Chapter Text
‘The wide world is all about you:
you can fence yourselves in,
but you cannot forever fence it out.’
-J.R.R. Tolkien
Maplepark Elementary school, 5th grade class,1976
Eddie Munson drew on himself daily.
It started because of the stories of course. The romantic ones, the adventurous ones, the best ones (Lord of the Rings .)
Stories he wanted to share with his soulmate, who would actually like them. Want to hear about them.
Not like the dumb kids in his class, who were assholes about him reading.
Not like his father, who makes a joke out of slapping books out of his hands.
"Telling stories is a wonderful skill to have, hun. Bet your soulmate loves it." His mother tells him anytime he worries about it.
He doesn't think she's lying. Not like Jordan from band class says, mocking laughter bubbling out of him the last time he saw all of the writing on Eddie's arms.
"Stupid must run in the family, Moron -son," a nickname Eddie hates almost as much as freak. “I bet your soulmate isn’t even getting your drawings.”" All you're doing is looking stupid and wasting their time.”
"You say that like he's gonna have a soulmate! I bet even the freak is thinking it--you said nobody has ever written him back! "
Eddie didn't see who shouted that, too busy digging his nails into his fists, shame and fury twisting inside him.
"They're just shy!" He shouts back, and hates, hates , hates , how they all laugh.
"The other kids don't think I have one." He tells his mother after school that day, trying hard not to cry.
His dad hates it when he cries, and the other kids always cheered when they managed to make him.
"Of course you have a soulmate, honey." His mom tells him, making him his favorite soup in their tiny apartment kitchen.
She's smiling but her eyes are tired. Her skin looks pale, like she hasn't been going outside a lot. Except that doesn't make sense, because she works six days a week running the gas station’s counter.
She's definitely getting plenty of sun.
"Is what they said true? Not everything I write shows up on my soulmate's arm?" Eddie asks, mouth full of soup.
Some spills down his chin and rather than correcting him, his mother laughs gently.
"It's true." She says.
Eddie's stomach plummets because he's been writing whole stories all year (plus drawing pictures to go along with them!) and it's just now that he learns that not everything goes through!? What if only part of a story went through, or just a word here and there? Half a doodle?
His soulmate was going to think he was an idiot!
"There's not a word limit, not one they've found. All we know is that some things you draw on yourself make it through, and what does, seems to be determined purely by the soul bond itself."
Eddie squints as he makes sense of that.
"So some people have more writing go through than others?" He asks, finally bothering to wipe the soup off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt.
He doesn't catch the fond, long suffering sigh it his mother makes, too lost trying to figure the whole soulmate thing out.
“Yes. It also means that sometimes, the writing doesn’t go through at all, or that one person's writing goes through a lot more than the others. Sometimes it’s only a handful or words, or part of a drawing. It's impossible to know what goes through until you meet your soulmate.” He gets a smile, full of love and the kind of fond exasperation parents the world over are far too familiar with. “When you meet yours, you can ask what all went through.”
Eddie nods, thinking hard.
Stews over the whole situation for a few days.
He doesn't draw on himself while he tries to decide if he should keep writing on his arms like he has. Wonders if he’s being a bother, or weird, or all the other things the kids accuse him of being:
(The thing their parents, his teachers, and sometimes even random adults who don’t even know him accuse him of being. He’s old enough to know it has to do with his parents, his last name. Young enough to not understand why it matters, or why they care. He’s not his dad. He’s not his mom either. He’s going to make it, do something with his life.
No matter what everyone seems to think.)
Eddie doesn't write down stories, or doodle little comics. Doesn't even draw the little heart on his wrist, the one he drew every day, the thing he got the most shit for.
It was his sign of love, but if it hadn't gone through then what was the point?
…Except he desperately wants to share things with his soulmate-- especially the little things.
Has come to rely on the very act of writing and drawing on himself, the very feeling of pen put to skin grounding.
He doesn't want to send them only half of a story though. He wants his soulmates to like him.
Knows already that soulmates don't actually have to like each other. Eddie's been as blind as he can to his parents' marriage, but the way they fight sometimes, loud enough to be heard through the walls, can't be missed.
If only parts of things are going through, or just a handful or words, part of a doodle, even nothing at all, then it seems like all the pain he’s endured, all the mocking for the ink that covers his arms, has been for nothing.
