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fandoms-in-law · 10 months

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On Shore in Whitby

So in the Summer I went to Whitby with my dad and had the idea of writing a fic combining the things Whitby was known for; Pirates, Alice in Wonderland and Dracula. I swapped the fandom I intended to use for this fic and it's still weird

Summary: Pirate Captain Eddie doesn't like raiding Whitby, but this time it doesn't really need to be a raid at all when someone he'd raided before getting his own ship recognises him.

/\/\

Eddie regarded the coastline they were fast approaching in curiosity and fascination. He knew it was a profitable stop, with plenty of wealthy folks to steal from and profit off, but it was also one of the most unpredictable towns they ever stopped at, and something had clearly been happening recently.

He could see the marks left from where a ship had crashed recently, and was fairly sure he was seeing the actual repairs being done also. To most sailors it would be nothing, just an accident or a new sailor overestimating how he needed to leave the port. To Eddie it was ominous, a reminder that Whitby had more than expected occurring in it than other English towns and the quaintness everyone back home attributed to these ports, here at least, was a thin mask nobody should try to look through.

“Prepare to enter port!” The call came from Gareth just behind him, echoed among the crew.

“And remember, when in Whitby what don't we do?” Eddie called as the ship adjusted course for the entrance.

“Never follow animals strange,

No drugs help what they rearrange.

Check the strangers coming near,

If uncertain, escape in fear.

Prepare for gifts to change in time,

Whitby keeps transformations in line.

Flowers can share a pretty tune,

But double check they leave no rune.”

The poem is sung back to him among laughs from his crew. They all thought it was a joke, something to laugh about, all except Gareth and Jeff who'd visited the town with Eddie many times before.

Locals were nodding at the words now they were close enough in to be heard.

Entering in daylight might seem odd for pirates to do but Eddie felt safer ensuring that at least their arrival wouldn't be subject to the bending reality that happened from early afternoon till night. It did however mean they had to follow the regulations and restrictions as well as pay for their ships placement. Eddie had insisted it was worth it for safety when a few of the crew argued it as a waste of their takings.

“Good advice, you going to share that song around the ships you leave floating?” One of the harbour masters calls, catching a rope Eddie tried to throw around a bollard to help pull them in. The man's clothes looked brand new and his hair was styled in a way only the wealthy could manage, but his movements spoke of familiarity with his job. It was an entrancing mix that had Eddie trying to figure out why a noble would be working here until his words registered.

“You mean the ships we trade with?” Eddie asked cautiously. If this man knew or recognised him or his ship as connecting to pirates he might have just found an excuse to avoid Whitby entirely, no matter how much he wanted to get to know him better.

The harbour master scoffed, shaking his head and calling over his shoulder for someone called Robin to come help him guide the ship in. “Not likely, but I get you wanting to say that. We're not going to say anything. Actually I want you to leave with more of my parents stuff than you did last time. Best thing ever done for me and I was stupid enough to ask why you were there.”

That struck a memory in Eddie's mind, years ago, before he'd taken his own ship, he'd been found in one of the town houses of the wealthy. The man looked gorgeous in the daylight where his features had been obscured by darkness and twisted by flickering candlelight on their first meeting. “Didn't expect there to be anything left in that town house. Most people move their holiday homes to other coastal towns once pirates steal from them.”

“Apparently not the Harrington's. They just leave me behind with demands to earn my own way and protect their furniture: Robin and I have checked, apparently they had gold coins sewn into some of it and more paintings hiding safes than any nefarious organisation. Come for tea and we'll start getting stuff moved aboard.” The offer seemed genuine, but Eddie still had the song in his mind, even as they worked together to get the ship tied in and boarding plank secure.

He shook his head. “Nice offer, stranger, but harbour master or not, I'm not accepting an offer like that, especially when you clearly recognise me but have given no name except one you don't seem to identify with.”

“I'm Steve, and it's probably better you and your crew do regardless. The Demeter crashed with her Captain dead, tied to the wheel. No one has figured out what happened aboard it except that its cargo was taken for final delivery before the constable could argue it as evidence.” Steve introduced, hopping aboard now and pulling out the paperwork Eddie had expected to have mentioned sooner. “I'll cover your fees whatever, and get it if you all prefer to guard your ship after that news.”

Eddie's back straightened, looking Steve over, before glancing back at his crew. He knew what types of things could do that, and was glad the warnings against strangers was already in the song if one had made it to this cursed town. “You're in the Harrington house? I'll talk with the crew and walk anyone willing to stay with you over this evening. It's best to stay in groups.”

“I'll be waiting by the door.” Steve laughed, accepting the now filled out paperwork back and waving as he left.

Before Eddie could actually start gathering his crew to share the information, a cheer rang out. On the starboard side most of the crew were hanging over the edge watching something, except the pair used to Whitby, who were closer to the captain and glancing over warily. “It's nothing to worry over yet, Captain. Just a caucus race.” Jeff muttered.

“And a few invites for tea from the mice as they ran off. It's nice that for a while we'll have a rodent free ship.” Gareth added, nodding further along the path where indeed a group of mice was running on only their back legs, grabbing rubbish and holding it up to see if it could become clothing as they went.

Eddie let out a heavy sigh. “We're definitely back in Whitby again. Apparently a monster of some kind is in town also. The ship you can see signs of crashing apparently crashed with the captain dead but tied to the wheel and no other crew aboard it. Steve offered to let us all stay with him, as well as steal everything from his home too.”

Jeff grinned, reaching out to tap Eddie gently, “Including himself?”

“Give over.”

/\/\

Eddie expected it from the moment they decided to raid Whitby. He knew something weird was coming.

He was not expecting to leave his cabin after planning with Gareth whether they should do more of a raid or just accept all the wealth Steve was willing to give them.

Earlier his crew had mostly decided to remain on the ship and Jeff had volunteered to explain more about Whitby as second mate while Gareth and Eddie did their planning. Now, well, now Eddie was pretty certain he wasn't the only one resolute on staying in the Harrington house until they were ready to leave.

Jeff had about half the crew behind him, swords and daggers in everyone's hands and pointed to the boarding plank. Further back on the ship was the rest of the crew, some pointing their weapons behind them, at a floating, grinning cats head, the rest pointing their weapons at the boarding plank.

“Captain! What do we do?” One of the men called over, moving as if to run over to him but stopped by Jeff moving his blade to block them.

“Stay in your groups, and focus on the stranger.” Eddie ordered. “Cheshire, are you just here to hang around or is there something you need?”

The cat's grin widened. “We're keeping an eye on your visitor. It's odd that he's come to you. He's been focusing on a lady visiting until now.”

“How lucky for us.” Eddie commented with a roll of his eyes. “You, who are you and why are you here?”

The stranger stepped closer. “I want passage to London from someone who won't ask questions.” Behind him an orange glow moved, a person deciding to carry their own lamp rather than just going about their evening walk by the street lamps.

“We're the wrong ship for you to chose then.” Eddie laughed, an imitation of the cruel laughter he heard merchants do moments before all their profits were lost to Eddie's crew. “Get off my ship or we'll dice you into mincemeat.”

An echoing laugh met his, the stranger straightening where he stood. “No I think you will accept me as a passenger for the wealth I can offer you.”

It was then that Eddie noticed two things, first was that this stranger, as dangerous as he seemed hadn't actually come onto his ship yet, and second the person with the lamp was now also on the boarding plank. He wasn't sure if they were friend or foe but the lamp held above the strangers head held threat, especially if the method of attack was burning the stranger. He still decided to say nothing about them.

“Got a pretty big offer for wealth already. Now I've stated my refusal of your passage and you can't change my mind. Leave.” He repeated the refusal, stepping forwards and finally drawing his own sword.

He'd had it blessed in one of the countries they moved between. Eddie had always been one for learning local stories and whether real or not would thank people for them by agreeing to take or buy whatever safety or luck charms were offered.

The blade had the stranger stumbling back so Eddie was inclined to believe the blessing had been legitimate. He was also inclined to rush over and grab Steve in a hug as before the fire from his lamp getting dropped on the stranger's head could reach the boarding plank or the ship he'd shoved them over into the water.

It meant the stranger would almost definitely survive to torment someone else, but at least that someone else wouldn't be Eddie or his crew.

“What are you doing here, Steve?” Eddie asked, refusing to let the other go and ignoring that it was probably uncomfortable and definitely a breach of social etiquette for such recent acquaintances.

Steve just laughed, “You never brought anyone to stay or even to tell me you preferred to stay on the ship. I thought Whitby had gotten to you.”

“Captain, is this the gentleman who offered for us to stay with him?” Gareth asked, clearing his throat and already knowing the answer. “Because I think after that situation, we'd all quite like to accept his offer.”

“Of course, come on. If your Captain will let me down, I'll lead you there. Does anyone need to grab anything before we set off?” Steve easily agreed, only tapping Eddie's shoulder but not actually trying to escape his hold.

Eddie shook his head into Steve's shoulder. “In the stealing from the Harrington's offer, does that include taking you with me when we leave?” He mumbled, not meaning to say it now, but after having Steve inadvertently save them he wasn't going to hold back the offer.

“Sure it does, but that's for talking about in a house with fires going if we aren't staying on your ship.” The words were enough Eddie let Steve go, searching his expression for sincerity which was all he saw, until a mischievous grin formed. “And kidnapping Robin. She'll come after us with murderous intent if only I'm taken.”

Eddie nodded, but another member of his crew clearing their throat reminded him they were meant to be heading back to the Harrington house. “Then lead the way.”

#stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #alice in wonderland references #dracula references #pirate au #does this count as #crack fic #steddie

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marinerainbow · 1 year

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Kitty being asked which animated girl she feels like most and is like "Umm...Alice I guess, walking through Wonderland." And Smartass quips she's more like the Ugly Duckling and when she gets mad at him he's like "Heeeey, he becomes a swan in the end don't he?"

Eddie Valiant won't say it to her face but the girl's definetly more of "a hard ass Mary Poppins."

Aw, Smartass, you're getting better at complimenting people! ^^

I agree with Eddie and Kitty though. She's both Alice wandering through the crazy world of Toontown, and she's also a tough but caring person like Mary Poppins ^^

#asks #other peoples oc's #Smartass Weasel #Eddie Valient #WFRR #Who Framed Roger Rabbit #toon patrol #disney #disney villains #ohhh imagina an Alice in Wonderland AU with Kitty as Alice!#maybe Poppy or Roger could be the white rabbit she chases (Poppy's fretful nature would match the white rabbits character more i think)#maybe the Toon Patrol could be split between the Cheshire Cat the Mad Hatter and the March Hare?#what do you think?

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odeurderaclette · 1 year

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youtube

#eddy mitchell #Alice #alice au pays des merveilles #alice in wonderland #french #chanson française #vintage #rétro #is it about drugs?#Youtube

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jo-harrington · 9 months

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Disaster Preparedness (Eddie Munson x Store Manager!Reader)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Maybe it's time to put a name to whatever it is you and Eddie are...but not without some misunderstandings first.

Previous Part: Peak Sales Hours

Warnings/Themes: AU where the Upside Down doesn't terrorize Hawkins. Reader works at the Claire's at StarCourt. Eddie works at TapeWorld. Angst, Jealousy, Fluff, and a series of unfortunate misunderstandings with a sweet ending.

Note: A day late, but what can you do. This was sort of always a pre-planned part of the Store Manager Verse (and actually set at Christmas Time at StarCourt) but a very special prompt made me switch it up. So without further ado @allthingsjoeq and @bettyfrommars please consider this collection of Holiday shenanigans inspired by I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus my take on Prompt 14 from your Holiday Prompt Party:

You can tell that the mall Santa is a babe under that beard, and you decide to get closer to investigate.

With a little twist...

You can find my masterlist here for more featuring our resident Store Manager and all of my other writing.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

---

The holiday season wasn't Eddie's favorite, per se.

Just like Thanksgiving, it was a time to make do. Couldn't really celebrate when you were reminded of the things you'd lost or didn't have in the first place.

Still it had its high points. Cookies were great, having a little extra cash between Wayne's holiday pay and bonus and the handful of parties he'd be able to deal at, and let it be known that...Eddie Munson was a sucker for snow and always wished for a White Christmas.

And for his friends? Eddie would always muster up the Holiday Spirit and Christmas Cheer. A special one-off campaign for Hellfire, a potluck dinner with Corroded Coffin, and handmade gifts that he spent way too much time on.

This year...working at StarCourt brought its own spin on Holiday cheer and it was a little annoying.

If he hadn't worked the closing shift on the 30th, and seen all of the overnight workers and maintenance vehicles that rolled out of the service corridors as he walked out, Eddie would have thought that it was magic that transformed StarCourt Mall into a true Winter Wonderland come December 1st.

Because it was night and day.

Lights were strung around every store entrance, wreaths and garland hung every 50 feet from the ceiling, soap snow fell down from special blowers in the vents onto the food court, and the space in front of Montgomery Ward suddenly contained a special gift-wrapping destination.

And suddenly the mall muzak had a festive flair to it.

It was honestly kind of sickening.

