Chapter Text
Eddie Munson was completely drained by the time all the statuettes were awarded. He was flying solo, much to his dismay. Garreth and Jeff have been stuck at the Indianapolis airport since the day before because of an unexpected tornado warning throughout the state. Augie had to bail at the last minute because his wife went into labour - the lucky bastard.
He was happy for his friend, but at the same time, he was mentally flipping him off because he was having to shake hands, make speeches and mingle with stuck-up A-listers all by himself. All things he was neither good at nor interested in.
He practically zoned off until the second commercial break. They didn’t win, Linkin Park snatched the victory for ‘Somewhere I Belong’ in the best rock video. To be fair, their music video didn’t suck, but he was not big on this pop-rock-metal concoction. He was no genre purist, but doing an I-vi-IV-V chord progression is where he drew the line.
All things considered, his uncle didn’t raise no jerk, so when Chester and the boys left the stage with their statuette, he shook all of their hands and congratulated them on their win.
After the ceremony concluded, they were politely hoarded towards the afterparty, and even though it wasn’t his first rodeo, he wasn’t feeling it tonight. The lights were too bright, conversations too loud and the velvet suit which his stylist practically forced him into clung to his skin like a piece of gum to a shoe. He needed a smoke. Badly. After downing a flute of champagne, he bolted, weaving through the crowd, eyes locked on the exit sign at the end of the hall. A few more steps and he’d be outside, the sweet, sweet relief in the arms of nicotine just seconds away… A firm grip clamped onto his arm.
-“Whoa, whoa, whoa—where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Murray Bauman has been Coroded Coffin’s manager ever since their second album, Ignore Grief, landed them on the national charts. Man is capable of some impressive shit, given he made a bunch of small-town nerds into rockstars. And being capable of impressive shit, more often than not, meant being a massive pain in the ass.
Eddie sighs. -“To find a cliff to jump off of.”
Murray gives him a sharp look. “Cute. But no. You’re going to shake hands with Black Francis like a good little rockstar.”
Eddie stops short. His stomach drops. He turns his head slightly, just enough to confirm—Yep. That Black Francis. The frontman of Pixies Black Francis. One of his biggest musical influences.
Eddie tenses, the contents of his stomach in danger on landing on Murray’s snakeskin boots. “You couldn’t have warned me about this ten minutes ago?”
Murray smirks. “Where’s the fun in that? Now, smile, don’t be an asshole, and try not to ask him for an autograph on your boobs.” Before Eddie can protest, Murray shoves him forward.
Francis turns, locking eyes with him.
“Well, well,” Black says, grinning. “Munson. Heard a lot about you.”
Eddie swallows hard, straightening his posture. He has exactly two choices—play it cool, or embarrass himself beyond repair.
“Heh. Funny,” he says, forcing a smirk. “Same here. ‘Cept, y’know, you’re Black Fucking Francis. So, uh… kind of a one-sided thing.”
Black chuckles, extending a hand. Eddie shakes it, trying not to let his inner fanboy show.
“You guys put out some killer shit this year,” Black says. “I dig it.”
Eddie blinks. Did Black Francis just—?
“Uh, yeah?” he says, a little too fast. “I mean—thanks, man. That’s—shit, that’s insane coming from you.”
Black smirks. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head, kid.”
Murray shoots Eddie a see? That wasn’t so hard look. Eddie ignores him.
“We actually did a cover of Hey on tour last year,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.
“Yeah?” Black says. “That the one where you dived off an amp mid-solo?”
Eddie’s jaw drops slightly. “…You saw that?”
“Saw the hospital bill, too.”
Eddie laughs, shaking his head. “Worth it.”
Black claps him on the shoulder. “Keep that shit up, man. No bullshit, just music. We need more of that.”
And just like that, the conversation is over. Black turns back to whatever record exec has been buzzing in his ear, leaving Eddie standing there, still reeling.
Murray crosses his arms. “Well?”
Eddie runs a hand down his face. “Did that just fucking happen?”
“Yes, yes, you’re a real boy now, Pinocchio. Now go smoke before you pass out.”
Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns and bolts for the balcony, still trying to process the fact that Black Francis knows who he is.
————————
Eddie steps out onto the mostly empty balcony, the cool night air doing wonders for his sweaty skin. He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it in a swift, well-practised motion. He may be a small-town boy, but for some strange reason, the muffled sounds of LA bring him peace. They’re like white noise, a stark contrast to the ever-quiet trailer park he grew up in. He exhales, letting the tension roll off his shoulders as the smoke leaves his lungs. He lets his mind wander to his uncle. The stubborn old man still refuses to leave their run-down trailer, even though Eddie offered to buy him a house multiple times. Hell, he even mentioned a top-of-the-line RV if Wayne was so insistent on living in something that has wheels. Even though Wayne won’t accept any form of help, Eddie still manages to slip a couple of hundred dollars into his bank account under the ruse of some state-funded social benefits. And so far, his vicious scheme hasn’t been discovered.
Suddenly the glass doors behind him swing open, and Eddie barely registers the sound—until she steps out.
He nearly chokes on his cigarette.
She’s bathed in the city’s neon glow, the lights casting soft pinks and blues over her bare shoulders. Her dress—strapless, silky—clings to her in a way that makes his brain short-circuit for a second. She has legs for miles; even though he’s pretty sure, she’s at least a head shorter than him. Loose curls frame her face, catching the breeze, and when she moves, he catches the faintest trace of her perfume—something sweet and a bit spicy. She looks delicate, almost out of place against the rough stone of the balcony. But at the same time, she looks like she belongs everywhere.
