Chapter Text
“Hey, Munson.”
Eddie's pretty confident that he's the only Munson currently suffering enrollment at Hawkins High, but seeing Jason Carver, of all people, approach him outright in broad daylight is enough to make him wonder. Partially because, in all of the delightful years they've shared as peers, he can't recall a single time that he addressed him as anything other than freak.
He also wonders, with surpassing urgency, if he's about to get his ass beat.
“...Carver,” Eddie acknowledges belatedly, glancing around with failed subtlety just to make sure no other letterman jackets happen to be congregating around his van. “Uh… To what do I—”
“I'm gonna make this quick,” he interrupts carelessly, stepping aside and nodding his head back towards the school building. “You see that girl?”
Eddie gives him an odd look, staring cluelessly in the gestured direction until Jason says your name, and he instantly hones in on you, sitting on your heels against the brick wall with your nose in a paperback novel, and a half-heartedly concealed cigarette in your other hand. He knows you for pretty much the same reasons everyone knows him—visible non-conformity and wildly absurd hearsay, but perhaps to a lesser degree.
He glances back at Jason warily. “Um… Yeah, I see her.”
“Great,” Jason says dryly. “I need you to ask her out.”
Eddie barks a humorless laugh, staring at him, waiting for him to get to the actual point.
“...You lose your hearing, freak?”
He blinks, recalibrating—Carver's fucking serious. Eddie's mouth falls open, cycling through a couple incredulous (and highly distrusting) expressions.
“Wow, y'know— As much as I appreciate your…charitable matchmaking services, I think I'm gonna pass.”
Jason rolls his eyes and abruptly seizes him by the collar. Eddie's eyes pop open, and his entire body tenses up as Jason wrenches him a few steps aside and shoves him into the side of his own van, making the interaction at least marginally more private.
“Shit, man, what the—?!”
“Listen,” Jason hisses. “That…basket case, over there, is Chrissy Cunningham's cousin.”
“Okay?” Eddie says, shoulders raised to his ears in stress. Then, frowning as he processes that: “...Wait, seriously?”
“I was as shocked as you are,” Jason says, with a short, dry scoff. “The point is, Chrissy's draconian parents won't let her date until she does.”
“So, never,” Eddie interprets, slightly amazed to learn that Jason Carver uses words like draconian.
“Exactly,” he says. “And that's why you—” He jabs a hard finger into Eddie's sternum. “—are gonna get her to go out with you."
“And why the hell would I do that?” he asks, bristling somewhat. “I'm sure plenty of your fellow meatheads would be up to the challenge.”
“Watch it, Munson,” Jason grits, giving him another shove. “You're gonna do it because if there's anyone in this town that's psychotic enough to deal with her, it's you.” Then, he smirks a little. “...Plus, y'know, if she does end up stabbing you, she'll be doing the rest of us a favor.”
“Charming,” Eddie spits, feeling his skin crawl. “Like I said, I'll pass.”
When Eddie tries to shove him away, Jason uses his forearm to pin him right back in place.
“No, you're gonna do it,” he insists, laughing dryly. “You know how I know?”
Eddie just glares at him.
“...Because I know exactly how your kind operates.”
With his free hand, Jason digs something out of his back pocket—Eddie prays, briefly, that it isn't a fucking knife—and pulls out a thin wad of cash, holding it in front of his face. He probably would've been less alarmed if it was a knife.
“...Thats—”
“Thirty-five dollars, Munson,” Jason provides. “Probably the most honest money you'll ever make.”
He nearly scoffs—as if anything about this is honest—but he realizes that was probably Carver's closest approximation to a joke.
Now… Eddie would be hard pressed to think of a situation any less demeaning, insulting, and downright humiliating, for you and him both. In all honesty, the mere thought of it makes him sick to his stomach.
But, frankly, feats of intellect have never been Jason Carver's strong suit. Eddie doesn't know much of anything about you (at least, not anything he finds particularly credible), but by his estimation, the odds of even his most genuine attempt to ask you out being met with anything other than firm rejection are pretty much nonexistent. This whole ordeal is exactly as ridiculous as it sounds, and clearly doomed to fail.
So, best case scenario, Jason doesn't get what he wants; you suffer a brief, moderate annoyance; and Eddie gets a minor dent in his pride, and thirty-five US dollars.
Thirty-five goddamn dollars. Jesus Christ.
