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punkshort · 3 months

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i know who you are | 2. the journal

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Your memories still remain out of reach, so you ask Joel to tell you a bit about yourself, and with the help of a journal you kept, you begin to learn more about the person you became in the past ten years, leaving you with more questions than answers.

Chapter Warnings: language, eating, alcohol use, angst, pining, sad!Joel, amnesia

WC: 6.3K

Series Masterlist

"Did'ya get any sleep?"

You glanced up at Joel as you walked side by side towards the dining hall.

"No," you admitted, looking straight ahead again.

After Joel left you in his - your - bedroom, instructing you to rest on his way out, you found you could do anything but. Your mind was spinning with all of the information you had just learned, and you weren't sure which topic consumed you more: the end of the world or the supposed love of your life.

The longer his words set in, the more you were finding it difficult to look at him. It was such a strange feeling, having this large, burly, gruff man proclaim his love for you, to say he would stop at nothing to make you feel the same way, to insist you were meant for each other. It seemed so out of character, though you hardly felt like you knew him. But even now as you walked down the street, you noticed how some of the people in town glanced at him. Moving quickly out of his way.

It wasn't just you who found him intimidating.

You were distracted as you walked, curiously peering into storefronts and repurposed buildings when a group of children playing a game of tag nearly ran into you. At the last moment, Joel tugged your arm, pulling you into his side just in time. The children seemed to realize their mistake because their laughter quickly stopped and the smiles fell from their faces as they looked up at him.

"We're sorry, Mr. Miller," a young boy no more than eight years old said.

Miller. You never even bothered to ask his last name.

Joel just grunted and they scurried away, no doubt eager to escape his glare. You chanced a look at him, studying his stern expression when you realized he was still holding you against him. He was warm. Warmer than you expected. And solid. You cleared your throat and stepped away from his grasp, muttering your thanks and glancing around the busy street to avoid the disappointed look in his eye when it became clear you weren't comfortable with him touching you.

You shoved your hands in the pockets of your jeans and continued to walk in silence down the main road. A few people shot you curious looks or did double takes as they walked by, and you had to assume if Ellie heard the news about your accident, then others had, as well.

The Tipsy Bison came into view at the corner of the street, made obvious by the large crowds of people gathered outside.

"Does everyone have to eat here or are you allowed to have food in your homes?" you asked him, and he looked down at you, surprised by the question.

"We got food. It's not like a prison or somethin'," he said with a chuckle. "Most folks like to come here to socialize, but sometimes we cook dinner at home," he stopped short when he realized he never asked you what you preferred. "Did'ya wanna stay home instead?"

"No, this is fine," you told him over your shoulder.

"You sure? Maybe it's too much right now," he replied, jogging a bit to keep up.

"I'm sure. You won't leave me, right?" you asked, looking at him nervously.

"'Course not," he said, trying to hide his grin. He liked that you wanted him around, even if it was only because you didn't know anybody else. It was a start.

When Joel swung the door open, holding it wide so you could enter first, it might have been your imagination but you thought the loud chatter simultaneously died down for a split second. Then Joel stepped in beside you and the volume rose once again.

You wanted to look around and take in the rustic atmosphere but you could feel the eyes on you as Joel led you through the crowd, the scrutiny making you feel extremely out of place, so you kept your gaze pinned straight ahead. Following dutifully behind, you watched as people automatically moved out of his way, like he was Moses parting the Red Sea, until he reached a table in a somewhat quiet corner of the dining hall. He pulled out a chair and stood behind it, his hand still resting on the back, and it took you a second to realize he was waiting for you to sit so he could push it in. You quietly thanked him then finally looked around the room.

The dining room had tables scattered around, and as far as you could see, they all appeared to be taken. People were standing in groups, drinking and laughing and eating and you wondered how in the world your table wasn't taken. You were about to turn and ask when an older man approached your table.

"Hey guys," he said, pulling out a pad of paper from his pocket. "What'll it be?"

You went wide eyed for a moment, looking around trying to figure out what your choices were when, much to your relief, Joel spoke for you both.

"Still got any of that stew left?"

"Sure do. Few guys got lucky earlier today, too. Got two deer, so we'll be havin' more soon," he replied, jotting something down on his paper. "Two whiskies?"

Joel was about to nod when you spoke up for the first time.

