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You just knew him too damn well.
As soon as that tiny flame alit in the center of his dark eyes, that incessant urge to disembody, to watch his own epic annals scroll behind his eyes in real time with no regard for his current life or livelihood, you knew exactly what he planned to do. What he longed to do. But he couldn’t; not so long as you were still there with him, too stubborn to cross the barrier first.
Eddie has always been self-sacrificial. Well, maybe not always, but at some point in the last few years, he’d got it in his head that drawing fire was his calling in life. Hardening himself into a human shield for all misfits less sturdy than he was, hogging all the attention and violence and vitriol he could get his hands on with wild, grinning abandon. It scared the shit out of you, but it just made sense to him. Why else would he be where he was, who he was? Stagnant, abandoned, trapped; held down and given up on long before he had any idea why. It wasn't a curse if he knew how to put it to good use.
Part of you always feared that he was waiting for something like Vecna—for an out, any out, as long as it made sense to him. That’s why you couldn’t bring yourself to give him a choice. You knew exactly what the hell he would do with it.
Eddie, go. Just go. I’m not fucking leaving until you do, so go!
The problem was, in this case, Eddie was right. It did make sense.
You knew you were breaking his heart the same way you knew everything else that he felt but couldn’t say; it was spelled out clear as day in those big, expressive eyes of his, the one glaring betrayal in an otherwise guarded exterior. If you didn't make it back, he would never forgive you for it. Even still, you were all smiles.
Let’s see how you like it, you’d thought. Watching you gleefully lay your head on the chopping block for once.
-
When you awaken, you find that you don’t remember yourself very well.
You…know things. Facts and images and fractured moments are still filed away in your mind, but there’s some sort of a disconnect. It doesn’t feel like memory so much as the type of vivid recollection you’d have for a favorite book—pored over again and again, imagined fondly and at great length.
But there are other things as well; murmuring voices and visceral knowing that surely must predate you, a collection of pressing wants and needs that are yours but not yours, rational and inevitable, and this deep, blissful freedom that sets your still heart at ease.
Many things call out to you, draw you lovingly towards them, but one above all. The boy from the storybook who loves you.
It isn’t hard to find him once you’ve made your way back to the other side, cradled graciously by the early night. The lightest trace of his scent burns brightly in your nostrils—not one you had ever smelled before, but what was always underneath, overlooked by juvenile senses. The world is so much larger now, vibrant and labyrinthine; the dullest town in Indiana rendered an intricate, cascading whirlwind of life and luster. You can’t wait to show him.
You take your time to savor it all, delighting in the shifting orchestra that reaches your ears. Spring insects and wind through the trees, wispy fragments of late night television and easy listening radio. Lake water lapping at the shore. Petty drunken arguments. A rabbit's neck snapping in the maw of a hungry fox.
The bedroom you left behind remains expectedly untouched. You aren’t sure how much time has passed, whether your parents know with any certainty that you’re lost to them, but it hardly matters now. You don’t stay long. All you really want is a change of clothes.
They had no choice but to return to the old Munson house. Damaged in part by a fire, abandoned in the absence of both parents, but not sold, never sold. It was difficult to scrounge up even the vaguest impression of it in your mind, too distant of a memory to grasp any longer, and without the heady lure of Eddie’s lifeblood, you might’ve struggled to find it.
The Munsons are much too trusting for all the grief they’ve been through. The first window you check is unlatched.
The inside is dark and sparse. Much more sparse than the trailer had been, filled to the brim with charming collections, much loved knick-knacks and hard-earned belongings. You can only imagine what all they suffered in the aftermath, the emotional toll and impossible expenses—they hardly had the capacity to renovate, bringing the house to the barest semblance of livable with no spirit or cash left over to embellish.
Your silent exploration goes unnoticed, but soon enough, you feel Eddie moving of his own accord, trudging out of his room with dragging steps. The scent of him is overwhelming, almost unbearable—your composure would’ve long run out if your return had left you more lacking. You let him approach with rippling excitement, your teeth aching in anticipation.