Clenching his jaw and eyeing him warily, Eddie reaches for the money, but Jason instantly snatches it out of his reach.
“No way,” he says. “You'll get the money after you get a date with her.”
Eddie scoffs. “Fuck you, man.”
Jason's eyes flash in anger, but, remarkably, he shoves it down, giving a stiff shrug instead.
“...Fine,” he says, returning the money to his pocket. “I'll find someone else to—”
“Wait, wait,” Eddie says, raising his hands, kind of fucking hating himself for it. “...I'll do it, alright? But you and I both know if I just go over there and ask her, she's gonna tell me to fuck off.”
Jason levels a glare at him, but he clearly doesn't disagree.
“...Consider it an investment,” Eddie haggles carefully. “If you thought this was gonna be easy, you wouldn't be asking me.”
Finally, Jason actually takes his hands off him, stepping back and rubbing his jaw in thought.
“...Whatever, freak,” Jason spits out, fishing out the cash again and throwing it at him carelessly. Startling at the sight, Eddie quickly steps on it, then snaps his eyes back up when Jason points a sharp finger at him. “Don't slack, Munson. I'll be watching you.”
…Eddie waits until Jason turns around entirely to pick up the folded bills, throwing him a spirited middle finger behind his back before examining them. With a sigh, he shoves it all in his pocket and drops into a squat, letting his face fall into his hands with a groan.
God, what the fuck?
Peeking around his van, he locates you again, still exactly as you were before, blissfully ignorant and smoking shamelessly on school property.
As he feels the guilt start to bloom in his stomach, cursing himself internally for forgetting to restock his own supply, he wonders how bad it would be if he tried to bum one off of you.
…
The next day, Eddie skips lunch.
Truthfully, since the previous afternoon, he's put considerably more strategic thought into the matter of approaching you than he'd ever give Jason Carver the satisfaction of knowing. After all, it's not like he really expects you to give him the time of day regardless of what comes out of his mouth, and in the interest of getting this whole ordeal over with as quickly and harmlessly as possible, the best thing he can do is just…wing it and see what happens.
It wouldn't be in his nature to bomb on purpose, of course—technically, a business deal was made, and as disreputable and generally assholeish as his forcible partner may be, Eddie Munson is, unfortunately, a man of his word. At the very least, he'll make an honest attempt.
So, rather than grace his beloved Hellfire companions with his magnanimous presence as he normally would, as soon as the lunch bell rings, he goes looking for you.
Eddie managed to compile three reasonable observations about you to inform his search, which proceed as follows: one, at least half of the times he's seen you, you've had a book in your hands, including in the middle of class; two, you're a habitual smoker; and three, your presence is just about never found in the cafeteria.
First, he checks the perimeter of the school, hoping to either find you smoking outside like yesterday, or to catch up with you before you leave campus, if that happens to be your routine, but his initial sweep comes up short.
His second best guess, for better or worse, is right on the money.
Within seconds of stepping foot into the school library, his eyes land on you from afar, adjusting the dark, patterned sling bag on your shoulder as you disappear down an aisle.
Almost instantly, his palms start sweating.
Eddie isn't scared of being rejected—at this point, he could draft a sprawling trilogy on the topic that’d put Tolkien himself to shame. Nor does he fear your rejection in particular, given that, as attractive as he may privately find you, being someone's boyfriend is about the last thing on his list of priorities at the moment, (and that rumor about the stabbing is definitely bullshit, anyway,) but the…quietness of the setting is a little bit intimidating. Striking out is one thing, but striking out knowing that everyone close enough will enjoy an unimpeded front row seat to the spectacle is…pretty rough, even for him.
For thirty-five goddamn dollars, though, far be it from him to complain.
With an excessive nonchalance, Eddie takes measured footsteps in your direction, hesitating briefly as he peeks down each aisle. When he finds you, his back straightens compulsively, head snapping straight forward as he makes his way to the other side of where you're browsing, doing his best to discreetly spy on you through the shelves. At one point, his eyes accidentally meet yours, black-rimmed and unimpressed, but you move on so quickly that it's already over by the time he registers the stutter in his chest. Every time you step further down the aisle, Eddie does too, half-heartedly pretending to browse as he goes, and when, finally, you step out of the aisle entirely, headed in his direction, he mirrors you perfectly, halting you in your tracks.
Eddie musters up his most charming smile, clasping his hands politely in front of him.
“Hi,” he says.