The way he poured himself into writing, how he had put so much emotion and hope into knowing his soulmate was getting to know him, using it to anchor himself through the hell that was his life in general….
Facing the idea of it not working hurt him deeper than he cared to admit.
It was on the fourth day of his spiraling thoughts, that his soulmate's first words appeared across his left palm.
'Please keep writing. '
Delighted beyond measure, crisis fully averted, Eddie did.
Coleman Middle School, 7th grade class,1978
There was hair all over the sink again.
Eddie carefully cleaned it up, knowing the sight upset his mom.
Worse, it also upset his dad--whenever the man was around, anyway.
Her hair had been falling out lately, but she'd been so tired half the time she didn't notice.
She was coming home sick more and more, but she always just told him it was headaches.
He knew damn well it was not just headaches.
It was okay though. His mom needed sleep, and Eddie had stepped up best he could, trying hard to take care of her. He w ished his dad was home more to help, but he was out trying to make up for the loss of money.
“Food doesn’t buy itself.” He’d said, last time he’d actually been home. “Enjoy that freedom you have now while you can, kid, you’re gonna be able to work soon. Your free ride’s almost over.”
Eddie didn’t get why he couldn’t work now. Knew his dad had already fought with his mom about that-she didn’t want Eddie involved in his dad’s “business.”
As if he was stupid, and somehow didn’t know what his dad did.
Mom wanted him in school though. Wanted him to graduate.
“It’s important to me that you graduate.” She’d told Eddie, when he tried to convince her to let him work anyway. Sure he couldn’t boost carsor work at the chop shop, but drug peddling?
Come on, even he could do that.
“There will always be jobs waiting for you, Eddie. But you only get one shot at a free education.” She’d said it like it was obvious some people paid for school; a thought that made him twitchy. He hated the place, and couldn’t imagine the pain of hating and paying for it.
Today in particular had been bad. Eddie's regular two tormentors had managed to pants him during lunch, and he'd heard comments about his batman undies for the remaining four hours.
He'd been relieved to come home, fighting hard to keep his promise of staying in school, of getting that diploma.
‘God you’re thinking of dropping out and you’re not even in high school yet. Pathetic.’ He thought to himself, keeping quiet when he entered their apartment and found his mom sleeping on the couch again.
A quick scan showed his dad was still out, unlikely to come home soon. Which meant he was in charge of dinner.
Again.
No one had gone grocery shopping in some time, which made the task difficult. Eddie tried to pretend it was like a D&D campaign, wove a story in his mind about having to make an epic potion out of limited ingredients as he scanned their depleted cupboards.
The empty fridge.
Stories helped him through it though, and he sunk into his own like a lifeline. Turned himself into a great warrior, the same ones in the D&D books he’d found in the library, narrated his own attempts at cooking what he could.
He was deep into explaining the whole thing to his soulmate, diagram drawn on his arm and all, when a thought struck him hard enough to stop him in his tracks.
He waited a moment, staring down at his arms before carefully writing in a small script,
"Why don't you ever write back?'
He wasn't expecting an answer.
Not really, not when he'd asked this question before. Nothing ever came back, which was a mystery Eddie was desperate to solve.
Why write to him once, then never again?
Imagine his surprise then, when almost immediately, a blur on his wrist took form, slowly shaping itself into a sentence.
'I can't make my words go through.'
The timing of it was amazing enough. Usually even if someone responded right away, the words wouldn't always transfer over in the same time frame. It could take hours, sometimes even days. At least that's what the books he’d studied said, the ones he’d also pilfered from the library.
A blur on his right wrist, an indication of another message. Eddie held perfectly still, as though his own breathing might make the words vanish, watching to see what else his soulmate said.
It was a doodled heart, looped through the one he drew so that they connected.
Intertwined.
Eddie practically vibrated with excitement.
His soulmate loved him too!
xXx
Three days later his mother laid down for a nap and didn't get back up.
Eddie couldn’t wake her.
The paramedics couldn’t either when he finally called 911, terrified of how cold his mother was, how her face remained frozen no matter what he did.
His father didn’t come get him, not until days after he’d been placed in foster care. They’d buzzed his hair there, held him down while he fought against foreign adult hands and clippers. The people he was placed with were mean, meaner than any adult he’d met in his life prior-- and considering who his father invited over, and what company hung around the chop shop, that was saying something.