Eddie’s seen Chrissy Cunningham (or rather Christine) before—on TV, in glossy music videos where everything is soft focus and perfect lighting. She’s an all-American pop star. But the screen doesn’t do her justice.
She doesn’t see him. Just exhales slowly, then leans against the railing, tilting her head back, eyes slipping shut like she’s trying to pretend she’s anywhere but here. Eddie watches her, first with curiosity, then with something else.
He’s never been into pop girls. Not his scene. Too shiny, too polished, not nearly enough chains. But this one?
Damn.
He takes another slow drag, lets the smoke curl lazily from his lips before finally breaking the silence.
“Escaping the circus too?”
Chrissy startles slightly, eyes snapping open as she turns toward him. And Eddie—who has been on magazine covers, who has performed in front of thousands, who has seen the world—finds himself completely, utterly speechless.
She exhales, her breath catching slightly before she offers a small, tired smile. “Something like that.”
Eddie smirks, shifting his weight against the railing. “Lemme guess. Annoying ex? Pervy record exec? Overly ambitious publicist?”
“Ex.” She rolls her eyes, swirling the martini glass in her hand. “Jason Carver. He’s an actor.”
Eddie shrugs. “Never heard of him.”
Chrissy laughs—soft, breathy, just a little surprised. “Lucky you.”
Eddie watches her lips as she talks. Watches the way they curve when she smiles. And suddenly, he hates Jason Carver on principle.
“So what, he won’t take a hint?” Eddie asks.
Chrissy sighs, shifting against the railing. “If only.” She bites her lip, eyes flicking toward the door. “He looms like a bad spray tan—obvious, unwelcome, and impossible to get rid of.”
Eddie laughs at her witty remark. “What a jackass.”
Chrissy tilts her head, studying him. “You say that like you know him.”
“I don’t.” Eddie smirks. “Just an educated guess.”
A pause. Then—
Chrissy narrows her eyes, curiosity flickering across her face. “Wait… who are you, anyway?”
Eddie blinks. For the first time in years, someone in this industry doesn’t recognize him. He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Are you serious right now?”
Chrissy laughs, a little teasing. “Should I know you?”
Eddie gestures wildly. “Eddie Munson. Corroded Coffin?”
Chrissy stares at him, unimpressed. “That’s nice.”
Eddie chokes on his cigarette smoke. She’s not joking. For the first time in forever, he’s just a guy talking to a girl.
“So, you’re a big bad rockstar?” Chrissy teases, tilting her head as she leans into the railing.
Eddie exhales a slow stream of smoke, smirking. “Something like that.”
Chrissy hums, tapping her nails lightly against the metal. “You don’t seem very bad.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That so?”
She nods, lips curving. “I mean, I was expecting... I don’t know. More leather? More brooding? Maybe a threatening aura?”
Eddie chuckles, flicking his cigarette. “Oh, princess, I can brood. You just caught me on an off night.”
Chrissy laughs, soft and unexpected. “Right. Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Eddie shifts, turning toward her just a little. “What about you? You really America’s sweetheart? Or is that just good marketing?”
Chrissy sighs, her smile dimming just slightly. “It’s complicated.”
“Yeah?” Eddie watches her, intrigued.
She glances at him, then away, eyes flicking to the street below. “Let’s just say I don’t get to make as many choices as people think I do.”
Eddie studies her, noting the way she grips the railing a little tighter, the flicker of something—frustration, maybe sadness—in her expression. And for some reason, that pisses him off.
“You ever wanna just… say screw it?” he asks.
Chrissy finally looks back at him, something unreadable in her gaze. “More than you know.”
Eddie holds her stare, feeling the tension stretch between them, heavy and charged. He really shouldn’t be looking at her lips. But it’s all he can focus on.
Chrissy tilts her head, amusement flickering behind her eyes. “You always stare at people like this, or am I just special?”
Eddie smirks, noticing how she shifted to be closer to him. “Oh, you’re definitely special.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Smooth.”
“Hey, I could’ve said something worse.” Eddie shrugs, all faux innocence. “Like, ‘Sorry, you just have really nice teeth.’”
Chrissy snorts, covering her mouth as she laughs. “Oh my God. That’s terrible.”
Eddie grins. “Yeah, but you’re still here, aren’t you?”
She bites her lip, still smiling. “Guess I am.”
The moment stretches.
The air between them shifts—something unspoken, unexpected, charged. Eddie swallows. Her gaze flickers down for half a second.
Is she—?
Fuck, he wants to kiss her. He can already picture it—how she’d taste like champagne, how soft her lips would be. He bets she’d make a little surprised sound, the kind that would ruin him completely.
But then—
The door swings open.
“Chrissy! There you are, Warner music execs are dying to meet you”
Her manager’s voice slices through the moment like a knife. She flinches. Looks away. The moment shatters. Eddie forces himself to lean back, to step away from whatever the hell that was.
“I should go,” Chrissy says, her voice quieter now.
Eddie lifts his chin, and masks the sting with an easy smirk. “Yeah. Go be famous, princess.”
She hesitates. For just a second, like she might stay.
Then she reaches out and turns his wrist so that the cigarette filter is facing her.
Eddie blinks. “What?—”
She lifts it to her lips, takes the tiniest, weakest drag and exhales, the smoke hitting him directly in the face. Chrissy grins mischievously. “Nice meeting you, Eddie Munson.”
And then—just like that—she’s gone.
Eddie watches her disappear through the glass doors, dumbfounded, some part of him already wanting to follow like a lost little puppy. The cigarette has all but burned out, but he still holds it between his fingers, trying to process what just happened. He runs a hand through his curl, her laughter still echoing in his brain.
Shit.