You gawk at him with all the baffled displeasure of someone whose cat left a dead mouse on the carpet. Without so much as a word, you step to the side again, attempting to get around him.
Eddie sees this coming. “...Whatcha got there?” he asks, blocking you once again and pointing to the book in your hands.
You glance down at it, then back at him, your brow furrowing a little tighter.
“...Frankenstein,” you answer flatly.
“Oh, sick,” he says genuinely, crossing his arms and leaning forward to try to get a peek at the cover. You hide it from him stubbornly. “...Are you into sci-fi, or just gothic literature in general?”
Ignoring the question, you seem to be studying his face, squinting a little in concentration. It goes on for so long that he swallows, glancing around to see if anyone else is witnessing the exchange.
“...Do I have something on my face?” he asks, scrunching his nose at you.
“No,” you say, your curiosity fading back into bemused apathy. “...Your eyes are just freakishly large.”
Eddie's mouth opens, then snaps right back closed, and he nods to himself a couple times. “Cool,” he says. “Thanks.”
Evidently finished with him, you turn and slip right back down the aisle you came from. At first, he's content to let you go and end the interaction with only a pinch to his ego, but the evil money burning a hole in his wallet kicks him into action, swiftly catching up as you curl around to the next aisle. The path he follows smells like you—spicy, clove or cinnamon maybe; a little smoky, floral in a pungent, almost boozy way. Rotting flowers and burning incense.
Oh, he likes it. It’s kind of hot, actually, and he decides to let that thought slide, given the task at hand.
“...Okay, here's a better question,” he tries instead, leaning against the shelf beside you with his arms crossed, watching you go on browsing without a care. “What are you doing after school?”
“No.”
Eddie blinks, his head falling to the side. “...That isn't really—”
“I'm not joining your lame club,” you clarify with boredom, finally giving him a sideways look.
“Ah,” Eddie says. Well, lame is far from the worst way he's heard Hellfire described. He chuckles, half-forced. “...I'm, uh—not actually trying to proselytize.”
“I sure hope not,” you say. “You're doing a really shit job at it.”
Eddie bites his cheek, sensing a tension headache on the horizon. As you pluck another book from the shelf, turning on your heels and sparing him no further glance, he decides, fuck it. One last honest, clear attempt.
“You wanna see a movie?” he calls after you.
At the other end of the aisle you pause, slowly turning back around, giving him a long, ambiguous look, head to toe. It makes him feel a little bit like a bug.
“...Sure,” you conclude finally, and Eddie's eyebrows pull together in confusion as a little smile grows on your lips. “Hold your breath.”
…Right.
Eddie runs his tongue over his teeth as he watches you go, waiting a minute before making his own exit so it doesn't seem like he's following you, or something. As he passes the adjacent aisle, some underclassman he vaguely recognizes is looking at him, but averts his eyes with a snicker when Eddie notices. With lightly burning ears, he rolls his eyes and steps a little faster.
There—he tried. He can’t say he expected it to go much better than that, but it definitely could’ve gone worse.
Hell, at least you actually spoke to him.
…
Eddie knew, for the most part, that one blatant failure wouldn’t quite let him off the hook.
Jason’s next-day check-in, much like the initial deal, took the form of a shake down. Badgered, manhandled, and pinned to the nearest wall, Eddie’s cool “didn’t work” was met with an even cooler and lightly threatening “try harder, freak.”
So, fuck. He’ll give it another shot.
Getting cornered makes him late for lunch, and between that and going MIA the previous day, there’s an obvious air of suspicion clouding up the Hellfire table. Of course, Eddie had excuses prepared—he got in trouble in Algebra again so hardass Mr. Bryant had him scrubbing the desks spotless, and casual harassment by way of the athletics program is nothing out of the ordinary—but he can’t shake the distinct feeling that, if this goes on, his business isn’t gonna stay his business for much longer, and his appetite suffers for it.
Approaching you after school is pretty convenient. The only class you share is the last class of the day, sixth period English with Mrs. Howell. If Eddie has been on your mind at all after yesterday’s encounter, you sure as hell don’t let it show. When he walks in, you don’t so much as look up from your book, even as he passes by your seat near the door to get to his preferred position at the far back window. His eyes must jab into the back of your head upwards of fifty times in the hour-long period, but either you don’t feel his stare on you in the slightest, or you’re just super committed to ignoring him.
