#the cutting edge (1992)

[90smovies]

[of-fear-and-love]

[bluecinephile]

the cutting edge (1992) newest jily variant for me.

[fallenangelontheceiling]

I'm watching The Cutting Edge (1992) right now and it is very bad and very sexist except for the parts that are AMAZING

[ennaih]

Every Film I Watch In 2023:

271. The Cutting Edge (1992) -- a rewatch

[feeblescholarmyass]

Chapter One

tags: skk, Osamu Dazai x Chuuya Nakahara, figure skating au, based on the movie The Cutting Edge (1992), Dazai is a bit of a brat, trans!Dazai, Chuuya is an ex hockey player, Chuuya is a bit of an asshole, Olympic figure skating, Ango as Dazai's legal guardian (trust me it had to be done. I had no other option. just trust me on this.)

note: because of characterisation purposes, I removed the original context of the very first scene. I've never seen Chuuya as a "player" kind of guy so the whole scene just felt unnatural. Expect similar edits due to characterisation later. If you enjoy, please leave a comment or reblog! Feel free to ask to be added to the tag list if you'd like to be notified for future updates!

thank you to my beta reader and wonderful boyfriend @ratty-rat-toot 🩷

masterlist | next

cross posted on ao3

Chuuya groaned as an unfamiliar beeping noise pierced through the veil of sleep and into his consciousness. He buried his face deeper into his pillow, trying to ignore the aggravating noise. It only took a couple more seconds before he was done with it and forced himself to sit up, blearily looking around the room for the source of his irritation.

An alarm clock placed inconveniently far from his bed screamed at him, the mechanism shaking from the volume of the alarm. He grumbled a few curses under his breath as he slipped out of bed, the cold winter air clinging to his bare chest maliciously. He briefly regretted not having slept in the sweater he had been wearing the night before.

He slammed his fist down on the off button, then rubbed his eyes to get a better look at the time. As the red symbols faded into recognizable numbers, he felt his heart leap into his throat. No no nonononono. He had to be reading it wrong. It must have turned off in the middle of the night and reset itself. That was the only explanation he could think of for the numbers visible on the screen.

“SHIT!” He exclaimed. “I’m so fucking late!”

He panicked, shoving all his things in his duffel bag and pulling on his clothes, hands trembling as it hit him just how late he was. He had meant to set an alarm for nine a.m, but in his sleep-deprived and anxious state had somehow managed to instead set it for one. In the afternoon.

He stumbled to the door, practically pulling it off its hinges as he hurried outside and sprinted to the stadium.

Dazai felt the sting of the icy air against his palm. The hand of his partner did little to stave the creeping chill that threatened to ruin his flawless stance by forcing him to shiver (an unfortunate bodily function he had yet to find a way to circumvent).

While he managed to keep it together, his partner was another matter entirely. The lanky man had been growing increasingly clumsy the closer they drew to their performance. He made more and more mistakes and Dazai was starting to lose his patience.

As they twirled around the rink, Dazai noticed that his partner's grip on him begin to waver. Just when they were reaching the highlight of the routine, he felt the slip. The two tumbled around on the ice, barely catching themselves from crashing into a wall.

He couldn't help it when a frustrated cry bubbled up from his lips. If they couldn't get it perfect and quick, he could kiss his chance at the gold goodbye. And he needed that gold.

Mori groaned from the bleachers, his head in his hands. “This is the Olympics, Dazai. Thirty million people just called their families in from the kitchen to watch the replays. What do you think this is, Junior Pairs, ‘02?” He sighed exasperatedly.

Dazai wrinkled his nose at the man, not caring enough to hold his tongue. “It's not my fault he can't get a proper grip on me,” he sneered, shoving his thumb in the direction of his skating partner. “It's humiliating to work with someone so untalented.”

Before he could get another word in, his partner interjected. “She’s impossible to work with! If I'm not good enough for her, then no one is.” He complained, not even bothering to address Dazai. Instead, he spoke directly to Mori. Like that would fix anything.

Mori rubbed his temples. “Dazai, just give him a break. You two can't keep fighting like this if you want to look good for the judges. They'll be able to see the tension from miles away.”

“Well, until Hercules here learns how to lock his grip, I'm going to keep holding him accountable.” He shoved his partner away and skated off, not willing to put up with another moment of either of the men’s complaining. He was perfect. If something had to change, it needed to start with them.

He pulled himself off of the rink and removed his skates, already dreading the talk with Ango he knew was inevitable. He didn't need to hear that we was being difficult right now. That wouldn't help anything. All he wanted was to get back to his room and sleep like a rock until it was time for the performance.

Of course, fate had other plans. Before he could even finish packing his bag, Ango was already standing above him, looking exhausted.

“Dazai, you can't keep fighting every time you get on the ice,” he began. Dazai cut him off before the lecture could get going.

“I'm not going to apologize. If anyone needs to apologize, it would be him.” He spat, roughly shoving his arm into the sleeve of his coat.

“Dazai!” Ango attempted to reason with him, but Dazai was already out the door.

Chuuya didn't give himself a moment of rest after he made it past security. He sprinted at full speed towards the rink, berating himself in his head for being so late. The game had already started, and they needed him to win this. As he chided himself for being so stupid, he suddenly felt himself slam against something. It wasn't solid enough to be a wall, but definitely hurt like the devil.