He wasn't a scrooge or anything, it was just overwhelming and appeared all at once. And after how overwhelming Black Friday had been, how was anyone supposed to cope with the bright lights, large crowds, and repetitive music? He intentionally started turning the shop radio to a higher volume to drown out the bells jingling and carols mingling for the next few shifts after the decorations appeared.

"It's Holidazzle," you told him as he leaned against the entryway to your store--"the conversion Eddie, for God's sake!"--and watched you hang a special banner in the window, featuring the Gift of Piercing and cartoon bears ice skating around a tree.

"It's overkill," he argued.

"It's Mall Life." You climbed down from your ladder and surveyed your work with a critical eye. "You get used to the big everything that is Christmas and just deal with it, and then, come January, it all dies. We're decorating today, and next week we start wearing reindeer antlers on the sales floor. It just is what it is. Gotta get the customers into the festive spirit so they buy more before it all tapers out.

"Surprised Kyle isn't already wearing like...a Santa hat and a cheesy sweater with ornaments hanging off it or something."

And Eddie wasn't sure if you were somehow clairvoyant or just knew his boss well enough, but that's exactly what Kyle wore to his next shift and, indeed, every shift for the remainder of December.

Santa hats in every color--and he'd bought hats for everyone else in the store--and if there wasn't a Santa hat, there was tinsel in his hair. A piece of glittery garland strung around his neck and a mug full of cocoa constantly present in his hand, even when he was on the sales floor. And, somehow, a different cheesy holiday sweater on every single shift he had.

Where did he even get them?

"Listen," he clapped a hand on Eddie's shoulder and shoved a candy cane in his hand. "I know you're Mr. Non-Conformity, but in this instance, you just gotta go with the flow. No one wants to give their money to the Grinch. But Jolly Old Saint Kyle? He's who they're trusting for their Christmas Gifts. You catch me?"

---

So Eddie tried.

He did. He tried.

For all of 3 days.

He wore the hat, he played the game, he did his spiel about gift certificates and BOGO, and he didn't even get a treat at the end of his shifts because you worked the opposite schedule from him. With school and all it was hard...

He just wanted to kiss you. Was that too much to ask for? It wouldn't be the most romantic place but he figured that he could set out some mistletoe by the baler and trick you into a festive smooch when you took the cardboard out. He could do that now, except he couldn't.

...but Wednesday night you'd both be closing. You'd swapped shifts with Mindy two weeks in a row so you could go to his show last week and she could go to her kids' Christmas Recital at the elementary school this week.

He definitely planned to make his move and get his reward. And give you a little reward of your own, seeing how hard you'd been working too. He wondered if this might be the chance to officially ask you to be his girl. Everyone had already made the assumption the two of you had been dating for months...why not put a name to it? And then he could take you out on a real date.

What could possibly go wrong?

Famous last words.

With a few minutes until his fifteen, anticipation building...Mike and Dustin ran into Tape World, looking out of breath and nervous.

Eddie was finishing up a special order for a customer when he saw them out of the corner of his eye. Little assholes, lurking by the door. Mitch had tried to walk up to them and give them the spiel but they waved him off.

"We're here for Eddie."

Great. This better not be about one of them missing Hellfire on Friday.

"What do you want?" he huffed, trying to be a little patient with them since it was the holidays after all. He picked on them enough at school. "It’s busy tonight."

"Well," Dustin shifted. "We were coming to see the new Ewoks movie--" Eddie snorted and grinned at them fondly. "--and we were just killing some time, when we passed by Mom's store."

Eddie couldn't help the bark of laughter he let out with that one. He told the guys to cut it out, this...continuation of calling you Mom since Halloween.

"You guys gotta stop calling her that," he scoffed. "Steve Harrington's your Mom. Get that straight."

"Well then Mom is upstairs right now flirting with not Mom," Mike sassed, hands on his hips.

Now that gave Eddie pause. Harrington? Upstairs with you?

Flirting?

“Kissing.”

Kissing?!

"What?" Eddie's voice broke a little as he reacted. He chuckled to try and alleviate some of his own nerves. "Isn't Harrington dating someone? Pretty sure I've seen him running around with that cashier from KB Toys."

"Well it was Wicks'n'Sticks."

"But we think they broke up!" Mike piped up. "Because Steve quit Scoops last week."

"Which means we need to pay full price for movie tickets again," Dustin nodded.

"But Nancy said that Robin told her…that he got a job at Santa's Workshop," Mike thumbed over his shoulder. "And we just saw Santa upstairs with Mom and she was wiping strawberry lipgloss out of his beard."

The first thought in Eddie’s head was that you didn’t wear strawberry lipgloss.

The next was that you didn’t wear strawberry lipgloss when you kissed him. What if you wore it for Steve?

No, that was ridiculous.

But unless Santa’s Workshop was operating as a functioning kissing booth and Harrington was looking for a quick and easy fix for a bunch of housewives smooching him after their kids asked for a new bike or Hot Wheels racetrack or Tina the Talking Tabby doll…there was no explanation.

Which, alright, Eddie wouldn’t normally consider himself a jealous person. An envious person. Yeah, he might have seen a little green at the edges of his vision when the kids fawned over Steve Harrington time and again, but ever since he was brought down a few pegs—humbled—he didn’t seem like the same old douchebag from Hawkins High that he used to be.

Eddie might even say Steve was kind of alright.

But you were his girlfriend…or something…

And the jealousy and possessiveness he often mocked others for over the years, as he watched meathead jocks tighten their arms around their girlfriends shoulders as he simply walked past, suddenly overcame him.

“Mitch I’m taking my fifteen!” He called towards the back of the store and strutted out of Tape World, all while Mike and Dustin called after him, fully intending to get to the bottom of this obvious misunderstanding.

---

He planned to ask you about Harrington the moment you opened the door to the loading dock, hauling the dolly of cardboard boxes behind you.

A simple "hey sweetheart, how was your day, anyone named Kris Kringle come to bother you?" and he would have had his answer and all of his doubt would have been alleviated once and for all.

Except that as soon as you appeared--with your disheveled hair and makeup, your slumped shoulders, and your groan of weariness--your eyes got brighter and you melted at the sight of him. So happy to see him, so relieved.

Then he melted.

"God, what a night," you groaned and let the dock door slam behind you. You abandoned your cardboard and walked right into his arms where he was standing by the baler; your arms wrapped around his waist and your face nuzzled into his flannel, just the way he constantly craved. "Some lady wanted an individual gift receipt for every single item she bought. Then Chrissy almost messed up this kid's piercing. Thank God I stopped her as soon as I saw."

"Oh yeah?"

"And then I swear I'm like...I just have one of those faces where everyone comes and complains to me as they're shopping. I have to hear about everyone's life story or their relationship issues, especially this one guy..."

Eddie's ears practically perked up at that.

"This one guy?" he urged you to continue, on the edge of his proverbial seat.

"I dunno," you sighed tiredly. "Not the first time he's come to me for advice. He's a nice guy and he means well, but it just seems I'm always the one. And I'm happy to help just...not during Q4, you know? He needs to figure out how to talk to his ex on his own. And not just...come in looking for extra glossy strawberry lip gloss thinking he's gonna kiss his way back into their good graces."

Extra glossy strawberry lip gloss.

Eddie wondered if he was pushing his luck if he were to ask if this nice guy was dressed in a Santa suit.

Still his heart soared nonetheless. He should have known that it was nothing to worry about, that those little shits just put two and two together to make five, and that mom wasn't actually kissing Santa Claus.

It was just a misunderstanding.

"How was your night?" you backed away from him slightly to look into his eyes. "I feel like I haven't seen you in days."

It was like a weight on his chest had been lifted, as he stared into your sparkling eyes.

"Same old, same old," he chuckled away the doubt. "Probably worse because no one knows what they want to give as gifts for Christmas and they're not listening to me."

"How dare they not take the advice of the great God of Music!" you feigned outrage.

"Gonna give me an inflated ego, sweetheart."

"You mean you don't already have one?" you teased.

Whatever fleeting bits of doubt remained disappeared as his fingers found your sides and he tickled you as punishment for the jab. Even more so as you grabbed his face and kissed him to get him to stop.

---

You'd spent the remainder of your break on Wednesday night softly kissing on the loading dock. You held hands as he walked you back to your store. Then once the mall was closed, you continued the kissing against the side of his van in the employee lot as the rest of the cars disappeared one by one.

With one last kiss goodbye, you agreed to Christmas movies and cocoa at his place on Sunday.

But as he sauntered into the mall on Sunday morning, twirling his lanyard on his finger as he headed to Tape World, Eddie swore that the universe was mocking him--

Or it was just that trademark Munson Bad Luck.

--because with a quick glance up towards your store, he saw you, holding the gate up with one arm, talking and laughing with someone conspicuously dressed in a Santa suit.

Well, he couldn't really see the holly jolly bastard that was up there making you smile, but just a quick glimpse of red velvet and white fur and all of his doubt was back.

The two of you still hadn't put a label on your relationship yet. He'd wondered the other night as he drove home if it was a little juvenile to want to call you his girlfriend. Was it too high school? What did a real life, grown up boyfriend do? He only had TV shows to go by and he figured you'd laugh if he tried to give you his '84 class ring that was stashed in his sock drawer. In fact, he was sure of it.

But how was he supposed to get past the visceral need to be your boyfriend when you were up there being wooed into potentially becoming the new Mrs. Claus yourself?

By Santa Harrington no less.

The doubt was back with a vengeance.

Kyle--decked in red onesie pajamas, butt flap and all--clocked his woes as soon as he walked into the store.

"Don't tell me she broke up with you," he guessed as he counted up the registers for the day. "I know it's not the end of the world, but you guys barely got started. What the hell did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Eddie answered honestly as he restocked the front display.

"Hmmm, actually come to think of it, that might be exactly the point."

"I don't think we were ever together, if I'm being honest."

"Dumbass," Kyle chuckled under his breath. Eddie, exasperated and just needing someone to commiserate with, explained the whole thing to his boss, who simply ate it up like a gossiping housewife and then laughed louder. "No seriously, you're a dumbass. This is the Mall at Christmas, dude. You're gonna start going cross eyed if you're looking around every corner for a suspicious Santa Claus flirting with your girl.

"Why don't you save yourself some heartache and just talk to her. You know, like you should have been doing this whole time? So, one time only because you're my buddy, I'm letting you take an extra break so you can go up there and talk to her."

And Eddie knew Kyle was right: it was all about communication.

Communication, or the lack thereof, was how the two of you had gotten this far, right? You'd known each other since May? June? And had only figured out that there was some mutual attraction in...what? September if Eddie was going to be honest with himself. Two weeks ago if he wasn't.

Lack of communication, caused by self doubt and fear, cost him...months...of getting to kiss you and hold your hand. And while he cherished the time spent being your friend, he was always gonna wish he had all that time being more.

So no, he shouldn't let it draw out much longer.

---

Unfortunately, he really was a dumbass.

So instead of taking advantage of it being so early in the day that there were practically no customers in the mall to go upstairs and clear things up with you and maybe ask you out on a real date...

Eddie booked it across the mall to Santa's Workshop.

There he stood, wasting his extra break in line with the handful of proactive parents coming in early to get their family pictures with the Big Man himself.

"What's on your wish list this year?" A little boy in a tiny navy suit tugged on the leg of his jeans and asked him.

"Uh..." He was at a loss when it came to kids and his hands wrung around his lanyard. But he couldn't just leave the little guy hanging. "A new amp...and maybe a Skeletor action figure."

The boy's eyes got wide and blabbered on about his desired Castle Greyskull while his mom ran a comb through his hair.

"Eddie?"

Eddie froze and his attention shifted from the kid, up and up green velvet clad legs then torso, to a familiar cherubic face and tousled curls covered by a pointy hat.

"Gareth?" he chuckled, staring incredulously at his friend dressed as one of Santa's Helpers. "...what is this? I didn't know you..." his eyes slid down to the little boy, then back to his friend. "...were an elf."

"I was trying to keep it under the radar," he shrugged and gestured down to his costume. "Especially since they have me dressed like this. Uh....anyway, why are you in line for Santa?"

"Uhh..." Eddie scratched the back of his neck then folded his arms across his chest. "Gotta get my wishlist in before all the good gifts are taken."

Gareth narrowed his eyes in suspicion and Eddie hoped that he would just chalk it up as another one of the million things he'd seen Eddie do over the years of their friendship.

"Can I keep the picture?" Gareth finally asked mischievously. "Or was Wayne planning on sending out a special card this year?"

"Nah man," Eddie nodded, grateful not to have to answer any more...invasive questions. "It's all yours."

"Nice." Gareth held his fist out for Eddie to bump and then let the family ahead of Eddie in to see Santa.

Which meant he was next.

Now, Eddie wasn't big on confrontation, so unless he was actively thwarting bullies and deterring them from picking on his friends, he wasn't the type to pick a fight. He also wasn't the type to have a calm and rational discussion and get to the bottom of a problem either.

So this was new territory for him.

What would he say?

What could he say?

"Now listen here Harrington," he muttered. "You...she...I..."

He ran a hand over his face and shook his head.