Eddie swerves into the kitchen and freezes. At the other end, you turn to face him with a smile, and the mug slips out of his hand, shattering on the kitchen tile. His heart stutters and abruptly pounds, and the fog of him thickens in the air.
Eyes as wide as you’ve ever seen them, he raises one shaking hand and slaps himself across the face. It doesn’t work. He tries again, harder—punishing his lying eyes—and your eyebrows pull up in fond sympathy.
“You aren’t dreaming, Eddie,” you tell him.
The voice sounds close enough to your own. His face wavers pitifully as he shakes his head. You can’t be real.
He’s frozen, helpless as you close the distance, terror in his still-shattered heart at the sight of your ghost, and it stirs something cruel in your gut. You have to swallow an excess of saliva.
Verging on panic, he makes one last attempt, drawing his hand back to strike his reddened cheek again, but as you gently curl your fingers around his wrist to stop him, Eddie chokes on a gasp.
He’s a sorry sight up close. Illuminated only by the harsh stove light, his face is puffy, dull and weighed down; dark, sunken half-moons rest beneath eyes that only shine with the precursor to tears. His hair is neglected like you’ve never seen it, a limp, greasy rat’s nest, and he must have gone a week or two without shaving—sparse, patchy evidence of the beard he can’t grow creating a scruffy halo along his jaw. Beneath the perfume of his blood, you can tell that his hygiene has been lacking as well.
It brings out an endeared pity in you, knowing how thoroughly you must’ve devastated him. Poor little thing.
“...Why are you so cold?” His voice shudders, almost breaks, and his eyebrows pull together tightly. Big brown eyes shaking over your face, looking for something they can’t seem to find.
You don’t answer him. You let go of his wrist and tug him into your arms.
Eddie can’t figure out how to react. His breathing is quick, shallow, and you wonder how much he’s noticed—if he’s scared of you yet. You wrap your arms tighter, pressing your body into him, indulgently nuzzling your face into his neck, and a few odd, clipped sounds squeeze out of his throat, surprised or embarrassed.
“I missed you,” you sigh against his skin, and your lips pull into a wicked smile as his heart skips a beat in response.
“...What happened?” he asks. “How are you…?”
Breathing him in one last time, you step back from him and pout, almost stumbling—he has no idea how dizzying he is.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” you say. “...Not yet.”
He nods like a bobblehead. Eddie’s always given you whatever you asked for, regardless of what he would say or how he would act. You used to pretend not to notice, pretend not to know what it meant—taking great care never to ask for anything he would hurt himself in giving you.
“Can I use your shower?” you ask. “I feel grimy.”
“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, still blinking at you like he isn’t sure you’re real. You’ve given him a task, something to focus on, distract him from how little sense this all makes. Half-frantic, he remembers the shattered mug, nearly stooping down to retrieve the pieces before you stop him with a hand on his chest.
“Leave it,” you say.
He does.
You wait for him in the bathroom, vacantly appraising yourself in the mirror as the water gets hot. Is this what you’re supposed to look like? A vague intuition tells you that your eyes might be the wrong color, your hair a little off in its shade, or maybe texture. You really can’t remember, but it must be close enough, else Eddie’s poor heart might’ve given out on him. The teeth are new, of course. You’ve been careful not to smile too wide and give him a real fright.
Tired of waiting, you pull the ragged shirt over your head, toss it aside and grimace at the dirt and muck on your skin. You’ve just started pushing your pants down as well, revealing the better part of your underwear when Eddie returns and jumps out of his skin at the sight.
“Fuck—sorry.” His head snaps away from you, staring fiercely at nothing as he holds out the towel. “Here.”
“...Thanks,” you say, watching him squirm with muted pleasure. You reach your hand out, resting your fingertips on the scratchy fabric without taking it from him. “...Wanna join me?”
He goes rigid again, staring at the wall with wide, unfocused eyes.
