Chapter Text
Darkness had swallowed his vision, Dustin's heartbroken sobs fading to complete and utter silence. The pain in his sides ebbed away to numbness, cold seeping through his bones. The smell of his own blood pooling under him faded to non-existence. His thoughts, usually a constant untamable flow of nonsense, shrunk to only one singular realization.
This is it.
Edward Munson, the freak of Hawkins high, was wholly and truly gone. Left behind by his friends in the panicked chaos of their escape from the Upside Down, his body laid out cold and broken as a testament to his life being over. This he was sure of.
So why does he wake up only days later, choking on the thick air as it fills his lungs, his heart thundering in his chest like a race horse determined to win, cold air prickling his skin.
His eyes snap open, wide and scared, blurred gaze darting around in panic. He lurches, choking on the bile rising in his throat. His hands flail out above him as he tries to steady himself. His left hand hits the ground again but his right hand finds cold flesh somewhere above him. Something grunts above him as his hand grabs it, and it pulls away like a startled animal. He's yanked forward as it pulls away, pulling him up into a sitting position.
He yelps, scrambling to back away from whatever it is that stands above him. His vision refuses to clear, blurred by days of pure darkness. The thing grabs him suddenly, tearing a scream from his disused throat as he struggles to get away.
"Jesus, Munson!" His name is spoken by the creature, causing him to stop, to stare at the thing and will his eyes to focus on it.
Slowly, it's shape becomes clearer, human in its silhouette. Dirty hair sits in a halo around a sharp, scar riddled face. Blue eyes, dull with grief, lock with his, forcing him to calm his breathing as he takes in the man before him.
He knows this man, he used to sell him weed back in his first senior year and sometimes during his second. This man used to threaten him at school, only to smoke with him later, laughing about things they couldn't tell anyone else. This man died last summer in the mall fire, his body never recovered, never buried.
This man is Billy Hargrove. At least he used to be. The once familiar musculature of Hargrove has shrunken against his bones, the skin of his cheeks clinging hollow to the bone. His eyes, once wild and dangerous, have sunk in the sockets, bruised from countless nights of lost sleep. Scars disrupt the once smooth expression of danger that Billy held like a trophy day after day. That same danger is now gone, twisted into primal fear, the burden of survival etched into the creases of his pale skin, once sun kissed dark.
He looks like a hollow shell of his old self, the pride and anger that made him seem so dangerous before now humbled by the trauma of living in this place for almost two years.
Hargrove hadn't given him much of a chance to absorb any more than that before he had yanked the taller man to his feet, pulling him away from an approaching swarm. Eddie had followed him to safety without a second thought, unable to think for himself as he stared at the bats in terror, recalling so vividly now they had ripped into his flesh just moments before in his memory.
Now they sit across from each other at someone's dining table, the house dark and infested, Eddie cautiously watching the vines writhe between them. Hargrove is somewhere in the middle of explaining to him what's going on, but he can't really pay attention. He's too focused on his heart, which beats stubbornly in his ribcage despite his death.
"Are you even fucking listening?" Billy slams his hand on the table, the vines trembling suddenly. Eddie stares at him, doe eyes large and sad. Slowly, he shakes his head. He's in too much shock to lie.
Billy groans, a hand rubbing at his eyes. He mutters something Eddie doesn't catch before looking at the ground.
"Fine, I'll start over..." He looks up to check that Eddie is listening this time, finding attention in the other man's eyes. He continues.
"This place, it's like a prison or something. It kills you then keeps you to kill again forever. Everything in it brings back death, no matter if you die here or on the other side." He pauses to give Eddie a moment to process this. When Eddie nods, he continues again.
"No matter how hard we try, you can't leave. Not unless you're doing it's bidding. Ya see, this place rips you apart, again and again, to rebuild you. Or just uses your body to incubate it's monsters. But it only does that to the weak. If you stay strong, it wants to add you to it's family." Billy spits at the ground suddenly, like the words themselves disgust him. It's thick and dark, like phlegm from a sick man. Eddie shifts in his seat, suddenly more uncomfortable than before. Billy huffs, clearing his throat thickly.
"It's the air. It seeps into your very soul, trying to change you. But if you're strong, you can fight it." Like I have is unspoken but Eddie hears it anyway. When Billy doesn't start explaining again, Eddie straightens himself, a question on his lips.
"So I'm dead?" The words burn his throat, both from disuse and grief. Billy nods solemnly.
"We all are down here. Our hearts may beat but only so our blood can carry the infection to our brains. We are not our own person anymore..." He swallows, jaw clenching.
"One day, we won't remember who we were anymore." His gaze saddens with the words.
It's not a theory nor a paranoia. It's a declaration of fact. A warning to Eddie that there's no escaping this, there's no running from it this time.
Eddie nods his acceptance of his fate. His only choice is to fight for as long as he can, like Billy clearly has.
"Then I'm gonna fight it every step of the way." Eddie declares, expression hardening with determination. Billy smiles, a strained thing, dull eyes brightening just a bit.
"Glad to hear it, Munson."
And suddenly, they're in this together. The forgotten against the world.