talking about.

When he retrieves his thoughts, he sighs and speaks again. "You ever tried to run away?"

You shake your head, almost laugh at the notion of such a stupidly reckless idea. "He'd kill me," you breathe.

Eddie's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, "I could help you."

His suggestion makes you laugh. Eddie Munson, a boy you've spent practically your whole life hating and he yours in return—who you were now having a heart-to-heart with in the back of his van—would be willingly to help you escape your abusive father for the chance at a happier, freer life.

What would you even do? Where would you go? How would you live that life? All of these questions both frightened and excited you. The possibilities were so vast, but it also allowed for such a possibility for something worse than what you have now.

You just shake your head, "You would help me?"

Eddie responds to your laughter with his own laugh, it bubbles in his chest and creases the corners of his eyes. "Any chance to get away from you, I'll take," he jokes.

You laugh as well. It isn't a stifled chuckle or a quiet giggle, it's a hearty laugh that makes Eddie feel…lighter.

You breathe out a silent sigh after a moment, and lick your lips as you look at him teasingly. "And, yet, you're the one who brought me to your place."

His face splits in a wider smile. "Reverse psychology."

You chuckle, "Oh, really? That's smart." He jokingly agrees, flashing pearly whites at you as he continues to laugh.

"You think so?"

You hum your confirmation. He smiles so wide that the cut on his lip reopens. He winches at the uncomfortable sensation and licks his tongue over it to taste the blood that leaks out.

You frown, letting out a huff as you shake your head. "That still pisses me off," you mumble. Seeing the aftermath of the fight on his face, on his hands wrapped in white.

He chuckles again, but this time it with a little less humor. His hands leave you and you miss the warmth. "Yeah, well," he mutters with a raised brow as he turns away for the first time in a while, "when am I not pissing you off?"

Your frustration deflates and the calm of before returns just enough. You reach forward and assume the hold he had on you: your hand nestles his elbow in your palm and the other takes his wrist to stroke your thumb over it.

Eddie looks at you and stares blankly. His mind has fuzzed again, blurring at the touch of your hands on his skin—even if your skin is blocked by cloth.

You lick your lips, locking eyes once more. "...Right now."

Eddie has to remember the question you're responding to. When he does, he tries to joke. The delivery is weak and comes out as more genuine than rhetorical. "Why? 'Cause I gave you that?"

He gestures with his head to the cigarette still burning away in the ashtray. Your eyes don't follow the movement, and his don't leave your gaze. You shake your head, "No…'cause you're here."

He pauses and stares. You shrug timidly, unknowingly shifting closer as you pull his arm a little more into you. His hand presses to your side again. Instead of using his other hand to cradle your arm, both his hands set on your waist. It feels so nice, you lean into it.

"No one's ever here."

You're closer now, staring too deeply and speaking too softly.

There's a long pause that seems to last a lifetime until Eddie speaks. He breaks the silence with another weak joke, "Well, this is my van."

Instead of being put off by his words, you laugh. Your lips smile and you laugh with him. He watches you like he doesn't see anything else, licking and chewing on his bottom lip.

There's more silence. You don't inch closer any more, you actually straighten your back and lean a little farther away. You realized how close you were and grew a little self-conscious. You know you have no reason to be. You've already laid so much out bare for him, but somehow that's the reason you grasp at.

He's already seen too much.

As you stare at him, you can't help but think once again…how could anyone dislike a person like Eddie Munson? With kind eyes and a kinder smile, it seems an impossible feat…and yet, you've spent so many years doing exactly that.

"Why did we start fighting?"

He raises a brow and smiles teasingly. "You don't remember?" His tone makes you roll your eyes.

"Fifth grade cafeteria," he begins, "You picked up a shiny pair of scissors and cut out a chunk of my hair in front of the entire population of children in Hawkins. Had to get it buzzed because of you."

His exaggeration makes you scoff. With letting go of him, you shove him back. "Only because you stuck gum in my hair in front of everyone!" you exclaim. "I had to cut my hair so short that everyone started calling me by my father's name to make fun of me."

He sighs and tilts his head to the side, an extra dose of drama added into the movement to make you smile. It works. "Can I tell you something?"

You raise a brow, "What?"

"The gum thing was an accident," he confesses. Your eyes widen as he continues, "My shoes were untied. I stepped on my laces and fell. You were standing in front of me and I had gum in my hand, so when I fell ,you were just close enough that your luscious locks got caught in the crossfire."

He leans in too close and finishes his confession. He smells of cigarettes and cheap cologne, it's a familiar smell by now and it brings you a comfort you never expected to gain from him. " I never meant to stick that gum in your hair, sweetheart."

The pet name makes you blush way quicker and way harder than you would ever deem necessary. It just slipped out, gracing the space between you and utterly flustering your nerves.

You clear your throat and shake your head, peeking up at him through your lashes. Your head is practically tucked into your chest. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"

"I did!" He nods and laughs. His shoulders slump. "You were crying when I tried to apologize, and I guess you never heard me.

