#and eddie dancing around his room in socks singing head over heels

[strangersatellites]

AU where literally everything else is the same except steve’s favorite band is metallica and eddie exclusively listens to tears for fears and their friends have a very hard time reconciling these facts given everything else about them as people.

au august day 15: ancient history role reversal

[trashmouth-richie]

TWIN FLAMES: 14

twin flames masterlist

WARNING: mentions of homelessness, rough times etc

W.C 3.5k

A/N: guess who’s back…. Back again. Sorry this took so long!!! 🫣

Oh my god. What happened to him? Why is he living on the streets?! Tears prick at your eyes as you frantically run to him, discarding the bags in your arms. “Eddie! Eddie! Are you okay?” You remove the vest from his head and move aside his blonde matted hair.

A mixture of suntanned, leathery burnt skin stares at you, “Hey this mine! Git yer own!” The appearance shocks you, it wasn’t him. This poor man was not your Eddie.

Your heart breaks for a second time. The temporary tape on your heart mending it together in hopes that this poor man was in fact Eddie, is now peeling back faster than a greedy child opening a Christmas present. You were upset but needed answers. The vest meant that Eddie was here at some point in time and either lost it or donated it, but you could hardly think that he would give it away.

“Wh-where did you get the vest! It’s my friends—where did you find it?!” you ask angrily, your mother trying to drag you back from him by your upper arms.

“Found it, fair ‘n square! Out by the motel off’d the innerstate. Jus layin’ there.”

“Thank you sir,” your mother says, cautiously handing him a $20 bill.

She guides you away, holding you and the bags as you cry into her shoulder. What happened to him? Was he hurt? Injured? Lying in a hospital somewhere? Dead? Where the fuck is he?

The ride home is quick considering your hysterical crying ended up with you involuntarily falling asleep against the window, waking to find that your mom was just pulling into the driveway. The ache behind your eyes is too much, pressing into your head like coiled springs in a mattress—ready to spring free from the weight of your tears and anguish. Throwing yourself out of the car you gather the shopping bags and head inside, your mother quick on your heels.

“Honey, are you— are you alright?” She asks, eyebrows knitted with worry shoulders sagging in defeat.

You shake your head back and forth slowly, letting the weight of today consume you again as a sob racks your entire body. “I just need to lay down,” you blubber through an overflow of tears. She nods and takes the bags out of your hands, guiding you through the front door and watching you rush up the stairs to your room. Flopping onto you bed, your mind spirals out of control.

Why? Why did he leave? Why did he run to Indianapolis? Is he okay?

A thousand questions split your head, scattering around it like lightning breaking against a blackened sky. Your heart aches for him, it feels like it’s in a blender, swirling around, breaking down its soft edges, making it a bloody valve smoothie. The love you had for him was deeper than anything you’ve ever felt, it wasn’t a first kind of love all pristine and painted with daisies. This love was deeper than that. The fact that he was gone now and you not only didn’t know where he was but he possibly wasn’t safe. The thought of Eddie dead, lying somewhere on a cold street alone, body twisted and broken made you want to puke. No thinking now. You run to the connected bathroom and puke again and again until there is nothing left. Tears cloud your vision as the memories of just weeks ago in this very bathroom invade your head.

[Lighting a few candles and moving your essentials from the shower over to the edge of the tub, you turn out the lights. You remove your panties and Eddie his socks, the only clothing he had remaining. Eddie climbs in and you climb in after him, wedging yourself between his long skinny legs, leaning back against him.

This is paradise. The soft flicker of the candles casting dancing shadows against the walls in the bathroom. Eddie is humming along to music only he can hear. He lifts your left arm up and strums a guitar on your stomach moving his left fingers frantically across your arm for the frets. He sings in your ear. ]

A smile breaks across your lips at how simple things were in that moment, how desperately in love with you he was. His simple touches, feeling of his hands in your hair. The memory now feeling like a drunken night, remembering patches of the truth, a black out of if this really happened or not. He was everywhere, all around you. There wasn’t a single place in your home that a ghost of him didn’t surround. You needed him, didn’t he need you? Didn’t he love you anymore? Didn’t he care about all the times you had in the short amount of time you two had known, loved, and cared for one another. The passion behind your love, the twin flames energy bringing you both together, fighting to stay together, for you love to last. Was that all for nothing? Steve going to rehab, Mike Wheeler shooting Billy?! All of that was for him to just up and leave? Cast you aside like a used condom? Wash away all of his feelings for you in the rain that night as he screamed and was tortured by his own demons, projecting them onto you? No. You needed answers and you needed them now.

