Eddie Munson x Reader Collection

All of My 'What If's (f!Reader)

— In which the reader realises she's in love with Eddie, posthumously.

"I uh, put everything I thought you might want to keep..."

Wayne motioned weakly to a water-stained cardboard box, filled with only a few items. The rest had been packed tightly into ones labelled 'cassettes' and 'clothes'.

Dustin had already claimed the guitar, a few books filled to the brim with DnD lore and drawings, and a few other little trinkets. Luckily he'd shown up after you'd flushed all the drugs hidden in the obvious places.

Even now, you felt you had to busy yourself by helping to sort through the piles of Eddie's belongings. How many cups did one man need? It was thoughts like these that kept you light-hearted, putting on a strong front for the others as you picked the remaining pieces of your friend's soul, deciding whether they could be spared or go to charity.

You wished you could keep it all. You wished you could have laid down in Eddie's trailer and never gotten up again. With the rift having torn through what was once his home, laying waste to most of what he'd collected, these little embers of his fiery life were all that remained.

But you had to be tough. You had to be thankful for the time you'd had, no matter how brief, with the most incredible person you'd ever, and would ever, know.

Dustin looked up from where he was strumming the singed strings of Eddie's guitar – a pure miracle that it had somehow survived the collapse of the trailer and not fallen into the upside down. The young boy poked the box Wayne had left; your name written atop it in his utilitarian capital letters.

"Gonna open it?"

You looked up, snapping out of your dreary haze.

"Yeah," you nodded, sniffling as you took a deep breath, bitten nails reaching to open the flaps.

The first thing you saw made you bite back a laugh.

"An honest-to-god diary," You whispered to yourself, picking it up, the book being heavier than it looked, "Seriously Munson?"

Of course it had been too good to be true, and as you unfurled the front page you were greeted by the sight of a bottle-shaped hole carved into the pages, a 300ml empty vodka glass perched perfectly in the space.

Pulling it out, a memory assaulted you the moment you laid your eyes on the lipstick stain on the neck of the bottle.

"There she is!" Eddie's voice echoed in your mind, his dimpled grin bringing a ghost of a smile to your face.

He had been ecstatic, twirling around a streetlamp pole as you walked down your driveway, the purple twilight painting the horizon as the night began. As he spoke again you could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"I saved some, just for you," he shook the bottle, barely a quarter left.

"A mouthful? Gee, thanks."

But you couldn't stay annoyed at him when he flashed those teeth, his eyes sparkling under the moth-covered light. He tested the boundaries of your patience as you brought the bottle to your lips, staining it red, and before the alcohol met your lips he reached out quickly, pointing to the van he'd parked down the street, as to not rouse your parents' suspicion.

"You mind?" He had thought far ahead enough to at least look sheepish as he made the request, "Got a little overzealous on my way here."

He gave an overdramatic shrug, his face twisting, and before you could get mad at him you were laughing. He had a way of doing that: absolving any sort of negative emotion before it could reach you. It's why you'd put up with him this whole time, growing to value his friendship, even though he was flaky at times, and cocky always.