"Just water for me, thanks," you said, and the man nodded his head.

"Thanks, Seth," Joel said as he walked away.

You glanced at Joel quickly, awkwardly catching his eye. It felt too much like a date. Dropping your gaze to the table, you tried to think of something to say.

"Probably a good idea, skippin' alcohol," he said. "Didn't even think about it, what with your head and all."

"Yeah," you said, your hand coming up to gently touch the stitches. "Besides, I don't like whiskey, anyway," you added. Joel laughed softly as he watched you shift nervously in your chair.

"What?" you asked with a frown.

"Nothin'," he replied, still staring at you in disbelief. "Just ever since you got here you've been tossin' back whiskey better than most of the men. You must've gotten a taste for it at some point."

"There's no way," you said, scrunching your nose when Seth put down Joel's glass in front of him. He stared down at it wistfully, swirling the amber liquid in the glass, lost in thought.

"Whiskey's how we first met," he said softly, still staring at the glass. You tilted your head towards him, waiting for him to continue. "When you first arrived, you were like a caged animal. You came here lookin' to blow off steam," he said with a distant smile. "It was a slow night. Just you and me and a handful of others. You were tossin' that shit back like it was nothin'."

You watched him as he reminisced. His eyes shone brightly and a small smile played on his lips, it almost felt like you were intruding on something special.

"When me and Ellie first arrived, no one really went outta their way to talk to me. I preferred it that way. Was used to bein' on my own," he continued, looking up at you now. "But that night, you sat down next to me at the bar like you had been waitin' for me or somethin'. You asked me if I was drinkin' for fun or drinkin' to forget. Those were the very first words you said to me."

You were completely silent as he spoke. The way he told it, it felt like you could see the scene playing out right before you, the way he remembered every detail left you in awe.

"What did you say?" you asked a little breathlessly.

The corner of his mouth twitched and he looked down at the table.

"Drinkin' to forget."

You waited for him to elaborate, but when it became apparent he wasn't going to, you asked him another question.

"Then what happened?"

He raised his eyebrows and hummed, a slow smile stretching across his face before he answered.

"You told me you could help me have fun and help me forget," he said, and you could feel the heat instantly flush your cheeks.

"Oh, my god," you murmured, covering your mouth, utterly mortified. "Please tell me you're joking."

He shook his head, still smiling at the memory. You glanced around the room, trying to look anywhere but at him.

"So then, did we...?" you trailed off, gaze still fixed on a spot on the wall.

"Oh, yeah. 'Course we did. I'm no saint," he chuckled.

"Jesus Christ," you said, burying your face in your hands. "That doesn't sound like me at all."

"It's not. Well, not anymore. You had an edge to you when you first arrived. Most do. Survivin' out there does that to you," he said, taking his first sip of whiskey.

You sat in silence for another minute, contemplating asking him what he knew about your life before you met him, but ultimately deciding against it. Maybe another time.

"Where's the bathroom?" you asked him, and he pointed down a small hallway near the bar. You thanked him, his eyes trailing after you as you made your way through the crowds, only dropping his gaze once you were no longer in view. It was a strange thing, recounting stories for you like that. At first, the memories made him smile, but once he saw the lost look on your face he felt the sadness creep back up, settling deep in his chest, and he wondered if he would ever get you back.

You knew you were in the bathroom too long. You knew he would likely be worried, but you just couldn't stop staring at your reflection in the mirror after you washed your hands. Who was this person staring back at you? She looked older and weathered and tired. Your fingertip gently prodded at the bags under your eyes and then a small scar on your chin. What happened to you out there to make you the person Joel was describing? What did you have to do to survive? And did you really want to know the answer?

The door swung open, startling you as three girls around your age entered the bathroom. Their giggles stopped when they saw you and you watched them exchange glances in the mirror before a pretty girl with long, blonde hair greeted you by name. Turning around, you gave her a smile, hoping they would go about their business so you could slip out of there, but of course the pretty girl wanted to talk.

"We heard you had an accident, are you okay?" she asked, and she sounded sincere, but something about her smile made you think twice.

"Yeah, got a few stitches but it should be fine," you said, your eyes flicking to the other two girls, giving them each a smile. They looked at each other and smirked before heading towards the bathroom stalls, leaving you with just the blonde.