You wipe your mouth and stand up, looking at yourself in the mirror, you had seen better days. The hallows of your cheeks were deepened, the sparkle in your eye hadn’t been seen in months. You turn the sink on and splash some water onto your face. You grab your purse and immediately head down the stairs, pushing yourself faster to get your shoes on, get into your own car and drive to Hawkins, hoping to catch Wayne before he goes to work.

“…I mean it’s a lead right?” you flew to Hawkins in record time, catching Wayne right before he was getting ready to leave for work, explaining everything you had seen and what the homeless man told you.

Wayne rubs his scruffy beard, pacing around the small kitchen, “yeah it is, I’d put money on it. Goddamn boy, what the hell is he doing in Indianapolis?!”

“I’m going back, I’m gonna find him, Wayne and bring him home.”

“Darlin’ you can’t go alone.” Wayne protests, “I swear if anything happened to you, your daddy’d kill me, and I’d never forgive myself. Let me make a few calls and we will go together.” He leans forward quickly standing on his feet and making his way to the old phone hanging from the wall.

Wayne calls his work and tells them he won’t be in. You had both agreed to take your car since there was more room. “I’m gonna fill your car up quick, call your folks and let ‘em know what’s going on, I don’t want them thinking that you ran off too, they don’t want to know what that feels like.” He blinks back tears and grabs one of many caps hung by the door.

After calling your parents and explaining to them that you were going with Wayne to look for Eddie, your father had agreed to call anyone he knew in Indianapolis to keep an eye out for him. You decided to call Gareth, the only other person who might know Eddie better than you or Wayne. All of you together knowing Eddie on different levels.

Gareth had agreed to go with, almost giddy at the opportunity. He rushed down to the Forest Hills Trailer Park on his bike, the wind whipping between the tufts of the moppy honeyed curls on his head.

“Did you see anything else?” Gareth pipes up from the passenger seat. You were crammed in three across the single cab of Wayne’s pick up chugging along to Indianapolis.

“Just the vest, and the motel the guy mentioned.”

“God what the hell man?” Gareth snips, “Sorry, Mr. Munson.” Gareth checked, an awkward look upon his face.

Wayne shoots a glance over at Gareth, shrugs and says, “have you met Eddie? He isn’t exactly Mr. Proper.”

Gareth laughs, “I mean I get you guys broke up or whatever but he didn’t just leave you, he left all of us. Corroded Coffin, Hellfire Club— like none of it mattered to him, I’m gonna kick his ass when we find him.”

“Might have to beat Wayne to get to him first.” you smile softly as you look straight ahead, a smirk jumps across Wayne’s face.

You were so wrapped up in the way that you were hurt by Eddie that you hadn’t even given it a thought on how anyone else but you and Wayne were hurting from his disappearance. He abandoned everyone who loved him in Hawkins, anyone who had ever cared for him. It was sad, and you weren’t the only one who was clearly upset about it.

The drive wasn’t long, your car adding to the soft hums of some oldies radio station Wayne had insisted on listening too. The closer and closer you got to Indianapolis, the more worried you became, “Off the interstate?” Wayne asked, rubbing his scruffy beard.

You nod your head yes and intake a big breath. “What if—what if I’m wrong Wayne?” Tears threatening to spill over your lashes, as you wring the denim of your shorts. Gareth looks out the window, shuffling uncomfortably.

Deep in thought, Wayne tapped his fingers along the steering wheel. “We’ll just keep looking if that’s the case.” He smiles unconvincingly and turns his eyes back to the road.

The last thing you wanted to do was give Wayne false hope. He was hurting more than you were, impossible as that seems. The thought of burrowing a senseless hope for finding Eddie in Wayne made you physically sick.

The outline of the shady motel peered into view as Wayne craned the wheel into the parking lot, throwing the car in park and looking around at the office. “Well, this must be it,” Wayne says, peering out of the window. Neon lights of the motel were flickering. The parking lot was desolate, Eddie’s van nowhere in sight. Your stomach drops. “Let’s uh—let’s go find out what we can.”