“...Eddie?” you call when he doesn’t respond.
“Can you not fuck with me right now?” he pleads quietly.
“I’m not,” you insist with a laugh. “...You look like you need one. I could brush your hair out for you. ...Is that weird?”
“Yeah, it’s fucking weird,” he hisses. He almost side-eyes you, too, then remembers why he can’t.
“Okay,” you say. “...I’m sorry. You don’t have to.”
You still aren’t taking the towel—he can't leave until you do. The water has long since warmed itself, misting up the room, wasting away.
“...I just missed you,” you tell him, quieter.
Eddie flinches at the sound. “I missed you, too.”
“It doesn’t have to be weird,” you insist. “...I won’t look if you don’t.”
“Jesus fucking— Fine,” he relents, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s authentically high-strung. Sometimes, he pretends. “Just—get in there.”
You beam at him. Eddie glances at your face and flinches a second time.
Finally accepting the towel, you throw it over the shower wall and slip out of your pants and underwear in one go. You let it sit in plain sight as an offering—sticky and wet from how tasty he smells.
As soon as you slip under the water’s spray, you sigh in pleasure. It feels like heaven against your ice-cold flesh, the most egregious layer of other-realm filth melting easily away, swirling down the drain. Another towel gets thrown over the shower wall, and after a moment of fabric rustling and quiet grunts of effort, an unclothed Eddie reluctantly cracks the foggy glass door open. His jaw is clenched tight and he averts his eyes so passionately that he’s essentially staring at the ceiling.
“Why are we fucking doing this?” he asks.
“I wanna wash your hair,” you remind him. “Come on, you’re making me cold.”
The shower wasn’t made for two people. It isn’t a tight squeeze, but it’s awkward. He steps in behind you, hugging the far wall, not a drop of water reaching him.
“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles to himself.
“Come here, switch with me,” you tell him. “Get your hair wet.”
You guide him around with unnecessary touches along his arms and shoulders just to see the way his face blooms red, muscles twinging in his jaw like he might chip a tooth if this goes on for too long. He lets you wash his hair twice, fingernails gently scraping at his scalp, and he marginally relaxes as it goes on, but whereas you have no qualms about stealing glances beneath his collarbones, whenever you’re in his line of sight, he can’t even bring himself to look at your face.
“...Are you upset with me?” you ask as you smooth conditioner through his hair, gently teasing out knots with your fingers.
“No, I’m not upset,” he mumbles. “This is just…weird.”
“Weird in a bad way?”
Eddie just sighs.
You press a little closer under the guise of better reaching the crown of his head, letting your chest brush against his for a moment, and his breath catches in his throat.
“...I like it,” you muse. “Mostly just to see you so red, but…it’s nice to take care of you, too.”
“Fuck off,” he groans, and you laugh.
You slip one hand slowly out of his hair, gliding down his neck—pausing just for a moment to feel his pulse hammer against your fingertips—and over his collarbone, resting gently at his chest. Eddie tenses up even more than he already is, wide eyes twitching around in disbelief.
“...I’ll brush the rest out when we’re done,” you tell him.
He jerks his head in a nod, waiting for you to free him. With a fond chuckle, you do.
Eddie turns away and scrubs himself down as quickly as he can without bumping into you, but you take your time, spreading the slick soap over yourself almost lazily, letting an arm or a hip brush against him when it’s convenient. He hardly even bothers to rinse the conditioner out of his hair before he’s throwing himself out of the shower—just before he does, you catch a glimpse of the cute little thing between his thighs, swollen halfway to attention.
By the time you’re finished, Eddie is long gone. You dry yourself superficially, wrap yourself in the towel, and crack the window open before you call him.
