Work Text:
Eddie Munson's move to California came about based on a lot of motives, really. Sure, all of them had to do with his need to get the fuck out of Indiana and his tendency to run full-speed-ahead in whatever direction was opposite to his problems, but. It wasn't completely illogical. After being wrongfully accused and almost convicted for some kidnapping case he'd never even been involved in, Eddie had gone and sued the Hawkins Police Department at the advice of the handful of privileged adults who had his back because he babysat their kids, or whatever.
He'd take reaping the benefits of being an unofficial parent to a group of youngsters (second only to Harrington, of course) over getting thrown in jail any fucking day. They'd put together the funds - though both Eddie and his uncle had tried to refuse - and sued the HPD (except for Hopper. The kids had made sure of that.) and, somehow, he'd won.
The money went into his savings, mostly. Some was used for repairs for their trailer - Eddie had tried to convince his Uncle to upgrade their living accommodations, but he'd refused. "I don't have much time left here anyhow, son," he'd said, meeting his nephew's widening eyes with a solemn stare of his own. "We both know that. Keep it. Just don't blow it all on- on drugs, or on that fancy guitar of yours, okay?" Eddie had listened. He'd gotten some shitty part-time job in Hawkins, and he'd stayed put. He kept his money in savings, went to work, kept his head down, put effort into getting clean, quit selling, hung out with the kids and continued their campaign every Friday, even did some co-parenting with Harrington on occasion.
He'd stayed in Hawkins until his Uncle had passed, and then he'd packed up and left everything behind. Took himself on a little cross-country venture to Cali, because that's where he'd make it big, right? Yeah.
Spoiler alert: Eddie hadn't made it big. Here he was, twenty-seven in a shitty apartment shared with his bandmates-turned-roommates, working as a part-time tattoo artist at a local parlor. He loves his work, loves the easy confidence that only comes out when he has a guitar or tattoo gun in his hands, loves the way the noise in his head shuts off as he really gets into the zone of it all, but he can't help feeling lost every now and then.
When he's not in that headspace with his creative juices flowing, there's this buzzing under his skin, this constant vibration urging him to keep busy, do better, be better. It's visible in the way that his right leg is always bouncing, or how his nails are always short, black polish constantly chipping off, bitten down until there's not much nail left to bite. He's always felt that electricity under his skin, that need to keep moving, but he'd optimistically hoped it'd chill the fuck out after high school. It hadn't.
So he dealt with it, just like he dealt with everything else; let himself fidget and tap it out when he needed to, busied himself with concept art or figuring out new guitar riffs, distracted himself with takeout and alcohol - y'know, the usual coping mechanisms for a guy in his 20s who spends his free time looking for open mic nights or flipping through his high school yearbook, letting his eyes linger a little too long on a particular face.
That face is hers, of course; at least Eddie's consistent in his yearning. His middle-school crush on Chrissy Cunningham hadn't wavered, not once, and even though Eddie sometimes worried he was being a tad obsessive, he can't shake the feeling that he should've done more back when they were kids, back when Chrissy had first met him at that bench in the woods years ago.
When Eddie's asleep, he dreams about that week back in high school, in Hawkins, where he'd had cops come close to busting down the door of his trailer. His Uncle was working the night shift and Eddie was alone, debating the pros and cons of smoking another joint when they'd shown up, asking all sorts of questions about Chrissy Cunningham. He'd sworn he hadn't known anything - "I dealt for her, like, once, guys. I swear on my fuckin' life!" - but they were nothing if not persistent. Sure, it wasn't a normal deal; he'd been an admirer of Chrissy Cunningham since his middle-school self had first laid eyes on her, and judging by how she'd flirted right back with him at that picnic table in the woods, he'd gotten his hopes up a bit. They’d fucking skyrocketed when he found himself rolling a joint for her back in his trailer, when she couldn’t keep from coughing, when she pressed closer to him - “Shotgunning, Eddie, I heard Alyssa on the cheer team talking about it once, can we try it that way?” - and after getting explicit consent (Eddie Munson, freak of Hawkins High and a complete and utter gentleman), their totally-innocent-smoke-sesh turned into a full-on makeout sesh. Eddie “The Freak” Munson with Chrissy on his lap, moaning his name. Eddie knew most guys were into Chrissy, but he also knew if they’d gotten this opportunity they’d be thinking about how they had Carver’s girl, how pissed he'd be - everything's a fucking dick measuring competition with those assholes. Eddie was above that, though. Chrissy wasn’t anybody’s. Chrissy was beautiful. She deserved worship. She deserved to be revered.
