Work Text:
Chrissy’s contemplating a slice of apple, peanut butter scooped along the uneven ridge where she’d sliced it that morning.
Her mom doesn’t know about the peanut butter, she’d throw a fit. Calories calories calories—Chrissy buys them in those little plastic cups, one-and-done and disposable. She doesn’t eat all that much as it is; the peanut butter makes her feel fuller.
Or. She thinks so, anyway. No use explaining that to her mom, though.
Not to Jason, either, who plucks the apple from her fingertips before she can do anything about it.
“Gimme a break, babe,” he says, crunching the apple around a smirk—indulgent, unreal, condescending—when she frowns at him. “You know peanut butter’s no good for you.”
Well, that’s what everyone keeps telling her, only they won’t tell her why.
But then Jason pokes her—affectionately, maybe, or at least he thinks so, but it makes her squirm because he pokes her in the waist, where she’s softer than she thinks she’s supposed to be, especially when she’s sitting down like she is right now.
So. That’s why.
Calories calories calories—but they learned in health class, calories are what your body needs and yet she can’t even have a bite? Maybe that’s why she’s so tired all the time.
She cups her hand protectively around her waist so Jason can’t poke her there again.
Her skin feels tight. Tingly, itchy, like she’s crawling with spiders. She looks at what’s left of her lunch—iceberg lettuce and slivers of carrot her mom calls a salad, half a sandwich, half a protein bar—and doesn’t feel hungry anymore.
Jason’s talking to his friends, something about running a scrimmage at basketball practice later, so he doesn’t notice when she gathers up her paper lunch bag and excuses herself.
He only keeps an eye on her when he needs her for something, only notices her when she’s doing something he doesn’t like.
I know what’s good for you, angel.
She thinks he does it because he loves her.
She leaves, anyway.
*
Eddie’s smoking on the side of the school, propped against the low concrete wall of some half-dead herb garden, so it’s not like his cigarette butts are gonna make matters worse.
His mind is wandering, bored, sorta listless, ready and waiting for the day to be done, until—
He catches sight of Chrissy, smudged some because the bank of windows that line the hallway could really go for a good scrubbing. She’s walking briskly with her head down, arms crossed like she wants to make herself as small as possible.
Nice try, but Eddie sees her just fine.
No cheerleader uniform today; she’s in a Hawkins High henley, cuffed jeans, pretty loafers with scuffed heels. Her hair’s tied with school color ribbons and—he can’t see it from here, but he can guess—her nail polish is chipped to hell.
As if on cue, she brings a hand to her mouth, sucks her perfectly rounded thumbnail between her lips.
She’s alone. Eddie takes a hit off his cigarette, tilts it up and down with the edges of his teeth. That’s different. Carver’s usually on her tail, her bright bubbly today's top hits friends are usually hanging around.
And, sure, Eddie’s usually goofin’ off with his friends, too. But Steve’s in study hall and Robin pulled detention for calling F. Scott Fitzgerald a “fucking freak” in the middle of English class—she’s right, by the way—and Eddie doesn’t let the kiddos hang around when he’s smoking. Nancy Wheeler would probably cut his balls off if she found out her little brother and his pals were getting a secondhand fix off him. And, y’know. Eddie likes his balls where they are, thanks.
Anyway. Chrissy’s hardly ever on her own, especially not at the height of lunchtime social hour. She likes being around people, doesn’t she?
Then again, she’s always surrounded by people, and that's when she’s never really smiling. The only time Eddie’d seen a real one was when they were alone, and that’s happened all of once.
Fuckin’ bummer, man.
Chrissy disappears down the hall, ponytail swinging as she heads for the back door. Must be, because that’s all that’s down that way. Eddie should know; he knows every which way outta Hawkins High better than the back of his hand.
Weird that Chrissy knows, though.
Huh. He takes one last hit off his cigarette before tossing it, putting out the smolder with the heel of his boot.
He dips his hand in his pocket, finds the keys to his van and gives them a jingle. Looks like he’s got a quick errand to run.
*
The woods behind the football fields are usually pretty quiet. Kids hang out there when they’re skipping class or looking to score. Weed, booze, sex. Chrissy’s not after anything like that today; no, she just wants to be alone.
There’s a gaggle of students coming from that way, smelling not-so-faintly of clove cigarettes and headed back to the school. If they’re wondering what Chrissy Cunningham’s doing, making a beeline for the woods all by her lonesome, they don’t make a show of it.