You breathe a heavy sigh, "Well, fuck."

He nods again, gentler this time. "Everything after you cut my hair was on purpose though." He smiles wickedly, "Except for that paint thing. That was also an accident. A happy accident." He shrugs.

You laugh, "Happy? I couldn't get it out of my favorite jacket! It's stained now, look!"

You refuse to let go of him, so you bounce your leg to motion to your jacket splayed over your lap. The white article of clothing is still stained with a faint tint of red from the paint.

He looks at you teasingly, pursing his lips in a puckered smile. "But it looks so much better stained—like tie-dye. So does it really matter?"

You laugh and nod, a slight giggle escaping, even after you finish laughing. "No, I guess not."

You avert your eyes from his intense gaze just for a moment. When you look back up, you look through the windshield of the van. At first, you don't register anything out of the ordinary. Then you realize just how dark it is, and what that darkness means for you.

Eddie watches as you suddenly gasp. You gasp so hard that you become dizzy, your head spins and your vision goes blurry. Alarm bells ring in your head as you breathe too heavily, close to hyperventilating. You grasp his arms and squeeze, tightening your hold so much that your fingers dig into his limbs. He doesn't flinch, allowing you to use him for support as he tries to figure out what's wrong.

"Oh, shit! I'm late," you exclaim, "He's going to freak." Your voice fills with fear. Eddie swears he can hear the panicked tears as you speak before your eyes even begin to water.

He tries to shush you, to stroke his thumbs over the skin of your arms to soothe you. He quickly finds that it's not working. So he changes tactics.

He cups your face in his hands.

You look at him as he turns your gaze to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks and he stares at you. "Don't go back."

You stop abruptly in your panic, you stare at him and process his words. You process the insanity of his suggestion and shudder at the possibilities of the consequence.

Still, you ask. You wonder what he's thinking and hope he tells you. "What?"

He shrugs and begins to consider the faults in his suggestions. But he doesn't give up, he doesn't submit to the fate which would unfold if you were to return again now.

"You can crash with me," he decides, nodding to back up his words. "He'll forget you were ever late by morning because you'll already be headed to school. If he asks about it, tell him you were studying and you got distracted, stayed with a friend."

You shake your head. The plan is shit—Eddie knows that—but he hopes there's some potential in it, at least enough potential to make you stay and avoid danger for a little while longer.

"It won't work, Eddie. I don't have friends."

He keeps trying. "If it doesn't, I'll kick his ass for you."

You tilt your head and furrow your brows. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

His hopeful smile could've fooled you…but you know he really isn't joking. He proved that before with words and punches.

There's a pause as you stare into his eyes that plead you. You would feel like a monster for denying his hopes. You sigh and give a gentle nod, raising your hands to grasp his wrists. His hands still hold your face, grounding you and keeping you calm. The softness of his palm contrasts with the texture of the gauze, but you don't care. All you feel is him.

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Okay," you nod again.

Eddie beams. "Cool," he breathes. "Come on." He moves his hands and you miss the warmth. He reaches down and grabs your hand. It isn't as innocent a hand-holding as it could've been. Especially not when he intertwines your fingers and then does the same to your other hand.

He pulls the both of you up so you're no longer sitting, crouching under the height of the van. He kneels once again to properly put out the cigarette you had discarded earlier, moving the tray back to the dashboard.

You grab your things and he takes your hands again. He pulls you from the cover of his van and into the safety of his home. And that's what it feels like, a home. You smile.

Eddie closes the door behind him, locks it as he runs his free hand through his hair. He refuses to let go of your hand. If anything, his grip tightens. White gauze presses against white gauze, a look you can't help but adore.

"Alright, um…" he thinks for a moment. When he looks at you, you swear you see him stop breathing, hear him mutter a quiet "woah" under his breath. You wait for him to finish speaking. He remembers what he was thinking and smiles again. "I'll take the couch. You can have the bed."

You raise a brow as you look up at him. He's still standing so close, his scent invades your thoughts. "Don't try to be a gentleman just because I know you're capable of it now," you tell him. The tone you choose is mean, almost a full return to the biting voice you always used before when you spoke to him. He knows it's partly playful, the other part is you being annoyed by his antics. "Just take your bed," you shake your head. "I'll take the couch."

He furrows his brows, absently tugs you closer. Your chests are almost touching. "No, fuck off," he mimics your tone. "Let me do this. You take the bed."

You scoff. "My own bed is a couch," you insist. "I will take the couch, Munson."

He lets go of your hand, and you wonder if you hurt him again, before he presses it against the side of your neck. You think for a moment about how touchy he's gotten. When you first started working together for your school project, he would glare and leave as much space between the both of you as was possible.

Now he's holding your hand and touching the side of your neck. He is damn near standing on your toes and drenching you in his scent. "All the more reason for you to have the bed."

You don't let this amount of physical contact throw you off. You keep arguing, insisting that he stop giving you so much special treatment. He doesn't stop either. Back and forth, the both of you exchange half-joking insults as you argue over who will take the couch and who will sleep in Eddie's bed.

