Archive of Our Own

He’s not really one for conforming.

That or niceties.

It’s one of the only rules Eddie keeps, and God knows he’s broken so many of them in the past.

It starts young, you see, when you can’t walk through a corridor without someone slamming you into a locker, or cracking your head against a tiled floor, you tend to not want to be your nicest self to the world.

He comes across as mean because life is easier if people think you’re not scared of them. He’d rather be an asshole and labelled a freak than go home with several more stitches.

At least he gets to keep his dignity that way. High school comes and Eddie enters with a leather jacket two sizes too big, fists that have finally learnt how to fight and the realisation sometimes it's better to be cruel than to be nice. It’s better to play off bitterness and anger with a humorous quirkiness that places you in charge of your dnd group, mostly because everyone knows that’s as far as you’re ever going to get in life.

Life’s easier when you’re taken as a joke rather than a threat. It’s easier not to care when no one cares for you. 

It suited him well, living without care, living by his own rules.

That is until she waltzed back into his life.
And now Chrissy-freaking-Cunningham made him want to break every one of them.

He scoffs, staring out at the pitch from the seclusion of the trees. Years upon years of calling out everyone with a pulse in this school for being conforming puppets of society and one cheerleader manages to undo all of it.

And right now there’s nothing more he wants to do than to sweep her up in front of all their shitty classmates, her blonde hair falling out of its tie as he lays a kiss-

Or a hundred-

On her.

A whistle is blown, clearing his thoughts. He breaks his gaze and shoves his hands into his pockets. It doesn’t take long before his eyes are drawn to her again, he doesn’t really understand why she needs to attend practice, there’s no one else to who it comes more natural than her. There’s a certain joy she finds in cheering that’s similar to the one he finds in music; she’s laughing as she jumps and soars, even outright yelling as she throws herself into handstands.

It’s precious.

Her usual anxious self disappears and her cheer practice is the only time when there's nothing else on her mind. When Chrissy walks the halls she's bundle of nerves and insecurity, so he can’t really shit on cheerleading when it feels as though life finally seems to cascade through her limbs once more.

He leans further against the tree and watches her from the shade. He's grateful no ones noticed him, and yet, at the same miserable that she hasn't. He knows what they'll say if they do see him watching. Freak Eddie Munson. Would be worth it though, if she did happen to glance his way.

Not that it matters, it’s not as if he picked this particular field on this particular day at this particular hour just to see her. And he certainly had not arranged for a drop-off at the exact time as her cheer finished. Absolutely not. He'd just happened to remember after the deal that she'd still be at practise as he walked the long way back. That's all.

Oh God, he groaned, you’re so lovesick.

There's nothing more he wishes he could do than to go back and never arrange that deal with Chrissy who-

who was coming right toward him-

and tell her to-

Oh shit.

'Eddie?' She asks, softly. 'You look lost?' 

Light, bouncy curls cascade from her tied-back hair down her jacket, unzipped enough to see peaks of golden, sun-kissed skin. There's a smile on her face, and he forgets to breathe at the thought of her being happy at the sight of him.

‘Fancy a walk?’ She asks, already knowing the answer.

‘With you? Nah,’ he teased, enjoying the way she rolled her eyes at him.

He dramatically bows, inviting her to lead the way. She giggles and runs her fingers through Eddie's, as she'd been doing every second she could when her boyfriend's back was turned.

Sourness burns in his face at the thought of Jason but it's gone as soon as Chrissy smiles up at him.

'You have no idea how glad I am to see you,' she says, twirling herself under his arm.

Weeks, weeks he's been seeing her like this and he thought the initial fluster would disappear the more time he spent with her. He's no better now than he first was when they started these walks.

‘You must be pretty messed up to be looking forward to seeing me.’
‘Accept the compliment, Munson.’

Her hand rubs his in comforting little strokes, unaware of what torture it is.

-o-

‘This is bullshit,’ Jason shouts once everyone has scattered and the hallway is empty.

‘Not so loud,’ Chrissy whispers, futilely.