Finally, finally, his father had picked him up. Threw the trash bag the police had made him put his clothes in into some new car, likely one his father had stolen to sell.
Didn’t care that his already thin son had managed to lose a shocking amount of weight in the two weeks he’d been gone, or how he grew an affinity for chains, rings, and other things that would help in a fight instead of hinder him.
Barely even spoke to him at all.
What followed was the worst year of Eddie's life.
Alcohol bottles filled the trailer, emptied and reeking. His dad lost it on him for the first time shortly after the funeral, words hurled that hurt him so badly that he started spending more time away from home than in it.
Weird moods overtook his dad. Several times he dragged Eddie out of the apartment, forcing him to learn how to hotwire cars or pick a locked door.
Even when his mother had been alive random people had hung around the house, exchanging money for drugs. She’d kept them from staying, always hurrying them along.
Without her here, there was no one to stop them from coming in-or making them leave.
It seemed like there was always some stranger in his space now. Hanging out in his apartment.
Once even sleeping in his bed.
Eddie hates it, almost as much as he hates how the other kids ganged up on him.
He was 12 now, and their vicious little verbal attacks had progressed to physical ones. He'd gotten slammed into a locker twice the other day, and narrowly avoided a beating in gym class only because he’d refused to take off his rings.
"Fucking faggot." One of the soccer team kids sneered, and the only thing Eddie hated more than him in that moment, was the fact it was true.
He’d figured it out, the last time he'd stupidly asked his father why people cared so much, why they kept calling him that. Wasn’t it his business, who he liked?
‘Why did it bother people if he thought Timmy H was prettier than Cindy?’
Eddie hadn’t come out then; wasn’t that dumb. Hadn’t said that he’d overheard the girls discussing who the best looking guy in school was, and had his own thoughts on the matter; or that one of the girls had been dared to kiss him, and the feeling of her lips on his felt wrong. How his only friend in his brief stint in foster care was a guy named Danny, who talked about his boyfriend like it was the most normal thing in the world--even when he got beaten up for it.
At the time, he didn’t know what he expected his fathers answer to be, but he hadn’t expected this: the vicious yelling, how he made the whole thing sound like it was his son's fault. Like somehow Eddie had fashioned his own personal hell himself, instead of the kids picking up on the fact that he was poor, a drug dealing criminal for a father, a dead mom and hand-me-down clothes, always either too big or small.
Instead, he screamed and raged and threw things, demanding to know why Eddie just couldn’t be normal. That people cared because they knew Eddie was different and god, what an embarrassment that was.
“How would you feel if you had a freak for a son?” His father spat, and Eddie had staggered back, horrified that the man he loved, his father, would say the same shit everyone else did.
'This whole year can get fucked.' He wrote on his arm, retreating into his room to cry into his pillow and wish desperately his mom was still alive. 'My dad too.'
Eddie doesn’t catch the blur this time. Doesn’t even realize he’d gotten a message back until a while later, after he cried himself out.
‘Parent’s suck. I wish I could be there for you like your stories are for me.’
It was that moment Eddie decided he wanted tattoos, wanting to wake up in the morning and see those words first thing in the morning.
Wanted the words on him forever, the knowledge that his stupid writing helped his soulmate, and that his soulmate wanted to return the favor.
The words themselves might fade, but the ink on his arms wouldn’t. He could immortalize them on his arms, keep the few precious words that came through like a mantra.
It was that thought that kept him going through his crash course at stealing cars at night, (while trying desperately to still go to school during the day), through learning the ropes in the chop shop and his father’s ever changing moods.
His mom had always been the glue that had held their little family together. Kept them going, made sure the bills were paid on time.
In hindsight, Eddie should have seen it coming. How his father was losing it, the stakes in the auto theft ring getting higher. He was suddenly expected to help hide cocaine in the wheels, molly in the glove box.
It was right before his thirteenth birthday when things hit the fan. His father didn’t come home for a long, long time. The power and water were both cut as bills went unpaid.
Eddie tried, truly he did. He didn’t know how to pay the bills though, where to send the money. Didn’t know what to do when notices were slid under his door, eviction notice written in bold red.
After that, he slept at the chop shop when he came home and found the apartment door locked, after he managed to break in and steal what little stuff he had left.