"I heard you're having some relationship issues," he tried again. "But you can't keep sniffing around my girl. My girl? Ugh...but what if she isn't."

There were a few flashes of a camera and by that time, Gareth was back to lead him to his execution.

"Alright, young man," he snickered. "Are you ready to meet Santa?"

"Shut up," Eddie shoved him and stalked along the carpet into the little photo area.

He was too preoccupied with the task at hand, too consumed with thoughts of you laughing with Steve Harrington and exactly what he was gonna say, that he didn't notice that it wasn't Steve under the beard and hat until he plopped himself directly on Santa's lap.

Santa groaned as Eddie settled himself and threw an arm over his shoulders.

"Aren't you a little too old for this Munson?" Santa deadpanned. "Or is this one of your little Hellfire pranks."

Eddie froze at the familiar voice, as years of hearing that grumbling gritty tone at Benny's and the police station and around town flashed through his memory.

"Hop?" he whispered in horror.

"Who were you expecting?" Hopper grunted.

"Why are you Santa?"

"...don't tell me you thought Santa Claus was real, kid?"

"No, I just--" Eddie stammered, looking for the right words. "I...Why?"

"I'm doing this to surprise Jane," he explained in exasperation. "Buddy of mine runs Santa's workshop and Joyce said she'd bring the kids to the mall today, maybe get a picture. So I pulled some strings. I don't know what to get her for Christmas; she's keeping her wish list under wraps."

It all started making sense for Eddie. Jane was friends with Dustin and the others so he'd seen her around Hawkins High, even though she wasn't interested in DnD. She was a good kid, if a little shy. Of course Hop was doing this for his adopted daughter, wanting to give her a perfect Christmas.

"But you...were up at Claire's earlier?" Eddie narrowed his eyes, the reason for him being there still eluding explanation.

"Because that's Jane's favorite store. I swear I'm single handedly keeping them in business with the number of earrings and scrunchies I buy every week. The manager promised she'd keep an eye out if Jane and Joyce popped in today, let me know everything Janie was looking at if this ended up being a bust."

Hopper shot Eddie a pointed glare and Eddie, correctly, looked ashamed of himself.

"Alright, less talking," the elf at the camera rolled their eyes and waved for Hop and Eddie to scoot closer. "More smiling. Say jingle!"

There was a flash and a polaroid was shoved into Eddie's hand as Hopper shooed him away.

---

"What is this?" you pulled away from Eddie's soft, warm lips as your hands felt something foreign in his back pocket.

The Year Without Santa Claus wasn't the most romantic Christmas movie, but Eddie was feeling a certain type of resentment when he had chosen the movies at Family Video, and it was mostly going ignored in favor of cuddling and kissing and sweet words.

Until your hands worked their way downward to pull Eddie's weight further into you, and you found--

"Did you go take a picture with Santa?" you giggled as you inspected the Polaroid. Eddie groaned and rested his head on your shoulder. "Can I keep this?"

"Believe it or not," he sighed, "Gareth already has dibs."

"May I ask why?"

"Because he likes to ruin my life. Pretty sure he's gonna take it to Fox Photos and get it made into t-shirts."

"No, why did you go take a picture with Santa silly," you shoved him. "It's really sweet."

He turned to look up into your eyes, to get the courage to just...tell you how silly he was being...to ask you out for fuck's sake...but the way you looked at him, the softness of your gaze, the way you reached out and pushed his bangs out of his eyes...he didn't want to ruin it all.

"I promised I was getting into the holiday spirit didn't I?" he shrugged pathetically. "Couldn't let the opportunity pass without getting photo evidence."

You stared fondly at the picture for another moment and then pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"It's perfect."

---

After Eddie had chickened out, you planned your get-togethers for the rest of December.

Or rather, the lack of them.

With finals coming up and the semester coming, and then mall hours getting later and later the closer to Christmas it got, the opportunities to hang out became sparse.

The best the two of you could unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it--come up with was Christmas Eve.

You'd fight off those final last-minute holiday shoppers, and come 6pm when the mall closed, you'd both be off to Benny's for the special pot roast dinner that he put up for anyone who didn't have family to go to, or didn't want to go see the family they had.

With Rick out making the rounds, and Wayne scheduled for that sweet time-and-a-half holiday double most years, Eddie usually ended up at Benny's anyway.

This year, with you, it would be perfect.

He just had to get through the next few weeks without a hiccup.

The universe, once again, decided to test him.

Mock him.

It was almost comedic at this point.

Santa was everywhere.

Of course, he would be, it was Christmastime but...everywhere in relation to you.

Thankfully, it wasn't Harrington he needed to worry about.

However, that meant it wasn't just Santa he needed to worry about.

It was all of the mall Santas.

Hop had shown his face in the red suit and beard once or twice more and scared the life out of him. Especially when Eddie walked smack into him on the way to drop an Orange Julius for you on the night you closed.

The church's community choir had spent one Saturday afternoon caroling by the Sears, all dressed as Santa Claus. As the two of you made your rounds window-shopping and chatting on your break, one of the Santas grabbed you and spun you around in a circle during a jazzy rendition of The 12 Days of Christmas where you, apparently, were the true love bestowing the many gifts.

How Eddie let a bunch of Santas serenade you before he got a chance to, he would never know. Nor would he let himself live it down.

And then one awful day, he found you sitting at your usual table in the food court with a charismatic older man in a Santa suit--sans hat or beard. The man sat in Eddie's usual seat and leaned quite close, making you look entirely uncomfortable; he couldn't help puff up his chest to ward off the intruder by the time he reached the table.

"This is Henry," you introduced as politely as you could. "He's gonna be the manager at the new Spencer's store when it opens in January."

"Figured I would do the neighborly thing and just say hi," he chuckled and looked down at his attire. "Oh? This? Figured that this would be a great way to do something nice for the community in the mean time."

"That's great," Eddie sniffed judgmentally, getting a weird feeling about this Henry. "Nice to meet you. You're in my spot though."

"Eddie!" Your eyes went wide and you bit your lip to stifle your laughter.

"Hey, nope, totally get it," Henry held his hands up and stood from the seat. "Those lunch breaks are short, especially when you want to spend them with friends and not a stranger like me. Nice to meet you guys. See you around."

Eddie dropped into his seat and you waited until Henry was well out of earshot to scold him.

"That was not nice."

"I'm not nice," Eddie grumbled. "He was looking at you weird, like he wanted to steal your soul or something. Did you not get creepy stalker murderer from him?"

"No, I totally did," you nodded. "He was like...dead behind the eyes. I know, that's awful to say. Anyway, are you feeling soft pretzels and cheese because I--"

"Are you a Santa magnet or something?" Eddie interrupted you and you looked like a deer in the headlights.

"What?" you giggled. "What do you mean?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "Seems like they're just always around."

"It's Christmas, Eddie," you frowned in confusion. "Even I have a little Santa dress that I'm gonna wear to work. Everyone's just in the spirit."

"Yeah well..."

"I thought you were trying to get in the spirit too," you reminded him and then reached over and plucked at the fair isle sweater Kyle had gotten the whole TapeWorld team so they could match for a group picture. "Exhibit A, Mr. Grinch."

"I am trying," he whined. "It's just hard to be extra jolly when someone's always sniffing around your girl."

"Am I your girl?" you asked. You were obviously teasing him, but still...Eddie froze. "You haven't asked me if I want to be yet."

Everything inside of him was on red alert at that moment.

Evasive maneuvers? No, that was a bad idea. All power to the forward shields, which were holding but weakened. He didn't have enough firepower for this.

"No..." he replied awkwardly. "I haven't."

The way your expression dropped broke him, and he knew he had fucked up.

---

"I'm disowning you," Kyle shook his head in disappointment by the time Eddie got back from lunch. "In fact. We all are."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie groaned.

"Mitch! Paulie! Eddie's disowned."

"You can't fire him, he's closing tonight," Paulie argued.

"Not fired," Kyle pointed across the store with authority. "Disowned. And such a shame; Edward Tapeworldington, first of his name...you shall never be king."

Eddie stewed in the laughter of his coworkers.

"Why don't you ever listen to me?" Kyle threw an arm around his shoulder. "You could have asked her out right then and there. Been like 'hey you wanna be my girlfriend?' And it would have been like...the happiest day of your life. Hell, happiest day of my life. Cuz then I wouldn't have to hear you bitch about it all the time."

"Didn't know I complained that much," Eddie muttered self-consciously.

"All the time," one of the other guys chuckled.

"It's not complaining," Kyle corrected. "It's just that...we want you to be happy. As cliche as this sounds, we're like a family right? Hey, psst, all of you? Savor it, you're only gonna hear me say it once.

"If one of us is miserable, we're all miserable," he continued. "And you've been kind of a miserable piece of shit for a while, Ed. I'm sure your buddies would tell you the same thing. Lovesick puppy act's only gonna get you so much sympathy until you're the one getting in your own way."

Eddie felt his stomach turn because getting in his own way really did hit the nail on the head.

He thought about it for an eternity--really only 30 seconds--went about asking himself what had held him up for all this time. Fear of rejection obviously but even he started to think that some of the things that had gotten him so caught up were just...excuses.

Even now that he knew you liked him just the way he liked you, they were just excuses.

"So why can't I just...say something?" he finally asked.

Kyle clapped his hand down on Eddie's shoulder twice and then turned so he could head out for his own break.

"Only you can answer that question kid."

---

"Hey do you wanna go out sometime? Ugh."

So he practiced.

"So remember how we're supposed to go to Benny's for Christmas Eve? No."

For days he practiced.

"You know how the first time we went out for pizza I mentioned it wasn't a date? Well this one is. No god, you're an idiot."

Through the rest of the semester, during band practice, he even almost flubbed the lyrics at the gig at the Hideout on the Tuesday before Christmas. There were only so many days left until your dinner together at Benny's and he really wanted it to be your first official date.

But if Eddie was gonna fix this, if he was gonna ask you out, he needed to get it right.

"Hey sweetheart." He muttered as he counted down Paulie's register at the start of his closing shift. "I know I really flubbed it last time we talked but I really like you and I want to know if you'd be my girlfriend.

"We've already kissed enough for it," he added at the end and then winced.

"How about you just lose that last bit," Paulie offered beside him and signed a few receipts. "And then it's perfect."

"Yeah?" Eddie asked hopefully. "Alright. Cool. Great."

He would do it after work tonight.

"Edddiiiiieeee!!!" a screeching voice called from inside the mall and Eddie and Paulie both watched as a Santa with flailing arms ran into TapeWorld. "Eddie man, I really need a favor. I need to use your bathroom."

"What the f--Gareth?" Eddie looked around the store to make sure he wasn't just hallucinating. Gareth was already shedding the hat and the fake beard and unbuckling the wide belt from around his waist. "What the hell are you doing here? Why are you Santa? I thought you were an elf?"

"There's no time to explain," Gareth panted. "But there's a line through the food court to use the bathroom and I couldn't wait, so you either need to let me into your back room or I'm gonna exorcise a demon right here on your sales floor man. Please."

"Ugh," Eddie wrinkled his nose and pointed towards the stockroom. "Yeah, sure whatever. Gross."

"I owe you one," Gareth tossed the fluffy jacket of his costume over the counter at Eddie and then ran into the stockroom. Hopefully just in time.

"So glad I'm cleaning the bathrooms tomorrow night," Paulie scrunched his nose in disgust. "Alright, you and Mitch need anything before I go?"

Eddie was about to say no, was about to send Paulie on his way.

But then he looked down at the coat and got an idea.

An awful idea.

Eddie Munson got a wonderful, awful idea.

"Actually, now that you mention it," Eddie grinned and shrugged the coat on, then the belt, and as he glanced up at Paulie, his coworker groaned, clearly able to read Eddie's mind.

"I thought we agreed no more gimmicks," Paulie exclaimed. "You're just gonna go up and talk to her."

"Yeah," Eddie nodded. "I, Santa Claus, am gonna go up and talk to her. I'm not even gonna take my full break, just five minutes, and then you can leave."

"This isn't gonna work man."

"None of my plans ever do," Eddie shrugged and pulled Paulie into a big hug. "But if it does, I owe you my whole life."

And off he went, across the mall, and up the escalator. He adjusted the coat and the hat and then remembered that he forgot the beard on the counter.

No matter, of course; he really didn't want to get fake beard in his mouth when he planted one on you.

There was practically a line out the door by the time he got to your store. He was able to see you through the window, on the register checking one customer out after another.

You were in the zone, but you didn't look stressed. You smiled a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, but every so often Mindy would crack a joke beside you and it did.

"This actually might be the worst idea," he muttered to himself.

But it was too late.

It was now or never.

You were gonna kill him.

Some of the younger kids in the store started muttering in excitement when they spotted him, only for their parents to say "that's not the real Santa" and "Santa doesn't wear ripped jeans" but you were oblivious until he was standing right beside you at the counter.

"Excuse me," he took a breath and lowered his voice like he would during Hellfire. "I heard there was something special on your wish list this year, young lady."

"Sorry sir," you answered without a thought. "I'll be with you in a second."

"You can't even take a second to help jolly old Saint Nicholas?"