As such, when class ends, he decides to wait, letting you leave first and catching up with you again outside of the building. He spots you just as you turn a corner, headed, thankfully, to a more secluded side, but when he gets there himself, he pauses.
Rather, you give him pause. About fifteen paces down, there you are, sitting in front of the brick wall with your bag slumped beside you. Fingers threaded into your hair, you let your head fall forward and shake it back and forth with a near violent enthusiasm.
Eddie just stands there, peeking cluelessly around the corner as you alternate to wildly fluffing your hair, rubbing at your scalp, tugging your head forward, then back, side to side, and repeating it all from the beginning. He tries to wait it out, but you just keep going, so he figures now’s as good a time as any.
“...Hey,” he says. “Got a headache?”
He wasn’t sure if you could hear him coming or not, but the way you jolt and freeze and snap your face up at him tells him plenty. Your hair is thoroughly tousled, sticking up wildly in a couple places, which, in conjunction with the glare that your shocked expression settles into, is very cute.
“Shit, sorry,” he says with a grin that takes no effort at all. “Didn’t mean to startle ya. Mind if I sit?”
Eddie points to the space beside you, and gets no response whatsoever. It’s like someone hit your pause button. He imagines your inner monologue: maybe, if I stay really, really still, he won’t be able to see me.
“...Okay, I’ll take that as a yes,” he mutters to himself, sitting on his heels beside you.
Your glare burns into the side of his face, until, with something close to a huff, you start rifling through your bag. Now that he looks at it properly, it seems to be made up of a bunch of squares and scraps of dark fabrics sewn together as patchwork, all different patterns and textures, strewn with random buttons here and there. Kinda like Frankenstein’s monster. Whatever you’re doing in there, you seem to be trying to hide it from him, but eventually, your hands withdraw with a single black cigarette and a red disposable lighter. There’s heavily chipped purple polish on your nails, and your right wrist bears a bright pink and blue friendship bracelet that sticks out like a sore thumb against the rest of you.
“...That’s a cool bag,” Eddie notes, letting his eyes travel over it again as you light up. He reaches over, feels one of the patches with his finger, and you ignore that too. “...Did you make it?”
With a reluctant glance his way, you nod.
“Shit,” he says. “That’s really impressive. It looks awesome. You do a lot of sewing?”
Looking straight ahead, you keep the cigarette to your lips for a long time and let the smoke flow out on a very disinterested sigh.
“...Are you trying to sell me something?” you ask flatly.
“What? No, I'm—” Eddie pauses, reassesses the situation. “...I mean, are you buying?”
You just snort at him. “...Can't smoke anymore.”
He’s heard don’t plenty of times, but can’t piques his interest. “Why not?”
You give him a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sideways glance. “Makes me too slutty.”
There's an inside joke woven in there somewhere, kept presumably with yourself. You smile a little as you say it, but it clearly isn’t for him.
“...Right,” Eddie says, and, assuming that qualifies as a joke, he forces a grin. “Well, we…can't have that, can we?”
You reach your hand over and ash your cigarette onto the middle of his thigh. Eddie brushes it off just as quick. With a deep, heavy sigh, his eyes flicker over you, searching for some other thread to tug on.
“...What're you smoking?” He's pretty sure he knows—if the black paper didn't give it away, the borderline medicinal smell of clove is thick and unmistakable.
You look up at him, abrupt and oddly innocent, almost like he’s actually found a question that intrigues you, and his eyebrows raise in surprise.
“...Wanna taste?” you offer.
Eddie’s mouth falls open, completely stumped—the best he can give you is an odd, breathy half-chuckle and a couple choked attempts at speech that make him wonder if he's actually having a stroke. Undeterred, you scramble onto your knees, facing him directly now, and take another long, pointed drag. At the same time, your other hand reaches out, grasping at the collar of his vest in a move so wildly unexpected that it makes him jump out of his skin.
“Wh— What are you—?”
Lowering the cigarette, you tilt your face towards him and tug him closer, and for some reason, Eddie’s face sizzles like a dumbass kid that got a little too close to the burn barrel, and just as he begins to process how distressingly attractive this is, whatever it is you’re doing, you blow as much of the smoke as you can, directly up his nose. You timed it perfectly—he was already inhaling before he could register what the fuck you were doing, so it gets an express trip down his airway that immediately sends him sputtering.
“Jesus—Christ,” he spits as you release him, coughing a few times as it reaches his lungs, rubbing his nose to soothe the acrid sting in his sinuses with a groan.