He’s still not sure how the school caught on. If it was the fact that the calls home were no longer answered, or that his father missed some dumb meeting with the principal about his behavior.
Not like any of that should matter. Eddie still showed up didn’t he? Isn’t that the important part?
It was unfair. So unfair, that the degree he was struggling towards is what did him in the end, sent him back to foster care. That he showed up to his home room class only to find CPS waiting, a woman in a cheap suit with a fake smile on her face and another garbage bag in her hands.
She’d escorted him out, not seeming to care that the whole class saw, Eddie’s face burning red.
Wasn’t very good at her job either, because she barely listened when he snarked back with her, told her he was going to fucking run.
It took four days and multiple buses for him to figure out how to get across Indiana. He managed it though, without being interrupted by some lame pig cop trying to drag him back.
Made it to the address on the postcards his Uncle always sent, to the only person who remembered birthday this year.
Showed up, trashbag in hand, unsure if he was going to get welcomed in.
He’d only met Wayne a few times, as his mother and uncle seemed to orbit each other with busy work schedules--always circling but out of reach. They could never get away from work, and even then the meetings were always brief. He’d been friendly enough though--he'd been the one to buy Eddie his first copy of The Hobbit.
Even listened with a quiet smile while Eddie chattered at him, when most adults wouldn't let him get through his first couple of sentences.
He didn’t really know the guy, not really. He wasn’t even at the funeral. It was a small affair, just a priest, his dad and a few of his mom’s coworkers. They hadn’t even gone to visit the grave.
It was the inscription in the book though, that had made him even try coming here, despite the twisting in his gut that signaled otherwise. Wayne could just call the cops on him, and send him right back to foster care. It wasn’t his responsibility to take him in.
So he stood at the door, feeling insignificant. Small. Trying hard to believe in this one last miracle, that someone might like him enough to keep him.
‘Gotta give it a try, right?’ He’d written on his arm, because when it came to his soulmate he’d never been able to hold back.
The door opened, and there he was: the man Eddie hinged all his hopes and prayers on, blinking dumbly in the night.
Eddie stuck his chin out. Tried to look tough, even though he felt small. Insignificant. “Uncle Wayne.”
“What the hell, kid.” The garbage bag thumped against the porch as he was dragged into a hug, Eddie hugged him just as hard back.
xXx
Wayne hadn’t been told his sister had died, because of course he hadn’t. Typical
wants to say the same exact shit when he finds out his dad disappeared because he was arrested.
He’s not sure what Wayne does to get custody of him, just that it involves some paperwork and pinched looking people working in government offices.
That part had terrified him, though he’d done his best not to show it. His bravery caved immediately at the sight of the government people: their cheap suits and stuffy office, the memories of foster care and unwelcome, uncomfortable questions about his home life ringing in his ears. Thirteen years of toughness dripped away like the sweat beading his brow. Maybe he wasn’t all that tough to begin with.
Wayne clearly figured it out, because he’d pulled Eddie flush against his side, kept an arm around him at all times. They were still dancing around each other, Eddie unsure of what the rules were and Wayne out of his element entirely.
The man had given up the only room to Eddie though, insisting “teenage boys need privacy.’ Used his night shift job further as an excuse.
Until that moment, with Wayne’s arms around him protectively and Eddie’s face half hidden in his jacket, he hadn’t truly felt safe. Still didn’t, not until the government goons had let him leave with Wayne.
“I wasn’t gonna let them take you kid.” The older man said softly, once he got them to a cheap diner to get dinner and milkshakes. “You live with me now. Nothing’s gonna change that.’
‘I totally cried like a bitch. ’ Eddie wrote later on his arm, higher up so that this conversation could be more easily hidden. ‘I just didn’t think there was any adults left who fucking cared.’
Once again the stars aligned, a fuzzy blur forming, the scrawled handwriting so unlike his own.
‘I'm just glad you’re okay.’ It read, and for the second time that day, Eddie found himself breaking down in tears because someone out there actually cared.
‘God, I can’t wait to meet you.’ He wrote, and desperately hoped it went through.
End of Junior Year, Hawkins High School, 1983
For the first time ever. His soulmate sends a message instead of writing an answer.
'Monsters are real.'
Eddie frowns at the message, and immediately scrambles for a pen to ask his soulmate if they’re okay.