He reports back in a stretched out T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and though you’re covered up, he still has trouble keeping his eyes on you in just the towel. The poorly removed conditioner makes it easier to run a brush through his hair. You draw it out, taking care never to hurt him as you work out knots and tangles, and Eddie stares blankly down into the sink as you work, submerged either in thought or the avoidance thereof. When you start humming a tune in your mind, clueless as to where it comes from, his face twitches like he recognizes it and he blinks himself back to the present—it distracts him for a while from the fact that you’re clearly finished, running the brush through his locks now purely for pleasure.
“Are you done?” he asks. So mean to you today.
You sigh in reluctance. “...Yes.”
As soon as you drop your hands, he runs away from you again. Once you’ve dressed yourself, you return to the kitchen, and eventually he does too, hesitating in the doorway, staring at you again. Deja vu. His hair is still damp, frizzy from his careless towel-drying.
This time, when he goes to clean up the broken mug, you let him. Watch him. His heart is picking up again, teasing you.
“...Are you hungry?” he asks when he’s finished, clearing his throat. He doesn’t seem to want to look at you at all anymore. “Want something to eat?”
You giggle. You just can’t help it.
“I’m starving.”
“Alright,” he says, checking the fridge. “We, uh…don’t have a lot, but—”
“Would you hold me?” you ask him.
Eddie pauses; turns his head and blinks at you. “...What?”
“I just want you to hold me, Eddie.”
His brow furrows and his pulse stutters. “What do you mean?”
It’s frustrating when he doesn’t listen. You bring yourself to him instead, snake your arms around his waist again. The fridge door falls closed. He lets you.
“I missed you,” you remind him.
His arms rise hesitantly, wrapping loosely around your back.
“...I know,” he murmurs, pushing through uncertainty. “...But I…don’t understand how you’re here.”
“Does it matter?”
“I…” He swallows, his next breath shaking a little on the way out. “It’s just…I saw you—”
“Stop it,” you spit. “I don’t want to think about that right now.”
His hands are starting to shake. “...I’m sorry.”
All this work to make it sweet and tender for him, to finally give him what he wants, and he wastes it being frightened. For a moment, you grit your teeth with fierce annoyance. Then you press against him, leaning your weight into his chest until he stumbles back a couple steps.
“Whoa,” he gasps, holding you tighter on instinct.
“I realized something, Eddie,” you say. “When I woke up without you.”
You push into him again, and he lets you back him up even further.
“When you—woke up?”
“Mhm.”
Again, just a little bit more, and his back finally hits the wall. Sighing with relief, you crowd into him as closely as you can, letting him feel every curve and ridge of your body pressing into his. Eddie jolts, bracing himself against the wall with a gasp.
“Whuh— What are you doing?”
“I love you,” you tell him. “I always loved you, but…I want you, too, Eddie.”
He can’t speak, only panting out little puffs of breath as you go on.
“...I want your hands on me. I want you to touch me, and to kiss me. …Would you kiss me?”
You pull back to look him in the eye, hoping for an adorable, vermilion flush. The face you see instead is gaunt, petrified, and drained of blood. Your brow furrows tightly.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
His tearful eyes twitch over your face, his whole body trembling against you—not in the way you wanted. Your face twists further with indignation.
“...I thought you liked me,” you say. “I thought you wanted me like I want you.”
He says your name, his weak voice cracking through the middle. You stare at him blankly until you recognize it. …It’s hard not to be upset with him right now.
“...Maybe I was gone too long,” you sneer at him, low and bitter. “...Maybe you found someone else you like more than me, and—”
You take one single step back, and it's enough. Eddie breaks, grabs you by the arms to stop you leaving.
“Of course I want you,” he hisses, bursting with his own frustrations. “I've only ever wanted you, but—you died! Okay? You...died, bleeding in my fucking arms, and I held you until you were—gone, and now…you're here, somehow, but you don't look right, and you don't sound like yourself at all, and I'm fucking scared!”
He starts crying as it all pours out of him, tears streaming freely down his cheeks, every word he sputters out tortured and fragile.
“...Please,” he begs you with a miserable sniffle. “Just…tell me what happened—anything, so I can understand.”