He glanced in front of him, finding dark eyes glaring back up at him. Though the short, wavy haircut and boyish face gave him the impression that the person in front of him was one of the most delicate looking men he had ever seen, the sparkly skirt peeking out of their puffy coat suggested otherwise.

He ignored it, instead choosing to ask the real question. “Does this go up to the ice?” He huffed, clutching his bag close to his chest.

“What?” The person asked, glaring at him as they pulled their skates back into their arms.

“Does this go up to the ice!?” He repeated, his heart thundering in his chest.

“Is that all you have to say? What were you raised in, a barn!?” They responded, pushing themself up off the ground on their own.

“Doesn't fucking matter, is this the way to the ice or not?!” He cried, starting to get frustrated with this gender ambiguous brat.

“Yes! God…” They muttered in response. Chuuya didn't stick around to hear any other complaints. He scrambled to the rink, getting on his gear as fast as he could before finally getting called into the game.

The second he hit the ice, he felt everything click into place. The cheering of the crowd, the glide of his feet slipping effortlessly over the ice, and the shoving back and forth of the players as they fought for the puck was exactly what he loved about hockey. And with how many teams were practically begging for him to join them after the Olympics were over, it was clear that hockey loved him back.

He took a deep breath, the smell of sweat and the cold sinking in through his lungs to his very soul. He felt so perfectly focused, like he was right where he was meant to be. Then the whistle blew again and he was off.

He had a straight shot. Everything was perfectly lined up; all he needed was to make the move and they would catch up to the other team’s lead from before he had arrived. Just as he swung his stick, he felt another player slam into his side. It was too late. There was nothing left to stop the goal. But the force of the impact sent him flying sideways into the wall.

His head slammed into the glass. He hit it at just the wrong angle. His helmet flew off and everything went black.

Dazai could practically taste victory as he watched the couple before them skate off the rink. The lights focused on him and his partner as they made their way towards the center. They stood for a moment, the tension between the two of them as cold and solid as the ice they stood on. Then their cue went off and the music started.

He let his anger melt during their dance. There's no point in staying angry when the judges– and world –are watching.

He let his partner lead him in their dance, twirling and bending him to just uncomfortable enough lengths for it to be impressive.

They continued on, both feeling the pressure of the impending climax of their routine. The problem spot, as Mori so affectionately called it.

The hands on his waist tugged at his stomach in the usual dysphoric manner, but there was something else there. Something heavier. Something worse.

The pull of gravity on him seemed to increase as his feet left the ground. His palms interlocked with his partners failed to reassure him and he felt the jolt of panic hit him like a tidal wave. He was going to fall.

He tried to find something to stabilize himself with. His skates dug into the skin of his partner's back. Then he fell. The lights followed him to the ground, the cheers of the crowd going quiet. He felt that familiar sting of humiliation prick at his heart and his tear ducts. He had ruined everything.

Chuuya’s leg bounced up and down as he watched the doctor anxiously. He probably hadn't blinked for a good two minutes.

The doctor sighed and straightened the stack of papers on her desk. She set them down and folded her hands, resting her chin on her knuckles. “For the record, you've lost eighteen degrees of vision in your right eye. In most cases, it would be considered an inconvenience, but for a hockey player-”

“So how long until it comes back?” He asked, the bouncing of his leg picking up speed.

She grimaced, placing her hands on the table, trying to look comforting. “You had extreme trauma to your-”

“How. Long.” Chuuya growled, leaning closer. His grip tightened on his knee and he could feel his nails digging into the skin.

She didn't respond for a long moment, looking as if she was struggling to find the right words. Then, she sighed. “You've got a blindside, Chuuya. It's a permanent condition. I don't see professional hockey in your future.”

It was like time stopped. He could practically hear his hopes and dreams shattering into a million tiny pieces. He wanted to argue, insist there had to be some sort of operation they could do to get it back, but the look on her face told him everything he needed to know.

There wasn't an operation. There wasn't anything they could do. There wasn't hockey in his future. It was over.

by @feeblescholarmyass on tumblr

reblogs and comments are much appreciated!

tag list: open!

[i-heart-schlock]

“You are an immature asshole of the lowest order.”

“If it was forty below and that button meant the difference between a long satisfying life and a cold horrible death from hypothermia, I still wouldn't give you the satisfaction! Skate!”

[adamwatchesmovies]

The Cutting Edge (1992)

As far as formulaic romantic comedies go, you could do far worse than The Cutting Edge. The leads are appealing and the sports angle does add a bit of zip to the recipe… but at the end of the day, it’s still a formulaic romantic comedy. You can predict every beat of this story minutes in.

Kate Moseley (Moira Kelly) is a spoiled but talented figure skater whose attitude has driven away every one of her partners. Doug Dorsey was the captain of the U.S. ice hockey team until a head injury forced him to retire and killed his olympic dreams. When Kate’s coach, Anton Pamchenko (Roy Dotrice) decides to recruit the former hockey star as Kate’s partner for the upcoming 1992 Olympics, it looks like a bad idea. They clash constantly. They can’t stand each other… but their animosity means neither will be the first to quit.