‘Bullshit!’ She’s slumped up against the lockers, having not mustered up the strength to meet his gaze yet.

It’s crude and cruel and even though the hallway is empty it feels as though everyone is here witnessing it. She wants to run away, and she can’t because she asked for this.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’
Chrissy shrinks, angry and embarrassed. ‘I’m not doing anything,’ she says, because acting dumb is better than admitting the truth; she’s unhappy, uncomfortable and deserves better.

There’s no point in getting angry back. He doesn’t fear her, he doesn’t respect her; he doesn’t deserve her rage.

So she slinks against the cool metal and lets his rage hammer through the halls, his words shattering any courage she had.

‘You’re killing me, Chrissy! You’re actually killing me.’
‘It’s just for a few weeks. All I’m asking for is a bit of space.’

‘Bullshit.’
‘Stop this, please just-’

His fist collides with the locker next to her head. 

She watches as the soft flesh of Jason’s skin breaks - bursting and splitting - against the silver metal.

All she sees is twisted lips, heaving shoulders and white-knuckled fists and she starts sinking to the ground.

Even though she hasn’t been struck, she still tastes the bitter tang of blood in her mouth and sourness in the back of her throat.

For a moment she thinks he’s going to apologise. Then Jason’s attention is no longer on her, it’s on the end of the hall. Henderson, one of Eddie’s friends she thinks, stands at the edge of the hall, not sure whether he should stay or turn the other way.

Embarrassed, or guilty (she’s never quite sure with Jason), he stumbles away.
‘Bullshit,’ he repeats one last time because apparently, that’s all that’s in his vocabulary. 

She runs into the girl's toilets before Eddie’s friend can say anything, hides in her usual spot, and cries until the bell rings. No matter how fast she runs, no matter which toilet stall she hides; there are some things Chrissy will always carry with her, this is just another to add to the list.

She doesn’t eat dinner that night.

-o-

Eddie tries to remember if she’s always been this way.

He’s seen her since middle school, surely? A few brief glimpses of them passing in the hallway come to mind, her blonde ponytail swaying and getting caught in a cheer jacket. Him hurtling past, Doc Martins thumping against the ground until the bell signalled his escape.

She squeezes his hand.

'How was your week?'
'Oh, you know, the usual,' he shrugs, 'you?'
'Shit.'
Well,' Eddie grins, pulling out his tin of paraphernalia.  'We can't have that, can we?' 

Chrissy hasn’t quite gotten the hang of rolling yet, so he sits by her side on their bench talking her through it step-by-step. His fingers put careful ease into rolling, Chrissy's are curled into a fist resting under her chin. He offers her a light when they finish.

She licks her lips slowly and-

No, no - inappropriate, he wasn't going to continue that thought.

'You got plans this weekend?' He asks, lighting both their joints.
'I said I'd go prom dress shopping with Mom, we were supposed to go weeks back but...' she wrinkles her nose. 'I've been trying to get out of that.'

'Thought girls liked shopping?' 

'I do, but..' she pauses, then takes a deep breath. 'I said I'd drop two dress sizes by now and well...' she trails off, casting a piercing gaze down at her stomach as if she could make whatever weight that was there disappear just by glaring. 

'Hey,' he says softly. 'You don't need to do that. You know that, right?'

She takes another drag.

'It's gonna suck anyway,' she said with the voice of someone who, despite saying that, still very much wanted to go. 'I'm just going to be posing for pictures all night until we're crowned King and Queen, then there'll be more pictures until the afterparty. I think I might ditch.'

'Really?' He's selfish, can't hide the joy in his voice at the idea of her doing that.

'No,' she sighs, sinking hs hope. 'I want to go so bad, but it would be different y'know, if I could choose my own dress and date. I think I'd enjoy it if I were going with you.'

With you.

She'd go with you.

You.

He sputters out ash and before he can think up the courage to ask her, she rattles on.

'We're good friends, y'know? I feel like I can talk to you about anything.'

‘Right,’ he says turning away and taking another drag. ‘Friends.’