You huff, reaching up to gently hold his tremoring face, smearing tears away with your thumbs.
“...You're scared of me?”
He nods helplessly in your hands, blinking big, wet eyes at you—desperately scanning your face for anything recognizable, the slightest shred of reassurance.
It makes you terribly sad. This isn't what you wanted for him at all.
“...Don't you think I'm pretty anymore?”
Eddie's face twitches and falls, his eyes flitting up to the ceiling as it settles into grief. Acceptance. He closes them, and with a long, shuddering breath, he nods.
Pleased again, you throw your arms around his shoulders in a hug.
“I think you're pretty, too, Eddie.”
He holds you back this time with pleasantly strong arms, rubbing a warm hand across your upper back.
“...I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters, low and gruff beside your ear.
You nearly giggle at him again. “What're you sorry for?”
“Something…bad happened to you,” he says with another sniffle. “That's why you're different now, yeah? …I'm sorry I wasn't there.”
You pull back, stare at him for a moment. His eyes are dull and sad and still leaking tears; a soft, sorrowful affection.
…It’s alright. He just doesn’t understand. Once he does, he won’t have to cry anymore.
“...Will you kiss me, Eddie?” you ask him.
His brow furrows at the request, but he wets his lips, gives you a weak nod.
“Yeah, honey, I'll kiss you.”
Eddie always gives you what you want—his hands are tied when it comes to you. Two painstakingly gentle hands rise to cradle your face, tilting your chin up, lightly shaking against your cold skin. He squints his eyes shut for a moment, squeezing out another tear before he leans down and presses his lips to yours, the softest kiss you've ever been given. He pulls back and blinks at you, searching for any trace of resurrection.
“...Again,” you say.
He hesitates before kissing you again, a little longer, more firm. You carefully slip one hand under his shirt, caressing along his side while the other combs into his hair.
“Eddie,” you sigh for him.
You don’t have to ask again. He keeps kissing you, torturously slow and gentle, until you can’t take it anymore. You feel drunk on your need, suffocating on his scent, a phantom of its taste taunting you in your imagination. You let your tongue lave over his dry lips, pushing its way between them, driving your mouth against his with bruising insistence, and Eddie gasps. He takes it for as long as he can and jerks back as it overwhelms him.
“W— Wait,” he asks, panting a couple times. “Wait a second.”
“Eddie, I need you,” you whine. “I can’t wait any longer.”
Wide, bewildered eyes stare down at you; stunned by a keening desire you've only ever had for him in his dreams.
“Please,” you beg him. “...Can I show you?”
He doesn’t know what you mean. Carefully, you take one of his hands and guide it to the front of your pants. Eddie startles as he realizes what you’re doing, calling your name in alarm, but…he’s curious. He doesn’t try to stop you. A little bit of that flush you were looking for rises to his cheeks.
You keep your eyes on his as you tease him, moving his fingers past the waistband of your underwear as slow as you can stand to, and Eddie stares right back at you, caught hopelessly in your trap. He barely even has to touch you to feel it, a tight, strangled noise squeezing out of his throat in realization. You keep him there until he surrenders to the temptation to give you a gentle, hesitant stroke, and the pleasured gasp you give him in response makes his face twitch in surprise.
When you pull his hand back out, he raises his fingers, drenched in milky, sticky arousal, viscous little strings webbing between them.
“...Fuck,” he breathes, tilting his hand, staring at its glistening in utter disbelief.
“You see?” you tell him, panting with desire. “I want you so bad.”
He looks back at you again, watching with an awed expression as you take his fingers into your mouth and eagerly suck them clean, one at a time—taking each to the back of your throat, lightly gagging once for his pleasure. As it goes on, his eyelids start to fall, sedated and mesmerized by your unabashed hunger. Now, when you lick your lips and hold him at the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss, he meets you halfway.
A switch seems to flip. Whatever this is, whoever you are—right now, he needs it. You smile against his lips.