I should let you write the rest of this review. Do I have to tell you that Doug is a ladies’ man, that Kate is engaged to a man she has nothing in common with, that a turning point in the story has her breaking off her engagement to try and seduce Doug but that when she goes to apologize to him the next morning she finds him in bed with a rival skater, prompting a big argument? That’s all obvious, as are the reasons why they don’t initially get along. Kate is a prima donna who considers hockey a sport for oafs. Doug thinks figure skating is for girls and is embarassed to admit what he’s doing to his older brother. Of course. Is there any other way they could behave? Not in these types of movies.

Once the initial friction subsides and the pair begins competing to attend the Olympics, things don’t get any less conventional. Even when the movie tries to fool you into thinking it’ll do the unexpected, you know better. For crying out loud, the way characters are introduced or what they look like tells you exactly what part they’ll play in this story.

Following a formula doesn’t necessarily make a bad movie but this film isn’t an early example of the rom-com genre; it came out in 1992 when we were far too familiar with the tropes to be satisfied with the basics once again. That said, there is a certain charm to this tried-and-true formula. I couldn't hate the movie because it doesn’t do anything badly. Usually, these plots have to jump through all sorts of contrived hoops to go the way they do and this one does not. It’s a lot more grounded than expected. There is also the appeal of seeing well-performed figure skating routines shot from the perfect angle, featuring people we actually know. This keeps you invested enough to keep watching despite knowing well in advance what the ending will be.

The worst thing about The Cutting Edge is that it’s basic. This is the sort of movie you’d see as a kid or young teen and enjoy. For years, you'd be dumbfounded, wondering why others don’t share the same enthusiasm for it that you do. Over the years, you’d realize why. This has all been done before and better. For that reason, I can’t recommend The Cutting Edge, but it’s a near miss. (On DVD, October 3, 2021)

[vampirecorleone]

Appreciation for WHITE fashion in TV & Film: The Mask (1994) | Wild Wild West (1999) | The Seven Year Itch (1955) | Marie Antoinette (2006) | The Cutting Edge (1992) | Crossroads (2002) | Black Swan (2010) | The Prince and the Showgirl (1957) | Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961) | Kill Bill (2003) | Passion Play (2010) | Gossip Girl (2007) | The Legend of Tarzan (2016) | Roman Holiday (1953) | The Little Mermaid (1989) | Miss Congeniality (2000) | Paradise Hills (2019) | The Godfather (1972) | Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970) | Edward Scissorhands (1990) | War and Peace (1956) | I, Tonya (2017) | Mary Poppins (1964) | Dracula (2013) | Cinderella (1950) | The Invitation (2022) | The Girl Next Door (2004) | Gone with the Wind (1939) | Scarface (1983) | Legally Blonde (2001)

[cinematv]

THE CUTTING EDGE (1992) dir. Paul Michael Glaser

[romancegifs]

THE CUTTING EDGE (1992)  dir. Paul Michael Glaser

[walkawaytall]

I am somewhat loving the Y2K/Crowdstrike comparisons, but that general idea did bring something to mind:

The only reason Y2K didn't end up being a thing is because programmers worked for like a decade to fix code. My mom worked for a small software company in the late-80s and early-90s, and she said that they were discussing a game plan for Y2K by like 1992. And I just feel like that sort of care and foresight with technology has evaporated in such a short period of time.

Making everything cloud-based has resulted in incomplete products being pushed into production because they can always be patched or updated later, but companies want the dollars the purchases will bring in now. And, I'm not saying that's what caused the Crowdstrike thing. But I do think the "We can just push an update sometime" attitude has caused a lot of loosening of standards when it comes to software and online services. Customers are acting as unwilling beta testers for products and services that, in the past, would have been fully tested before going into production, and it is 1000% driven by greed and need for immediate profitability and remaining on the cutting edge of technology rather than a sustainable business model based around quality products.

I'm not even entirely sure what I'm rambling about. I just hate that I feel like in my short 36 years on this planet, I've somehow seen technology at its best evolve into technology at its worst over a period of maybe two decades. It bums me out.

[of-fear-and-love]

Training montage from The Cutting Edge (1992)

[whereserpentswalk]

Every ten years, some of the most powerful beings in the multiverse bet on the life of an average human.

They've been doing it since humans evolved sentience, it's become tradition at this point. Azarath angel of war and fire. Opheria high lady of the autumn fae. Eoauiioaie old one of dreams and eater of planets. Drehn the dragon at the edge of time. Kalhesh demon of the unbreakable chain. Haramare the parasite that eats the bodies of dead universes. And many others, some of whom I can't even describe here, all gather to make their bets.

They pick a human by rolling millions of dice until they find someone who matches the DNA sequence generated. Then they'll begin to watch them, watch their little moves, their daily tasks, their relationships, everything about them. And they'll start making bets, on little things at the start of the year, on what they'll have for breakfast. On if they'll make the train on time. On what dreams they'll have when they sleep. But as time extends they start getting more and more invested, and they'll bet on the big things, if they'll ask out their crush, if they'll get that promotion, in some dark circumstances if they'll die.

There are only two rules. Nobody can use their powers to effect the person's life. And the human in question cannot be aware of extra dimensional being. The person is just living their normal life, and they're observing, seeing with baited breath what will happen, not knowing.

It's 2022, they're betting on a university student living in Tokyo. She's been burnt out for days, everyone is waiting intently to see if she finishes her papers in time. The multiverse cheers when she does. She passes all of her classes, does well, though feels the pain of a few sleepless nights. Despite her worst fears and insecurities she's quite intelligent, and all her paranoias prove to be illusions of the mind.