You turned your head, obviously about to tell him off as you schooled your features into something plastic and robotic and customer friendly, until you realized it was him. Then something visibly short-circuited in your brain and he smiled brightly.

"I'd like to apologize to all the boys and girls shopping tonight," he announced to the customers theatrically. "But I have very important Christmas business with our dear Store Manager here. It'll only take a minute."

He was surprised when a few of them started laughing and clapping.

"Alright Santa," you finally composed yourself to answer, arms crossing over your chest in annoyance. "What official Christmas business can I help you with?"

"Well, I was reading over the wishlist that you sent up to the North Pole," he explained. "I don't have it with me, you see. Had to leave it down in the workshop so the rest of the elves could work on the scrunchies and the lipgloss you wanted."

"Uh huh."

"And the new windshield wipers that you refuse to let Santa replace."

You rolled your eyes and waved your hand to get him to go on.

"But there was one thing on the list that...maybe it's these tired old eyes--"

"Old?" you giggled and reached out to tug on his curls. "Your hair isn't even white Santa."

A bunch of nearby kids boo'd.

"Clock's ticking," you whispered. "Get on with it, or I'm gonna have to kick you out Ed."

"--maybe these tired old eyes weren't able to read. See I thought it just said friend. But my trusty elves Kyle and Paulie and Mitch assure me it says boyfriend."

Mindy cooed an awww from beside you and Eddie felt his confidence grow.

"So, Miss Store Manager," Eddie held his hand out to you. "Which one is it? Because I happen to have some high quality...boyfriend material that I can use to make your wish come true. Is that what you'd truly like this Christmas?"

Mindy immediately slammed a hand onto your shoulder and squealed, and although your lips were clamped shut and nose was scrunched, Eddie was sure that you were holding back a smile.

It was the longest 30 seconds of his life.

"Yes, actually," you finally responded. "That's exactly what I want for Christmas Santa."

Eddie's heart surely grew 3 sizes in that very moment as a bunch of customers clapped. And he was eagerly about to jump forward and plant a kiss right on your lips when your hand slammed against his chest to hold him back.

You laughed and your eyes sparkled with promise as you pointed to the door, a silent understanding that you'd continue this conversation later. But for now?

"Get out of my store!"

---

Eddie found you leaning against the side of his van when he clocked out. Your car was parked beside his, running idle, as you waited. The radio softly played the Nutcracker Suite and you hummed along to it.

"Alright," he began when he got close enough. "I know that what I did was a big no-no, but I think everyone was in good spirits about it."

"You're lucky they were," you glared at him in--what he hoped was-- fake annoyance. "I really would hate it if my DM got a call complaining about that. Then I'd have to break up with you before we were actually even together."

"I wouldn't blame you," he winced and then looked down at his feet. "So...do you wanna go out sometime?"

"Like a date?"

"Yeah," he glanced up at you and then back down at his feet. He shuffled them back and forth. "Dinner at Benny's on the 24th? How does that sound."

"Ugh, I dunno," you sing-songed and took a few steps to close the distance between you. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shook him a few times.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he questioned as you lifted his hair and turned his head back and forth.

"I'm looking to see if this was the quality boyfriend material that Santa just promised me a few hours ago."

"Hey now," he grabbed your hands in his. "I most certainly am. We've just...been friends for so long. I didn't know if..."

"I do," you answered before he could finish.

"But what if I..."

"You aren't."

"I was gonna say 'what if I fart under the blankets while we're cuddling.'" He deadpanned. "See, this is why it's important not to make assumptions."

"Alright, Fartmeister," you challenged him. "If you want to Dutch Oven your girlfriend, I guess I can't fight you. But don't be shocked when I do the same thing to you eventually."

"That's all I want from a girlfriend," he said. "A strong sense of retaliation and justice."

"Alright then."

"Alright." He shook your hand like you were making some kind of deal. "Christmas Eve at Benny's for our first date."

"Sounds perfect," you agreed.

"Good."

You launched yourself in his arms and pressed your lips to his and he swore, probably for the first time in his life, he believed in the spirit of Christmas.

---

Next Chapter: Standard Operating Procedures 1.06

#promptparty #Eddie munson x reader #store manager verse #eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #Eddie munson #christmas fic

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ladykailitha · 1 year

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Remember how I said I had too many AUs. Well, another one just dropped. I've been working on this one off and on all week not really sure I was going to do anything with it, but last night it became a full -fledged story and not just a plot bunny.

So to prepare you for that, I wrote down the world building so that I don't have to go into detail in the story.

So here you go:

Werewolf Steve and Vampire Eddie (actual title TBA).

The city of Hawkins is one of the few cities in the country that was the home to both a vampire coven and a werewolf pack. It is a safe haven for all supernatural and hunters are forbidden from entering its city limits.

The coven is run by Billy Hargrove. He swept into town with his small vampire family and killed the previous Dominus (leader), taking over the coven. Billy is born vampire, meaning both his parents were vampires who sired him. Max is also born.

Even though it’s called Harrington Pack, the pack leader isn’t hereditary. The leader is always who the strongest male wolf is. The alpha female usually the male’s bondmate but not always. Nancy is the alpha female because of how strong she is and not because she dated Steve in high school. When Hopper was alpha, Joyce was alpha female for example.

This is the largest the pack has been in years. It includes the Hoppers (originally his wife and daughter before his daughter died and his first bondmate left the pack, now him and adopted Jane), the Byers, the Wheelers, the Sinclairs, the Harringtons, and Hendersons. With the Byers and the Hendersons, the dads were banished when it came out they were abusing their family.

Banishment is a mark on the back of the former pack member’s neck that prevents other packs from taking them in or forming a pack of their own. People can willing leave a pack to join another (like getting married or joining a temporary pack when they’re at college away from home), but banishment is a raw deal and used rarely. Hop banished both Lonnie and Mr Henderson, when he came out of his drunken stupor when he adopted Jane.

The Buckleys, Hagens, and Perkins have been long time keepers of the Harrington pack. A keeper is a kind of werewolf version of a vampire’s thrall. Someone who takes care of them when they are in wolf form or can touch silver if they get hurt.

For the most part the wolf form of the pack is like their hair color. Nancy, Mike, and Dustin all have curly fur in wolf form, Mike’s isn’t has bad as the other two though. The exception being the Sinclairs, (their fur isn’t wiry or curly like the other three, it’s just longer and jet black), and Steve. He’s a two-tone wolf. He has warm brown fur on top, but his legs, belly, and tip of his tail are honey colored.

Steve is made head of the Hawkins pack after Hopper was kidnapped by hunters and was reported MPD (missing, presumed dead). He won it through combat a couple of the older wolves tried for the role, but nineteen year old Steve beat them all.

ETA: Full Story here.

Permanent Tag List:

@spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk @renaissan-vvitch @goodolefashionedloverboi @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @a-little-unsteddie @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @itsall-taken @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @bookbinderbitch @littlewildflowerkitten @vecnuthy @redfreckledwolf @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #vampire eddie #werewolf steve harrington

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blueywrites · 1 year

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turtle dove and the crow, interlude 1930

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

Set in 1930 - ten years before the events of Turtle Dove and the Crow - this interlude is the first of two glimpses back to their humble beginnings.

INTERLUDE 1930: MUSIC BOX (5.7k)

There’s a music box in the bedroom

It’s playing songs from 1922

And if you listen for long enough

You’ll fall asleep and might wake up

Walking in a wonderland

Music Box — Leith Ross

Before he was your crow, and you his turtle dove, Edward Munson was the strange new boy next door.

The morning he arrives is colored the clear blue of late May. It’s one of those first few days after school has let out for the year, and you’re stuck half in a daze, acclimating to a sense of freedom that has not yet seeped entirely in. That irreality keeps you inside for now, and thus, you’re perched in the formal sitting room, occupying one of the stiffer chairs chosen for its proximity to the window offering a view of Mr. Wayne’s front porch. Your eyes are fixed not to its neat row of balustrades standing proudly from the white-painted decking, or even the gnarled branches of the forsythia where some yellow petals still cling stubbornly despite the lateness of the season. Instead, you’re looking at the lattice that protects the porch’s underside, at the place where it meets the corner of the house’s red clapboard. The wood there is broken at one criss-cross, leaving a small gap.

From there, a rabbit is slowly emerging. Breath catches in your throat as it shimmies its small russet body from beneath the broken lattice into the open air. Your eyes widen; tiny fingers find the window pane, leaving tiny, heedless smudge marks on the glass. Raptly, you watch its nose wriggle, head dipping to the grass and nudging around before coming up again. It ventures forward with staccato little hops before halting with its head perked high.

You hear what has alerted it a second later: a muffled rumble begins to permeate the glass between you and the rabbit. The sound grows gradually louder, and your eyes dart from the red house to the yard and then to the dirt road beyond, where the source is now visible. It begins as a vague blue shape, sharpening slowly but steadily until it resolves itself, finally, into a familiar truck. The truck putt-putt-putts gradually up the dirt road before turning with a crunch of thick dirt and gravel into the unpaved drive of your neighbor.

The rabbit stretches its neck and freezes warily for a long, tense moment, legs bunched and ready to flee. Interestingly, though, it never does. Even when a metallic creak draws your attention from the rabbit back to the parked truck, it eases back into the grass, seemingly unbothered now.

This is when you see him for the first time.

It's a silent affair, his arrival, but the new boy next door rolls in with all the beautiful violence of a summer storm. Face wedged between your Mama’s gauze curtains, you watch the passenger door of the truck pop open to allow the chaos inside to tumble out in a whirl of thrashing limbs. And those limbs become a boy. Pale and jagged, thin and angular, he stalks ahead with clenched fists and a strange backward tilt to his upper body— a posture which implies that, while his feet may carry him toward the front door, the rest of him wants nothing more than to rebel. His face, what little you can see of it from this distance, is contorted into a fierce scowl. It cuts pale beneath a wild mop of dark cloudlike curls, slashed by red lips snarled open as if in the middle of a tantrum.

Yet you cannot hear him. Mr. Wayne catches up to him quickly despite the stiffness of his hips; he dwarfs the smaller boy’s roiling shadow, containing his tempestuousness with a hand on his shoulder and guiding him to mount the porch steps before him. You hear the creak of the wood under their feet, and you hear the crack of the screen door as it bounces off red clapboard, and you hear the vague rasp of your older neighbor’s voice before the gentle click of the handle closes the red house up again behind them. But the boy does not make a sound.

Strange.

In your eight-year-old mind, strangeness does not beget caution; it beckons curiosity.

For that reason, Mama doesn’t have to drag you reluctantly with her to deliver a peach pie welcome, though she still plies you with one of her little decorum lessons nonetheless. “It’s the polite thing to do. And never go empty-handed,” she informs you as you slip your hand into the crook of her elbow without resistance, shuffling alongside her across the grass. Together, you mount those same steps you’d watched a summer storm thunder up yesterday; the recollection causes wonderings about the strange boy to whip through your mind like wind touseling your hair. You end up too sluggish for Mama’s taste, and she gestures impatiently for you to knock on the door for her since her hands are occupied. You rush to comply, rapping quickly but for a little too long, so that she has to shoot you a sharp look to get you to stop.

Your curiosity mixes with both wariness and excitement as you hear movement from within the house, and you find it bubbling over as the sounds come imminently closer. Anticipation thrums as the bolt clicks and the knob turns, but when the door finally opens, Mr. Wayne stands there alone.

Your neighbor, Mr. Wayne, has always seemed a calm, steadfast presence to you. It’s a combination of his homely, dirt-dusted clothes, his tanned forearms and weathered knuckles, his thinning hair that leaches color too fast for his age, and his downturned mouth that feels comfortingly familiar but is also a shade less severe than your papa’s. You aren’t unhappy to see him now, but your insides sag as your expectations are thwarted.

Above your head, you watch the adults exchange pleasantries, but the specifics of their conversation are lost on you. You’re consumed by that sagging disappointment; you’d been so sure you’d see your new neighbor standing beside Wayne like you stand with Mama, or perhaps half-hiding behind his legs, had he a shyer disposition. You could forgive that easily. But only a glance is needed to tell you that he’s nowhere in the vicinity of the front door. Perhaps, you suppose, he’s concealed behind a nearby wall to listen without being seen. Or maybe he is loitering at the bend in the staircase, too hesitant to come closer. It’s possible; you begin to hope it is so, and your hope emboldens you.

The pie plate has passed from your mother’s hands into Mr. Wayne’s, but you don’t see that because you’ve begun inching your nose past the threshold of the doorway, craning your neck around Mr. Wayne’s sturdy legs as you search for a peek of that tumultuous boy. You don’t get far before Mama is tugging you back with a sharp yank of your collar, and you stifle a surprised yelp as you yield to her quickly. She clears her throat— a clear chastisement— and as your face creases with remorse, Mr. Wayne huffs with amusement.

“No harm,” he rasps, and your mother’s squeezing fingers drop from your neck upon seeing the easiness in his crinkled blue eyes. “Why don’t you both join me for a slice o’this pie? Looks might fine.”

