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“Mister Munson?”
There. She’d only met him a couple times, lounging at Eddie’s trailer with some shitty, one dollar drink and an amazing horror movie playing. He’d say ‘hello’ and she’d reply something kind, and then Eddie would laugh at her shyness in front of his uncle, who’d grin and go to his room.
Standing, head bowed down, in front of a vandalised photo of Eddie Munson, stood Wayne Munson. His hand hovered over the pin holding the paper sheet to the corkboard of similar announcements of missing people, all of which would be prioritised over finding Eddie Munson.
He didn’t say anything. No reply, just robotic movements of grabbing the pin and yanking off the ruined paper, replacing it with a new one.
Her heart twinged—no, twinged wasn’t the word for it. There wasn’t a word painful enough for how her body locked up, squeezing out any air from her lungs and burning through her composure which she prayed she’d keep through the day.
“Y/N,” he replied, turning his head to look at her. His eyes went straight to the shirt she was wearing—Eddie’s—and his face contorted into something painful.
A white shirt with a black print reading: ‘ Corroded Coffin’. Eddie had been designing it, grinning when Y/N had asked what he was doing:
“I’m making merchandise. We’ll be big, you know? And everyone will be wearing this,” he said, grabbing her hand which was reaching for the shirt. “It’s wet, dumbass.”
“Do I get one?” she asked, laughing when he pulled her onto his lap and pressing quick kisses to her hairline.
“Duh. You get this one, lucky charm. Hopefully, you’ll wear only the shirt,” he paused, sucking a mark onto her jaw, “and nothing else.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“What, you don’t like it?” His face twisted comically.
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Eds,” she laughed, head burrowing into his neck and pressing soft kisses to his shoulder. “I’m honoured. You know I’m your biggest fan. I’ll be there for every show.”
“Yeah, yeah, you charmer,” he laughed, one hand grasping at her hips and the other cupping her jaw and leading her lips to his.
They’d gotten distracted and he never finished the shirt. He never would.
“They’re not going to be looking for him.”
She didn’t want reassurance. He knew already that this stupid town decided who deserved to live and who didn’t with no regard. She just said, “no, they’re not.”
He walked to one of the empty beds close to the corkboard, slumping down. Y/N couldn’t move her feet, staring at the picture of Eddie. He was staring at the camera, and her mind could remember the colour of his eyes and the feeling of his lips.
“You got any idea of where he is?” he asked, glancing up at his nephew’s girlfriend.
She lowered her eyes, shaking her head.
“I’ll still put up as many damn posters as it takes until he’s found because my boy is innocent.”
Her hand reached into her pocket, wrapping around the guitar pick as she tried to fight off the tingle in her nose indicating the sobs in her chest.
“I’ll see you around.” He stood, walking away.
“I was with him,” she faltered, but it didn’t matter. Eddie’s uncle had already turned, eyes searching hers. “When the, uh, earthquake hit.” His figure was getting blurrier, and her throat started tightening around the words she was attempting to force out.
“So,” he paused, “you do know where he is now?”
She couldn’t physically push the words out. Her eyes closed as she took her hand out of her pocket, holding the guitar pick— Eddie’s guitar pick —out to his uncle.
His gaze went from hers to the guitar pick.
“I’m…” she faltered. “I’m so sorry,” she sputtered out, hand quivering around the chains which Wayne Munson took. How could she tell him that Eddie was—
Words failed her, and she could only watch as Eddie’s uncle fell apart in front of her, collapsing back onto the makeshift bed.
And when the usually stoic man started sobbing, Y/N couldn’t keep her silent cry, hand coming up to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated, a muffled apology, sitting down next to him. Her eyes fluttered, drops falling from her eyes. “He was good. He was so good . And no one bothered to try to find that out, and I don’t know why.”
Crying used to feel good, like a relief from the world. But Eddie used to be there, holding her or talking to her, and now he wasn’t and she couldn’t collect herself in front of his uncle, and he was still facing away, clutching the guitar pick to his chest and nodding.