"So, is it true? Did you really lose your memory?" she asked, her voice low as if it were a secret, and finally you were able to pick up the vibe. You had been to high school before the outbreak. You had encounters with these types of girls before. Friendly to your face, vicious behind your back.

"Uh, yeah," you admitted, and she gasped as if she felt bad, but you saw the way her eyes lit up.

"So you don't remember, like, anything?"

"Well, I remember before everything went to hell," you told her, "but I don't remember this place, no."

"Oh, wow," she said, and you heard the toilets flush before the other two girls exited the stalls, grinning conspiratorially at the blonde. "So you don't know anybody here?"

You shook your head, feeling uncomfortable with the line of questioning at this point. What was she really getting at?

"That must mean you don't remember Joel, right?" one of the girls at the sink piped up. You looked at her briefly over your shoulder and shook your head, turning back to the blonde but not before you caught the look in her eye.

"Oh, that's too bad," she said, giving you a pout. "Does that mean you aren't together anymore, or-"

Suddenly, the door swung open and Ellie stormed in. Her hard gaze drifted around to the three girls and she gave them a look of disgust.

"Scram, vultures," she told them, and the blonde made a face at her before flipping her hair over her shoulder and heading to one of the stalls. Ellie called your name and you scurried over, allowing her to lead you back out into the dining room but not before she gave the other two girls a few choice words.

"Don't talk to them, they're nasty," she told you as you weaved your way through the crowd. Joel's eyes instantly found you once you were in view and you saw him straighten up in his chair.

"You okay?" he asked, and you could see the genuine concern in his face as you sat down. You were about to answer when Ellie plopped down on the other side of him and spoke first.

"Angie and her little sidekicks cornered her in there," she explained, rolling her eyes. "Already sniffing around for scraps."

"What do you mean?" you asked her, but just then Seth arrived with your meals and you never got an answer.

"Stew again?" Ellie asked, scrunching up her nose.

"It's good," Joel told her before taking a bite. You looked down at the bowl and you were inclined to agree with Ellie, but you swallowed the food down anyway, just grateful for something to eat after such a long day.

"Aren't you going to eat?" you asked her, noticing she hadn't ordered anything and instead was busy sketching in a journal.

"Nah, I'm going to Dina's later, I'll eat there," she explained without looking up.

"Who's Dina?"

"Oh, my girlfriend," Ellie explained, glancing up at you briefly. "Sorry. I still can't get used to this. It's so weird you don't remember."

"Don't be out too late. You got school tomorrow," Joel reminded her. Even though he wasn't Ellie's father, he seemed to have quite the knack for being a dad.

"Yes, sir," she said sarcastically, giving him a weak, two-fingered salute before hunching back over her journal. You heard some familiar giggles coming from somewhere behind you, and when you turned to look, you locked eyes with the blonde girl from the bathroom - Angie - who was holding some drink in her hand, her two friends flanking her sides as she strolled past your table. Her eyes drifted briefly to Joel before she passed by, then turned her attention to her friends, disappearing into the crowd.

"Who is that?" you asked, realizing you never really got much of an explanation. Joel and Ellie responded at the same time.

"Nobody."

"Joel's ex."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise as Joel glared at Ellie.

"What? She woulda found out eventually," Ellie protested.

"She ain't even an ex," he said, turning to you now. "Just a mistake I made one time before you even got here," he insisted. The tone in his voice made it sound like he was trying to reassure you there was nothing to worry about, but of course, the information didn't phase you.

"Okay," you replied with a shrug. He examined your blank stare for a moment, searching for a glimmer of recognition. The disappointment in his expression every time something like this happened was becoming too much to bear, so you dragged your eyes off him to glance around the crowded room once again. You found Tommy leaning against the bar and you stood up.

"Where are you goin'?"

"I need to ask Tommy something," you said. "I'll be right back."

His eyes followed you as you pushed your way towards the bar, his heart feeling like it was going to break. He wasn't exactly looking for you to have an overly jealous reaction to hearing about another woman from his past, but your casual indifference hurt more than he expected. When you first found out about Angie, you insisted you weren't jealous but the way you sneered at her going forward, combined with giving him the best sex of his life later that night told him a different story.

"You think she'll ever get her memory back?" Ellie asked, still focusing on her drawing. Joel sighed and dragged his hands down his face.

"I don't know, kid."