‘Why do you say it like that?’ Tendrils of smoke twirl upwards.

‘You feel like you can talk to Jason about anything?’
‘Well… yeah,' she says before sitting up straighter. ‘I can talk to him about anything.’

‘Sure,’ Eddie replies through an inhale of smoke, drawing it out long and hard.

‘You can stop being sarcastic and pulling those faces, it’s over anyway,’ she snaps.
‘Over?’
‘Yeah, I mean… no… maybe? I don’t know. It’s complicated,’ she sighs, flicking ash onto the bench.

There is a part of him that wishes he didn’t care about how others felt. Wishes that he could just pull himself up from their bench and go ‘ah, well, sucks to be you, Chrissy! Good luck with that!’ and then Adiois and C’est la vie!

He’d do it to Henderson and Wheeler. Hell, the rest of his party and even his band, no question about it. 

Or... he’d like everyone to think he would.

And why?

Because he has an image to protect? Because he doesn’t like that there’s a vulnerability he hates in being open? Maybe because he’s just an asshole?

He’s going to do it, he’s going to get up and leave because fuck pining over someone who isn’t-

Oh.

He hates the look on her face.

He hates how tight her shoulders are, hates how her nails are digging into her arms and especially hates how she’s looking around them scouting someplace to hide.

‘Surely over just means over.’ He says, staying right by her side.

‘Not for Jason,’ she tries to laugh, but it’s more of a huff and it doesn’t meet her eyes. ‘He’s … stubborn. He treats us like he treats his basketball games, it’s not over until he says it’s over.’

It's Eddies turn to huff this time, and it’s an ugly little thing. ‘I think the referee has the final say on that.’

‘Yeah,’ Chrissy rolls her eyes, ‘tell me when they do relationship referees.’

‘I believe they’re called the police.’

Chrissy’s eyes meet his and he’s really beginning to hate how when they're this close they appear so blue it feels like he’s going to start drowning. She waits, rolling her nails against the wood. She looks at the bench, its warped wood, and the cracks in its frame, before going back to face Eddie's tired eyes.

‘I’m not going back,’ she whispers, not breaking his gaze.

That’s what you said the last time, is what he wants to say but instead, he waves the white flag and reaches below the bench for a handful of leaves.

‘I’m serious,’ she says louder. ‘This time, it’s over.’

Mmm, he mumbles aloud before raining (more like pelting) old autumn leaves upon them. Mostly to change the subject, secondly because he misses her smile.

She shrieks, before a wicked grin spreads across her face. It's all toothy and wide and she tries to swallow it down before diving to throw handfuls back. A pinecone hits him square in the chest, which results in him staggering forward quoting (more like butchering) a Shakespearan tragedy, before flailing hand on head to the ground.

Alright, he concedes as her giggles turn into uncontainable snorts, maybe it was mostly to see her smile. 

-o-

She thinks it starts as a means of control.

Or, that’s what counselling tells her.

She can’t control her home life, she can’t control what her mother's next cutting remark will be, and she can’t control that Jason is as likely to coddle her as much as he is to scream at her.

She can control her weight, however.

She can control purging, she can control fasting. I am in control. 

Or… so she thought. 

She’s crying into the toilet seat, cheek pressed against the plastic and nostrils burning from disinfectant when her mother knocks.

‘Chrissy? You’ve got a visitor.’

She brushes the smell of vomit out of her mouth and wipes any spit from her dress, only to make her way down the stairs to want to run back up them again.

Jason stands in her hall with a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than her.

Jason isn’t a bad guy, he can be kind. He teaches her brother how to shoot hoops, he even scares some of his middle-school bullies off. When her father said no, absolutely not, no way, to her learning how to drive; Jason had taught her, spending hours in empty parking lots taking her through it step-by-step. And when her mother complained about her lack of dieting and how her thighs were getting as muscular as a wrestler's, Jason had been the one to stand up for her.

‘Cheerleading is a sport Mrs Cunningham, she needs protein if she doesn’t want to snap a leg doing a high lift.’