It's 2012, they're betting on a teenager living in the Midwestern US. They're considering coming out to their parents but they don't at the last momment. Some cheer because they remained safe and weren't hurt by their father. Some weep because they've waited even longer to come out now. They're still in the closest when they stop being followed on New Years Eve, their parents never accept them, they end up moving to Chicago for college and cutting off contact years after the contest ends.

It's 2002, they're better on a hunter living in the forests on South America, one of the few people left on the earth not to know of the colonizers and the empires of the west, though he's still felt their effects. He's almost ambushed by a python, everyone waits with baited breath hoping he survives. By all luck he does and the multiverse cheers. He'll die a few days after the contest ends, meeting a westerner for the first time, and meeting a western bullet for the first time, as he was considered to be "trespassing" on a private farm.

It's 1992, they're betting on an elderly man living in the suburbs of St. Petersburg, he comes home one night to find out that his beloved cat has died. He weeps and the multiverse weeps with him. Nobody could have known the cat was in danger, so no bets were made on her, but everyone weeps anyway, it is November, and the multiverse knew her well. Throughout halls of civilizations the old man will never know the cat is mourned, entities from countless worlds wishing things could have gone differently.

The contest is always broadcast to the entire multiverse. The faeries, and the old ones, and the demons and the angels, and all other manner of creature, always know. The ones making the bets always root for their predictions to come true, but those who are always watching tend to hope for the best outcome. They become so invested in everyone's lives, hoping everything is ok for them, loving the people they watch in a way those being watched will never truly know.

They say it's to keep them humble. So that the faeries, and the angels, and the dragons, and the elder horrors will all know in a way what it's like to be human, and know to care for those so much less powerful then them.

[lesmana-enterprise-ltd]

Our Story, Meet the Lesmanas.

Meet the Lesmanas—the family behind the powerhouse that is Lesmana Enterprise. As the driving force behind one of the Simworld's most influential companies, they blend tradition with cutting-edge innovation. Led by patriarch Kieran Lesmana, every member of the family plays a crucial role in sustaining their empire’s global reach. From Tyo, the poised heir, to Mia and Amira carving their own paths, they embody the essence of wealth, influence, and responsibility. The Lesmanas are more than a family—they are the foundation and future of the enterprise.

(Left)

Kieran Agung Lesmana Birthdate: March 12, 1966 (58 years old) Occupation: CEO and Chairman of Lesmana Enterprise

As the head of Lesmana Enterprise, Kieran oversees the massive business empire that his family has built. He's a shrewd and pragmatic leader with a vision for the company that spans decades. Despite his strict and focused demeanor in business, Kieran often finds himself enjoying his late-stage life, yet he maintains control over his image as the powerful patriarch of the Lesmana family.

(Right)

Seo-Yeon Lee

Birthdate: October 7, 1997 (26 years old) Occupation: Celebrity and Shareholder in Lesmana Enterprise.

Seo-Yeon, the wife of Kieran, is a social media sensation and an ex-Spop artist. Her role within the Lesmana family has elevated her into elite circles, but she maintains a vibrant public persona. She often enjoys the luxuries being a new Lesmana offers, but behind the glamorous facade, she’s sharp and calculating when it comes to maintaining her status.

(Left)

Tyo Saputra Lesmana

Birth Date: January 12, 1989 (35 years old) Occupation: Chief Operating Officer (COO) of Lesmana Enterprise

Tyo Saputra Lesmana is the eldest son and COO of Lesmana Enterprise. The chosen heir to lead the family business, Tyo balances corporate pragmatism with family tradition. A firm but steady leader, he works to shape the future of the enterprise while maintaining the family's legacy. Married to Clara, he’s often the anchor in family affairs, though the weight of the business constantly looms over him.

(Right)

Clara Ivanova Lesmana

Birth Date: April 17, 1990 (34 years old) Occupation: International Lawyer

Clara Ivanova Lesmana, born into a multicultural heritage of Indonesian, Russian, and Ukrainian descent, is Tyo's no-nonsense wife. With her international legal expertise, she brings a sharp perspective to the family. Clara's strong demeanor complements her role as a devoted mother and wife while navigating the intricate dynamics of the Lesmana family.

(Left)

Anindita Dianti Lesmana

Birth Date: February 7, 1992 (32 years old)

Occupation: CEO of Lesmana-Unternehmen Windenburg AG  

Anindita, also called “Anin” serves as the Lead of the Enterprise’s projects in Windenburg such as The Windenburg Royal Cathedral Restoration Project. Her work focuses on historical preservation and infrastructure projects. With a strong sense of family tradition, she is respected for her meticulous attention to detail.

(Right)

Arthur-Satria Lesmana

Birth Date: August 1, 1996 (age 28) Occupation: Chief Creative Officer (CCO) of Lesmana Enterprise

Arthur-Satria Lesmana heads the creative division at Lesmana Enterprise, responsible for marketing, branding, and the company’s public image. Known for his vibrant, carefree lifestyle and connections to the world of influencers, models, and pop culture, Arthur brings a modern flair to the family business. While his approach sometimes clashes with the more traditional values of the family, his innovative strategies have helped keep Lesmana Enterprise relevant to a younger demographic.