"What'd you need to talk to Tommy for?" Joel asked once you both arrived back to his - your - home. You had wandered into the kitchen, Joel hot on your trail.

"Oh, I just had a question about something I saw when we were out there today," you explained, and he raised an eyebrow for you to continue. "There were dead bodies when I came to. They looked all decayed and... subhuman. Now that you told me about the infection, I wanted to ask."

Joel watched you open and close cupboards until you found the glasses, then picked one out to fill with water.

"So you ran into some runners," he said, and you nodded. "Did he happen to mention how you hit your head?"

Your hand froze, your glass halfway to your lips as you considered his question.

"Actually, no, he didn't," you said, setting down the glass and looking up at him.

"Yeah, he didn't really tell me, either," he replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "When he told me you hit your head and you were havin' trouble remeberin' things, I just came runnin'."

Guilt washed over you yet again as you thought about Joel being told the news and how panicked he must have been. He practically ripped all the exam room doors off their hinges to find you, only to be met with a stranger when he finally did.

"Well, I can ask him tomorrow," you finally said, putting your glass in the sink to avoid looking at him.

"Yeah," he replied, trailing off a bit. He was still lost in thought, trying to remember Tommy's exact words when you walked past him towards the stairs.

"You're tired?"

"Well, it's been a long day," you told him, pausing on a stair to look back down at him.

"Right, 'course," he said, shaking his head and following you up. When you got to the doorway of his bedroom you paused, looking up at him. It seemed like he was struggling to say something, his mind working hard to find the words, but instead he just gazed down at you, brown eyes all wide and soft.

"Don't suppose anythin's comin' back to you yet?" he finally asked, and you hated seeing that look. That same hopeful look you kept seeing right before you opened your mouth and crushed him. This was hard for him, you knew that, but the way he kept looking at you was making things so much worse. The pressure you felt to become this person he was expecting you to be was overwhelming. You opted to drop your gaze to the floor and slowly shake your head.

"That's okay," he said, and you dragged your eyes back up to him. "Maybe tomorrow."

You gave him a small smile. "Yeah, maybe."

He sighed and glanced at the door to the spare room.

"You need anythin', I'm right next door," he said, hitching his thumb to the side and giving you a lopsided grin, but you could still see it in his eyes. The disappointment. The sadness. The yearning. And it was making you feel sick.

Just as he turned to head towards the spare room, you spoke. "Joel?"

And he eagerly swiveled back around.

"I'm gonna try really hard to remember," you said earnestly, looking deep into his eyes.

"I know," he replied with a sad smile. He gave you one more look before heading into the spare room and softly closing the door behind him.

Joel slept like shit.

No surprise there, really. He hadn't slept without you in years. He had hoped the whiskey would have helped, but he was wrong. His mind was racing as he tossed and turned, and by morning he had foolishly convinced himself that you would be back to normal after a good night's rest. He got up early and made coffee for the two of you, like he always did, then tended to the fire in the living room. The nights and early mornings were frigid, but the days were warm. The first sign that fall was approaching fast. He was just putting the poker back when he heard the bedroom door creak open upstairs and his heart jumped into his throat excitedly, but when you descended the stairs and locked eyes with him, he knew nothing had changed. He didn't even bother to ask. You didn't look at him the same way you used to. You used to smile and gravitate towards him, your hands always seeking out his, your eyes playful and loving, but now you looked at him like he was a complete stranger. Devoid of all affection, the only thing that remained was a forced politeness.

You said good morning and headed into the kitchen and Joel wondered how long it would take for you to come around. Less than a day ago, you looked at him in fear, but now you seemed at least comfortable in his presence. That had to count for something.

He must have looked like shit because when he joined you in the kitchen, you eyed him up and down curiously.

"Have you been up for a while?"

He shook his head and picked up his mug, taking a sip and hoping the caffeine would bring him back to life.

"How's your head?" he asked.

"Not great," you admitted, pouring your own cup of coffee. "It really hurts. I think whatever meds the doctor gave me yesterday wore off."

Without even thinking, Joel quickly closed the distance between you to examine your injury. You startled a bit when he came up behind you and lifted your hair, but for his benefit, you tamped down your reaction. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he gripped the nape of your neck to angle your head downwards in order to get a better look. You closed your eyes and held your breath as you focused on his fingertips pressing tenderly into your skin. You heard him murmur to himself, the sound coming from deep within his chest, and you realized just how close he really was. Aside from pulling you out of the way so the kids playing tag wouldn't knock you down, it was the first time he had really touched you, and he was so much softer than you expected.