You're only stopped when Eddie slaps his hand over your mouth to silence you, leaning in too close once again. "Okay, you know what? Why don't we both just take my bed? No one sleeps on the couch."

You can't tell whether or not his compromise surprises you. You expect it from someone like him, especially now…but it also shocks you that he's still so willing with you.

You screw your nose up at his suggestion," That's weird."

He shrugs, "It's a compromise."

You sigh, trying and failing to hide a smile as you mumble under your breath. "Weird…" You kick your lips and unknowingly lean into his hand. "Okay."

He smiles, moves his hand back to grasp your own. You miss his warmth again.

He nearly skips to his room. He seems pretty excited to crawl in bed with you. He closes the door after you're inside. You look around his room, which you had yet to get more than a glance of.

It's crowded in a cozy way. There's trash and trinkets all over the place: empty cans lying around surfaces of desks and dressers, random items discarded all over. He has a few instrument cases lying around and stereos set wherever he can get them. You see his jean jacket lying across an amp. He has posters covering the walls, including a giant, handmade banner of his band, Corroded Coffin, hung up on one wall. It nearly takes up the entire space. A large mirror in his room is completely covered by more posters and one of his two guitars. It's an electric, a very sleek, very shiny guitar that can only be described with one of Eddie's favorite lines: "very metal".

His room is a chaos that you're sure only he would ever be able to understand, and he doesn't stop for a moment to be ashamed of the mess. It makes you smile.

As you turn around, you're hit in the face with a pair of dark grey sweats. You make a muffled noise and catch it, looking up at a grinning Eddie with a glare. "Do you want to sleep in jeans?" he asks, chuckling to himself.

You roll your eyes and shove past him to find the bathroom. By the time you return, Eddie's sitting on the edge of his bed with his acoustic. The guitar is made of dark wood and has white words painted across it: "This machine slays dragons". You chuckle.

He strums a few chords, looking at you with a raised brow. You're 95% certain that Eddie might be the most scatterbrained person you know, because he spends a few moments strumming his guitar and staring at you before he suddenly jumps up to his feet and returns the guitar to its place with way too much energy to be allowed this late.

"Are you ready?" you ask, raising a brow and crossing your arms.

He gestures dramatically to the bed and you roll your eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, you sit on the side and, one limb at a time, put yourself under the covers. Eddie waits patiently for you to get settled before he climbs in behind you.

Your backs face one another as you lay down. It's awkwardly silent for a while. You blink in the light of the lamp that illuminates the small room.

He says your name gently, and you hum. "D'you want the light on?"

You shake your head, "Uh, no. I'm good." You feel the bed shift and then the light switches off. The room is drenched in darkness, save for the limited amount of light that peeks through the dirty blinds above the radiator.

You sigh, stuffing your hands underneath your cheek as you squish them between you and the pillow that smells like Eddie. You sigh again. After a moment, you can feel your hands falling asleep under your face. You shift again.

You get comfortable after far too long adjusting your position. You close your eyes and attempt to sleep, but the longer the silence stretches, the longer you feel your worries about what will happen when you return. Because you will have to return.

The more you worry, the worse it gets. It's so quiet that Eddie can hear your breath pick up, hear you begin to hyperventilate as you worry yourself half to death.

Eddie huffs lightly. He turns around, mumbling a "you know what" under his breath as his body turns to face you. You feel his arm rest over your side and jump, looking over your shoulder at him.

He wraps his arms over yours, wraps it around your front and pulls you against him. His chest presses against your back and his ankle wraps around your own.

"Munson, what–?" You adjust yourself as he keeps pulling you closer, "What the fuck are you doing?"

He settles against the mattress, "Shut up and sleep?"

You scoff, "I can't sleep with your dick pressing against my back!"

You're just being dramatic, acting on your flustered state as his body presses so closely against yours. He knows this and scoffs.

"You're exaggerating. Go to sleep," he demands.

You sigh and roll your eyes, laying back against the pillow. You wiggle your arm free and grab the back of his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. You rest it over your side, pull it to your stomach and hold it there.

It's comfortable, far more comfortable than you would have thought. You melt against him, let out a longing sigh as all tension leaves your body.

Eddie's face snuggles closer to you, buries in the mess of your air as he inhales your scent. It's mostly cigarette smoke, but he can smell a hint of vanilla shampoo as well.

You both fall asleep in the comfort of one another. It's nice to be able to relax as a warm body holds you. It's nice to hold and to be held.

It's the best you've slept in a long time.

The next morning, Eddie drives you to school. He gives you a clean shirt and even comes his fingers through your hair. "To fix it," he says. Comfortable silence fills the space between you during the right there. You go to class and he sees you in the halls throughout the day. After school, you return home.

Saturday comes, he doesn't see you. He expected to see you showing up on his front step to finish the last bits of the project. He waits all day and doesn't see you.

Sunday comes, again you're nowhere to be found. He worries about you, wondering what it is that keeps you from coming to see him again on a day where you weren't trapped in the walls of your house.