(Left)

Mia Citra Lesmana

Birth Date: January 15, 2004 (20 years old) Occupation: Influencer and Shareholder in Lesmana Enterprise

As Kieran’s fourth child, Mia is still figuring out her path in life but enjoys the perks of being part of the Lesmana family. She’s currently pursuing a degree at Del Sol Valley State University while being an active Simstagram influencer. Known for her luxury lifestyle, Mia enjoys her status but can be perceived as tone-deaf when it comes to the reality outside her bubble of wealth.

(Right)

Amira Malinda Lesmana

Birth Date: June 7, 2008 (16 years old) Occupation: Student and Shareholder in Lesmana Enterprise

The youngest of the Lesmana family, Amira is still in school and balancing her life between being a teenager and growing up in a powerful family. She is slowly gaining traction as a social media personality, often appearing in Del Sol Valley events and sharing glimpses of her life online. Despite her privileged upbringing, Amira is exploring her identity and figuring out where she fits into the family's empire.

(Left)

Liam Mas Lesmana

Birth Date: June 16, 2016 (8 years old) Occupation: Elementary School Student

The eldest child of Tyo Saputra and Clara Ivanova Lesmana, Liam is growing up under the guidance of his ambitious parents. He's intelligent, a bit mischievous, and already shows signs of being quite the negotiator like his father. Liam enjoys being the center of attention among the younger generation of Lesmanas and is often seen shadowing his father during corporate visits.

(Right)

Rania Putri Lesmana Birth Date: February 10, 2019 (5 years old) Occupation: Kindergarten Student

The youngest member of the Lesmana family, Rania is a playful, curious child with a bright personality. She's doted on by her older sibling, aunts and uncles, always the center of affection in the family. Rania is already learning how to balance her mixed cultural heritage and often mimics her mother Clara's no-nonsense attitude in a more innocent way.

[luvrsbian]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐄

A/N: she's finally here!!! this was initially supposed to be a one shot but has kinda turned into a draft up of a pretty plotless, sweet, fluffy mini series. it follows canon for the most part minus eddies death ofc but because im bad with canon lore and science shit, its not heavily mentioned (some minor canon lore was changed but it's not super important.) this is a fem!reader, no use of y/n, set in 1992, 4k words, and i've kept reader pretty vague for inclusivity minus some background lore. this series is not 18+ (yet) but my page is, so please do not follow if you are a minor. thank you sweet baby mona @enam3l for beta-reading for me (ily)

MASTERLIST ✿ PART TWO

Eddie Munson liked his life. He liked his friends, even if a lot of them have now dispersed across the continental United States for school, jobs, general life (minus Robin who has somehow managed to make her way to Australia doing God knows what.) He liked his home, a house on the edge of town – slightly bigger than the old trailer – which he still shared with his uncle. He liked his style and hobbies and taste in music and movies that haven’t really changed much in the last 5 years since his final senior year. 

He really liked his job. 

Which felt odd for him to admit to himself.  It wasn’t anything like what he thought he would be doing. A younger Eddie Munson would imagine himself traveling city to city, adored by fans, living creatively and free spirited.  

But a middle school janitorial gig kept him young. One could argue 26 wasn't even that old, however, compared to his friends (who he'd already been older than) with their careers, relationships and growing families, he felt like a lonely old man. So, yeah, the awkward, funny, and extremely honest pre-teens made him feel young.  

Initially he thought the job would be lonely. It’s a small town with even smaller schools. Besides him, there was only one other night janitor that he alternated weekend cleans with and only really ran into during day-to-night shift changes. Ron was nice enough, older than Wayne, with a far higher patience for children. Unsurprisingly, behaviours from high school died hard and the teachers and administrative staff all kept to their own little cliques. Resulting in Eddie keeping to himself, rarely speaking outside of his custodian duties or the occasional faculty meeting. 

He didn’t even think he’d interact with the students aside from cleaning the odd vomit or getting stuck balls out of the gymnasium rafters. He unintentionally found himself yet again the outcasted mother goose to a small hoard of pre-teen metal heads when their unofficial leader, Matty Sherman, caught site of the various posters Ed keeps hung up on his office (custodial closet) door. The seventh grader quickly forcing himself under Eddies wings and refusing to budge. Matty was a good kid. Reminded Eddie a lot of himself at that age. He was loud, abrasive, and way too confident for such a gangly frame in ill-fitting clothes. Matty had hair though which 13-year-old Eddie couldn’t relate to. 

There was also Ms. Virginia Wagner. The eccentric, nurse who has been working at Hawkins Middle since Eddie was attending. Maybe even before that, he wasn’t quite sure and whenever he asked anything close to finding out her age, she quickly shut him down. She was sweet. She was funny. She was also a mean old hag sometimes, but God did Eddie love that about her. If he was just 20 - or more realistically 40 - years older and wasn’t almost certain she swings the other way, he’d shoot his shot.  

The Summer season was extremely uneventful for Eddie. Due to the kids being out of school, his hours were cut in more than half with only the yearly repairs and deep cleaning needing to be done. He went into work about 3 days a week, spending the extra free time to do some manual labour gigs here and there around town. When he wasn’t working, he was hidden away at home watching movies, listening to music, trying to plan out ongoing and future campaigns for Hellfire meetings that have begun to be fewer and far between now that everyone has dispersed. On some rare occasions when he didn’t feel like a complete shell of a person and was able to leave the house to socialize outside of life obligations, he met up with the few friends that remained in the Hawkins area (which at this point in time was really only Steve Harrington and Gareth Emerson.) 