Heavy footsteps move you all closer to the office following Wayne as Gareth trails behind you. The hotel was nearly run down, yellowing wallpaper sagging from the office walls, a fat lazy orange cat lays on the stained desk. Dying plants hung from the ceiling, decaying leaves scattered on the floor beneath them. A short brittle old woman with oversized glasses and a two pack habit thumbed through the yellow pages. Cigarette with a mile long ash hanging on for dear life. “Excuse me, ma’am?” Wayne asks with a stern voice, “have you seen a guy in here, about 20, longer brown hair, probably had a guitar?” He asks, “drives a two-toned van?”

The older woman thinks for a while, picking tuna from her teeth, “Room 38,” she said tossing Gareth a key, “and if you see him, you let him know that he owes for this passed week, and I’ll sell whatever he has in there if he doesn’t come back and clean up that mess!”

“Wait, what do you mean if we see him?” Gareth asks, “isn’t he here?”

“No idea, haven’t seen anyone go into or out of that room for about three days now.” She scowls, petting the cat as she feeds it the rest of a sad looking tuna sandwich.

“Thank you ma’am,” Wayne says politely, a slump to his broad shoulders as he heads out the door, hanging his head as he walks. The feeling of dread radiates through your body and pulls on your heart as you move toward Room 38. The broken slabs of sidewalk leading from the office to the door of room 38 are anything but comforting, the ‘3’ hanging on the door is held up by the bottom nail through the number, hanging slanted and upside down. Wayne quickly unlocks the door, eyes large as he shoves the door open.

The pay phone outside of Club Z barely worked, cords hanging on by threads, the receiver cracked and busted, more than likely broken from one too many slams against the pole it rested on, heartbreak on one end, drunken slob of a man on the other. Fumbling with a quarter he fits it into the slot, hammering the number he had memorized. Trying like hell to stand up.

He had tried so hard. So fucking hard to make this work, why wasn’t it working for him? Plenty of people left Hawkins and ended up fine, great even, why couldn’t he? He couldn’t get you out of his head. It was you who he saw when he closed his eyes at night, every single night since he left. The reality of his predicament weighing heavy on his mind, and his heart.

When it happened he just thought it was a stroke of bad luck. People get mugged in big cities all the time right? He would just have to get used to it, the busted up face? Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. Only this time you weren’t there with him. He continued on like always, trying to sweet talk the manager of the club into letting him play a song, asking the band who did play that night if they needed an extra guy on vocals or bass. Only to be laughed out of the club entirely. But alas, he had kept his head up. Things weren’t good but they certainly weren’t the worst. He still had a little bit of money from selling some of his extra amps. A couple cans of spaghetti o’s could last him two days if he planned it out right.

And he could have kept going, could have made it—wouldn’t have been standing here clinging to the phone and trying to keep from falling over. If it hadn’t happened again.

The second mugging he was sure his ribs were broken, he wasn’t sure how many were broke, but it was difficult for him to breathe. The wound in his leg was festering and in desperate need of attention, but he didn’t care. He had lost all hope at this point, only finding thinking of you made the pain hurt a little bit less, like the blood pumped slower when he concentrated on your face, made him stop thinking about all the bad shit that continued to happen to him since he had been gone.

He was at a stoplight thumbing his fingers along to ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ when it happened. They came out of nowhere, whether he was too naive to see it, or simply wasn’t paying any attention, he had been blind sighted, punched in the head, and pulled hard out of the van, kicked into the ribs by at least two pairs of heavy boots, and then the final stab to the leg, ensuring he wouldn’t get up to chase them. As if that would be something he would do. They took the van and everything in it, some of his clothes, the last little bit of money to his name, and more importantly, his guitar. He was left bleeding in the street, blood painting the asphalt like a sidewalk artist with chalk.

That was two nights ago. And it has taken two full days to get back to this goddamn pay phone. He originally wanted to get back to the motel, possibly take a shower, lay in bed and then make his phone call, but he couldn’t make it that far. His energy was depleted. He just had a few numbers to punch in and then he could sit down. He wouldn’t hang up this time, he would wait for you to answer— you always did. He was just too chicken shit to say anything. But this time he needed you, needed help. Punching the last digit to your number Eddie felt woozy, closing his eyes and leaning back against the pay phone, not realizing his body is slipping down, fading into the sidewalk.