Now, Eddie, like most idiotic teenagers, has, at one point or another, tried to smoke a cigarette with his nose, and it’s never a pleasant experience, but the smog that just spewed out of your mouth felt like something that probably should’ve been outlawed after the first World War. He has to wipe a couple tears out of his eyes.
“Wow,” he says once he’s recovered, and now has the wherewithal to acknowledge the humor in it. You did get him pretty good. “Shit. …I mean, I didn’t really taste anything, but—”
“I can try again, if you want.”
Something kind of gross inside of him would almost take you up on it.
“I think I’m good for now,” he says with a sniffle, grinning down at you. “...But if you have any other casual torture methods you’d like to test out, I might be open to discussion.”
You roll your eyes at him heavily as you settle back down against the wall. Eddie finds it a little gratifying.
“...Move along, Munson.”
He cocks his head to the side. “So you do know my name. I was beginning to wonder.”
You snort at him. “Who doesn't?”
Yeah, alright—he set himself up for that one. Glancing back at him, you give him your signature long, dubious stare, taking another drag from your cigarette. He half-expects another dose of mustard gas to go with it, but the smoke filters out gradually as you speak.
“...Seen your dad a few times,” you say.
Eddie's jaw tightens. If there's one topic he would prefer any conversation to avoid at all costs, it's that one.
“Yeah?” he responds, packing as much cold disinterest as he can into one syllable.
“Mhm,” you hum, eyes flickering over his tense face, squinting just slightly. “...He bought me a drink, once.”
The shock hits him like a truck, kicking his heart into overdrive. As much as he'd prefer that to mean that he tossed you some change for a coke one time, he knows his own father, and while he'd never considered that approaching high school girls in bars might be among the hobbies he dabbles in while avoiding the duties of fatherhood, he sure as fuck wouldn't put it past him. Not anymore, at least.
When it becomes clear that Eddie has nothing to say to that, you chew on your pierced lip for a moment, something unsettling dancing in your eyes.
“...He's kinda old, but he wasn't a creep, or anything,” you mumble with a shrug, tearing your gaze away, hovering the cigarette just in front of your mouth. “...Otherwise, I wouldn't’ve let him screw me in the bathroom.”
Eddie's brain shuts down entirely. He knows this, because the only thing he can process is all the blood rushing to his head, drowning it in screaming red, bursting behind his eyes. A deep, churning sickness agitates his gut, angry and nauseous and somehow humiliated, until you glance back at him and break almost instantly into a horrible, squeaky little giggle.
“Jesus, Munson,” you tease, basking in whatever severe expression is on his face. He’s never seen your eyes so bright. “Are you always this gullible?”
The relief that washes over Eddie does away with most of his rising panic, but the anger remains, still roiling and sparking through his intestines. Caught between What's your fucking problem? and What the hell is wrong with you? and No fucking wonder you don’t have any friends, he figures that his best bet is to keep his mouth shut. With no further comment, Eddie stands up, shoves his hands into his pockets, and trudges away, feeling a tinge in his jaw from how hard his teeth are gritting together. The last thing he sees from you is a wide, toothy, self-satisfied grin, which would probably amaze him if his brain wasn’t pissed off oatmeal at the moment.
“Say hi to your dad for me,” you call after him as he goes.
As much as he hates to admit it, the high of thirty-five dollars is starting to wear off.
…
“I don’t know what to tell ya. She’s made an artform out of putting people off. It’s almost impressive.”
Jason’s eye roll is anything but sympathetic. “That’s exactly why I’m paying you to put up with it, freak.”
After the last time, Eddie decided that two public botch-jobs and a sprinkling of psychological damage is the extent of what thirty-five dollars can buy from him. He was on his second cigarette by the time Jason approached him, sitting at the open back of his van, and he’s already considering a third.
“...You’re paying me to take her out,” Eddie corrects, “and she’s made it more than clear that she’s not interested.”
“How the hell do you think this works, Munson?” Jason spits. He’s white-knuckling one of the van’s back doors, and the image of him trying to slam it closed while Eddie’s still sitting there burns brighter in his mind by the second. “You took the money. We have a deal. Make her interested.”
Eddie fends off an eye roll of his own. Clearly, Carver’s never attempted to speak to you himself. He’s kind of starting to wonder if he’s ever spoken to a girl at all.