It was now the Monday of the week before students would return back to these fluorescent lit halls. That meant all other faculty were now gracing the school to prepare for the year ahead. Organizing and prepping and finalizing lesson plans and class rosters.  

Eddie had a slight pep in his step as he walked through the halls, scuffed up sneakers squeaking on the shiny, extra polished tiles. He whistled a silent tune that clashed with the jingles of his keys that he swung around his middle finger. Getting to the janitors closet to put on his navy coverall and put his hair into a low bun. He zips up the stiff material, covering the self-altered muscle tank top that had the logo for some local band down in Indianapolis he saw a few years back before things went to shit. A cracked and stained mirror hanging up over his work sink being used to make sure his hair looked casually messy in the bun. With a final once over, he hooks his keys to the belt loop of his coveralls and preps for the day's work. A glance at his wristwatch, the one that has somehow survived hell and back just like him, reads 7:58. Just 4 hours and 2 minutes until lunch.  

He couldn’t wait. 

Eddie used those 4 hours and 2 minutes to check each stall in all bathrooms were fully stocked with toilet paper and the likes, clean the actual toilets themselves, and make sure the water was running properly in every sink. Once that was taken care of, he began on his biggest task of the week of dragging desks and chairs out of the back storage building to be put into classrooms. Sheryl from the administrative team having left the small packet of papers indicating how many seats each room would need for the coming year.  

He could move the chairs in stacks at a time but could only really stack two - maybe three if he was careful - desks on his hand truck before it became a safety problem. Once moved into the main building, he had to wipe them down, tighten any loose screws that could make them wobble, and make sure they were still in usable condition. Eddie had completed almost 3 of the 32 classrooms before lunch finally rolled around.  

He grabbed his lunch sack from the custodial closet and whistled on his merry way to the nurse's office. He’s been eating lunch with Virginia for as long as he can remember. Of course, there was those 5 years of High School and then the year of recovery following the events of his second senior year, and the summer breaks of course, but besides all those he’s been eating with her for a good 7 years.  

This ritual beginning in his 6th grade, the first year he moved in with Wayne, all sad eyed and past aside due to events outside of his control. Kids he had grown up with suddenly not wanting anything to do with him. He wouldn’t really make any friends again until 7th grade, and his first band of misfits was created, Corroded Coffin. 6th Grade was the worst year of his life until 1986 and now it’s about tied.  

Sadly, in middle school who you ate a meal with or gave the time of day too was so integral into maintaining the hierarchal balance of the ecosystem. It was bullshit. With everything that happened that lead to his father going to jail and him burdening his uncle, the kids of Hawkins middle school decided Eddie wasn’t worth risking their own reputations. He doesn’t remember exactly how it happened, his brain kicking the memory out at some point to make room for more important stuff like D&D lore. But he does remember he went from eating lunch in the bathroom to eating it in Nurse Wagner’s office.  

Even after being integrated back into the Middle school social circle, he couldn’t just leave her to eat lunch by herself. She needed him with his alternative music education and retelling of the fantasy books he’d been reading lately and his strong headedness that could keep up with her dry and sarcastic quips many interpreted as rudeness. Although Eddie would still refuse to admit it, in actuality he probably needed her more than she needed him. 

He doesn’t knock, just moseys his tall frame into the nurse's office, wide dimpled smile on his lips as he hears rummaging coming from the actual office area that was blocked off by a wall. He looks at the two plastic-y beds covered in paper sheets, inhaling that antiseptic smell that can only seem to be found in medical settings. No fluorescent lights were on, only natural light being let it from the two big windows.  

There are curtains on them now which surprises him. Floral pinks and yellows with lace on the edge that really fit the grandma vibes Virginia has but refused to acknowledge. The windows all have blinds, but curtains were deemed a non-necessary commodity by the school board budgeting team, meaning if you wanted curtains, you’re gonna have to fork money out of pocket for them. Eddie had asked Virginia about it once, commenting about how it would help spruce up the place. Make it look a little less sterile. She told him to go to hell, that she’s a nurse not rich. Any out-of-pocket money she spent on work only going towards things that actually matter, like the allergen friendly laundry detergent and the nicer, name brand candy for the candy bowl. 

Putting his lunch on the side table of the first bed, he lays down in a relaxed position. Hands behind his head, legs crossed, eyes closed, he lets out a relaxed sigh. 

“Virginia, dear, I really love what you’ve done with the place,” he calls out to her, hearing the close of the filing cabinet and footsteps soon following, “feels all homey now, dontcha think.” 

The footsteps stop. 

“I'm glad you like them. You feelin’ comfy there?” 

That was most definitely not Virginia Wagners voice. 

Eddie jolts up, eyes wide and cheeks red. He’s not one to get embarrassed easily but since recent events he’s been a bit more reserved in how comfortable he gets around strangers. And you were most definitely a stranger. A pretty stranger. A very pretty stranger in a teddy bear patterned scrub top and an oversized cardigan with embroidered sunflowers. You’re a disorienting mess of patterns and colors but you’re also, like, really pretty and Eddie isn’t sure how to go about this. 

“You’re not Virginia,” is all he can get his voice to come out with. 

“I’m not Virginia.” You give a chuckle. A positive response, Eddie thinks. 

“Where’s Virginia?” 