"Don't think it's infected but let's go see the doc, just to be sure," he said, his hand still on your neck, his other hand pushing your hair away.

"Okay," you said quietly, finally allowing yourself to take in a shaky breath as you waited for him to release you.

As if he realized what he was doing, he let your hair fall back into place and let go of your neck, his fingertips lightly trailing down your spine before falling to his side, making you shiver and step away.

"Sorry," he said. "Should've asked to look first."

"It's fine," you told him, absentmindedly rubbing the spot on your neck his fingers just touched.

As you walked side by side to the infirmary, his stony expression slid back into place. Gone was the softness you witnessed in his home. His hardened gaze drifted around the street, then to the watch towers, taking everything in. Studying. Calculating. And that was when you realized there were two Joel Millers: the one who the rest of the town viewed as gruff and callous, and the one you saw in the kitchen that morning, soft and gentle.

You wondered how many people got to see the latter version.

Nick examined you again in the same room as before, but this time, Joel was there watching his every move like a hawk. You could practically see the tension radiating off Nick's shoulders as he moved around the room. He examined your cut carefully, Joel's eyes never once leaving his hands, confirming that it was not infected before parceling out ten little white tablets of extra strength Tylenol into a small baggie and advising you to use them sparingly as inventory was low.

"That's it?" Joel asked incredulously.

"You know how it is, Joel," Nick said, but you heard his voice waver when Joel stood up from his chair. "Meds are hard to come by, we gotta be smart-"

"She hit her goddamn head so fuckin' hard she's lucky she remembers her own name and you're givin' her Tylenol?" he seethed, and you could see his neck growing flush with anger again.

"Joel, calm down, it's fine," you said, sliding off the table. Turning to Nick, you were about to voice your thanks when Joel cut you off.

"It ain't fine. What's it gotta take to get somethin' that actually works?" he huffed, taking a step forward and making Nick shift his weight nervously. "She gotta be missin' an arm? Maybe if she hit her head hard enough to forget what fuckin' planet she's on?"

"Joel, that's enough!" you snapped with a frown, and much to Nick's relief, Joel instantly backed off. He turned and paced around the small room, his hand rubbing over his mouth as he tried to calm down.

"What about my memory? Is it a bad sign I haven't remembered anything yet?" you asked Nick, and Joel paused somewhere behind you to listen to his answer.

"Well, the brain is a tricky thing," he began, his eyes darting over your shoulder briefly. "It could be weeks, could be months. Without any imaging, I wouldn't be able to tell you much more than that." You nodded and swallowed nervously before asking your next question.

"Or never, right?"

Nick took a deep breath and looked at Joel over your shoulder again before responding.

"It's possible."

You heard Joel's boots squeak against the linoleum floor and without even looking, you knew he was anxiously pacing around again.

"Alright, thank you. We'll get out of your hair now," you said, turning to corral Joel towards the door.

"Regardless, I'd like to see you again in a few days so I can take a look at those stitches," Nick said, and you agreed while pushing a muttering Joel back out into the hallway.

"I'll get you better meds," he said as you both walked out of the infirmary. "I got patrol tomorrow mornin', but I can go out after. There's a small cluster of houses we never did a full sweep on. Maybe-"

"The Tylenol is fine, don't go through the trouble. You could get hurt," you said, shoving the baggie of pills into your pocket.

"Tylenol ain't gonna do shit. I don't want you bein' in pain if there's somethin' we can do about it."

You sighed and rubbed the back of your neck, trying to temporarily relieve the ache in your head until you could get home and take one of the pills. You gave Joel a sideways glance, studying him as you walked together. He was brash and rude and aggressive, but you were learning that side of him came out when he was being protective over the ones he loved.

Or when he was trying to hide who he really was.

"So, everyone pitches in around here, right?" you asked, trying to change the subject. "You do patrol. What do I do?"

You paused at a crossroads, trying to remember which way to go, when Joel's hand on your elbow guided you in the right direction.

"You work patrol, too, but you ain't doin' that anymore," he said, letting go of your elbow after holding on for a moment too long.