Wayne asks about you. He asks Eddie how you are, if your injuries are healing alright. Eddie can only shrug and say that he assumes you're alright—even if he knows your absence is probably not a result of anything good.

He calls you once. He phones your house, nervously twirling the wire of the phone line around his finger as he listens to the dead sound of the droning dial tone. He holds the phone to his ear even after the call has been missed. Then he calls again and again and again.

He never gets an answer.

He holds himself back from going to your house. Finishing the assignment by himself, he waits to see you at school the next day.

But he doesn't.

He pushes your presentation for the next day, joining the two other groups who were unable to present. Through lunch, he tries to find you hopelessly, during his last class, he stares at the parking lot that is void of your car.

As soon as the dismissal bell rings, he ignores anyone's attempt to speak to him to make a path straight to his van. He speeds away, driving as recklessly as ever toward your house in hopes of finding you there.

Unharmed would be great.

Eddie pulls up to the place, seeing that the driveway is empty. Your father must still be gone for work. His feet carry him to the front door, and he hesitates before he knocks.

As he expects, there's no reply. He pounds on the door two more times before changing tactics. He rounds the house, finds the window of a room he assumes is yours, and climbs through.

He assumes correctly when he falls through the window of a bedroom lacking a bed. He starts speaking, his voice projecting loud enough to be heard around the house in case you were actually there.

"You missed presentations today! I didn't see you all weekend, do you not know how to pick up a phone? I mean, you could've at least told me you were okay," he continues on, even as he's met with nothing but the sound of his own voice. "Or maybe I'm talking to myself like a crazy person."

He swings the door of your room open to step out into the hallway. He opens the door of every room he comes across, checking in with the quick stick of his head through the threshold. Each time, he's met with only the emptiness of the room.

A foreboding feeling settles on Eddie's shoulders when he gets to the living room and still finds no sign of life. He does, however, find empty beer cans and bottles littering floors and surfaces. Pizza boxes and plastic wrappers join them. It's a mess, a mess he's sure would not usually be around if you were around.

He sighs when he steps into the kitchen, the chains on his pants rattling and the bottom of his Reebok shoes clicking dully. He looks around the small area before suddenly pausing as his eyes lock with a set of doors. They're closed shut, and they're kept closed by a crowbar stuck between both handles.

An unsettling a he sets in his stomach as he slowly approaches. He holds his breath when his fingers curl around the cold metal of the crowbar, pulling it from its position shoved in the doors. He lets out the breath slowly, and then holds it once more when his hands grip the door handles.

He pulls them open, hoping against hope you're not in there.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness of the basement. He peeks in, looking down the steps to see if he can spot anything. He completely stills when he sees a body curled up in the corner.

He swallows thickly and calls your name.

There's silence.

And then he heard the soft, pathetic squeak of a weak voice replying.

"Eddie?"

His eyes widen and he practically flies down the stairs as he shouts your name once again. He rushes down to you, moving quickly to his knees to get to your level. There's not much color in your face as you hold your arms around your knees, pulling them to your chest.

When he's close enough, you reach out and touch his arms. "Jesus Christ, are you alright?!" he yells.

You're still in shock, coming to terms with what's going on as your hands keep pressing to different parts of his arms and chest. "Eddie," you whimper again. Your hands cup his face and you press your forehead against his. He can feel your body shaking under his hands as he pulls you into him.

"You're here?" you whisper. He examines you, nodding against your forehead as he tries to figure out if you're truly okay or not.

"Yeah, I'm right here," he mumbled to you. Your fingers tangle in his hair. A shaky sigh leaves you and he knows you're crying. He rubs your back in slow, gentle circles. "How long have you been down here?" He dreads the answer to the question, it fills him with a type of anger and sorrow that swirls in his chest and makes him want to scream.

"It's…" your mind moves too slowly as you try to answer his question. You blink into the darkness as you think to yourself. "What's today?"

His heart breaks.

"It's Monday."

Your breath catches in your throat as you mumble back with a thick sigh, "Three days."

His heart shatters.

"Oh my god," he mutters under his breath. "Come here." You throw yourself into his arms and he pulls you flush against his chest. You weep into his neck, a sobbing mess of relief that you're saved.

He sits back and you end up on his lap, refusing to let go of him for even a moment as he holds back tears and allows you to cry.

"You're actually here?" you ask. Your voice trembles as you speak pathetically into his neck. He nods and rubs your back again.

"Yeah."

"Why?" Your questions rips him to shreds, tears him apart and leaves him to bleed as you question his reasons for loyalty to you.

He sighs, "I was worried about you. Came to check on you." He buries his face in the crook of your neck, he even kisses the skin there as a way to reassure himself. It flies over both your heads.

You pull away from him just enough to look at him. He puts a smile on his face to try and ease you, it does. He feels your body calm a little at his grin, your wet eyes glistening with tears as you stare at him.

"You were worried about me?"

"Yes," he nods. Again, he rubs your back steadily. "I was."