Mom wasn’t happy that Jason had spoken back to her, but she also didn’t say anything for weeks and Chrissy thought that was heaven.

Jason can be kind, yes. But he’s only kind when he's happy, and he’s only happy when he’s winning. Chrissy said yes to dating him when he was at the top of his game, now he thinks he’s been dealt the wrong hand which means they’re both losing.

‘I’m so ashamed,’ he cries, his words broken up by sobs. ‘I should never have gotten so angry.’  He makes promises of how he will never raise his voice like that again, how he’s going to get better and can Chrissy ever forgive him?

Eddie’s pick necklace hangs around her neck, hidden beneath her summer dress. She must have stolen it when they were high. It feels like it’s burning, it feels like Jason’s eyes can see straight through her and already knows that she’s going to go to sleep tonight wearing that cheap plastic around her neck.

Wearing only that necklace.

‘Forgive me,’ Jason cries.

And she does, she does it as best she can.

‘I still want space,’ her fingers trace the outline of the pick through her dress. ‘I need time.’

He nods, but she recognises the whirlwind of emotion in his eyes. ‘You can drop me to school tomorrow?’ She offers, mostly because she’s so used to him being her ride and partly because her mom is watching through the door.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he nods, more to himself than her. ‘That sounds good.’ She lets him kiss her goodbye on the cheek and passes the flowers to her mother as soon as the door closes.

‘You put him through so much grief,’ her mother tuts, unaware that if Chrissy had uttered no he would have had another one of his tantrums before deciding to make the rest of her life hell until she gives him what she wants.

She skips dinner and goes to bed with Eddie’s pick squeezed tightly in her fist.

-o-

He has no right to be angry.

It’s not like he and Chrissy are dating. If anything, jealousy’s the only right he has as he watches her and Jason pull into the parking lot.

‘Such a dick,’ Jeff mumbles as Jason beeps at everyone and anyone who he deems in his way. Chrissy slides further down into her seat, hiding deep under her cheer bag, opting to make herself as small as possible.

‘You hear what Henderson said happened?’
‘No, what?’ Eddie asks before he can stop himself, and when Gareth finishes he wishes he’d never asked.

He has no right to be angry, it’s Chrissy’s life, not his. Easier to not care, it’s easier not to care, easier not to-

He's going to slash Jason’s tyres.

Then he thinks of Chrissy, thinks of how Jason is a walking timebomb ready to implode at any second. How Chrissy will be the first casualty in the aftermath, how she's the one who's forced to pick up the pieces.

Eddie walks away.  

-o-

‘You got any plans coming up?’

They’re sitting at their bench, Eddie figures out very early on in their friendship that Chrissy tends to disappear at lunch. So he trails along with her, he likes keeping her company, even if it is just her watching him roll.

‘Corroded Coffin are opening for a touring band next month. I mean, it’s only going to be to the same crowd of like… five people but, y’know, it’ll be nice to hear some fresh blood.’

‘Six.’
‘What?’ Eddie asks, confused but not enough to stop his fingers from working.
‘Six,’ Chrissy repeats. ‘I’m going.’

His fingers halt. He wants her to. There’s nothing he wants more than to look out at that pitifully empty crowd and see her right there in the front.

Then he thinks of how much he’d hate for that to be a reason for Jason to hurt her.

‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am,’ she argues. ‘I want to see you play.’

She’s wearing her bright coloured eye shadow again. The blue one that makes her eyes appear bigger and brighter than they’ve ever been. He’s drowning again he thinks, and it’s taking all his strength to stay afloat across the roaring tides.

‘You’ll hate it,’ he retorts holding the paper to his lips. It's the truth, where they’re playing is what’s referred to as a ‘toilet seat venue’. The floors are so sticky that you have to peel your shoes off with each step you take, and the toilets probably go against five health and safety laws which would definitely get it to shut down. He’s not even going to mention the regulars. ‘It’s a dive, an actual dump. The toilets have been blocked for three years now.’