You brighten visibly, which makes Mr. Wayne chuckle again; when your wide eyes meet your Mama’s, the surge of your excitement is clear, and she is left with no choice but to accept the invitation. Her tiny wry sigh, fond and exasperated, is likely borne of the false assumption that you are excited by the prospect of dessert. That is, in fact, not what has you excited at all.

Your head whips this way and that in search of that elusive boy. You crane and twist, peeking around corners as best as you are able without slowing down as Mr. Wayne guides you toward the dining room. But your seeking yields no results. You plop at the table without having claimed your prize, feet swinging in impatience as a slice of pie is placed in front of you. The large fork is clumsy in your fist, but you manage to eat your desserts with dainty bites that Mama would approve of as she continues to exchange more pleasantries with your neighbor. It doesn’t take long for them to begin discussing the new arrival, and your eyes dart between them intently as you grasp for explanations— who the strange boy is, where he came from, why he wasn’t at the door to greet you, anything to sate the curiosity that has been growing since your first glimpse of the storm.

It quickly becomes clear that there is little for you to glean listening in on this conversation. You grow disinterested with their murmuring, their painstaking way of speaking as if each word must be turned over like fruit to appraise, and each each possible selection must be examined slowly before being settled on. Your disappointment returns with a tinge of frustration as the discussion continues on nonsensically, growing less clear with each successive comment.

“I’d give Joyce and Lonnie a ring,” your Mama suggest to Wayne, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug with a tiny chip along its rim. “Their older boy is goin’ through a spurt, outgrowin’ his clothes quicker than they can keep up with.”

You crinkle up your nose. What does that matter? You can’t understand them, and you give up trying soon enough.

As they continue talking, Mama and Mr. Wayne cast you occasional glances as if they’re assessing whether you will react. But you’re preoccupied now with sweet peach filling and flaky crust, which coats your lips until you rub it off with the back of your arm. Once you’ve consumed the entire slice and licked up all the crumbs, you manage to sit quietly for a minute or so before your curiosity, without that distraction, grows too insistent to ignore. In typical fashion, you’ve just barely conceived of a question before it’s already being voiced.

“Is your son gonna come eat pie with us?” you ask baldly.

Mama stiffens beside you, but Wayne remains unruffled. “He’s my nephew,” he corrects you gently. “And I don’t reckon he will.”

The next question— “Why not?”— is begging to burst from your mouth. But one quick look at your Mama’s face tells you you’d be in for it if you give in to that impulse. Mr. Wayne must read the discomfort in your pouted lips, so he offers you a morsel to tide you over.

“He’s not up for visitors just now,” he explains, and his blue eyes leave you to fix on your Mama’s in a weighty way. “M’tryin’ to get him settled in here first, make sure he’s comfortable. Then y’can meet ��im, if he’s willing.”

There’s a silent conversation then that passes between their gazes. There is a shade of fear and hesitation in the blue, a hint of vulnerability burdening the short silence following that vague explanation. It’s met with empathy across the table, with tinges of experience and reassurance offered without reluctance.

“You will, Wayne.” Your Mama sounds decisive, and your eyes follow the movement of her hand as she reaches across the table and pats him briskly on the hand. “The boy’ll be fine.”

You are ignorant to the significance of these things. All you know is that you’ve been denied that which you want, and you will need to wait to get it. You manage to contain your frustration until you reach the sanctuary of your bedroom; only then do you let your limbs flail against the comforter and pillows, beating out your impatience like rain pattering a roof.

On the third day after the boy’s arrival, you awaken the way you fell asleep: to the melody of a song. But it’s not the soft plinking of the music box your Mama always winds to lull you to sleep at night. Instead, it’s some twangy, uneven notes, starting and stopping in awkward cadence. As daylight streams in warm stripes across your comforter, they filter through wood and glass to rouse you from your slumber.

It’s the first evidence you have, besides Mr. Wayne’s word during your visit, that your new neighbor is actually still residing in the house across the way and that he was not, in fact, a walking daydream conceived by your own boredom. You haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since he’d tumbled from the truck; you’ve been spending many hours outside now in the midday, and you know beyond a shadow of doubt that he has not ventured into his front yard, and likely not into his backyard either. There has not been even a ruffle of a curtain, or a silhouette in a lit window, or a slivered door opening through which he might peer out to provide evidence of his existence.

But now, you can hear him. You hear him in this indirect way, in the fumbling of his fingers on some instrument, a sound that has you rising early despite the lazy minutes you could steal before Mama expects you to start on your morning chores.

It’s almost worse now that you can hear his invisible presence because it makes the silence of his arrival feel even more frustrating. And the more elusive he is, the more you want to see him. You find yourself looking toward the fence that separates your properties as if compelled; you walk slowly on your way to the goat pen, eyes tracking the gaps between the posts, desperate for a glimpse of dark curls and pale angles. This endeavor has yielded nothing but the vague unease of unfulfilled wanting.

Your curiosity can never settle. It haunts you, sustained by the knowledge that as you close your eyes at night, drifting off to the sound of that dainty music box, you will awaken to a twirling of staccato notes too intangible to grasp.

It isn’t until May has eased into the sticky warmth of June that you properly meet your new neighbor. As you’re cutting through your sitting room, slinking toward the kitchen in search of a covert midday snack, you catch a glimpse of him through the flimsy gauze of that same window which afforded you a view of his arrival. The sight is so unexpected that it nearly gives you a fright, and your heart thuds wildly until you realize what that vague shape must be. You stare until your eyes blink clear and reveal a boy hunched in the front yard across the way, pale and topped by a wild mop of wayward dark. That swooping of fear quickly gives way to familiar curiosity, and curiosity then to eagerness. Soon enough, the slight rumbling of your stomach is forgotten entirely as you find yourself turning sharply on your heel and redirecting toward the front door.

The grass is soft as it creases under your small bare feet, and you cross the yard with your eyes fixed on your prize, who crouches in front of the leafy forsythia lining his front porch. He doesn’t seem to notice you, occupied as he is in his task, and you seize the chance to drink in every detail you can as you approach. The boy wears gray pants, which have been gathered at the hems into thick, sloppy rolls but still drag across the grass like he doesn’t have any feet. He wears a rumpled white shirt, slightly yellowed from age and wear. His curls dust the nape of a gaping collar, which sags even farther open as he leans forward to poke around in the bushes. From this angle you cannot see his face properly, only the slope of a soft nose and the suggestion of dark lashes above it.

Your appraisal ends when you grow too close to continue. You stop a short distance away, looking down at the crown of his head as you watch him push aside branches. This yields a new observation, which is that his hands appear too big for his thin wrists— overlarge, they twist and grasp, long bony fingers moving restlessly as if searching for something in the greenery.

Absent any prior consideration and with the baldness only a child can possess, you announce your presence with a loud question. “What’re you doin'?”

The boy’s short curls flop against his ears as he looks up sharply in your direction, and your directness is rewarded with a view of his face. Though he doesn’t appear to be startled, there is something close to that in his brown eyes— something shifty and skitterish. Under the left is a healing bruise a shade lighter than the streak of dirt on his cheek, and his red mouth is a little too wide for his face, moreso when he opens it to answer you.

“Lookin’ for bugs,” he replies, and his voice rasps like Wayne’s but isn’t as deep, nor as pleasant.

“Why?”

He squints that bruised eye and matches your baldness. “‘Cause I’m makin’ ‘em a home, and I wanna see who’s gonna be movin’ in before I put together the furnishings.”

“Oh.”

As your reply falls flatly into the space between you, the boy eyes you warily for a moment longer before returning to his quest. If he moves a little more brusquely than before, it either escapes your notice or you pay it no mind, and after an extended beat of silence, your next question comes out— again— bald and loud. “So where’s the house?”

The next look he shoots you is less sharp, though somehow also more impatient, with the way his red mouth is set in a long, flat line. “Hmm?”

It’s not so much a hummed question, more a vague grunt, but you interpret it correctly. You repeat yourself with more emphasis. “Where’s the bug house? I wanna see it,” you declare.

The boy’s face scrunches up in a scowl then, and he makes no attempt to sweeten his reply.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he snaps, and you’re dismissed with a shake of those messy curls.

You fall back on a hip, crossing your arms as he pushes aside forsythia branches with increased aggression. You huff impatiently. “Well, how’s I gonna help you if I don’t know what size bugs to find? I dunno ‘bout where you come from, but there’s lots of bugs here.” Dramatically, you grab onto your fingers one at a time as you count, drawing out the words as you recall them. “We got… worms,” you snatch up your index, “rolly-pollies,” you switch to your middle, “ants…”

You pause there, twisting your ring finger in your opposite fist as you cast your eyes upward, trying to think of another bug to illustrate your point. The boy’s rolled trouser hems drag against the grass as he shifts restlessly in his crouch, but your next example never comes. Instead, you pull your finger out of your grip, crossing your arms and staring down at him with an air of triumph you really aren’t entitled to. “See? Loads of bugs,” you finish almost smugly.

The boy twists his lips and narrows his eyes at you. He drags those eyes from your bare toes to the top of your head in a slow, appraising path. It feels distinctly like you’re one of the bugs you’d mentioned, and he’s trying to puzzle out whether or not you’ll sting him.

You want to ruffle up your feathers and squawk your protest, but this brief conversation has not satisfied that yawning pit of curiosity inside you. Instead, you just plant your hands on your hips like your Mama does when Papa’s not listening fast enough. He stares up at you, and you look right back, staring down at your new neighbor’s guarded face.

This you manage for a fair while. But, inevitably, you cannot contain yourself for too long. Soon enough, your next question of the day sees fit to burst and pop from you like the first bubble in a pot set to boil.

“Well then?”

Your voice is loud; your sass is too potent to ignore. When his scowl returns in earnest, you clamp your lips shut too little too late. Mama always did say you need to be more patient, after all, and now you’ll just be left to mourn the permanent disappointment you’ll feel when he barks back. He’ll send you away unkindly, and you’ll have to retreat with your tail between your legs—

The boy next door straightens to his full height, and it’s only then that you realize just how much bigger he is than you. He is still lanky and angular, with ill-fitting clothes that don’t disguise his thinness, but the sudden shift from looking down into those guarded umber eyes to looking up, up, up ‘til your neck cranes is enough to make a teensy twinge of foreboding tighten in your chest.

This boy, you realize, is under no obligation to tolerate your sass. He isn’t your kin, and though he is Wayne’s, that doesn’t automatically speak to his nature.

Your composure falters for the first time as he frowns harshly down at you, and you begin to shrink. You shink like you do when Mama’s caught you doing something wrong and you know her admonishment will be swiftly followed by Papa’s until you’re left feeling hollow and thoroughly castigated. All of you presses in— your shoulders, your elbows, your knees, your brows where they pucker in the middle of your forehead. It’s the perfect opportunity for this strange boy to seize hold of the cracks within you and shatter you to pieces.

But at the sight of your breaking, those umber eyes do not harden further as you expect. Instead, the stormcloud clears; where you shrink and tighten, he gentles, and the furrows of his face ease into smoothness. Silently, he jerks his head to the side in a clear indication for you to follow.

You do.

It feels like grace when he bids you to follow him, and you resolve not to waste it. ‘Y’could use an attitude adjustment,’ you think to yourself, and so you let your sass leech through the soles of your feet as you follow the boy around to the side of his house opposite yours. By the time he stops in front of a small mound of rubbish piled near the concrete foundation, your manners have returned. You regard it with a carefully neutral expression in case he happens to look at you as he explains its purpose.

“M’gonna build the walls out of bark I stripped from that big oak,” he tells you. “And the roof’ll be leaves, so they can eat their way out if they’re clever enough.”

You appraise the rubbish heap, which, you quickly realize, is not rubbish at all, but is, instead, a carefully gathered pile of supplies meant for building a bug house. A hollow acorn cap catches your eye. “Could use that for a trough in case they get thirsty,” you suggest. You turn wide eyes to him, craning your neck back to look into his face and holding there until he meets your eye. You’re hoping he can tell from the bright tone of your voice and the earnestness of your expression that you’ve left your rudeness behind in the grass.

He appears, thankfully, quick to forgive and move on. The boy nods a little too hard in his haste to agree with you, and when his unruly curls flop in front of one dark eye, he blows them out of the way with an impatient puff. “Was thinkin’ that very same thing,” he replies, and there’s even a touch of warmth in his voice.

With that hint of warmth, the foreboding within you finally wisps away as if it had never been. In its absence, the full force of your self returns.

You crouch eagerly to examine the pile more closely, heedless of the way your pink skirt drags over the dirt as you carefully spread out each supply he’s gathered. He wavers nearby hesitantly before joining you near the ground, though he keeps his hands hanging between his knees, seemingly content to let you organize things yourself without interference.

“Looks like it’ll be big enough for a whole lot o’bugs,” you say, and your voice is eager, swollen with your obvious intent to be generous. “Which kind d’you like the most? We can start with those.”

Thus begins the hunt for your neighbor’s bug house residents, a venture that occupies half an hour of your young lives and concludes as a resounding failure. You search first all along the forsythia beds and the edges of the porch. When this yields nothing, you move on to the taller grass at the edges of the yard near the treeline, and then even venture into your own yard. But all you and your neighbor manage to find is the husk of an old worm stuck to the lowest step of his porch and some elusive beetles too quick for even him to catch. Frustration builds within you both over the course of that half-hour, a shared irritation at the difficulty of what should, by all accounts, be a fairly simple endeavor.