Eddie is now standing away from the bed and closer to the door, ready to run from the situation if needed (something he’s learned to embrace in the last few years.) You give him a friendly smile, hands in your cardigan pockets, the sleeves bunched up. You look cozy.  

“Florida. She’ll be in the Caribbean by the end of the month,” you supply. He can tell your fingers are fidgeting in your pockets. His hands are fidgeting at his waist, pinching at the material of his coveralls.  

“Why?” 

You shrug your shoulders, “Retirement.” 

“Oh,” Eddie sighs, eyes breaking contact with yours for the first time since standing, shifting to look at your white - almost pristine - sneakers on the tile floor her spent all summer mopping and waxing and removing scuff marks from. “That sucks.” 

You snort. Teeth biting your bottom lip to stop from laughing at him further during this awkwardly endearing meeting. Your own eyes looking him over now that he isn’t completely focused on you. He’s cute. His cheeks stained your favourite shade of pink once he realized you weren’t the now retired nurse he had been so fond of. Hands covered in jewlery. His inability to stay still so natural it makes you think he doesn’t even realize he’s been shifting his body weight back and forth from his toes to his heels this whole time. Tall, lean, maybe with some extra fluff hidden under the baggy attire. He’s got some shadow of hair on his cheeks. And if you weren’t a civil person and he wasn’t a stranger, you’d be begging to kiss at the column of his throat. 

Your gaze moves to look around the waiting part of the office to avoid thinking even more things about this guy. A brown paper bag chicken scratched with the words ‘ED LUNCH’ catches your eye. Before you have a chance to speak yourself, he starts his interrogation again. 

“Who are you?” 

Your attention cuts back to him quickly. With a smile that shows all your teeth and a hand leaving your pocket, held out for him to shake, you give your full name. 

He takes it with his own reserved smile. His hands and rings are warm, but they still tingle your skin from the unfamiliarity of the metal. You enjoy it you think. Before he can introduce himself, you beat him to the punch. 

“You must be Edward, right?” 

He grimaces, “Just Eddie,” your handshake falls. His hand back to his hip and your hand back into your pocket, “Just Eddie is fine. More than fine, actually. Preferred, really.” 

Another chuckle from you. Eddie knows he’s funny when he wants to be but if it’s this easy to make you laugh, he doesn’t ever want to stop. 

“Well, just Eddie,” you smirk at his eye roll, “you can join me for lunch if you’d like. I feel like my presence may have ruined your initial plans,” you let out a huff of a laugh and gesture to the lunch sack by the window. He grimaces again at your wording and shakes his head. 

“It didn’t ruin any plans just was shocking ‘sall,” his hand moves from his hip to rub at his slightly scruffy chin, pretty brown eyes back on yours, “but um, yeah. Yes, I’d love- like to join you for lunch.” 

You smile. He smiles back. 

Eddie has sat in this chair, in this office, and eaten his lunch for years. Today it feels awkward and unfamiliar.  

It might have something to do with you sitting where Virginia used to sit. Same chair, same desk, same office, but completely different. Virginia didn’t decorate her space, leaving it functional and impersonal, if people wanted to know about her life they could ask her. She wasn’t going to flaunt it.  

You were very different. An orange, gaudy looking vase filled with fake flowers. A matching candy bowl with various sugary, little treats. A picture frame of you and what he could only assume was your family based on the similar features shared between each person. A decorated Coke can with the top cut off and trimmed with glued on lace and covered in holographic stickers of vibrant cartoon animals, sparse enough to still see the iconic red drink logo, was now holding an assortment of colorful gel pens.  

Even the chair wasn’t safe from your interior decorating, a purple knitted blanket folded over the top of the rolling seat. The seat itself now adorning a red, white, and black cushion of an ugly faced bulldog with a spiked color and cap with the letter G, the words ‘GEORGIA BULLDOGS’ splayed above him. A sports team he assumed.  

The conversation hadn’t started back up since the introduction in the sick room. Both of you taking your respective seats in the office area, opening your lunch bags and digging in.  

Eddie being a creature of habit brought his usual bag of pretzels, a can of Pepsi, and a sandwich made of whatever he could find in the kitchen. Today it was two slices of whole wheat, mayo, lettuce, the last piece of deli ham, and shredded cheese.  

Your own lunch seemed much more put together. For starters, you had an actual lunchbox, a bulky and vibrant plastic thing with Snoopy sleeping on his dog house on the front. Inside, there was your own ziploc bag of green grapes, a can of Coke, and a sandwich cut into triangles. White bread, crunchy peanut butter, and grape jelly. A Little Debbies Swiss Rolls pack sitting on the corner of your desk for dessert. 

He’s mid chew on the final bite of his sandwich, half his Pepsi left, his pretzels being the first thing devoured, when you speak up. Your own sandwich having on triangle section left, grapes gone, and Coke untouched. 

“Have you always lived in Hawkins?” 

You’re wiping your mouth with a folded paper towel, curious eyes focused on him. You’re very good at that, he’s realized. Eye contact. Focusing on your center of attention. Eddie has never been good at it, having to remind himself to look at the person talking to him. It’s polite, Wayne would say, shows people you’re listening and interested in what they have to say. Eddie gets so worked up in remembering to seem focused, he loses it and doesn’t hear what’s being said. He hasn’t had that problem with you so far. He thinks he could look at and listen to you all day if you let him. 