“It’s…really not that simple, man. I can’t just force her to go out with me.”
Jason tears his hand from the door and slams the side of his fist against it in frustration. Eddie only narrowly avoids flinching. He tenses up, preparing to throw himself further into the van in the case that his premonition decides to come true.
“Should’ve known it’d be like this,” Jason mutters to himself, forcing a chuckle, but his expression goes dark again as he takes out his wallet.
He pulls out a twenty dollar bill, and Eddie’s eyes bug out of his head.
“This is what you’re looking for, right?” he jeers. “A stronger incentive? Fine. But I swear to God, Munson, if you don’t deliver, I’m coming back for every last cent, and then some. Do you hear me?”
…He’s fucking with him. He has to be fucking with him. This is all some enormous, painfully unfunny joke that’s probably going to end with him in the hospital. Possibly dead in a ditch somewhere. Eddie continues gawking at him until he takes a foreboding step closer.
“I said, do you hear me, freak?”
“Yes—fuck, I hear you! Loud and clear. Shit.”
Jason holds out the bill. Eddie hesitates. He doesn’t grab it until Jason shakes it at him with agitated impatience, and no sooner than he does, Jason tugs on it, pulling him slightly forward as he leans in closer.
“Get. The job. Done.”
With that, Jason surrenders the money and leaves. Eddie’s disoriented mind buzzes with static as he stares down at it in his grasp, and a few seconds later, he’s scrambling to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he swings around the side of his van.
“Shit, Carver, wait a second!”
The green letterman rises and falls with an exasperated breath. Jason reluctantly turns back around, hitting him with an icy glare.
“What?”
Eddie’s mouth falls open, and—
…God fucking damnit.
Eddie knows that it’ll be better for everyone involved if he just puts this insanity to rest. He knows that. It’s what he told himself he’d do, from the moment you nearly sent him into a conniption fit outside the school. He had every intention of ending the deal right here and now.
But for some goddamn reason, Jason Carver is willing to spend fifty-five fucking dollars just for him to take a girl he already thinks is pretty out on a date.
And Eddie does think you’re pretty. And you smell nice. And you’re kind of weird in a way he enjoys. So, yeah, even if he’s getting paid to do it, it’s not like he’d be opposed to the idea otherwise. Any flirtation he might lay on you wouldn’t be forced in any sense of the word.
Plus, he’s learning, you’re also mean. Mean enough that, if he’s completely honest, it sort of makes him feel better about pursuing you under false pretenses.
…But really, he couldn’t give the money back if he wanted to, anyway. Wayne got sick a couple weeks back, only enough to miss (at Eddie’s insistence) three days of work, but they’ve been very literally paying for it ever since. As far as Eddie’s concerned, every cent he’s been given is well beyond spoken for—split up and distributed towards overdue bills and payments, long-awaited replacements and repairs. At this point, refusing to honor the deal would essentially amount to begging Carver and all his blockhead friends to beat him to a bloody pulp, probably on a recurring basis, and he doesn’t even wanna think about what it could spell for the rest of Hellfire, solely by association.
Jason’s face twitches with impatience. Eddie takes a long, weathered breath, crumpling the twenty-dollar bill in his fist.
“...I can do it,” he decides. “I can do it, but you gotta help me out, here.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I need…information,” Eddie explains. “Her…hobbies, what she’s into, what music she likes, whatever. Just—something I can work with.”
Jason huffs like it’s a terrible inconvenience. “...Fine,” he agrees. “I’ll see what I can get from Chrissy.”
Eddie blinks. “I mean, I could ask her,” he says.
A pretty bad call, which he doesn’t realize until it’s already left his mouth.
Jason swells up like a broken limb, and the flash of straight bloodlust that passes over his face as he starts back towards him makes Eddie’s stomach clench up. “Munson, if you so much as look at her—”
“She doesn’t know!” Eddie half-shouts, raising his hands as you would towards an angry dog.
Jason pauses.
“...Does she?” Eddie swallows. A little stream of sweat runs down his side, tickling the skin over his ribs. “About our little…arrangement?”
He says nothing, which tells Eddie everything he needs to know. He relaxes just enough to let his arms fall back down.
“...I’m just saying,” Eddie reasons. “If I’m the one that’s supposed to be into her, wouldn’t it make more sense for me to ask Chrissy about her?”
…Still no response. It’s a little uncanny.