Of course, cops and Carver had to ruin that for him.
Eddie had had cop-filled nightmares on and off since he was a child, flashing back to his childhood when he'd thought they were saving him, before he was shoved into the hands of CPS and left there to rot (that was, until Wayne had found him). The Chrissy situation had only worsened that already prevalent fear. Once they'd figured out who really was behind it, they'd backed off, not giving Eddie much information other than that he was no longer a suspect, and that he had their "deepest regards."
The town rumor mill had said that it'd been her boyfriend, Jason Carver, who'd gotten a little too handsy and a little too persistent, snapped and laid his fucking hands on her when she'd said no. Chrissy went missing for a week - some said Carver had been with her the entire time, but Eddie felt that Chrissy hiding out at a friend's house and going no-contact for a bit to cope was probably closer to the truth. Rumor also has it that Chrissy had put the blame on Jason from the very beginning, but Carver was a Carver and they had privilege, so, Mr. Easy-Target-Munson was pursued for a week. Y'know, typical cop stuff. Respect the rich, go after the poor. It is how it is.
Carver's golden boy façade hadn't once come down after that, either; shit was swept under the rug, all was forgotten. He'd made some big show of apologizing in an interview with the Hawkins Post and that was that. His goonies terrorized Eddie - still, even after he was cleared - to the extent that Eddie dropped out of school, got his GED and left.
Eddie moved to Cali to get away from the small-town drama, but he'd never really been able to move past it. He'd never gotten real closure. The only move to give Eddie even a partial reprieve from worrying about Chrissy was played at her own hand, of course. He’d found a letter in his mailbox, overridden with apologies. A letter about how she couldn’t be clear because she couldn’t think about it enough to write, about how she couldn’t leave her house because of how awful her parents were being, and, most of all, how sorry she was.
In Eddie’s opinion, Chrissy shouldn’t have to apologize for anything at all, especially not their fucked-up little situation. The letter had shown she was alive, at least, but hell - he didn't know if Chrissy was okay. He never risked trying to go see her, though. Judging by what she’d said and written about her family life, him trying to involve himself in it would only make things harder for her. Eddie never, ever wanted that. That's why it's on his mind so often, really - he worries about her, still, even though it's been years. He regrets not trying to see her every fucking day.
He really, really hadn't expected the answer to his questions to show up in the shop one day, asking if she could speak to one of their artists about having a custom piece created. He'd felt all the butterflies in his stomach start fluttering their stupid little wings again when he made eyes with Chrissy Cunningham across the parlor.
"Chrissy Cunningham," he breathed out, unable to keep himself from looking her up and down. He wasn't checking her out (okay, maybe a little), Eddie just... really wasn't convinced that this was actually happening. "Hey, man, are you- real?" Eddie didn't mean to call Chrissy Cunningham of all people "man." Jesus.
"Eddie? Yeah, I-" Chrissy giggled, nose scrunching up as she did so. Eddie thought he'd died and gone to heaven. "-I'm real, I mean, I think so. Somebody told me you were the guy in town to talk to about, uh," Chrissy gestured to her inner wrist, where there were some faint, faded markings. An old tattoo? Chrissy Cunningham had a tattoo? "About getting rid of, uh. This. Thing."