Really, they probably don’t see her at all. She’s invisible unless she’s under Jason’s arm, and right now that suits her just fine. It’s not like she knows any of their names, either, not like she’s in the mood to make eye contact long enough to figure out whether or not that’s actually true.
She wants to see Eddie.
She’s not going to seek him out this time, no, she made such an idiot of herself the last time. Didn’t know what she wanted, didn’t know how to smoke, didn’t even try to make him feel good the way he made her feel good…
And she knows, okay, she knows he wanted to do that for her, but now that she’s had time to think about it she’s overthinking it and maybe he wanted to do it for her because he wanted her to do it for him—so he could say good girl Chrissy Cunningham got high with him, got him off, maybe she’s not so good, after all.
God.
Chrissy slips onto the bench seat of the old picnic table, weathered and sawdusty, elbows up and face buried in her hands.
Eddie’s not like that, not like what she’s thinking—he’s different, he’s sweet the way she’s supposed to be sweet, only he’s honest about it.
He said he wanted it. And Eddie doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, he doesn’t do things he doesn’t mean. She could feel how much he meant it, she can still feel it, in the flare of heat in her chest and the curl of her toes every time she thinks about it.
He kissed her like he could give her everything she wanted, and that was only the start.
And she knows it’s wrong—because of Jason, and even if it wasn’t because of Jason it would be because of her, because who is Chrissy Cunningham to be happy when she’s so utterly lacking, when she could be better, needs to be better—but, oh, she wants to see where it goes.
She wants fun and easy and happy, she wants all of Eddie’s no worries to last longer than just when she’s with him, because here she is, wound up all alone at a picnic table in the sparse middle of the woods, head in her hands and heart in her throat, and she knows she said she wanted to be alone, she knows that, but she doesn’t, she just—
She wants to see Eddie.
*
“Fancy meetin’ you here.”
Eddie tosses the greasy crumpled McDonald’s bag he’d skipped out for onto the table in front of her. Chrissy jumps a little, must’ve been too in her own head to hear him walking up.
When her hands fall from her face, she looks pink and blotchy like she’d been crying, or like she’d been about to start.
Can’t have that, can they? Hell no.
He slurps on the straw of his orange soda, more obnoxious than he needs to, and shoots her a wink. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Her voice is small, tired, the way Chrissy’s voice just is sometimes.
It sucks to hear her like that. Sucks to see her all curled in on herself. They’re at the tail-end of summer so it’s not like it’s cold out, but she’s holding herself like it is.
He could hold her like that. Y’know. If she wanted. If he didn’t feel like too much of a sissy to offer.
Hell, he got his hand up her skirt the other day, but this he’s worried about.
Fuuuuuck him.
Eddie unknots the flannel tied around his waist, shakes it out—still wrinkled, but it’ll do—and tosses it around her shoulders. Chrissy gives him a smile, almost that real one but a little more guarded today.
She slips her arms into the too-big-for-her sleeves, anyway. Tells him, “Thanks.”
Well, at least she’s looking at him. They haven’t talked in a couple of days, not since they shotgunned that joint and he fingered her under the bleachers. Drove her home afterwards, and she’d kissed his cheek when he parked half a block from her house so her mom wouldn’t rag on her.
She hasn’t broken up with Jason, but then Eddie hadn’t really expected her to. Hadn’t really thought about it long enough to get his hopes up.
He’d thought about her, yeah, but. So sue him if her douchebag boyfriend didn’t make the cut into his daydreaming.
“So.” Eddie braces his palms on the tabletop, sways back and forth. Nods at the bag. “Skipping lunch, huh? You eat anything?”
Trick question. He knows she hasn’t. Call it an educated guess, at least, because he’s never seen her finish so much as a baby carrot.
He’s not gonna pry, no, that’s his rule; but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Just that he wouldn’t make her talk about something she’s not willing to say for herself first.
“Oh, I’m—I’m fine.” Chrissy takes a breath, tries for another smile that he’s not totally buying. She hunches her shoulders, looks even more small in his shirt than she did before. Kicks off a little ache in his chest, makes him want her more.
Shit.
But, hey. C’est la vie, right? (Or something. Whatever, he doesn’t get French.)
Eddie hops onto the table, swings around so his feet are planted on the bench next to Chrissy’s thigh. Can’t see those freckles when she’s in her jeans, but he knows they’re there and, man, that’s enough.
He bumps her elbow with his knee, and digs into the bag.