“...I’ll keep it short,” he goes on, clearing his throat. “Discreet, obviously. Just, y’know… Figured you wouldn’t wanna give her the wrong idea.”
Jason’s glare narrows, but he finally stops gritting his teeth.
“...You lay a hand on her and I swear to God, I’ll break it.”
Eddie sighs internally. Comes with the territory.
“Yeah, man, I got it. Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jason shakes his head, radiating pure contempt as he turns around and storms off. The feeling’s pretty mutual.
Eddie feels a lot like he just narrowly escaped a run-in with the cops, and he would fucking know. He can’t get his third cigarette out of the pack fast enough.
…
When you’re Eddie Munson, there’s no good time or place to try and talk to someone on a considerably more favorable rung of the social ladder from yourself, and Chrissy Cunningham is about as far in the opposite direction as anyone could possibly get.
This means that, the next time that Eddie happens to spot her, chatting with friends at her locker, he just says fuck it and heads on over, doing his best to ignore the vigorous acrobatics his stomach starts to perform at the prospect of walking up to a group of pretty girls that hate him.
“Hey, uh…Chrissy?”
The sound of his voice startles her, and it kinda feels like slapping the shit out of an angel. She turns around to face him, and, to her credit, the pure and utter alarm on her face isn’t laced with the same distaste as her friends beside her.
“...Oh, hi…Eddie?” Each word pitches a little higher in her confusion.
Wow, she knows his name. …No, everyone knows his name. Eddie clears his throat.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says with a smile, “but I was kinda hoping you could help me out with something?”
“...Me?” she confirms with surprise.
“Yeah, uh, it’s…about your cousin, actually.”
Her brow furrows as she says your name in question. “...Is something wrong?”
“No, I— Nothing’s wrong, it’s just sort of…” He looks very deliberately between her friends. “...private.”
Chrissy nods with immediate understanding, turning to address the other girls again. “Why don’t you go on without me, and I’ll catch up later?”
A concerned little chorus of What? Chrissy? Are you sure? goes around, but she waves them off with a firm, trusting insistence that he didn’t remotely expect from her. She waits until they’ve moved on to turn back to him.
“Did something happen?” she asks, keeping her voice down. There’s still a little worry in her brow that Eddie feels bad for causing.
“No, no, she’s fine,” he explains, scratching at the back of his neck. He must’ve swallowed a hive of angry wasps at some point. This is a lot more nerve-wracking than he expected it to be. “It’s just, um… I wanna ask her out, but she…won’t really talk to me, so I was hoping you could tell me, like…what she’s into? Y'know, some things I could bring up, talk to her about.”
“...Really?” Chrissy breathes the word with such sheer, delighted awe that it makes Eddie feel like a scumbag. He can’t look her in the eye for very long.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, laughing sort of awkwardly, staring down at his shoes. “I, um… I think she’s really cool.”
She croons a short, endeared little sound, and Eddie’s face goes hot. “That’s so sweet!”
No, not sweet at all. Shitty. Very shitty.
Chrissy dives into her locker with an excited urgency that makes Eddie jump. He looks back up at her largely to make sure all the sudden clanging isn’t the sound of her hurting herself. The inside of her locker is a lot messier than he would expect, books and papers stuffed in haphazardly, piled up and sticking out at random. It sort of looks like his, but if Lisa Frank threw up all over it (as opposed to, say, Ronnie James Dio).
“Here, I’ll make you a list,” she says, throwing another blinding smile his way.
She rips a piece of paper out of one of her notebooks and pops the cap off of a blue glitter pen with her teeth.
As he watches her begin scribbling, Eddie can’t help but wonder what a girl as nice as Chrissy could possibly see in a complete and total asshole like Jason Carver. Maybe he has a secret soft and gushy side that only comes out around adorable cheerleaders, but even if he does, Eddie finds it hard to believe that it would make the rest of him worth the trouble. But, hell, what does he know? At the very least, that idea that what he’s doing isn’t just for Carver’s benefit but Chrissy’s as well makes the whole thing easier to swallow.
When she finishes, she forces her locker closed with another loud clang and all but shoves the piece of paper into Eddie’s hands. He accepts it, bewildered, but he can’t help but smile when she squeezes her hands together in another little burst of enthusiasm.
“I have to go now, but good luck!” she says, giving him a wave as she scurries off in the same direction her friends went.
It almost makes him laugh. Even sweet Chrissy knows he’ll damn well need it.