‘Well, it’s a good thing I’m there for you, not the toilets.’ Chrissy uncurls herself from his side, stretching out like a tired feline. ‘Toilets won’t matter when I’m front row.’

‘You’ll be on your own.’
‘I never liked crowds.’
‘You’ll be the only girl.’
‘Then I’ll be the first groupie you go to,’ she winks, mid-stretch.

‘Only groupie,’ he replies, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth causing him to mumble.
‘Good,’ she leans back into his left side. ‘I hate losing.’

He scoffs. ‘Like there’s a competition; you’d win each time.’ Another laugh huffs from him after he says it, because the idea that he’d want anyone else but her is the funniest thing he’s heard all year. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and looks down to offer it to her.

Her eyes are already looking up, locked on his lips.

It’s not the first time she's done that, and it’s not the first he's thought about kissing her either. He’s never brought it up, it feels inappropriate to remind her of ‘almost’s’ when she’s waltzing down the halls hand in hand with another guy.

But if she were to kiss him, he think he'd let her. And if she asked for more he'd give her more, despite all the reasons he should not.

And because he's a coward, he turns away.

-o-

He’s screaming at cars again. Screaming at cars because Jason knows he can’t scream at her.

Chrissy leans her head back, staring up at the roof, wishing that some hole would rip it open and swallow her whole. Sometimes she thinks about jumping out. The passenger lock is faulty, the only thing wrong in his otherwise perfect car.

Apart from her.

As if sensing her thoughts, he blasts the horn once, twice, three times before screaming at the traffic in front.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ She asks, mostly because she’s starting to get scared, partly because she’s so tired of placating. She’s tired of pretending to be smaller just so her identity suits his image better, she’s tired of being a shell of herself just to keep his own boring identity safe from threat. 

‘What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?’ He snaps as if she’s the unhinged one. ‘We’re going to be late.’

‘It’s just a game.’
‘Shut up, just shut the fuck up.’ 

Alright, she thinks. I can do that.

All the cars in front begin to move, clearing the traffic in front of them. All except Jason’s.

‘Jason? It’s clear, you can-’
‘You don’t get to talk to me like that.’ He spits, still seething. Cars are coming up behind them, inching forward expecting them to move.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers, mostly so they can go.
‘Do you know what I was told yesterday?’

She shakes her head.

‘People are saying you’re ditching lunch.’
She’s been ditching lunch since they’ve been together, that’s nothing new.

‘They say you’re with freak Munson.’

The plastic of Eddie’s necklace burns hot.

Jason's lips twist as if he's bitten into some vile, gruesome thing.

‘They said he was waiting for you after practice.’

‘They? Who’s they?’
‘People.’
‘People?’

A car overtakes, honking as they pass. It manages to pull Jason out of his rage, she can hear his teeth grinding as he speeds the rest of the way there.

When he parks, he twists in his seat, ready to go for round two.

‘I’m breaking up with you,' the words spill out of her before he can even open his mouth. He starts raging, raging and thundering until Chrissy realises that she no longer has to sit here and weather his storms.

She puts her hand on the lock.

‘Forgive me?’ He bawls, realising that he can’t get his way this time.

And she does. She does it the only way she can.

By throwing his door open and not looking back.

Jason calls her mom, tells her that Chrissy has fallen into a bad crowd, that she’s blowing all her savings on getting high, and that she couldn’t make it to his last game because they had an argument over her "snorting shit". Her mother believes him and is wailing why and how could you and all the things you owe this family. 

Chrissy sits, crying as she takes it, and goes to bed without supper.

-o-

'You ever think anyone has made one of these with Sherbet?'

They’re lying on Eddie’s living room floor, and Chrissy’s pointing at the joint in his hand.

‘Explain,’ Eddie motions, before throwing the stubs of what was left away.
‘Like, if someone has sprinkled something nice like sherbet.’ She snuggles up close, closer than any friend should have. ‘I think it would taste nice.’ Her arms are wrapping around him tight, instinctively he pulls her in tighter. Her eyes are locked in on his lips again and-

She wants. She wants and he wants and yet-

He rolls his neck to stare up at the ceiling, resulting in a sigh from the blonde at his side. 