(If they need anything, where are they, what can he do for them, are they in America? Near Indiana? He’s in Indiana, he’s told them that before, even wrote down Uncle Wayne’s phone number but he’s never gotten a call, or a card, or anything.
There’s a superstition out there, that those kinds of things never go through. That the universe will let you meet when it wants you to, and not a second before.
Eddie isn’t the superstitious type, but he doesn’t pester. His soulmate has their reasons for not reaching out, if they’re getting that part of his message at all.)
There’s no response, and so Eddie does what he always defaults to when he wants to show affection to the man (? he sure hopes it's a man) he has never met.
Picks up a pen, writes down that he hopes they are safe, and secure, and then adds a quote from his current favorite book, the next installment of Douglas Addam’s Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy.
‘Just remember: It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes.’
It’s silly and a bit unhinged, but then so is Eddie.
He just hopes it makes his other half laugh.
xXx
Curly hair finally hits Eddie’s shoulders, marking the end of his “pageboy” era as the asshole jocks had lovingly dubbed it.
Gareth gave up halfway through his own attempt to grow his hair out, citing his mother as his reason for cutting it into his current loose shag.
They let their youngest Corroded Coffin member get away with the lie--they knew the real reason. Tommy H had been giving him hell in the three classes the two shared, and without their little misfit group to back him up, the words had begun to worm their way into Gareth’s heart.
It’s disgusting really. Tommy has been an absolute prick since going through some kind of friend breakup with King Steve. The rumor mill is still so wild about it that Eddie’s heard three different versions regarding why half the school's popular kids are fighting--one of which are remotely believable.
Yet in every single version he hears, King Steve loses his shit.
The guy’s throne is teetering on the edge, the crown about to fall and yeah, no one blames Gareth for wanting to get away from that mess. High school is hell, no reason to make it worse for themselves.
Especially now, in the aftermath of Barbara Holland’s disappearance, and the Byers kid dying and miraculously coming back. That’s the kind of shit that makes people snappy-- the real reason Eddie thinks the local royalty is losing their shit. They suddenly had real world problems introduced into their dumb, small town lives and are crumbling faster than sandcastles when kicked.
It’s why he himself has upped the ante, drawing more attention his way. No reason for Tommy to be picking on his little group when Eddie’s right there, taunting him.
He doesn’t care about what they do to him, or say about him. Nothing will ever be worse than foster care or “working” for his father.
At least, nothing these prissy little rich kids can come up with, anyway.
They don’t even really punch that hard, not that Eddie likes to let them catch him. He’s a runner, and proud of it.
They can’t hurt him if they can’t get him, after all.
It helps that he’s started dealing again, to make a little pocket change. Small time stuff mostly, but occasionally something with a bit more punch. Takes special orders as he grows bolder, more familiar with Hawkins and how its underbelly runs. So long as he stays out of the coke and meth rings, no one will bother him, and he can be a medium sized fish in a very small pond.
He’s thinking about drugs now, hunting for a base of operations. He swears there used to be some picnic table way the hell out in the woods, close enough to the school to be walkable but far enough away that no one claimed the place as theirs.
He’d ditched seventh period to look for it, not wanting to spend one more fucking second in English class, but he kind of thinks he went into the wrong side of the woods. Butut whatever. He’ll explore more later.
Hellfire club is on in ten, and he needs to get his ass back to prepare.
The kids are almost done flooding out of school as he makes his way back, the last traces of life fishtailing out of the parking lot with squealing tires.
N ot for the first time, Eddie was thankful that Hellfire started well after the final bell. He hates dealing with the absolute chaos of everyone leaving the school on Fridays, everyone eager to start their weekends.
He exited the woods overlooking the less used, poolless side of the school. It was nestled at the top of a hill, a perfect reprieve for ne'er-do-wells like himself. It was the best place to wheel and deal, lurking in corners to smoke and stick it to 'The Man'."
Eddie knows every nook and cranny by now, intimate with the maze of corners and shadows to lose his way. It’s that reason his gaze catches on the disturbance unfolding in the corner of his eye: three letterman jackets, circling like sharks around some poor young kid into one of the worst corners to get stuck in.
Eddie might have a savior complex, but he can make out the last name “Hagan” from here. Grimaces in sympathy at whatever poor idiot Tommy’s taking his rage out on now.