“I wish more people had tried to find that out, because I think they would have loved him as much as I do. I love Eddie, Mister Munson, so much, and he was the best person I had the privilege to know. Even when this town didn’t deserve it, he fought for it. He never got mad. He never shouted at anyone, he just took it and I know it hurt him but he kept being himself. He could’ve run—survived. But he fought and he…” she swallowed, a nausea settling over her at her next words. “He died for this place and that isn’t fair.”
“Eddie! Dustin!” she yelled, having just fallen out of the doorway. “Eddie? Dustin? Where are you?”
Her voice was hoarse now, but she ran out either way to find—
Dustin was holding Eddie, and something was wrong. Something was bad, worse than anything someone could dream up. Through all the shit with Vecna, with the bats, with the deaths, Y/N had never felt this kind of dread until this moment.
“I think it’s my year, Henderson,” he struggled with the words that she heard as she ran forwards, “I think it’s finally my year.”
“Eddie!” she fussed, falling onto her knees opposite of Dustin. She didn’t care about the dead bats around them or the way loose rocks dug into her skin, she could only see him. “Eddie, hey. Hey, you’re okay, right? You’re okay.”
“I’m okay, lucky charm,” he smiled, but it didn’t last long fading to be replaced with the tears filling his eyes.
But he wasn’t okay. There was blood around his mouth and on his body, and she could see that he was struggling to even breathe. He wouldn’t survive the trip out of the Upside Down, and she had the sinking feeling that the hospitals would turn them away.
“D—don’t worry,” he blinked. “Worry ‘bout Henderson here.” Dustin grabbed his hand, saying something about how Eddie was okay, but Eddie just smiled and said, “I love you, man.”
Dustin, the poor boy who was too young to lose someone this important, whimpered back, “I love you too.”
“Y/N, I—I—” he struggled, but Y/N just leaned down and pressed a kiss to the spot where his forehead met the bandana wrapped around his head.
“I know,” she answered, because she knew what he meant. He never stopped saying it. “I love you, Eddie. You did so well. Just rest a bit, and I’ll fix this.” One of her hands went to his hair, smoothing it out for possibly the last time, and she wished she could hear the way he usually hummed when she did that.
She thinks he may have tried to laugh, but a cut off sound came out instead, and just as a tear fell from his eye, she knew that he was gone.
She didn’t make a sound, just fell forwards and grasped at Dustin’s hand which tightly gripped back, gasping into the tattered fabric of his shirt.
“Eddie…” Dustin begged, and he was so young and innocent that she couldn’t hold herself up anymore.
“Oh, God,” she sobbed out, wishing she could scream until her throat corroded and her heart burst. Her hand was still in his hair, but she couldn’t physically move from where she’d collapsed onto him. “Eddie,” she screeched, a panicked and pained sound lost in his shirt.
He didn’t say anything, and she took that as incentive to stand.
“I’m—I'm sorry,” she said again, wiping her eyes.
“You should keep this,” Wayne said, reaching towards her and giving her Eddie’s guitar pick. He didn’t look at her, and she wondered if he ever would again.
She took it, and her throat hurt so much that she rushed to the women’s bathroom, ready to puke her guts up or tear her heart out in one of the stalls. But she wasn’t the only one in there, so she rushed into one of the compartments, sunk down onto the lid of the toilet and held a hand to her mouth, holding it down and hoping to hold in the sounds.
“It’s that boy’s fault, you know? Eddie Munson killed all these people. Him and that cult.”
Eddie did so much, and he died with everyone thinking of him as a devil worshipper. He was so good. He was perfect, and he was flawed, but he did good. He didn’t run. He fought. He loved so fiercely. And Y/N had no clue of where to go from now.
Because, truly, did anything matter if she couldn’t share it with the only person she’d ever truly love?