When you bully your tongue into his mouth again, he accepts it with a groan. You press yourself flush against him, pinning him to the wall, and his hands clutch your waist, trying to pull you closer.
It’s messy. Wet and sticky, tongues sliding in tandem, an excess of spit coating your lips as you kiss and suck on each other obscenely, vibrating with blissful moans and hums. You can feel him throbbing to life against you as it goes on, slowly thickening, pressed tight between your bodies. Strings of saliva connect you as you break the vulgar kiss, stretching and falling to each of your chins. Eddie stares at you with blown out pupils and bright red cheeks, sheepishly wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as you migrate to his throat.
The restraint is taking its toll on you. You’re starting to tremble with the exertion of it, struggling to keep the drool from overflowing—smearing what escapes into his shirt—but you force yourself to keep holding back, to savor it all as long as you can. Something deep in the back of your mind knows that he’ll never smell as sweet, taste as exhilarating as he does living. You want to make it last.
Gripping him tightly at his hips, you press into him harder and encourage him to take advantage.
“C’mon, sweet boy,” you murmur, kissing the skin of his neck. “Wanna feel how much you need me, too.”
Eddie curses and shudders against you, almost shyly grinding his erection into you, but as you drag your tongue along his thick, gorgeous throat with a shameless moan, he falls into a more desperate rhythm, gasping and holding you tightly as he pleasures himself.
“Good boy, Eddie,” you sing, and he throws his head back and groans, exposing his neck to you perfectly. Such a good boy.
Dark, red and purplish bruises blossom along his throat as you ravish him with sloppy kisses and harsh, unforgiving suction, drawing his blood closer to the surface, the weak barrier of his skin like tissue paper between you and that delicious, pumping artery. Eddie takes it all so well, shaking and twitching against you, crying out with needy little moans and whimpers.
“I can’t,” he gasps eventually, tugging at your hair, begging for mercy. “If you don’t stop, I— I’m gonna—”
You shush him gently. “It’s okay, Eddie,” you tell him. “Take what you need.”
You can’t wait any longer either, your own need dribbling down your chin and neck. You take in one last deep, satisfied breath, letting him fill your lungs until your body shivers in desperation, and then line up your teeth with his throat. His hot, delicate flesh takes you in with no resistance, and he gushes into your mouth like ambrosia, heaven on your tastebuds, flooding your mouth with white hot pleasure.
The pain makes Eddie cry out in shock, jerking beneath you. His heart races fast enough to give out, blood spurting even faster down your throat, and you can taste the adrenaline that floods his veins.
“What are you doing?!” he gasps, loud and quivering.
It’s hard to pay attention to anything but the taste of him, but you do your best—gripping his hip again, reminding him to chase his own peak. The pain must not be too bad, or maybe he discovers some pleasure in it, because it doesn’t take too long for him to start up again, hissing out curses, panting his breath out quick and shallow.
He cries your name like worship as his hips become awkward in their urgency, and you feel him swell against you even more before he stills, pulsating lightly as he makes a mess of himself, choking out a loud, strangled groan as little tremors make him shudder.
He catches his breath as much as he can, his short-lived bliss shifting back into worry as his mind clears.
Eddie calls your name, now in question. “...What are you doing?”
You don’t stop, don’t respond. His arms shift around, squirming beneath you as he starts to feel it, dread building up in him again.
“...It’s too much,” he warns. “It’s— I can’t…”
He pushes at your shoulders. You don’t budge, so he pushes more insistently, and then harder, and then, as he realizes that he isn’t stronger than you anymore—that even with all of his strength, he can’t move you an inch out of place—his breath catches in his throat.
He calls your name again, thrashing against you in panic, tugging at your clothes until you hear a seam rip.
“You have to stop,” he begs, voice quivering and teary. “Please, it’s— I think you’re killing me.”
Poor thing. You wish you could shush him again, let him know it’s okay. Instead, you groan into his skin, drunk on the taste of him. Your eyes roll back as you dig your fangs in deeper.