He changes directions, moving away from the whole scene below. Hates himself for chickening out but he’s got plans tonight, ones that don’t involve him getting his ass kicked.
Which is of course, when the yelling starts.
“I told you boys. This ones got a mouth on him.” That’s Tommy, the sneer easy to hear in his voice.
His warbling jock buddies are harder to make out, but the shouted “Fuck you!” isn’t.
Eddie freezes in place halfway down the hill, turning to stare and praying he didn’t just hear what he thought he heard.
There’s more banter, the kind of insults Tommy probably stole from some TV show. They’re corny as hell. His goons might as well serve as his own personal laugh track, their idiotic bubbling sounds nearly identical.
“Shove it up your ass Tommy!”
And fuck him sideways, he knew that voice.
Their prey was Gareth.
Eddie had been giving Tommy and his friends a wide berth, but doubled back as Tommy outright snarled Gareth’s full name. One hand shot out, clenching the younger boy’s shirt, then hauled him up and back, slamming him against the brick side of the school.
Gareth’s head snaps back at the impact, and even from here Eddie knows that’s going to hurt.
Worse, he’d gotten close enough to see that Tommy had finally snapped. Whatever happened today wasn’t going to make him stop at one or two hits--he could see the vein in his neck pop as he screamed into Gareth’s face.
Even his lackeys start to look uneasy as the jock yanks Gareth forward and then backwards again, using the wall itself as his weapon.
Shit, shit, shit, goddammit, shit he’s not going to make it in time.
Gareth’s eyes are narrow, face screwed up in hate. His eyes are shiny and wet, but he’s still got some fight in him, kicking hard at Tommy’s legs.
This is the worst thing he could do. They don’t fight back--It’s akin to spitting at a raging lion, flying a red flag in the face of a bull. If Tommy had been unhinged before,the roar that follows Gareth hitting the ground is nothing short of pure rage.
They tumble out of sight at the bottom of the hill, and Eddie’s got nothing but panic. He’s got no plans--- just desperation and a deep seated need to prevent Tommy H from cracking open his best friend’s skull.
Noises erupt as he turns the corner, almost sliding on loose gravel, just in time to watch King Steve move gracefully in front of Gareth, taking the hit that was meant for him.
The younger boy scrambles up from the ground, breathing hard as Steve’s head snaps sideways, blood spurting out of an old, partially healed split lip.
Eddie doesn’t slow down. Instead shooting right to Gareth’s side, helping him up and hissing at him to stay quiet as Steve slowly turns his head back around.
“Losing your shit on a freshman. Why am I not surprised?”” He says, voice bored, like he takes hits every day. “With backup too, Jesus man. Couldn’t take the kid by yourself?”
Tommy outright sputters, rocking back like the words themselves were a blow.
Gareth opens his mouth, likely to deny that he’s a freshman or a kid, but Eddie’s not waiting for the pissing match to escalate. He’s got a hand under his friend's elbow, dragging him along, muttering that they were getting out of here in his ear.
“Haven’t you had enough of playing hero for the freaks?” Tommy finally spits, as Eddie beelines for the one door near this entire damn area.
“Only freak here is you, dickhead. Steve tells him flatly, “Besides, you still hit like a little bitch.” .”
Eddie doesn’t see the rest of the exchange, too busy ripping open the door and hauling Gareth inside.
Misses the next round of words entirely.
The door goes to close, Eddie practically marching Gareth down the hall. They catch the sounds of Steve Harrington, the apparently dethroned but not defanged King, telling Tommy Hagan that if he wants to fight, he can do it one on one like an adult. Dismissing the two basketball goons like they were his own fucking servants and not Tommy’s buddies.
“Holy shit.” Gareth wheezes, eyes blown wide. “Did you fucking see that?”
“Yeah, I saw your ass get beat.” Eddie responds, pulling them into the first bathroom he sees. Deposits Gareth against the wall, then puts his hands gently into his curls, looking for blood or any open wounds on his head. “Did you black out at all?” It comes out more like an order, his voice low and serious.
He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until Gareth winces as his fingers find a sore spot. “Ow, man. No, I didn’t black out.”
“No blood.” Eddie murmurs, mostly to himself. Runs his hands down to Gareth’s shoulders, looks him over. “Anywhere else hurt?”