“Y’always get ants all over when y’dont want them,” you grouse, flopping yourself down onto the bottom porch step and planting your elbows on your knees and your chin in your hands. You quickly wriggle your hips away from that dried worm as he comes to stand in front of you.

“I know!” he exclaims, throwing his hands wide and letting them slap against his thighs. You sigh heavily together, a near simultaneous sound of defeat, and for a moment you listen to the distant cooing of a mourning dove, allowing yourself to wallow in disappointment.

“Y’know…” you say suddenly, looking up at him from the cradle of your palms, “there’s a bunny livin’ under your porch. Maybe it ate all the bugs ‘round your house.”

The boy’s soft nose wrinkles with a frown, but it’s not critical like before. “Do bunnies eat bugs?”

You stare at him and shrug, a sharp tug and fall of narrow shoulders. After a moment, the boy shrugs back as if in acquiescence. “Well,” he offers, “we could just make a house for the bunny then. In case it wants a ‘change of scenery.’” The phrase trips inelegantly off his tongue like it’s something foreign, something he’d heard once and is now repeating.

You, however, pay that no mind, because a blooming of color fills you at his suggestion. It’s blooming so big and bright and fills you so insistently that the tumultuous boy startles visibly when you leap from the step and scrabble off without a word of explanation.

Some swift minutes later, you’re returning at a trot, your hands laden with a new companion who swings at your side with flopping brown ears and a billowing red cloak. The corner of his eye is caught by your approach; he straightens up whip-sharp and shields his face with an overlarge palm to watch the remainder of your journey back to him, dropping his hand only once you skid to a stop one pace away. Eagerly, you set your bunny doll carefully atop one of the flat rocks lining the garden bed, nudging her arms and legs so she’ll sit there primly without assistance.

Breathless still from the quick run to your house but smiling nonetheless, you explain as if he’d asked, “If we’re buildin’ a rabbit house, Mopsy’s gotta watch! She’s my best friend.”

“Mopsy?” the boy asks curiously, “like from Peter Rabbit?”

Again, you bloom; your eyes light from within as you turn to him. “Yes, that’s exactly it! Oh, Peter Rabbit was my favorite book Ms. Willard read w’me this year!” You blink at him, eyes big and wide and so earnest. “Did you read it too?”

His head tilts just slightly, and the frizzy curls shift across his forehead. “How old r’you?” he asks in lieu of answering your question.

“M’eight,” you reply, still earnest if not a bit confused at the question. “Why? How old r’you?”

“Eight,” he answers, “same’s you.” He scratches at the corner of his wide mouth with a dirty fingernail, eyeing you as if he wants to say more but is holding back. You don’t know it, but it’s because your neighbor is trying to reconcile how you’ve just told him that you read this book with your teacher just this year, but it’s been quite some time since he had need of reading together with a teacher, and even longer than that since he last read Peter Rabbit— something he very much considers a ‘baby book’ now.

You don’t know that. But what you do notice is that he seems to be appraising you again, though not in the same way he had when he checked you for a stinger earlier. This appraisal is gentler and over much more quickly; at its conclusion, he changes the subject yet again. “If we’re building the rabbit a house,” he tells you, “we’ll need sticks f’r the walls. Bark’s not gonna be good enough.”

It’s an adequate distraction, and soon enough, you’ve forgotten the dangling conversation about Peter Rabbit as you and your neighbor collect sticks and branches, gather more leaves, and tear long grass from its roots to lay it down for cushioning in the bottom of your construction project.

The process is not entirely smooth, as it never is between two people who are still learning to work with one another, but you and your new neighbor share a common desire which helps to ease it. Despite starting your acquaintance firmly enclosed within your own tough shells, since then, common ground has been discovered. As such, both you and this strange boy are reluctant to trample the new seed of friendship freshly planted between you. As you work alongside one another, you tend that seed with the best of yourselves: you resist the urge to insist on your own way, and he resists the urge to assume the worst in you.

You are, as Ms. Willard would put it, acting on your very best behavior.

Mama would be proud.

By the time the sun has reached its highest point in the sky, your makeshift rabbit house has three walls and a soft bed of grass at its center. The leaf roof he’d intended to make was more difficult than anticipated, so you used them instead to adorn the ground and create a path from one side of the red house to the other, with the intention of leading the bunny to the new sanctuary you’ve created. How likely it is to take you up on the offer remains to be seen, but you are pleased nonetheless with the fruits of your labor. The gleam in the boy’s eyes seems to indicate that he’s pleased, too, and you watch him begin a meandering circle to admire your hard work from all angles.

He’s pleased up until the point that tragedy strikes.

On the back end of the circle he’s making around your shared creation, an accidental knock of his calf sends Mopsy tipping slowly backward. He feels the impact and spins clumsily, but his scrabbling fingers are too late to prevent her from falling off the flat rock into the garden bed

Mopsy only lays there in the dirt for maybe a second before the boy snatches her up and cradles her to his chest in a crushing hug, holding her close and then yanking her back out to look her over. Yet the damage has been done: dirt is smudged into her red felt cloak, and it also marrs the pale cream of her long ears and the entire back of her head.

The boy tries to clear the stains away with hasty swipes of his hands. But his fingers are dirty, so all he manages to do is streak her with more brown filth. The more he tries— the more frantic he becomes, desperate to correct his mistake— the worse she gets. Helplessly, he turns to you, and you take in the crinkle of his brow, the pinch of his wide red mouth, the panicked look in his eyes as he waits for your reaction.

It’s not unreasonable for him to assume you will be angry. You had, after all, told him that Mopsy is your best friend, and now she’s been soiled by his hand. And he has, after all, already caught a glimpse of the impatience, the stubbornness, the hotness of temper that lives inside you. But what he doesn’t know is that life has already taught you that accidents happen. You remember all the times Ms. Willard has soothed hot tears, or helped you and your classmates clean up spills. And despite— or, perhaps, because of— the ire you face when your accidents make Mama and Papa so angry with you, you accept the earnest apology in his expression without any further fuss.

“Oh, that’s all right,” you tell him, and there isn’t a hint of sourness in it. When you take Mopsy from his loose fingers and look down at the new stains on her fur and clothing, your expression doesn’t even flicker. “S’just an accident. Accidents happen, y’know,” you add when the worry in his dark eyes doesn’t ease.

And then, just to make sure he really, truly understands, you smile at him. Big and wide and uninhibited, you smile.

Though you’re missing one front tooth and the effect is borderline manic, it is so poignantly obvious that the reassurance your smile offers is an instant balm. The worry clears; the boy smiles back, crinkly-eyed and wide. It warms you like a ray of sunshine has overtaken his whole face, like dark clouds have broken to reveal the wild beauty left in the sky after a summer storm has passed.

In the end, that's all it took for inevitability to take hold: a single bright smile echoed on two faces.

You don’t know the name of the strange new boy next door, but it little matters. Because when two like souls finally find their rest on a common wire, fluttering their wings as they descend to perch together and rest in the comfort of sweet company, what one calls another becomes nothing more than an afterthought.

#blueywrites #td&tc #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #farmer!eddie munson #farmer!eddie

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i-love-love · 24 days

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Hellcheer circus AU!!! I mean “freaks” is RIGHT there!!!

Tell me Eddie and the CC guys and the hellfire/party kids wouldn’t totally rock being a traveling circus

Tell me Chrissy with her suburban upbringing wouldn’t have this delightful Alice in Wonderland experience when she runs away from home to join the circus (as an acrobat or something idk live your life)

There’s so much potential here and I do NOT know enough about circus subculture to write it

#despite having attended one of two universities in the country with their own circus lol #hellcheer #hellcheer hc #hellcheer headcanon #Eddie Munson #chrissy cunningham #words of grace

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steviewashere · 6 months

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A Tribulation For Peace of Mind

Pairings: Eddie Munson & Eddie Munson's Mother, Eddie Munson & Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Brief Eddie Munson & Eddie Munson's Father Rating: MatureTags: Canon Adjacent, Coming of Age (Sort of I Might Be Bad at This), Transgender Eddie Munson, FTM Eddie Munson, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Moments in Time, Different Meeting AU, Pre-Season Two, Post-King Steve, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Good Parent Wayne Munson, Gay Wayne Munson, Additional Tags May be Added

Content Warning: Transphobia, Slurs, Mentions of Violence But None Shown, Period Typical Language, Gender Dysphoria

This is just the introduction chapter, sitting at a whopping 6.2k words. And again as a warning, this first chapter is just brief little scenes that will extend more in later chapters, apologies. Also, I'm a trans man, so keep that in mind.

🏳️‍⚧️—————🏳️‍⚧️ There’s something about her body that Elizabeth Munson can’t quite put her finger on. Something different and wrong. Maybe…Maybe wrong is a strong word, but that’s what it is, she supposes. She had soft areas on her body that she often glared at with disdain. The curves and small pouch of fat at the bottom of her tummy. Which, she doesn’t hate all that too much, her mama told her about how that pouch is protecting her. That it’s meant to keep her insides safe. But she still, very much so, wants it gone. Wants a lot of herself gone. Her long hair, curly and wild—like her mama’s, but it’s prettier, and gentler less ill-fitting on her mama. She wants what her period is giving her to be shunned to another realm. The breasts, as her mama calls them, her smile all nurturing and sweet and doting. But they make shirts sit weird, and they’re kind of heavy, and they remind her too much about having babies. She doesn’t think she wants to have kids, not in the way she was made to have them. That doesn’t feel good to think about, either. Her fingers are long and narrow. Which, they aren’t too bad. Useful to learn the guitar with. But she looks at them and believes that they aren’t what her eyes are meant to see.

She finds herself admiring boys a lot. How they often don’t have to think about their body, unless they’re playing sports. They make her chest hurt. Like a quick staple in her skin. The boys in her school have short hair, first of all. Tidied up, shaved cleanly on the sides, high tapered and shaped nicely to their heads. Boys have lean bodies with defined muscles. They have flat chests and flat tummies, for the most part, and big feet, big hands, thick fingers.

Why did she have to come out looking like herself, she often wonders. Why couldn’t she have meaty muscles and hair all over the place and a deep rasp in her throat? How come she’s gotta smoke cigarettes to achieve the voice of her dreams? Why does she even dream about having a different voice, a different body, even a different name?

When she stands in front of her mirror, much like she does this morning, much like she does every morning, she sees an imposter cloaking her soul. If monsters exist, she believes that they have wrapped themselves around her bones, mutilated themselves to be human flesh and skin toned, and they inhabit her brain.

Her fingers comb through her hair for the thousandth time, frustrated beyond belief. She can’t make her hair look good or normal or right.

In a feeble attempt to make some sense of herself, she wraps her palm around her heavy head of hair, tugging it back behind her ears, above her shoulders, and imagines herself without it. What she’d look like. All rounded facial features and pouty lips, her mama’s eyes and her daddy’s crooked smile. Wraps her free arm around her chest, pushing and prodding around until her breasts are practically as flat as they can possibly be. She steps back from the full length mirror of her bedroom, the portal to monsters and Narnia and Wonderland, and sees it for what it is for the first time: A simple bedroom mirror.

Because there, in the reflection where her body once stood, is a little boy with scraggly arms and a chubby little belly and knobby knees. A little boy who’s mama doesn’t know how to cut hair all that well, maybe settles for a bowl cut each time, and each time he thinks she did a great job. A little boy who’s freshly twelve years old and doesn’t want to go to his first day of seventh grade, where the other kids will mock him. This little boy who seems to smile.

And she realizes, dropping her hair in haste at the rapid knocking on her door, she is not a girl. No, not at all.

Elizabeth Munson is a boy.

———— Boys act tough. Boys are rowdy. Boys are stupid creatures.

Elizabeth mimics them as well as he’s able. He still hasn’t figured out his name, not yet. But he knows how to growl and retort. Can take up space with big gestures and act all bothersome at the prospect of sitting like a lady. He can do all kinds of things.

But the one thing he hasn’t been able to do yet? Shake the sensation of his heavy hair.

He goes home one afternoon after a difficult day of school. Where he got called pretty and ugly and chic and darling. Shoved into lockers and teased for not wearing makeup. For stealing his daddy’s flannels and covering himself up, like he doesn’t want to be seen. He sneaks into the bathroom and finds his dad’s shaving kit.

If he can’t go somewhere and request for his hair to be cut a certain way, then he’ll just have to do it himself. He’s not sure how to successfully do it. But he begins with snipping away the ends. Up to his ears. Cuts off his bangs all choppy like. Drags the razor across his scalp. The tufts of hair falling to his shoulders. His naked shoulders. His naked torso still shining like dull copper in the mirror, heavy breasts and curvy waist and slim shoulders.

He shakes himself off like a dog.

And when the razor is unplugged, repackaged, put away for nobody to find. He takes himself in.

There in the reflection, is a…person with a shaved head. He throws on a t-shirt. And sees, truly, a little boy with his mama’s eyes and his daddy’s nose and unruly little scars from being shoved into things at school.