There's silence between the both of you as you gaze, take in everything that has changed or remained the same since you last spoke. His band-aids are gone. You can see the cuts on his face, but they're healing on their own. His bruises are much calmer, leaving his pretty face a little less devastated by wounds. You're not healing as well, he's sure it has something to do with you being locked up in a dark basement for three days straight.

His head turns to your stomach when it gurgles and growls. You whine, pressing a hand harshly to your belly and resting the top of your head against his chest. "I'm so hungry."

He moves to stand, picking you up with him. You struggle to stand at first, but you recover just enough to cooperate with him. His arm stays wrapped securely behind your back.

"Let's get you something to eat, yeah?" he speaks softly, pitching his voice just high enough to appeal to you while also keeping you from feeling pitied or degraded. "I have to make a call."

You just nod your head and try to keep walking with him. You struggle—your eyes are taking forever to adjust to the light and you have not used your legs much since you were thrown down here. After a few steps, he bends down and sweeps your legs from under you, holding you bridal-style in his arms as he carries you up the stairs.

Your arms wrap around his neck and you hold on too tight, even after he's set you down on a stool in the small kitchen. You linger there for what feels like too long and too little until you let him go to make his call. He stops by the fridge and gives you whatever he can, which just happens to be a green apple shoved in the back.

You take it in your hands and rip a large bite out of it. His lips press to the side of your temple and then he turns to grab the phone off your wall. His eyes stay on you as he dials the number and waits.

It only rings a couple of times before he's finally met with the familiar voice of the elderly woman on the phone. "Sheriff's department."

"Hey, Flo," he responds, a forced smile in his voice as he greets the lady he knows well.

She sighs, "Mr. Eddie Munson?" Eddie can just imagine her shaking her head. "You turning yourself in again?"

He rolls his eyes, which still focus on you as he watches you eat your apple like you've never eaten before. In your defense, you're starving. It's been days since your last meal. The only thing your father threw downstairs was a mini bag of chips.

"That was one time, and no," he replies. He licks his lips, "I need to talk with Hopper."

She agrees with no fuss, and Eddie is grateful for it, "Alright."

Eddie steps out of the house with his hands in his pockets when he sees the two cop cars approaching the driveway. He hears your timid steps follow after him as you emerge from the kitchen, a hand in front of your eyes in a poor attempt to shield them from the light.

You both watch as the door of a truck opens and Sheriff Jim Hopper steps out. He closes the door behind him with a loud shut. One other cop climbs out of the passenger's side and two other cops from the second car join.

"This better not be some stupid prank, Munson," Hop grumbles, looking around the house before his eyes land on you.

"It's not a prank," Eddie rolls his eyes.

You look at him, smacking the back of your hand weakly against his arm. "You called Hopper?" The three others walk past you and into the house after a brief question of approval.

He scoffs. "Yes, I called Hopper. You get locked in a basement for three days, and you ask me if I called Hopper?"

He raises his hand, pointing between the both of you as he waves it to get you both to stop talking. "Woah, woah, woah," he says. "What did you just say?"

Eddie puts his hands on his hips and leans to the side. "Her dad's an asshat who's been abusing her for years." He says it matter-of-factly, nodding the whole time. You bite your lip and furrow your brows at him, confusion etched into your face. Your brain is still moving too slow, a side effect of hunger and lack of hydration.

"Years? How long is years?" Hop's big hands find his own waist.

Your voice is quiet again as you speak. "Since my mom left," you mumble.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, shifting to think for a moment.

Eddie places a gentle hand on the small of your back and uses his other hand to take yours. "Show him," he says, his tone neutral enough to give you the option to decline.

You look at him and then down at your hands before nodding. Suddenly self-conscious about your bare arms, you bring your hand up to rub against them before bearing them for Hopper to properly examine.

Hopper sees the scars. His shoulders fall and his mouth twitches as he takes in the sight of you. His tongue slides along his teeth as he shakes his head with a heavy sigh.

"Oh my god," he mumbles under his breath.

He looks over his shoulder at the sound of a slowing car. Your eyes follow the sound at the same time as Eddie and you suddenly panic. You've still not recovered, on edge and afraid to your core. You hide behind him, clinging to his body as you peek around his arm.

Hop processes your reaction, a swell of rage filling his chest as he realizes just what exactly has been done to you. What this man, who is meant to be your father, has done to you. His nostrils flare and his hands flex at his sides.

Eddie's reaction is similar, but he has less liberty to express the anger he feels when you cling so closely to him for protection. He clenches his jaw and glares at the car that pulls in.

Two of the cops from inside come to the door at Hopper's order. As your father gets out of his car, hand on the hood as he glares at the house, he's fuming.

"Grab him," Hopper commands. They do, rushing over at taking a hold of him before he can flee or retaliate.

You don't come out, staying hidden behind Eddie.

"Get off me!" your father shouts, struggling in their grips. By now, the neighbors have come out of their homes to see what has happened to make the cops appear in front of your lawn. They're sticking their noses in, watching from their porches with hands over mouths and eyes focused in as they talk and whisper to one another.