“Jesus.” Gareth muttered when the door to Eddie’s motel flung open. A quick scan of the room obviously revealed that he wasn’t there, but that he had been here at some point in time. The wallpaper was peeling from the wall in the corners, roof damage presented itself with pools of brown stains on the ceiling tiles. The shag carpet was coming up and tumbled in places that the adhesive no longer stuck to. The brass decorations clashed heavily with the warm copper and rust colored drapes and bedding.

Empty cans of spaghetti o’s and beer littered every surface, a carton of milk sat opened on top of the mini fridge, dirty socks, various band shirts and boxers littered the floor along with dozens of scraps of paper. Some just doodles of creatures from DnD others were song lyrics, scrawled across the pages in every which direction. A notebook and pen lay on the unmade bed, the mattress itself lay crooked on the mattress. Empty cigarette packs and a single guitar pic were on top of the tv. The room smelled like him, cigarettes and a hint of weed mixed with some cheap cologne. The nightstand held a telephone, a full ashtray and a book of matches. It was a mess. No wonder the old lady at the desk was pissed, it had looked like a tornado had come through here destroying everything in its wake and projectile vomiting it in complete and utter disarray.

“Let’s look for any signs of where he could be,” you decide, fumbling through the papers on the floor. Gareth started looking in the bathroom, finding nothing but strings of Eddie’s long mane stuck in the shower drain and crawling onto the sink like long legged spiders. Wayne looked through the pairs of jeans on the floor, searching the pockets for any scrap he could find. You adjusted the bed and took a seat reading through the scrawl of Eddie’s handwriting, laughing at how terrible it was.

The lyrics were full of pain, sorrow, the dark pits of despair of being alone. They were heartbreaking mostly because they were all about you. You didn’t have time for this right now, you quietly fold the papers and stuff them into the pockets of your shorts, wiping the tears away as quickly as they fall. Gareth fumbled around with his jean pockets, looking for a lighter, “anyone got a lighter?” He grumbles. You pick up the matches next to the table and toss them towards him, “gracias,” he chides.

“Holy fuck, holy fuck!” Gareth screams as he runs towards Wayne.

Wayne puts a calloused hand over his heart, “Christ you’re gonna give me a heart atta—”

“Look! Look!” Gareth is waving around the matches, like a child winning tickets at a fair. Wayne looks at the matches and grins, he tosses them to you. Printed on the back reads:

Club Z

Indianapolis, IN

‘Open 24 hrs’

Running to the office to get a phone book to find the address, Wayne and Gareth lock up Eddie’s room and start the car. You write the address down as quick as you can, getting a quick direction of where the club was from the older lady—you hurry back to the car.

Gareth sits in the passenger seat as you climb into the back Wayne wastes no time, speeding down the road to the direction of the club.

He’s swimming towards you. The closer he thinks he is the further away you get. Something's not quite right. Each time his head breaks the surface you’re standing exactly where he just was, waving him towards you, calling out to him. He tries again, but the same thing keeps happening. He’s pulled under the water, his lungs feel like they’re collapsing. He needs to breathe. He opens his mouth and takes a deep breath, expecting the taste of chlorine to fill his mouth instead it’s the sweet scent of vanilla icing, a hint of smoke, and Doritos.

His eyes flash open, and your face comes into view. Tears are dripping down his face but they aren’t his. He must be dreaming, how are you here in front of him.

“He’s awake! Wayne! He’s awake,” sobbing is heard from further away, but Eddie pays no attention to it. Only focusing on your face smiling at him, is this heaven?

Or is this hell? Surely you wouldn’t have come to get him, you wouldn’t have drove here to find him. How did you find him? No this is a fucking joke, a sick satanic dream. You didn’t want him, not after everything he put you through. Not after the way he treated you— left you at the end of your driveway crying like that in the rain. There’s no fucking way. This isn’t real, he needs to wake up. But you’re looking right at him and crying. So he must be dead. Your voice is fading in and out. He closes his eyes and paints a mental picture of your face behind his lids, a time when you were happy, a time when you were his.

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