Couldn’t happen, he’s not going to let it happen.

'Your high has definitely kicked in.'
'Seriously, it could be cool if we tried it. I’ll sprinkle, you roll.'
'It doesn't work like that.'

'Yeah,’ she mumbles, trailing her fingers over his chest. ‘I guess you're right.'

He was very, very aware that they’re starting to get more physical with one another, and knew that if he wants to keep her as a friend then he should push her hands away. What he should do is pull them both off of the trailer floor and offer to drive her home. Instead of holding her closer and having conversations that only made him so much more aware of what they can’t have.

He refuses to get up, he refuses to let go.

Instead, she starts humming to the tune of a Stevie Nicks song, her fingers trailing up and down, then up and down again on his chest. The lyrics go dry on her tongue when she pulls an inch of his shirt away to reveal ink.

‘Tell me about your tattoos?'
He shrugs, much preferring that they go back to her singing than the sound of his own voice. 'Too many to explain.'

'What are the meanings?'
'There aren't any.' There are, or there were when he first started getting them, but he misses her whispery vocals and wants them back.

'There's got to be a meaning,' she argues, leaning back on her elbows.
'No there doesn't,' and with that, he pulls his ankle out to show a shitty stick-and-poke of a shitty pineapple, much to her delight.

'Do you even like pineapples?'
'Nope,' he says, popping the ‘p’. 'I'm allergic.’
'See!’ Chrissy exclaims through a fit of laughter. ‘There is meaning!'

When her laughter dies down they return back to silence, in which he says nothing and she says nothing, mostly because he’s reaching forward for her hand. He’s pulling her down beside him, a bit too hyper-aware of the slight hitch in her breathing when he wraps his arms around her waist.

'You do them yourself?' She asks, burrowing her face into the crook of his neck.
'Yeah, or a friend does.' He’s only actually paid for one of his tattoos, his first. Since then he’s made do with a sewing needle and ink.

'Will you do mine one day?' She’s hidden behind the cloak of his unruly hair, he can’t actually tell if she’s serious.

'Only if you're sure. Your mom might freak though.' That was putting it lightly; it's been weeks and Chrissy's mom still isn't speaking to her for dumping Jason. If Chrissy’s mom didn’t have an excuse to not kill Eddie now, she definitely would then.

Chrissy leans in close and presses her lips against his ear. 'I can think of a place or two where she won't see it.'

'Chrissy Cunningham!' he exclaims, a low-whistle breaking through his laughs. 'Are all cheerleaders as freaky as you?'

She rolls out of his embrace to jokingly pout at his laughter. 'I'm not freaky,' 
'Cmon, smoking pot, wanting tattoos and hanging with me?' He leans over her, poking at her cheeks to wipe off that pout. 'You're officially a freak now.'

She's grinning at that, her smile is so wide that he thinks her face will split open.

‘Freak’ is no longer a bad thing to be. Being a freak to Chrissy means being free, it means not having to be perfect and not having to please everybody all of the time. If that’s a freak then count her in. His hands are at her waist, there’s a heat that coils inside of her as his grip tightens. She wonders how his hands would feel if there was not the constraint of clothes in-between them. How he would look under the glow of the trailers lights, her hands kneading against the ink on his thighs. If he could end her hunger, fill this hollowness that came with freedom and end her suffering. 

‘Not until you tat me.’
‘You’d be comfortable with that?’

‘I’d be comfortable with you touching me anywhere.’

Eddie gulps. 

Heavy is the silence that settles between them, it is thick and suffocates any thoughts he may have had prior to her admission. He pulls away and is painfully aware of how without her touch, the cold breeze whistles through the trailer door harsher, forcing her to cradle her bare arms.

‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do,’ she says calmly. ‘I’ve been hitting on you this entire time.’

‘No,’ he says, this time ripping his hand from hers.
‘Yes,’ she responds, reaching back for it.