“C’mon.” Eddie slits open a burger wrapper, sucks smeared ketchup off his thumb and folds the paper back. Offers it to her. “I know you’re hungry.”
*
Chrissy chews on her lip. Eddie doesn’t push, but she doesn’t think she’s getting out of this one and, well, maybe that’s for the best.
If she eats now, she could probably comfortably skip out on dinner. That’ll make her mom happy; she approves when Chrissy skips meals, when she takes her dressing on the side, when she says a polite no, thank you to seconds or dessert.
And if her mom’s happy, then maybe the next time she picks up clothes for her—jeans or a sweater or a summer dress—she’ll buy them in Chrissy’s size, not a size down until she makes herself fit and then her mom buys the next size down after that.
It won’t last, keeping her mom happy, but it might give her a break.
She brings a hand to her mouth, sucks on her thumbnail. The cuff of Eddie’s shirt droops over her hand, plaid and worn-down soft and it smells like deep fry and his leather jacket.
“Well, I wouldn’t—I mean, I don’t want to eat your lunch.”
“No sweat, Cunningham, I got this for you.”
She blinks. “You did?”
He smiles. Of course he does. And, gosh, does Eddie Munson have the prettiest smile; she thinks she’d do just about anything he asked, so long as he was smiling at her like that.
Like that. Like there’s nothing else to look at but her, and she’s all he needs.
She can’t know that, of course she can’t, but it’s like she thought earlier—Eddie is honest, he’s real, you can read him like a book if you bother to really look at him.
“That’s really sweet, Eddie,” she tells him, because she's not sure he knows that. She takes the burger—calories calories calories— “Thank you.”
He props an elbow on his knee, fingers curled under his grin. His rings wink at her in the pale sunlight. “Anytime, princess.”
Chrissy wrinkles her nose against her own smile, the flutter in her empty tummy when he talks to her like that. But then her empty tummy clenches, grumbles, and she really needs to fill it with something more than butterflies.
She tries to pace herself, take small bites and chew slow, but she’s hungry.
Didn’t realize how bad it was ‘til she got a taste of soft toasted bread and grilled meat grease calories calories calories and the tang of pickles onions mustard.
She can’t think of anything else.
Eddie peels back more of the paper as she eats, crumples the scraps and tosses them into the bag. He gives her a second when she’s done with the first, tips his soda straw between her lips before he takes a pull from it himself.
It’s sugar and carbs and calories, and she feels more awake than she has in days.
*
Yeah, see, he knew she was hungry.
Eddie’s fingers sweep over her tied-back hair, across her temple and down to trace her jaw; he tucks his thumb in the hinge of it, feels the muscle working as she chews and swallows, chews and swallows, steady—if a little on the quick side—as the beat of her pulse.
Chrissy sure can put food away when she’s allowed to. Pisses him off that that’s not all the time.
If he’s hazarding another guess here, that’s not her fault. He won’t nag her about it; he’s not much the nagging type, anyway. That’s Steve’s department. Not in a bad way, but you don’t wrangle a horde of freshmen for D&D and odd-joh gigs around town without having to ride their asses about something or other.
But Chrissy’s a whole other game—a whole-ass campaign, even. You gotta tread carefully with her, mind her cracks and fix them up if you can.
She’s doing okay right now, when it’s just the two of them. Eddie’s eyes scan the tight-knit clearing every now and then to make sure, but so far so good: it’s just rustling leaves and the squawk of some pissy-sounding bird whenever it has something to be pissy about.
The thump and bass of someone’s boombox filters through the trees, but Eddie can’t tell what song it is, so it’s far enough away that they don’t have to worry about it.
He usually arranges meet-ups here, but he’s not expecting anyone today. If someone swings by and sees him with Chrissy, well… They’ll burn that bridge when they come to it.
Carver will kick his ass for sure, but, fair’s fair, bring it on, because Eddie could sell him a baggie of chopped salad and the guy would smoke it.
Hm. Actually. Maybe Eddie’ll start doing that to him, anyway.
Chrissy finishes up, tosses her trash and takes another sip from his soda cup. There’s a smudge of ketchup under her bottom lip.
Eddie grins soft for her, tips her chin up so he can look at her better. Her cheeks have gone all pink again, but it’s not all blotchy and sad this time—it’s healthy, a second wind after a morning without any breakfast.
“Hey.”
She smiles back and—there she is, there’s that real smile, eye crinkles and cheek dimples and teeth that are a little bit crooked and she’s the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen. “Hey.”