"You're under arrest," Hop tells him, not moving from his spot standing slightly in front of Eddie.

Your father tries to protest, yelling and shouting and further drawing attention to himself. "What are you talking about? I haven't done anything wrong!"

Hopper takes a step closer but doesn't stray far from the two of you. Eddie quickly realizes that it's for an extra measure of protection as you continue to hide behind him. Your arms are wrapping around his midsection, and he sets his hands over your clasped hands and his other twists behind him to rest on your shoulder.

"You've been abusing your daughter," Hopper spits with so much venom that the air between them trembles. Onlookers gasp at the news. He ignores them.

"I haven't touched her!"

Before Hopper can reply, Eddie points an accusatory finger at him. "Bullshit!"

Hopper turns and returns the point, shoving his finger into his chest. "Munson, shut your mouth."

He raises an arm in offense. "I saw it myself," he shouts for both Hopper and your father. "I fought him for it days ago! That's how I got this!" He points to the healing bruise and the cuts on his face.

Hopper sighs, "We're gonna ignore the fact that you just admitted to assault."

Eddie ignores him and gently takes one of your hands, intertwining his fingers from the back and flipping it over to reveal your palm. "He crushed glass in her hands," he explains. "I found her and fought him, and then he bruised her face the next time he saw her as some type of punishment."

He feels you press closer against him. He rubs your arm and mumbles gently to you, "I know, sweetheart."

Your father's voice disturbs you as he's being shoved into the back of a cop car, struggling against the cops who can't get his head in as he continues to insist.

"You did this!" he yells. "You're just a pathetic little girl who can't even look me in the eye!" You shudder again as more tears slip down your cheeks. You try to pull your arms free from Eddie, to let go of him and cower away. He doesn't let you, just pulls you around so he can hold you properly as the insults continue to roll. He whispers things in your ear, little reassurances meant to overrule your father's degradations.

"Shut him up!" Hopper yells. The police manage to get him in the car after "accidentally" bumping his head against the hood. They slam the door shut and roll their eyes, rounding to the front to drive away.

Hop shakes his head and turns back around to face you. He takes in the sight before him. He never thought he would see it: you and Eddie Munson holding onto one another for dear life. You spent so long hating each other, he expected it to stay that way.

But here you are.

"Are you okay?" he asks after a moment.

You gently pull away from Eddie's chest and look at Hopper. It takes you a while to respond. With more adrenaline pumped into your veins with nowhere to exert it, your mind is too slow and too fast and you haven't caught up to your body yet.

Your mind is blank for a moment before you recall his question and come up with an answer. You mumble it. "'M tired."

"Yeah, bet you are," he hums. "You have any friends or family outside of Hawkins? Anyone who can come get you, maybe take you in?"

Your wild eyes stare. "What? Why?"

"Safety purposes," he says. "Any legal guardians? Your mom, maybe?"

You fight a scowl and shake your head. "I'm 19, Hop," you scoff lightly. "I can take care of myself."

Despite your defense, he can tell you're not fully here. You haven't processed, haven't come around to the situation and taken anything in.

He just sighs, "If you change your mind, let me know. I needa know where you are, kid." He turns to Eddie, who's been waiting patiently and stroking circles against your back. "Try not to get arrested again."

Eddie exaggerates a sarcastic laugh. Hop leans in a little and mumbles to Eddie confidentially, "And look after her."

Your brows furrow and you look at him. "I heard that." He shrugs and shoos you both away. Eddie allows you to take anything from the house that you might need before packing you up in his van and driving away to take you back to his home and feed you. He's just relieved to have you back, even as you pass out against the seat on the passenger's side.

Everything hits you when you get in the shower. The relief of being saved, the fear of the very real events that had taken place the past few days, and the strangeness of finally being free of your father as he was apprehended by the police and taken to the station. You stand under the scorching hot water of Eddie's shower and sob, a rush of emotions finally being set free and allowing you some semblance of peace.

You find a set of clothes waiting for you in Eddie's room when you get out. Another pair of sweatpants and a too-big band muscle shirt that sags on the edge of your shoulders. You walk out of the room combing your fingers through your hair.

Eddie turns his head once he hears the door open. He looks over from the front door, calling over his shoulder. "Pizza's here!"

You get to the kitchen and sit on the tiny counter, crossing your legs at your ankles and swinging them as you wait patiently. The door closes and Eddie comes back. When he's in view of you, he pauses as he stops and looks. His eyes are wide and his jaw might as well have been dropped to the floor. You swear you hear him mutter a quiet "wow" under his breath.

"Isn't that hot?" you ask. You stare at the two hot pizza boxes in his hand. He looks next and jumps slightly as he switches the boxes out of his hand and onto the counter next to you. He gasps and winces as he sets them down and you chew on your bottom lip to hide a smile.

"Are you okay?" you wonder, taking his hand in yours to see if it's red. It is, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Yeah," he breathes, not turning to look at his hand. You stroke your thumb over his palm before letting go of his hand.