The younger boy shakes his head, groaning with the movement. “Just sore. Seriously, Eddie, I’m alright. Steve got there in time.” He lets out a disbelieving laugh, like he can’t believe what just said.
Eddie sure as shit can’t.
“He just appeared , out of nowhere. Stepped right in front of me, and took a punch like it was nothing!”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this but for once, I agree with that bastard. Tommy H hits like a bitch.” Eddie mutters darkly, before yanking Gareth into a hug. “Fuck man, that scared me.”
Far too used to Eddie and his complete lack of personal space, Gareth just goes with it. “Shit, me too.” He mutters into Eddie’s shoulder, before they pull apart. His hand goes up to rub his head, still somewhat dazed.
Eddie makes a note to make sure someone drives him home.
“God, what until the guys hear this. Steve Harrington, fucking took a punch for me.” Gareth sounds almost giddy about it, the pain in his voice a mere echo now.
In fact, if Eddie knew any better he’d say his friend sounded almost starstruck---and that, that was a dark, dark road he does not want anyone he knows going down. Enough people in this damn school have a crush on Steve Harrington, crown or no crown. He’s not sure he can handle his best friend being one of them.
“Please stop talking about King Steve.” He groans, running his hand through his curls.
Unfortunately for Eddie, Gareth does not, in fact, stop talking about Steve.
‘He would not shut UP about the guy.’ He writes on his arms later, after Hellfire had met. It was a good session, albeit dampened by Gareth’s continued retelling of King Steve’s heroics.
Eddie knows better than to tell these kinds of stories, the personal ones, when the people involved might read them. He doesn’t shit on the people he hates, or talk about his friends--learned that lesson in his last school, and got a little reminder about it in his second round of foster care. Which means the details he gives are vague at best, and even conceded that writing about how his friend got in a fight and got saved by some “some popular asshole” was risky.. He figures writing it on his upper thighs will keep him safe enough.
He storms s about his room for the rest of the night, stereo flipping erratically between Judas Priest, Iron Maiden and some newish band, Slayer. It’s loud and angry, the kind he likes best. Wayne’s already out for the night, his shift having started before Eddie returned home.
It leaves him alone to pout, trying to figure out how he’s going to get Gareth back to normal before the guy gets any ideas. Heal most misses the fact that, for the first time in months, his soulmate has a response for him.
‘Most popular guys just need to get punched in the face a few times to stop being dicks.’ is scrawled right under his complaint, easy to see in the shorts he made himself out of old jeans.
It gets a laugh out of Eddie, and he sits down, pen in hand to write back;
‘If that were true, all the guy’s at school would be polite gentlemen by now.’
He doodles a face with x’s for eyes and a tongue sticking out for good measure, then starts on another doodle entirely of a dragon trying to eat its own tail. Halfway through the second wing, he gets a second message, and finds himself frowning down at his own legs.
‘Can’t speak for them, but it worked on me.’
Eddie finds himself worried, and not for the first time.
‘I’m not popular, you know’ is what he manages to write, biting his lip. ‘Never have been. Never want to be.’ Wonders briefly if this is where things start to go downhill, fear punching him low in his belly. Is his soulmate the kind to still play these games? They’d just casually admitted that they were either popular or had been at one time. Worse, that they’d been a dick who needed punching, in the face apparently, to turn themselves around.
Was the popularity piece a brief, sort of middle school thing? Was he from a school like Hawkins High, where being popular actually carried on past high school, so long as you stayed involved in the town?
Would he still want Eddie?
Hell, would Eddie want to be involved with him?
That was a thought he’d never had before. His soulmate might be some annoying jock asshole type, and not the various imaginary people Eddie conjured into being.
He wasn’t stupid, he knew his soulmate was his own person, would have his own preferences. It’s just that…well.
Even his mother could temper his father. Made him toe the line enough to keep them afloat. They had been a matched set, a pair, even if they hadn’t really liked each other.
Was that the future for him too?
To his surprise, Eddie actually receives a third response. Their first conversation, even if it’s short and not on a topic he’d prefer to not be discussing.
‘I know. I don’t care.’
He wasn’t aware he was holding his breath until it blew out of him, shoulders slumping in relief.
Whoever his soulmate was, he hadn’t lost them yet.