Screw it.
He ducks in to kiss her, licks the ketchup off her mouth. Casual, like they do this all the time. Like they’re allowed to do it all the time. Like there’s no Carver, no anybody else who would tell Chrissy she’s too good for the town metalhead burnout trailer trash so why’s she slumming it with him?
Well, hell if Eddie could give them an answer, but at least he’s sure good at pretending.
Chrissy’s pretty good at it, too. That, or she just really likes kissing him.
Eddie thinks he’ll go with that second one.
*
Oh, this is what she’d wanted—comfort, reassurance. The clutch of Eddie’s fingers in her ponytail, the click of the guitar pick he wears around his neck against her class ring, when she wraps her hand in his shirt.
His tongue slips into her mouth and relief washes over her, washes away all that overthinking that got her believing in less than the best in him. Chrissy can’t purge her own self-deprecation as easy, but letting Eddie be good to her is a start.
But she—she sighs into his mouth and he kisses her harder—God, she has to be good to him, too.
So she pulls back, too soon but she needs to, unsticks their lips, tacky like bubblegum when it pops and just as sugar-sweet.
The breath Eddie takes through his nose is sharp, and his throat clicks when he swallows, presses a kiss to her cheek like he wants to linger.
“I’m, um.” She digs the toes of her loafers into the soft dirt under the picnic table. “I’m still with Jason.”
“Ah—yeah.” Eddie scratches the back of his neck. Exhales through the beginnings of a kiss-swollen mouth. Leans his elbows on his knees, plays with his hands. “Yeah. I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
And she is, he has no idea how much. But Jason’s not the type of boy you break up with. Not because you don’t want to, but because it’s not up to you.
She’d always assumed, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Jason would call things off when he’d had enough, but they’ve already lasted longer than she’d expected and she doesn't know when it’s going to stop.
Eddie shakes his head. “Don’t be. I knew you had a boyfriend.”
“But I—”
“I know.”
He’s smiling at her again. It’s a little sad, but like he doesn’t want her to know that. But she does know, because that’s how she smiles all the time.
She won’t call him on it, though, and even if she wanted to, even if she could, the next thing he says knocks the question right out of her—
“And you know where to find me.”
*
He knows what he’s offering. To be the guy on the side, Chrissy Cunningham’s dirty little secret she can bust out whenever she needs him.
Not just for a smoke or, y’know, sex or whatever else she might want to do with him. But for when she needs to talk or eat or be around someone who lets her. If it takes her some time to let herself, well, Eddie can stick around.
Because what else is he supposed to do? Leave her alone with Carver when she needs someone who’ll take care of her? Eddie’s no shrink, but… c’mon.
He gets why she stays with the guy; might take him awhile to suss out the exactly-why’s, the specifics, the nuances, sure, but the point is Eddie can’t blame her.
No, he just wants to be there for her.
“Okay?” he prompts, bumps her with his knee again when she just keeps looking at him like that—big pretty eyes soaked with insecurity and want, the kind of smile that trembles, unsure, and breaks a guy’s fuckin’ heart.
Shit, man. Chrissy could shatter him if she wanted, and he’d put himself back together just so she could do it again. She needs to break something, get all that wound-up feeling off her chest—and, hey, he’s available.
Because Eddie’s got enough of his own cracks as it is, too, and he wouldn’t mind if Chrissy found out where they were. Going for her like he did under the bleachers the other day was the start of something good, and he’s nowhere near finished with her.
“Okay.” Her face does that thing where it folds, where she gives in and relaxes into a smile, but even still she’s not so sure that’s what she’s supposed to be doing. “I just—Eddie, I’m not, I don’t want to be this selfish kind of person, you know, I don’t want you to—”
“Naah.” He taps a finger to her lips. That pink gloss is long gone; he might be wearing more of it than she is by now, come to think of it. “Get with the program, Cunningham. I want to. Consider it my default setting.”
Before she can try hitting him with anything else—because why bother, why sweat it, why waste their time, so—Eddie ducks back in to kiss her again. The table creaks under the movement, whines with his eagerness to lick the salt and orange soda off her tongue.
Chrissy breathes easy into his mouth and tugs him closer, spine straightening and pressing her closer, too. His fingers curl in the collar of his shirt she’s wearing, and he keeps her right there with him.
See, Eddie Munson does what he wants, and he thinks it’s about time Chrissy Cunningham does the same.