"Why'd you get two?"

"Oh," he looks at the pizzas and furrows his brow. "Um…I called but then I realized I didn't know what toppings you liked so I got cheese and the classic pepperoni with extra pepperoni."

You chuckle a little as he opens the boxes. You remember just how hungry you are as you watch the steam rise from the molten cheese and smell the tomato sauce and pepperoni. "Dig in," he declares, offering for you to take the first slice with too big a smile.

You pick up the smallest slice of pizza you can find and start eating, which prompts Eddie to just look at you with a confused stare. "Aren't you hungry?" he wonders as he watches you hold the slice to cool it down.

"I'll have some more," you tell him in an attempt to ease him enough to start eating. He half-accepts your answer and takes the next-to-smallest piece.

The two of you eat in silence for a while. After your first piece is gone, you end up eating a second and a third and nearly pick up a fourth. Eddie's happy you're eating, watches you giddily as you devour your slices. He's had at least five already as well, passing you a drink when he finally remembers that he has them.

"You feeling any better?" he wonders, bumping his Coke can against yours. You hum in response, a question for him to repeat as you had been distracted. He smiles, "Are you okay?"

You hum again, this time as confirmation. You lick your lips, tasting the grease that had escaped to the corner with a nod. "Thank you," you mumble to him, offering another smile.

He doesn't reply, or move, for that matter. He sits and stares at you. You feel his eyes boring into the side of your head and turn to look at him. "What?"

His smile betrays him with its teasing undertone. "That's the first time you've ever thanked me for anything."

You blush at your bad manners. You duck your head and hide your bashfulness with a chuckle. "Shut up."

He laughs and you shake your head as you take a long drink from your can. After a moment, you notice that Eddie is still looking at you. As you turn to look back, you see him staring like he's majorly spaced off.

You stroke your free hand over your arm, ducking your head once again as you lick your lips. "What?"

"I…" he realizes what he's doing then as she shakes his head to snap out of it. "Nothing, I just." He lets out somewhat of a nervous chuckle and glances up at you again. "I genuinely don't know why my brain goes blank when I look at you. I think I'm going a little crazy."

It's your turn to stare, smiling a little as you gaze at him. He really is pretty with a beaming grin and shining eyes.

He gets self-conscious under your gaze, fiddling with a belt loop on his jeans. "Is that weird?" he asks, furrowing his brow. "Sorry if that's weird."

You smile and chuckle, shaking your head as you come out of your shell a little. You lick your lips once more, drumming your fingers on the side of your can. "It's a little weird…but I like weird on you."

You swear you see him blush. "You learn something new every day."

He continues to stare for a moment, this time with you reciprocating his look. It's still so new, so strange to him, how the both of you could go from being intense rivals to…whatever it is you are now.

You're definitely not acquaintances. You have been through too much in the past two weeks to only be acquaintances.

Are you friends? Maybe, but it feels different.

But you don't know what else there is for you to be.

You look away after too long staring. You look at your feet, watch them pass each other as you rock back and forth. He closes the empty pizza box and sets it on top of the trash, moving to stand a little closer to you, close enough that he could set his hand on your knee if he wanted.

And he wants to, but he doesn't.

You set down your can and chew on your lip in thought. "What do I do now?"

He tilts his head and his brows knit together. "What do you mean?"

You shrug, staring ahead of you. "What do I do?" you repeat the question. "Where do I go?" You think for a moment and sigh, looking down at your hands as you play with your ring finger. "Maybe I should ask my mom if I could stay with her or something."

Eddie watches as you scowl, looking down at your hands again as you shake your head slowly. He sighs, leaning against the counter. When you place your hands flat against the cold surface, he slowly inches his fingers toward yours. "Or…" his fingertips brush yours, "you could crash with me again."

Your lips twitch in a small smile and you shrug a shoulder. "Okay," you agree, "maybe for tonight."

He stares down at your hands, watches you slowly slide yours over his and glide across his rings. He sticks his tongue out over his bottom lip. "And maybe for the night after that?" He looks up hopefully at you, that same blanking feeling creeping up on him. "And the one after that, too? You know, you might as well stay forever."

You chuckle and shake your head, "What are you talking about?"

He shrugs and breathes a nervous laugh. "I'm talking about you and me and…" he shakes his head and purses his lips, "us." You stare at him like he's gone insane, wide eyed and open mouthed. He chuckles and closes his eyes, scrunching his nose. "I sound so stupid right now."

"No, it's just…" You shake your head and bury your face in your hands, shrugging again. You slap your hands over your thighs and rub them up and down nervously as you struggle to speak. "I'm not used to people wanting me around."

"Why not?" he asks as he tilts his head again. He knows it's a stupid question, but it truly confuses him how someone could possibly not want to be in your presence.

He knows it shouldn't. That was him only a couple weeks ago.

You twiddle your thumbs. "You remember when I talked about my mom and her family? That's just what they are. Her family. I'm not…" you trail off, looking down again as you swallow the lump in your throat, "I'm not hers anymore… My dad didn't want me. I don't have any friends."