But he sees a boy. Or the outline of a boy. He sees the imprint, the footprint in wet sand, an initial carved into a tree. Then he thinks about his introductions. About going, “I’m Elizabeth.” The grimace that brings to his face. He holds a hand out to the mirror, his reflection almost mocking his movement. And rolls some names off of his tongue.

“Hi, I’m Allan,” he starts. Maybe he should be named after his father, but that doesn’t taste all that well. Another Allan Munson would be the end of the world. If being a boy in girl’s skin doesn’t kill him, then being the appendage of a criminal would. And he’s already had plenty of close encounters.

He takes a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Sam…I’m Sammy,” he tries. His mama’s name is Samantha, so maybe he should go after her. But if she was considered a hippie basketcase to the rest of Townsend, Tennessee, then he will, too. By default. Seems like maybe going the family route won’t work in his favor.

“George,” he shoots. “Georg—ie.” That’s another option. He wants a nickname.

Elizabeth garners Eliza and Liza and Beth and Bethany.

Allan gets Al. Samantha is Sammy or Sam or Mandy.

But he can’t, for the life of him, think of a single name that fits like a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. Can’t find something sweet, maybe a little sophisticated. Something that rolls. A name that would be easy for himself to remember. Or one that a person could hear in passing, maybe think he said something else.

What about famous artists?

“I’m Jonathan, but I prefer Johnny,” he mutters, thinking of Johnny Cash. He shakes his head and resets on his feet. “John, but I like Johnny.” John Prine is on his mind for that one. Flaps his hand to get rid of the ache from holding out for so long, drops it to his side, switches to the other. “Woody,” he whispers, but that’s not right either. Woody Guthrie has that.

He sighs. Never in his life did he think finding a name would be so hard. Briefly, he wonders how his mama did it. How she remembered his birth name even after heaving and laboring for hours, coming out exhausted and bloody and sobbing. God, he hopes he never has to experience this again. But, knowing his luck, he may as well start making lists—who else in his life may want a new name? Seems like he’s got plenty to pull from the recycling bin.

Holding out his palm again, he thinks about Eddie Van Halen. Thinks about fast music. Thinks about music that bonds him to the floor, that thrums his heart, that boils his blood. He imagines playing to sold out crowds, being called out to the stage. The crowd cheering, voices a concoction of screaming and wailing. “Ed-die! Ed-die! Ed-die!” They shout.

“Eddie,” he murmurs. Looks himself in the eyes. Big and brown. Just like his mama’s. Thinks of her holding his head. Kissing his temple. Folding the collars of his shirts, helping him tie his shoes, teaching him to brush his teeth. Of her saccharine voice like honey on the shell of his ear, sticky and golden.

Her lips to his sheared hair. Holding him by the shoulders. Her eyes watering from pride. Whispering, “You make Mama proud, you hear me Edward? My little Eddie’s gonna make Mama proud.”

Thinks of her body not ravaged by illness, her tummy fluffy and her arms full, her hair still long and tickling his neck. Thinks about the day she called him to her arms, announcing that she was sick, but that her biggest accomplishment—the thing she’s most proud of—was that she had a wonderful little kid. A brave kid. A tough kid.

“A precious little stone. ’T’s what you are, baby,” her voice had lilted. That Tennessee drawl to her bottom lip. Her nimble hands, just like his, soothing the ache in his sides, showing him how to take care of himself. Where the pads were and how to get blood out of clothes. Of her applying mascara, but nothing more, because less is more. He thinks of her hands on his cheeks. Murmuring all sweet like, “You were almost a baby boy, you know that? How funny that would’a been. But, you wanna know something, angel?” And he had nodded in her hold. “I would’a named you Edward. Cause you are the guardian of my heart. My heart is yours. And you are my heart. And whatever you do in this world, baby, I will be right there with you.”

Her voice against his cheek, kissing away his tears. “I’ll be right here,” she whispers, tapping his heart. “And no matter what you do. No matter who you are. Where you end up. You will always have my heart, my pride, my joy.”

He thinks of her at the end of her life. He’s nearly twelve years old and he’s feeling all too awkward about himself. She holds out her palm. And he takes it. She squeezes, murmuring, “Never change your heart, angel, never change your heart.” Her breath gone. And him, that ache and her palm, but those words being all that was left.

“I’m Edward Munson,” he introduces to the mirror. “But you can call me Eddie, if you’d like.” And yearns like a sunflower in the middle of winter.

———— Turns out with girl’s skin and boy hair, you don’t earn your place in the world. That you get kicked down and shoved in the mud and bloodied until all that’s recognizable is your eyes, fearing and hurt. Well, at least, that’s what happens in 1978; when Eddie’s twelve years old and trying to make his existence permanent in the world.

His dad isn’t proud. Never has been. Definitely never will. He drags Eddie back to their home. Makes him pack some bags. And Eddie thinks, briefly now, how at least he was given the ability to pack his bags, to gather his things. To say goodbye to the shadows that linger; they’re the shapes of Elizabeth and Mama.

He’s put into the back of the car. Told to be silent. To look out the window. Listen to his garbage music. He finds himself in the screeching of rock and heavy drums, of being an outcast on the outside of something great—how alternative rock has shown him that. Finds himself in the vocals, defying normal music rules, of going against all that he should know. Finds himself on the road between Townsend, Tennessee and Hawkins, Indiana. One small town exchanged for the other.

There are no words said as they pull into the Forest Hills trailer park. As the car stops at the end of the drive in a little dusty non-existent driveway. Or as Eddie gets out, bags in hand—a trash bag, one duffel, his school bag. When his dad goes up to the door and bangs like the cops that would show up to arrest him. Eddie almost snorts, almost laughs himself into pissing his pants—to think he’s being dragged away from his home, sent somewhere else, sentenced to this new life—how the tables turn.

Allan’s brother, Wayne Munson, answers. Eddie hasn’t seen him in a long while. They were never really allowed near each other, for reasons unknown to him. Wayne’s a few years older than his brother, tall and lean, dark brown hair that’s almost all gone from the top of his head and barely brushed by grey. He leans out the screen door, one hand on the handle, the other on the door behind him. Wearing a pair of dirtied up light wash Wranglers, some scuffed and muddied works boots, a blue Carhartt heavy duty jacket with holes in the pockets, and an orange and yellow plaid button up. Looks like he’s about to head off for work. Which makes sense. It’s probably somewhere around 8pm here; he works late nights at the plant, for all that Eddie remembers.

“Al, what the hell are you doin’ here?” Wayne greets unkindly. His voice is deep and gruff. Barely has a drawl to it, but it’s tinged with something. Tinged with a sweetness not known in the outskirts of a place like Hawkins. “An’ why’re you bringin’ your kiddo ‘round? I got work and ya didn’t call me in advance.”

“Ya still one of ‘em fags?” Al spits, ignoring the interrogation.

Wayne is genuinely startled by the question. His head rears back, nearly connecting with the jamb behind him. He steps out of the doorway, towering over the both of them from his place on the porch, arms crossed heavy over his chest, a deep furrow to his eyebrows. He’s got wrinkles…and they aren’t the happy ones. “Why the fuck are you askin’ me that?” And in just that sentence alone, the sweetness evaporates from his voice. Replaced instead by a curdled garbling, velvet and rich, coming from the very depths of him.

Al mirrors Wayne. Though, he leans in, like he’s getting ready to sample the knuckles Wayne’s about to send him. “‘Cause, somehow, you infected my little girl. Got some cross-dressin’, confused, little transvestite for a kid instead.” His hand reaches behind him, cupping Eddie’s left shoulder harshly. Enough that there’s a loud smack, enough that Eddie winces, enough that he wants to curl up in a ball and cry. He shoves Eddie forward.

Eddie stumbles onto the bottom step, almost landing in the dirt below with gravel in his palms. He wants to puke or tear out the rest of his hair or rip apart his insides. Everything is wrong and now he knows he’s wrong and nothing’s gonna make this right.

“I ain’t raisin’ no kid like this, Wayne. She’s your fuckin’ prob’em now.”

And that’s it. Allan turns to leave, Wayne’s hollering after him, and Eddie’s crying down at the bottom step of the stairs. He’s wishing like all hell that he could curl up in bed with his mama, hear one of her many bedtime stories, get his neck massaged by her careful hands, and just sleep. Sleep this off. Sleep until the sun is out and the world has ended and all that’s left is bones. Just bones and debris and wildlife. Bones and debris and carnage.

A gentle palm settles on his back, he flinches at the contact, but settles when all it does is swipe in languid circles. There’s a boot in his field of vision. The speckled mud. Dried and caked. He blearily looks up, tears cascading and burning down his face, eyes irritated from all the cryings and beatings he’s endured in just the last few weeks. He’s got nasty yellow bruises on his skin and new tiny scars on his hairline, etched into his forehead like brands. He knows he’s unsavory to look at right now. But still, Wayne’s looking down at him as if he’s the sun and Eddie’s searching for sunlight.

“Hey, kid,” Wayne murmurs. “Why don’tcha come inside with me?” He offers out the palm not on Eddie’s back. Wiggling his fingers like that’ll be more enticing. And, maybe Eddie’s resolve is completely absent, because the wiggling is enough for him to place his own shaky hand down. For his cold, narrow fingers to be squeezed by his uncle’s calloused and thick ones.

He gets hauled up from the ground, brushed off on the shoulders, a pet to the top of his head. And a little weak smile from Wayne. A barely there thing. A soft and sweet thing, nonetheless. He’s ushered inside to the hideous and dilapidated sofa that was in the background of his better childhood memories. Settled down onto one of the cushions. Wayne gently pries the sneakers from off his feet, sets them down on the carpeted floor. He takes Eddie’s coat and hangs it up on one of the dining chair backs at the breakfast nook. The one closest to the phone, the one Eddie used to always eat French toast breakfasts in. The bags come inside, placed down somewhere distantly.

Eddie’s barely aware of what the hell is happening. Just knows that his stomach is empty and he’s hungry. His head is throbbing from the bruising still there on his cheeks and all the goddamn crying. Chest concave and heavy. So, so heavy. He can only sniffle when Wayne sits beside him. Another gentle palm to his shoulder, the one that Al had smacked earlier.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. Let me say that first,” Wayne’s whispering. Eddie just nods along, eyes unfocused and glazed, tearing up again at the gentle voice being thrown his way. When did everything turn so hard and unkind, a dull part of him wonders. Wayne’s soft voice cracks through his despondency, “But you will always be welcomed here. Gotta warn you, though, I ain’t never raised a kid. And you—uh—you sound like you got a complicated thing goin’ on, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eddie rasps. “’T’s all so…It’s a lot, Uncle Wayne.”

“I know, buddy,” Wayne continues, keeping his voice soft. “Believe me when I say that I know. Been in your shoes before.”

“Are you…You a boy like me?”

Wayne shakes his head. “No, I ain’t. But I—Your daddy—“

“Not my dad,” Eddie butts in.

“Not your dad,” Wayne mutters. He clears his throat. Something about him is congested, too. “But Al wasn’t wrong about me. I’m a fag. I’m a gay man, kid,” he confesses. Continues, “Was thrown out by the collar of my shirt, same as you. But, kid, there ain’t nothing wrong with us.”

His lip trembles. Shakily voicing, “Feels like there’s something wrong with me, Wayne. Why else would I be here?”

“Because you’re different. And you’re unique. And your heart is too big for Al to handle.” He takes a deep breath, rubbing his palm between Eddie’s shoulder blades. “But you stay here. I’ll let you have my bedroom tonight while I’m at work. We’ll unpack you tomorrow. And I’ll figure out your schooling, okay?” Eddie sniffles and nods. “Okay,” Wayne mutters, “What’s your name, buddy?”

Eddie wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and then holds it out. Wayne chuckles, a slight scrunch to his nose, but still he takes it. Something is warm in the way their palms touch. A gentle candle flame. Darkness waning for now. He finds himself softly smiling at his uncle. “My name’s Edward,” he introduces, “But you can call me Eddie.”

“Well, Ed—“ Wayne stops and raise his eyebrows. That okay, he’s asking. Eddie nods for him to continue. “Well, Ed, it’s nice to meet you. Welcome home.”

It wasn’t ideal, how he was forced from his home. But he thinks that it’ll be alright with the way Wayne smiles at him. As if, maybe or definitely, Wayne’s excited to have somebody similar to him in this town. And Eddie is in the same boat.

———— Talking at school isn’t something he’s done in a really long while.

Even back in Tennessee, Eddie didn’t try it. And still, he doesn’t do it here in Indiana, not really. One rural place for another. Conservative for conservative. He’d get worse looks than the scrutinizing ones he already receives.

The other kids look at him a lot. How he dresses. How he walks. He’s been mimicking so many other boys, trying to find that odd middle ground, his gate is all over the place. Some guys walk short and brisk and scurry like rats. Others are slow and suave. He even tries to impersonate any and all mannerisms that the boys offer. But there’s this one seventh grader that disrupts all that Eddie believes is “correct.”