‘It’s the high talking,’ he argues. ‘You’re high.’

‘You don’t believe me?’
‘No,’ he laughs, but there’s no humour in it.  ‘No, not at all.’
‘Why not?’

‘Because look at you,’ he says pointing to the mirror. ‘Now, look at me. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘You’re telling me, that this,’ she retorts, not taking one look at the mirror and instead, pointing between them, ‘this doesn’t make sense.’
‘No, we really don’t. You’re Chrissy-freaking-Cunningham.’
‘And?’ She yells. ‘And that means my opinion doesn’t matter?’

Before he can explain that’s not what he meant, she puts a finger up, silencing him.

‘I’m going to bed. I’m going to bed and I’m going to wake up, come straight into this living room and I’m gonna ask you out even though I’ll smell like sweat and weed just to prove that this isn’t the high. And if that fucks up our friendship then alright, but atleast you know I’m serious, and that I’m serious about you.’

They’re back to that heavy silence, something Eddie has never felt comfortable in. Perhaps that's why he's always had a profound love for music and the way it fills up the dull quiet in mundane life. He's not used to the nothingness in the air, it's an open wound festering and weeping over the two of them. His foot begins involuntarily tapping, his boots drilling a migraine into their heads.

It lasts until her eyes land on the chain around his neck.

‘I’m tired,’ she grumbles and pulls the necklace over his head. 'I’m keeping this with me.’
‘But I only just got it back.’
‘Mine,’ she mumbles and he’s not quite sure if it’s the necklace or him she’s referring to. He yields and acts as though he's not watching her make her way to his room.

There is a hole in his uncle's roof, big enough that Eddie could (theoretically) poke a finger through. Through it, you can see that the sky above is a thick curtain of ink, no stars able to poke their way through. He thinks of how many times he'd passed out staring up at that hole, his uncle nudging him awake after coming home from a night shift. He wonders how disappointing it must have felt, to find your nephew night after night high or wasted, wishing that he could go back to that old routine of solitude, because being alone is better than being with Eddie.

Then he remembers the way Chrissy looks at him, actually looks at him and makes him feel seen.

He thinks of how much it will ache to never have her look at him like that again.

When she wakes the next morning, she does exactly what she said she would. She stumbles into his kitchen, wearing an oversized Dio shirt, prepared to give the speech of her life.

Eddie spins at her entrance, wearing a stained oversized apron and holding two plates. ‘Voila, breakfast is- oh shit,’ he cuts off at the sight of her in his clothes.

What he wants to say is: ‘that’s hot, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.' But, because he’s a fucking idiot, all that comes out is:

‘You’re right, you really do stink.’

She laughs, which he’s grateful for because he was this close to slamming his head on the fryer. She waits until he’s sat by her side before curling into him.

‘Can I take you on a date?’

It’s the worst time to have a mouthful of beans.

‘Surely,’ he says mid-swallow. ‘The guy should be asking the girl?’
‘Sexism will get you nowhere.’
‘Have you heard of politicians, Chrissy?' Her eyes roll into the back of her head. ‘Alright,’ he concedes, ‘only if I get to take you out too.’

‘I was thinking the movies,' she murmurs, fingers tracing her place. 'Would that be… is that alright?’
‘Yeah, sounds great. I know a record store, I was wanting to take you to get a Fleetwood record you might like.’

‘Dammit,' she moans. 'That’s way better than mine.’
‘No way,' he exclaims. 'You, me, in a dark room where no one can see us? That's my biggest fanta-’

‘Don’t!’ She warns, pointing the knife toward him.
‘Woah, woah! Get your mind out of the gutter, Cunningham.’

He's already halfway through his plate, Chrissy on the other hand hasn't had so much as a taste. He's about to point this out before she's leaning back in.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she hums into his curls.
‘Yeah, well,' he says, gently nudging her back to her place. 'Eat your grub.’

She hesitates for a moment, and he thinks there might be something genuinely wrong with his cooking. Then slowly, she picks up her fork and takes tiny, bitesize pieces.

She finishes every bite.