"Can I take a look, doll?" The pet name had slipped out without hesitation, and Eddie was too caught up in realizing how not-over his middle school crush he was to see the blush spreading across her cheeks. She nodded, letting him take her wrist and turn it so he could get a proper look. JC + CC, it read, faded and shitty but still clear enough for the letters to be made out. Eddie looked at her, eyebrows slightly raised, but she rushed to explain before he could even get the question out. "I- yeah. Jason kind of, uh, coerced me? We were at some shitty party, he was drunk, his friend had a tattoo gun. Cardigans became my best friend after that." She huffed a laugh, not meeting his eyes. "He used to grab at it, tug my sleeve up, make me look at it? Whenever we were having a disagreement, or anything. Um. I thought about just getting it removed, but I kind of want to reclaim it? I know, that's silly, I-"
"Chrissy Cunningham, you say the word and I'll take my tattoo gun to that dickhead's face. Jesus." Chrissy giggled again, which turned into a laugh, which turned into a full-on snort that had her hands flying up to her mouth to hold back. "Reclaiming shit like that is definitely a super cool idea! Don't be so hard on yourself, doll." There it is again, that blush. Eddie's lucky enough to catch it this time, even as his never fully-submerged rage towards Jason Carver's about to bubble up towards the surface. Hell, Eddie didn't have the true story about what'd happened back in '86, but knowing Carver was such a douche that he felt the need to brand his girl made Eddie's jaw clench with anger.
"Thank you, Eddie." Her eyes, her voice, her skin - everything about her was soft, so pretty. Eddie let himself get lost in it before realizing he was still holding her wrist. He let his thumb run over it one, two, three times before letting go, stepping back and shaking his head a bit to try to get himself out of the trance that was Chrissy Cunningham. "Hey, Chris', wait a second, why the fuck are you in California?"
Eddie had taken her to his little private studio space in the back of the shop, let her sit down and talk him through some ideas. Well, that'd been his intention, at least. He'd learned that she'd actually been living in California after graduating from Indiana State - "Honestly? I moved here because Jason would always rant about how much he hated the West Coast. Thought it was funny. Then I fell in love with it, and, well. Here I am." - and that she'd majored in elementary education - "I've always liked the idea of teaching. Salary's not great, but I think I'll be happy. That's all that matters, right?" - and they swap story after story until the sun's starting to set.
They both seem to notice the sudden lack of daylight at the same time; Eddie snaps back into reality, ignoring the twinge of regret at the fact that he's going to have to end their little catch-up. Even though he'd lost himself in her smile and made it a personal goal to get her to laugh again (seven times! She'd full-on laughed at his jokes seven times!) he'd also genuinely enjoyed their conversation.
Sure, maybe Eddie hadn't been focusing on his literal actual job of designing a coverup for Chrissy's fucking branding from her ex, but they'd talked around the idea of it enough for Eddie to have a handful of rough conceptual sketches. She wanted flowers - amaryllis flowers, which apparently symbolized strength. Eddie didn't know what the fuck an amaryllis even was, but he'd figure it out. At the very least, he thought the meaning was fitting. Chrissy may not look it, but she's stronger than people think.
She stands up, and Eddie's quick to follow - he catches her blush as she lets him walk her out, holding the door for her with a bow. "Thanks, Eddie-" "-why of course, princess! Anybody who'd let a fair maiden such as yourself even touch a door handle doesn't deserve to open it for ya in the first place." Eddie's all over the place, face flushed with embarrassment, but it quickly turns to something else as Chrissy laughs so hard she snorts again. She's quick to cover it up, eyes widening with surprise and then crinkling with laughter once again. "You are-" he smiles, she smiles back, she blushes, his blush reddens... "-such a dork. In a nice way. I mean it in a nice way."
“You are talking to Eddie Munson, freak of Hawkins High” he says, putting on an air of wisdom as his eyebrows raise. “And you know what they say about guys with tattoos, Chris'. We’re devilish.” Chrissy’s giggling too much to articulate a response, but Eddie swears he hears the words “devilishly handsome” under her breath.
"Can I walk you to your car, doll?" Chrissy nods, eyeing Eddie as he reaches his arm out to her - joking, mostly, but also hoping. When she loops her arm with his Eddie could've sworn he was flying. "I'll let you walk me to my car if you'll take my number," she responds, batting her eyelashes up at Eddie. "I'll even let you open the door for me if you'll take me out to dinner sometime this week."
Eddie had stood in the parking lot for a solid ten minutes after Chrissy had driven off, smiling up at him, whispering a "call me, Eddie!" and passing him a scrap of paper with her number hastily written in pink gel pen (classic, cute Chrissy Cunningham). Of course he'd opened her damn door. Of course he’d agreed to take her to dinner. Of course he was still dumbfounded and questioning his reality. It's Chrissy fuckin' Cunningham, as radiant as ever. How could he not?