He’s crying again, still struggling against you, weaker by the second until suddenly, he stops. He breathes in and out, slow and shaky, calming himself down. One of his arms curls around you, holding you close, and the other lands weakly on the back of your head, petting your hair while he still can.
Your heart floods with affection for him—your sweet, sweet boy who always lets you have what you want.
Eventually, his arms fall to his sides, too weak to hold them up anymore. The last words he gives you are difficult; feeble and barely audible.
“...I love you.”
You love him, too. More than you ever have.
You can’t stand to waste a drop of him, so you take it all. The rush that it gives you is unlike anything you’ve felt before, his limp body crumpling to the floor as you stumble back, bursting at the seams.
It’s euphoric. Pure, complete ecstasy. You’ve never felt so close to Eddie before, so full of his love and devotion. The life of him fills you up, thrumming through every inch of you, vibrating every cell, and you throw your head back and laugh, and spin, and hug yourself tightly.
What little you let escape colors your chin and neck, and you stroke your hand through it, smearing it across your skin. Staring at the way it stains your hand and seeps into its lines with utter adoration. You can’t help yourself—you press it into your face, a kiss against your cheek.
You lose time like this. The high of carrying him inside of you distorts all else, commands your full attention, and you bask in it for as long as you can, but you try not to leave him waiting for too long. It’ll be worse for him if you do.
Stepping up to the discarded husk, you tilt your head and scowl. You hate it—the sight of his cloudy, impenetrable, unseeing eyes, not at all the charming windows you could always count on. They’re just…vacant. It offends you.
Hooking your hands under his arms, you begin to drag him down the hall, towards the bedroom he must’ve emerged from earlier. His head falls back too far, still-damp curls skimming the floor, lifeless eyes staring at you without seeing—pissing you off. You lift him up and place him in the center of his unmade bed, straightening his clothes out before climbing up with him, straddling his hips. His hair really is a mess—you take a moment to fix it, spreading it out on the pillow nicely with a smile.
Grasping his jaw, you force his mouth open with one hand and bring the other up to your mouth, slicing a gash in your wrist with one fang. You hold it out above him and will a little stream of blood to slide down his throat.
…And then you wait. The gift is more concentrated in your blood than it was in the bat-things that turned you—he won’t have to wait nearly as long as you did to return. That boon has its own set of consequences, of course, but he can take it. Eddie was the strongest person you ever knew.
An hour might pass. Stroking his face, wiping away the drying tear tracks beneath his eyes; scratching gently at his scalp, kissing his cooling lips, resting your cheek against his chest. Calling him back to you.
Eventually, it starts. A tremor goes through his body, his fingers beginning to twitch. It builds slowly, traveling up his limbs until he’s convulsing beneath you—loyal flesh resisting the grasp of a new master. The spread is overwhelming, oppressive. It will submit soon enough.
He seizes up, his chest arching off of the bed, and with a deep, hollow, whooshing gasp, Eddie fills his lungs.
He instantly begins hyperventilating—the shock of being ripped back from the grave so suddenly is almost unendurable. The cloudiness has faded from his eyes and they flit around now in terror, but the light hasn’t returned to them. He can’t see you yet.
“Eddie, it’s alright,” you tell him, holding him by his face. “Just breathe, sweet boy. It’ll be over soon.”
You aren’t sure if he can hear you, either. He only seems to gain any control of his breath when it splits open in a bloodcurdling scream.
The pain is excruciating, you’re sure. He convulses violently beneath you and you grab him by his wrists, pinning them beside his head, shushing him tenderly.
“Don’t fight it,” you tell him. “You’ll be so happy when it’s over, when you see what it’s like. And we’ll be together, Eddie. I won’t leave you again.”
Another scream tears out of him, so harsh that it sounds painful; grinding away at his vocal chords. His eyes open wide as their whites fill with blood, and he thrashes against you madly, trying to escape his own body. It breaks your heart to see.