You shake your head and fight your tears. Eddie reaches out and grabs your hand. He intertwines your fingers and moves to stand closer. Your knees press gently against his stomach.

"Well…" he breathes. "I want you to stay. You can stay in my room, I can move my stuff out here."

You shake your head and scoff, fighting a smile. "I'm not taking your room from you, Eddie."

"Then we can share again," he shrugs nonchalantly—even if he feels anything but nonchalant.

You pause and stare at him. You blink and breathe and stare. You admire his pretty face, his messy curls. You trace his features with your eyes and lick your lips.

"What's wrong?" he laughs nervously.

"I'm just," you pause, "having a hard time processing all of this."

You can see some of his confidence breaking, fading slightly at your answer. "You don't have to say yes…" he mutters, offering a smile to make you feel better about declining.

You tighten the grip of his hand, cradling your joined hands in your palm. "No, I…" you smile, "I want to say yes…"

"...But?"

You chew on your lip and shake your head. "But you'll get sick of me," you insist. "Why would you want me around like that?"

He shrugs dramatically at your question, nearly giggles. His laugh is almost a snort, "You're good company."

You scoff, "But you hate me." The words hurt you, but you say them anyway. Even if part of you knows and depends on it not being true.

He shakes his head, his hair bounces with every little shift. You want to run your hands through it. Instead, you grab his other hand and set them both on your lap, wounding your fingers with his.

"I don't hate you." His words make your heart flutter.

But you're too scared to fully admit to what it is you might feel for him, what he might feel for you.

"Then–"

You don't get to finish your sentence. You gasp, you melt, and then you hum as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is soft, slow and steady and all-consuming as he leans forward. His grip on your hands tighten and he presses closer to you as best he can.

You crave him, his lips, his warmth. You want him closer as you allow yourself to succumb to his touch. You open your knees, grant him space to stand between your legs and allow his chest to press against yours. You let go of his hands, your fingers moving to grasp his sides and bunch his shirt in your hands.

You feel him melt against you. His hands find your waist and cradle you. You lean in further, tasting his tongue against your bottom lip. Your hands raise to his face, pressing against his rosy cheeks, and you lick his top lip into your mouth.

After a moment, you pull away. You linger so close to him still that you can feel his breath mingle with yours. He's smiling like an idiot, watching your mouth as you lick it. You bite down on your bottom lip, trying to stifle a kiss-drunk giggle.

He shakes his head and his hair tickles your forehead. His kiss-swollen lips move as he speaks again, his voice as quiet as he can manage to keep from disturbing the calm between you. "Oh, yeah," he whispers. "That's not a normal kiss. I definitely love you."

You gasp at his confession. It's so sudden and so soon, and you can't help but smile as you gaze down at him. His doe eyes find yours and you can see them shining, watching you like you're the only thing that matters to him, the only thing in the world.

"You love me?"

He nods gently, pulling away with red cheeks and beaming from ear to ear. "I'm, like, 99% sure."

You giggle, an actual giggle that makes Eddie's smile widen—if that's even possible. "What's the other 1%?"

He shrugs, "That one person might be that I actually hate you but I just don't care."

You laugh, throwing your head back and scrunching up your nose as you beam. You look so pretty with all that happiness shining on your face. You remind him of the moon, so soft and serene, a beauty he can't help but admire as he sits and gazes like you're his whole world.

He sighs contently, his heart thumping in his chest as he struggles to remember to breathe. You're so beautiful. "Yeah, I'm 100% sure now." He licks his lips and his eyes flit over your face, loving every little detail of it that he can find. "You're so beautiful," he breathed helplessly.

There's a long pause between you as you dip your hands under his shirt to press your palms to the bare skin of his waist. He melts again and leans into you. He rests his head against your chest and closes his eyes with a deep hum.

You kiss the top of his head, his hair brushes all over your face and you chuckle. There's a long pause as his fingers drift against you. You sigh, "I–"

He cuts you off, shaking his head gently. "You don't have to say you love me back. I won't make you," his voice is gentle and you don't hear hurt in his voice, because there isn't any.

He's perfectly content with loving you, even if you aren't ready to love him back…at least for now.

You have no experience with love. You don't know what it feels like, you don't know how to provide for it. So, whether you love him or not, you would not know.

But you do the best you can.

You take his face in your hands to make him look at you, trace his lips with your thumbs and press your own to his forehead.

"I adore you, Eddie Munson."

Eddie grins and kisses you again. He licks your lip before he pulls away with a crescent eye smile. "It's nice to be adored," he sighs dramatically. His fingers pinch the hem of your shirt and tugs gently. "You look great in my clothes, by the way."

You giggle and sigh against him, and the two of you stay like that for a while longer.

Eddie the Banished taglist: @sweetcoffeebearr @life-on-needs @hb8301 @lovemegood

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie my love <3 #eddie munson x reader angst #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader fluff #angst #enemies to lovers #reader insert #female reader #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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