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"What?" Eddie's choking on laughter-or maybe it's on the puff he just inhaled right as the question slipped out; through the haze of your high mind and from your lips like awkward word vomit.
The two of you are on the hood of his van, joint passing between you-the usual song and dance-the stars above shining brighter out here, the further you get from Hawkins, from Eddie's trailer. Some beaten off path deep in the woods that you're sure he only knows about no thanks to this very reason, and his dealings.
There's a heavy weight in your chest, a sinking feeling that maybe you should backpedal. Pretend the words didn't come out, or at the very least blame it on being high.
But the two of you have been doing this for a month now, sharing blunts, jokes, taunts-fries that one time you snuck out at midnight and smoked at Eddie's trailer and you were starving.
Eddie saving the day when he pulled out a bag of frozen french fries, smirking like he had just solved the world's hardest equation. Your knuckles bumping against each other's each time either of you went to dip your fry into ketchup. Your eyes meeting to smile and laugh about it.
Not to mention all the other things the two of you have been sharing; bodily fluids, spit, moans, praises.
So the feeling in your chest shouldn't be there, not stopping you at the very least. Embarrassment and Eddie didn't go in the same sentence. If this was anyone else, you'd be turning in on yourself and feeling like a fool. Receiving a dirty look or belittlement.
But not with Eddie.
He's just laughing and raising his brows at you playfully.
"What is love to you?" You repeat trying to swallow down the insecurities of the question. Trying not to overthink why your weed muddled brain even went down that track.