Steve Harrington is an odd kid. He’s jock-ish; meaning that he’s in sports, he plays them, but he’s not very good. And he’s rather quiet, though rowdy with his friends. His friends aren’t good people. Eddie deduces that pretty fast. He’s been shoved out of the way by Tommy Hagan (apparently Steve’s best friend) and called some ugly name, and has to hold onto his bearings as Carol Perkins (Tommy’s little (maybe) girlfriend) pointedly looks towards his chest. But Steve…He’s weird. He walks fast, but suave, though scurrying and intimidated. Hasn’t really grown into his still pre-pubescent boyish body, as if that hasn’t been his body since probably elementary school. He gets excited about cars and history class and books, but flushes sensitive when he’s shot down by his gross friends. And he’s…Steve is kind. Steve is kind.

That’s the strangest thing to Eddie. Because all Eddie’s known is that most men, sans Wayne, and most boys, sans Steve Harrington, are terrible and spitting and mean. They’re the type to get in your face and bully you for your choice in shirt. They’re messy. They’re unruly. At least, that’s what Eddie’s collected. That’s what he’s written down on the fake scroll of rules, his doctrine in the back of his head.

Rule One: Boys are loud.

Rule Two: Boys are gross.

Rule Three: Jock boys are the worst.

Rule Four: Steve Harrington is not a normal boy and this cannot be changed.

Maybe that’s why Eddie gains a liking towards him. Maybe that’s why he wants to be his friend. And he tries. He really, really does. But Steve scatters. He clams up. His eyes are wide and his hair is teased up and his polo is too big for his scrawny collarbones. He can never pick one spot on Eddie’s face to look at, sight often dropping down to the floor. Though, Eddie does catch him looking at his chest once. Just once, by accident. But he quickly looked away, as if Steve knew what Eddie was trying to hide with the baggy clothes he stole from Wayne. The only other times he’s done it, not by accident, have been completely purposeful and oddly…curious, though not in a malicious way. As if, maybe, Steve really, truly wants to know. As if, maybe, Steve can almost relate.

Every time Eddie talks to Steve (his voice pitched low like taking a deep breath and scratchy from recently smoking a cigarette), he gets closer and closer to a real conversation. Less of, “Hey, you’re Steve, right? Maybe we can play—What’s that sport you do? Basketball? We can play basketball at recess—Hey! Where are you going?”

No, he’s close to Steve asking him a question. Though, his eyes don’t stay in one place. He gets weirdly fidgety. And really quiet. And he bolts. Sometimes, if Eddie is there when Tommy and Carol are with Steve, he hears the strangest thing.

Tommy will say something as Steve scatters, something along the lines of, “Run away, Stevie-boy! Run away! You’re good at that!” And Carol will snicker beside him.

But that’s not the strange thing. It’s something Steve responds with that makes Eddie grow curious. “Don’t call me that!” Steve will shout back. His hands tight to his body, trying to cover himself up. And that, well, Eddie knows that no other boy has done that. He hasn’t seen any other guy in Indiana, in little rural Hawkins, in any of his classes, do what Steve does every time Tommy calls him “Stevie-boy.” Can’t help himself from wondering, half the time, why Steve even sticks around these fools.

He backs off, but not without also thinking, Steve is a lot like me.

The rest of his eighth grade year goes by pretty uneventful. There’s the talent show that he attends, playing his guitar for a group of guys that cling to him pretty fast. That don’t make fun of his voice or his clothes. Who show him metal and Dungeons & Dragons, who know all about his Tolkien books, and who align with a lot of his doctrine. They are rowdy and they are gross, sometimes, but they teach him to get his energy out positively. Though, Eddie doesn’t think the gross factor can be fixed. He does lean into that aspect a little bit more, the more he grows comfortable with time. But otherwise, his friend group is small, eighth grade is stupid, and he moves on to high school. And in the rearview is Steve Harrington, who finally figures out how to get what he wants. Who defaults just as Eddie does. And, oddly, still is silently polite to Eddie—still curious with his gazes, not subtle at all. And who is somebody that Eddie learns to be jealous of.

Steve Harrington is a curious case. One to be reviewed. He’s a boy. An abnormal one. He’s attractive and smarmy and nerdy and jock-ish. And he’s somebody that Eddie keeps on his radar for many years.

Though, as it’s been said, his jealousy rears it’s ugly head.

———— In the time between eighth grade and starting his senior year, Eddie learns how to bind his chest with bandages. It’s not the easiest task, but he wakes up early to get it done. The first few times is awkward and deeply uncomfortable and he quickly tore them from his body. Though, he learns. He learns because Wayne gets tips and tricks from friends that he has. Because Wayne had mentioned there were ways to make Eddie feel less self-conscious about his body, at least somewhat.

So he learns. And he’s able to wear less baggy clothes. Though, his shirts still have some give. He still takes Wayne’s old jeans, tears holes in the knees, gets them dirty every time he works on his car or is pushed at school or spills Mtn Dew on them during Hellfire Club meetings.

That’s another thing he’s been able to do. With the small group of friends he gained in middle school, they start a Dungeons & Dragons club, disguised as a board game get together. (Because no way in Hell is a school in rural Indiana with a presbyterian church just around the corner going to let something like Dungeons & Dragons in their realm.) But he recruits some new people. People who are freaks, queers, and geeks just like him. So far, he’s got two sophomores named Jeff and Freak, a junior who goes by Ronnie, and Gareth who is a scrawny little freshman.

He should be at peace with what he has, who he is, what will come of him.

But of course he isn’t.

He learns to bind his chest, wears better clothes, grows out his hair a bit as defiance, but he’s not satisfied with everything he’s got. And that becomes apparent when Steve shows up as a junior on Eddie’s radar. He hasn’t really made an appearance, more background douche than anything, but here he is.

A kid who used to scramble out, nose to the ground, shoulders like Picasso paintings. A kid who seemed polite enough. A kid who Eddie admired a lot of the time. Now, he’s a total douchebag. Joining in on heckling the people around him like Tommy does, silently judging from the sidelines as Carol is prone to do. He’s obnoxiously loud, getting in people’s space, snarky comments, and disgusting belches. Running around like he owns the goddamn high school. As if he wasn’t some nobody with geeky interests only a few years prior.

It makes sense for Eddie to try and match his energy. Roaring about non-conformity and stupid jock parties from atop his table, two holes burning in his back from Steve’s gorgeous and fire-lit eyes. Stomping on mushy slices of square pizza, knocking cartons of chocolate milk to basketball players laps, and taking on his new title of Eddie The Freak. If anything, he prioritizes his queerness and outcast status to shine himself as a spectacle. But that still doesn’t rid of the douchey whispers he can sense coming out of Steve’s mouth at every lunch period.

Though, today is a different day. Eddie, by the fate of the Munson name, starts his period during his class before lunch. Trapped in the bathroom with red stained boxers and shaking hands, tears streaming down his face, squirming uncomfortably in front of the bathroom sink. He’s hidden in the men’s restroom. One near the lunchroom. One that nobody ever uses because then the cafeteria will smell like debris. But here he is anyway. Unable to match his own eyes in the mirror, ready to keel over, and slam his head on the porcelain tile below his—what he notices—dainty little feet. He’s able to see all the parts of his clothes that sit apart from his body, his jeans sagging, and his shirt ballooning. Sneakers that expose the extra room for his toes, able to fully move them up and down in the shoe. He wants to puke.

He thought he could have a moment of silence. To truly think about ditching class for the day. But of course he can’t have this breakdown to himself. Somebody stumbles through the door, slamming it shut behind them, shoes squeaking against the tile, and they’re panting.

When Eddie looks over, it’s to see the man of every hour, Steve Harrington. He’s red in the face, glassy eyed, mouth downward.

“Get out,” Eddie spits.

Steve looks to him. His gaze a thousand yards away. He’s haunting. But he doesn’t say anything to defend himself. And Eddie, well, he doesn’t know if he should repeat himself. Then, more blood gushes from him and he’s keeling over the sink, weak in the knees, going pale.

“Are you—“ Steve pants, “You alright?”

Eddie whimpers. “I can’t tell you,” he murmurs. “Please leave.”

But of course Steve won’t leave it. In fact, he comes closer. Right at Eddie’s side. Arms open and hands floating in caution. “Are you gonna be sick?” He asks. “We should get you over a trash can instead of the—“

“Steve, dude,” Eddie bites, “I’m—Fuck, I can’t tell you what’s wrong, alright? There’s nothing that you can do about it. Just leave me alone.” He briefly looks to the paper towel dispenser, weighing his options. Either he uses toilet paper, paper towels, or completely removes his underwear from the occasion. And these are his favorite boxers. “Actually,” he sighs. “Can you hand me a wad of paper towels? I need to—“ Pain ripples through him and he’s whimpering once more. “Fuck,” he mutters, “I should’a stayed home. The signs were all there.”

“Signs for…Dude, just tell me what’s going on. I can get a nurse or something in here. You’re freaking me out and I’m too worried about you to just leave.”

“Alright, fine,” he grits. “You wanna know so fuckin’ bad, then here’s your answer. I’m on my period.”

“Period? Don’t only—“

“Girls have periods?” Eddie finishes, blood boiling. “Yeah, Steve, they tend to. But I’m not a fucking girl. So, unless you’re in here to hand me a tampon, then you can gladly fuck off before you call me a tranny.”

Maybe that was a little over the top, but what else is he supposed to do? If he can’t be left in peace, then he may as well create it, right? Deter Steve from being in here and hopefully then he can be left alone. Then Steve says, “Oh, okay. I can—Let me get you a tampon from my locker.”

Eddie, startled and on the brink of exploding, blinks in utter confusion. “What. Why does King Steve have a tampon in his locker?”

Steve shifts from side to side. “I—uh—I like to carry them around in case Nancy needs them. Or—well—I guess anybody needs them. Let me grab you one, I’ll be right back.” And then he darts. For a second, in the slow close of the door, Eddie imagines scrawny, seventh grade Steve scurrying about the school.

He groans. Of course Steve is not only man in the ways that Eddie isn’t able to, yet. But he’s also some weird little knight in shining armor. Who the fuck does he think he is, Eddie can’t help but internally moan. He’s filled out nicely, gotten a little bit of muscle, is a bit better at the sports he plays, knows his way around school as an all high and mighty, can get any girl he wants, has the voice of Eddie’s wet dreams, and he’s a gentleman—in some ways.

True to his word, Steve comes back. Hand fisting the plastic wrapper of a tampon. Sidles easily up to Eddie, hand stretched out in offering. “It’s one of the super absorbent ones. Probably the safest bet. I didn’t ask which ones you like. So, here.” And he nudges his fist closer. “I also brought a couple snacks for when you’re done. Y’know, after you change and wash your hands. Do you—uh—do you need some new underwear? I can steal some from the guy’s locker room.”

Eddie stares down at the hand. Tentatively takes the tampon. And looks back up to Steve’s awfully earnest face. “I—Yeah, I need a new pair. But why are you being so calm about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m basically telling you that I’m one of those transvestites that everybody seems to, y’know, fucking hate. And you’re just…You’re being nice to me about this. Thought that you’d have something against that.” He clears his throat. And swallows around the lump of emotion forming. “Dude, I’m a guy with a pussy. Isn’t that—You don’t find that weird?”

Steve shrugs. “Despite what people think, I’m not a bully like that. I know that I—I’ve got problems, Eddie. But I don’t have a problem with you.” He grows wary. “Should I have a problem with you or something? Are you like a racist?”

“What?! No!” Eddie shouts. Quickly he shrinks in on himself, hand covering his mouth. He drops it away with a sigh. “It’s just—I heard that you called Jonathan Byers a queer. Y’know, in that way. And look, I don’t know if Tommy and Carol set you up to—“

“They aren’t my friends anymore.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and nods in slow astonishment. “Ohh—kay. Well, I didn’t think I could trust you, that’s all I’m saying.” He stands up straight from the sink, tampon in hand, and throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to, well, you know. If you can actually get me new boxers, that would be…That’d be much appreciated.”

“Yeah, man, ‘course.”

“One more thing, Steve?”

Before he leaves the bathroom, he looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Can you—Please keep this between us. I know you’re being cool about all this bullshit, but not everybody is. If the wrong person hears about this, I could be beat up. Or worse.”

A strange flash of defeat and sadness spreads across Steve’s face. He tenses. Shoulders going up to his ears. Eyes downcast at the floor. Nods in understanding. “Yeah, Eddie. I can keep that to myself. I understand.”

“I don’t think you do, Steve. Please, I mean it.”

Steve nods again. “Trust me, I know,” he murmurs before he’s gone.

And though he does come back with underwear, stands by as Eddie nibbles on some dark chocolate for the iron as Steve mentioned, and makes small talk—Something in Eddie twists. Steve knows now. He knows. And he’s oddly empathetic about everything. Part of him wonders if Steve is like him, exactly like him.

🏳️‍⚧️—————🏳️‍⚧️ I don't know how long until the next chapter, but I hope this suffices. Let me know what you think about it :)

#stranger things #eddie munson #transgender eddie munson #trans eddie munson #ftm eddie munson #steve harrington #wayne munson #wayne munson & eddie munson #steddie

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