“Born and bred,” he swallowed his bite and shrugs his shoulders, rubbing his hands together to get the crumbs off, “you’re not though, are you. Feel like I’d remember you,” he raises an eyebrow. Feeling a little more confident in himself, especially with the obvious signs of you not being a local, and gives a playful smirk. 

“You got me,” you hold your hands up in mock surrender, moving your arms back to rest your elbows on the edge of the desk, “I’m from Georgia.” 

Eddie nods, the seat cushion making sense now. It’s your home team for… sports. A sport. Probably football. Eddie mentally pats himself on the back for guessing it was a sports team. Good on him for knowing sports. (Eddie doesn’t know sports.) 

“So,” Eddie lulls, small talk never being his forte. Much more interested in getting into the nitty gritty of conversation when interested in someone but he doesn’t know you yet. He needs to find something to relate with you on and he can’t do that with tidbits he may know from growing up in town like he could other people his age or older here. “You’re like a southern chick,” it was your turn to grimace.  

“You’re really bad at this,” you snort and shake your head, finishing up the last of your own sandwich. Tidying up your desk, throwing away the ziploc bag and sandwich wrapping and paper towels. Opening the coke can and moving the swiss rolls pack to in front of you, looking back to Eddie. With a tilt of your head and saccharine grin you ask, “Splitsies?” 

He nods at the opportunity to get a sweet little treat before addressing your initial comment, “Small talk requires talking and I just don’t really do that anymore with people who don’t already know me or just have a preconceived idea of who I am,” he shrugs his shoulders again, voice softer, slight regret in being too real. Eyes watching your fingers open the package, folding another paper towel (which he has now realized are coming from a roll kept in the lowest drawer of your desk), and setting one of the processed roll cakes on the indented paper before placing it in front of Eddie’s seated and slouched body. “Thank you,” He looks back up to you and you’re already looking at him. 

“Virginia told me a lot about you,” you smirk, lifting your own cake to take a bite. Your eyes not leaving his except for split a second to give an appreciative glance and hum to the cream filled ‘pastry.’  

“We’ve been corresponding for months,” you snicker at your own use of the word, making you feel like some sort of 18th century countess or captain, rather than a young nurse taking over the position of an older nurse.  

He looks panicked at this reveal. Which is cute considering he had a bit of white cream on his upper lip. Although he looked so pretty when his brow furrowed, it was clear he was frightened so you were quick to reassure him. 

“All good things, of course. I think she’s just worried about you. It’s cute, really, just really cute.” Another kind smile on your lips and your hand holding out the paper towel - his now eaten roll was sat on - as hint for him to clean his mouth off. 

Eddie knew Virgina wasn’t one to gossip but the prospect of a rare new person in town he’s actually interested in, being privy to all his shit-uations without him telling them himself, scared him. But Virginia did love to meddle and that may be worse. She was a big supporter of Eddie needing friends his own age.  

Letting out a sigh of relief that his tragic history had yet to be exposed, Eddie returned your smile with his own half one. You reach into your desk again, pulling out a letter instead of paper towels this time. ‘Edward’ scrawled in a familiar, loopy handwriting with blue ink on the white envelope caught his eyes. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion and intrigue.  

You hold it out for him to take like it was something precious, “This is for you.” From Virginia, is unspoken but recognized between the both of you. Who else would it have been from. Eddie flushing as he realized, Virginia never told him about you. Virginia never even told Eddie she’d be leaving. They didn’t speak much, or really at all, during the summer unless they happened to run into each other outside of these brick walls.  

Callused finger pads grazed your palm when he took the letter from you, he kept his eyes focused on examining the letter. A sad smile on his lips appreciating the loops of the E and W and curves of the D’s. Realistically he knew Virginia probably wasn’t gonna be gone from Hawkins forever, she had roots here. A son. That’s son kid or maybe kids now, he wasn’t sure, hadn’t checked in on Rick since he got out of jail in ‘88. But it still hurt that she was gone, without a word, and was happy enough to talk to her replacement about him but not to him about her. You. 

“I’m gonna read this later,” he mumbles and puts the offending but appreciated letter in his deep pocket. A quick glance at his watch read it’s been about an hour since making his way into the nurses office, lunch was over. He threw his trash out in the bin by your desk and gave you a friendly smile, standing from the seat in front of your desk. 

“Maybe we could do this again sometime,” eyes shifting around the office again, not really taking things in, just needing to not get trapped back into your gaze. “Ya know, with my lunches free now and everything,” he humorlessly chuckles. 

“Eddie,” you spoke softer than you had before, a more sympathetic smile on your lips, “I’d really like that.” 

He looks at you now. You have really shiny eyes. What a weird observation, Eddie thinks, but it’s true. With a quick wave of his hand before retreating them back into his pocket, fingers playing with the paper edges of Virginias letter. He begins his trek out the door.  

“Hey, next time though,” he stumbles in a spin to walk backwards while speaking, “We’ll speak more about you than about me. Feel’s like you know too much about me,” he huffs with a smug smile before spinning back to look forward. “See ya, Peach.” 

Your sweet laughter follows him out into the hall. You call out, “See ya, Eddie,” to his retreating back, watching the door long after he’s left.  

“Peach,” you snort and shake your head, teeth tugging on your bottom lip to stop from smiling too wide. 

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