You watch as his canines and outermost incisors are gradually pushed from his gums, replaced by burgeoning fangs. They fall down his throat and he gurgles around them. With a sigh, you release one of his wrists—his hand reaches around wildly, grabbing onto your upper arm and squeezing, not quite strong enough to hurt you yet—and shove your hand into his mouth, fishing them from the back of his throat. Staring down at them in your hand, coated in blood and saliva, you smile. Just as cute as the rest of him. You’ll have to keep them.
When you look back to his face, he can see again—he’s looking right at you with dark, wild eyes, groaning and whimpering as blood tears roll down his cheeks. You grab his face again, stilling him so you can see better.
They’re…something like burgundy. About as deep and dark as they used to be, but tinted reddish like a dark wine. Pretty. You’ve always loved his eyes.
It’s getting worse again, making him tremble. His chest puffs up as he inhales for another grating scream, so you grab his wrists to pin him down again.
“It’s alright, Eds, I’m here,” you say, unsure if he can even hear you over his own voice.
Holding him down is becoming difficult. You knew it would be fast, but this is much faster than you imagined. No wonder he’s been screaming his throat raw.
It’s only a few more minutes before you can feel it. Even bolstered by his blood, your arms tremble with the exertion of holding him down, his newborn strength building rapidly. As a wave of agony becomes more manageable, he seems to notice. His hand lifts off the bed—you have to bear down on him to force it back down.
For a moment, he stops struggling. Gritting his teeth, panting through the pain, he stares at you.
“...Eddie,” you say. A chill runs down your spine. You know exactly what he’s thinking.
He does it again; tests your limits. He fights you until you start to fail, his pupils expanding as he watches you, and as your lips pull into a smile, he lunges.
Your back hits the mattress, your head nearly hanging off of it as he forces you down, holds you still. He isn’t thinking yet, doesn’t realize that you’re exactly where you want to be. A rough, clumsy hand grabs you by the jaw and forces your head aside, and his teeth follow instantly, ripping into your throat with a snarl.
The feeling makes you cringe. Not from the pain but from the crudeness of it—his virgin fangs tearing jagged lines into your flesh, the blood you cherished so deeply spurting wastefully onto the sheets. Even still, you wrap yourself around him, running your fingers through his hair, whispering gentle encouragement as he reclaims what you stole in frenzied, gushing mouthfuls.
Once he finds himself, he stops.
Chest heaving, he pushes himself up, looking down at you in dawning horror, pretty eyes flickering over your face. Dark, glistening blood coats the inside of his mouth, staining his lips and cheeks and chin. Some of it has soaked into his hair, dripping off the ends of loose curls.
“...What did you do?” His voice is quiet and shuddering, raspy from all the screaming.
You beam up at him, bloody tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you take him in, cradling his face with your hands and swooning. He’s the loveliest thing you've ever seen.
His face twists, he starts trembling. His fingers dig into you painfully hard, and you gasp. You can see it in his eyes, that he’s learning, understanding just as you did. Not quite accepting.
He shouts this time, desperate. “What did you do?!”
You love him. You truly do. You can’t remember ever being this happy.
In the distance, there’s a banging against the front door. Eddie’s head snaps up towards it.
“...Someone must have called the cops from all the screaming,” you lament. “We’ll have to leave tonight.”
Eddie leans back and sits on your thighs. His eyes wander all over the place in a daze; every little detail that he’d come to know changed irreparably, refined and enchantingly complicated. Eventually, they land back on you. A stare you find disturbingly opaque.
With a sigh, you take one of his hands, thread your fingers in between his, and squeeze. He doesn’t return the gesture, but he doesn’t reject it, either. Only stares. You wish you could tell what he was thinking.
The banging is louder now, accompanied by muddled shouting. You really should get going.
“Alright, lover,” you begin as you sit up, gently taking a strand of his bloodied hair between your fingers, sucking the end of it dry. “...Would you like to take care of them, or should I?”