the chain

chain, keep us together

Eddie Munson was never the type of person who belonged in Hawkins. The town was too small for him, much like it's too small for other people who don't fit into its categories. Eddie's leather jacket and the band shirts he wore made him stick out. He spoke loud and unabashedly. Nothing about him fit in; almost in spite of himself. For Eddie Munson, it was a discredit to keep his head down.

You were never like that.

You happily kept your head down, hidden but content in your own little world. It was only when you entered Eddie's world that you truly felt seen.

You don't know what to do without him. A hand reaches towards the poster board and you turn, seeing Eddie's Uncle removing his defaced poster. Dustin peers up at the man, biting his tongue as if to say something.

You speak first, your voice rough and quiet from barely using it lately, "Mr Munson, do you, uh, do you have any copies of that?" For the most part, you avoid his eyes, looking down at the posters in his hand.

"Uh, yeah, I do," he answers hesitantly.

"Can I..." you frown at the floor, "Can I keep one?"

"Sure, darlin'," Mr Munson mumbles, handing the paper in your direction. When you take it graciously, his brown eyes linger on you. "You know Eddie?"

You look up at the man. The way his eyes look so familiar to you makes you want to cry. They're big, like Eddie's. Maybe his grandfather had big, precious brown eyes - maybe they were passed into his dad and uncle, and then Eddie.

"Yeah, I-I..." you glance at Dustin, unsure of what to say, "I know him." You lie. You knew him. When you look down at the poster, staring at the blankness of the paper, "Known him for a while but we, um, we only became friends recently, I guess... Before all of this. I'm, uh... I'm so-" you bite the corner of your lip, sucking in a deep breath through your nose, "I'm very sorry about everything that happened with him, Mr Munson. Eddie... is a really wonderful person. I loved him. I, uh, I have to go." You turn on your heel, feeling your eyebrows pinch together as tears begin blurring your vision.

You make it past the large doors, pausing at the steps when the cool air hits your face. Nobody stops you, not Steve, not Robin, not Dustin, not that you'd listen either way. The muscles in your feet are aching but you walk regardless, heading past the gym, past the oval, and towards the large trees lining the forest. Some trees were taken down in the earthquake and lay at your feet, twisted and broken. They almost look grey. Then clearing comes into focus. The leaves on the ground. The bench. The carvings in it. The image of Eddie, sitting in front of you, his metal lunchbox in hand.

Tear your eyes away, you can't help but look down at your hands. The weight of the little ring keeps you aware of its presence on your hand, so there's no risk of it falling off and disappearing forever. It's big on every one of your fingers, but only slightly.

Making your way to the bench, you slowly sit on your side. You and Eddie always had sides - unspoken but always the same. You'd side here, where you are now. He'd sit in front of you. You clasp the paper in your unsteady hands, beginning to tear it. You don't care about the torn pieces flying away in the growing breeze and darkening sky. The words on the poster mean nothing to you as you tear out his photo, discarding the rest of the thick pieces in your jacket pocket.

When you raise the image towards your face, you peer down at him. Eddie Munson. It doesn't matter that you've torn off details like his full name or birthdate or height; you'll never, ever forget those anyway. It's just the only photo you have of him. The last remaining semblance of a person that, just a few days ago, you had all of. Every piece of. Not just paper and a ring. You had his hand in yours, his lips on your cheek, you had his conversation and his jokes.

You place the paper down on the table, eyes narrowing at the markings.

X E.M X

Eddie Munson. When you had last trained your eyes onto it, you hadn't made the connection. You huff out a humourless laugh, your eyes shutting as the feeling of tears building in your eyes appears. This was his place, most of the time. It was the place you met him most. Maybe it was your place, together, by accident. You place your hand over his carving, the tips of fingers tracing his initials.

A speck of snow falls onto the black and white image and you frown, looking up at the clouding sky. Your chest grows still, you wonder if you're dreaming. Rising to your feet, you feel the air grow colder as a gust of wind makes dusty particles fall like snow.

It's too dark and thin to be snow, and too familiar not to send a chill to the back of your neck.