"Well, obviously. I don't even know how to ride a horse," you said with a snort. "So I guess I need to find a new job, right? Who do I talk to?"

"Why don't you slow down a minute?" Joel said with a chuckle. "Let that pretty little head of yours heal up before you go lookin' for work."

You weren't going to say anything about his comment. Although it took you off guard, you realized he had habits that were going to be hard to ignore and you didn't expect that to happen overnight, but he seemed to realize what he said on his own and awkwardly cleared his throat.

"Sorry," he said softly.

"It's okay. I know this is difficult for you," you said, shooting him a sympathetic glance as you climbed his porch steps. He swung open the door and followed you inside, where you made a beeline for a glass of water so you could take one of the pills.

"We got a lotta history, you and me. It's hard to start over," he said as he watched you toss back the Tylenol with a wince. You examined his face closely and pulled out one of the stools to sit down. You leaned forward, forearms resting on the cool countertop before replying.

"Tell me a story."

He raised an eyebrow at you but couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from turning up a bit.

"What kinda story?"

"A story about us. You just said we have a lot of history together. Let's hear some of it," you replied with an encouraging smile.

"You sure? Thought you'd wanna go lay down," he said, but he eagerly pulled up a stool across from you.

"I think I can handle one little story," you told him, then watched as he stared down at his hands on top of the counter, deep in thought. When he thought of one, a slow smile spread across his face and his dark brown eyes flicked up to meet yours and you saw that softer side of him again.

"Alright," he said, settling back a bit. "So I told'ya last night how we met."

You cringed, remembering the story of a much bolder and seductive version of yourself, and nodded.

"Well, after that night we started seein' each other for a few weeks. It was just casual, nothin' serious," he said, looking down at his hands again. "I convinced you to sneak around so no one would catch on, and you grew tired of that. Rightfully so. I was bein' an asshole."

You watched him pull at a loose thread on the cuff of his flannel shirt, his eyes still cast down and you were beginning to realize it was due to shame.

"So anyway. One day you came over to, y'know..." he said, and you felt the heat in your cheeks again. "And you confronted me about it head on. Demanded to know why I wanted to keep you a secret. Thought I was ashamed of you - which I wasn't," he said quickly, his eyes finally meeting yours again. "But I had been through a lot of shit and I just didn't think I could give myself to someone like that again."

"What kind of shit?" you asked quietly, but he just lightly shook his head.

"One story at a time," he told you with a sad smile. You chewed on your lower lip as you waited for him to continue, his focus back on the loose string while he collected his thoughts.

"So I explained I had a hard time lettin' people in, that I wasn't capable of carin' 'bout anyone like that anymore, and you said to me, 'I know who you are, Joel Miller. Don't give me that bullshit, you're just scared.'"

He stared into your eyes, letting what he said land and hoping to see a flicker of the woman who spoke those words, but you just continued to look at him, waiting for him to finish the story like it was about somebody else entirely.

"Well, you were right, obviously. You always are," he continued with a smirk. "It knocked me on my ass. And I didn't know what was more difficult to believe: that you knew me better than I knew myself, or someone like you wanted anythin' to do with me in the first place."

You smiled and dropped your gaze to the counter, suddenly feeling shy.

"I'm not saying I don't believe you, but so far, these stories don't sound like me at all," you admitted.

He took a deep breath and finally stopped fidgeting with his sleeve.

"A lot's happened in ten years. Stuff that changes people. But I don't care what version of you's here, I love all of you."

You kept your eyes glued to his hands. You wished you could say it back. You knew he wanted to hear it. Maybe one day.

He tapped his finger on the counter, pulling your attention up so you were forced to look him in the eye.

"You fought for me that night, now I'm gonna fight for you, okay?" he said, eyebrows raised as he waited for you to acknowledge him. When you nodded sheepishly, his shoulders relaxed.

"So you're saying I fell in love with you because you were an asshole?" you joked, trying to lighten the mood, and it worked. Joel laughed heartily and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Nah, you didn't love me then," he said, still smiling.

"So how did I fall in love with you?" you asked, and his tongue clicked against his teeth.

"You're gonna have to wait to find out," he replied with a wink.

It wasn't his fault, but the rest of the day you could feel Joel looking at you. He was examining you, waiting to see the woman he fell in love with, and the pressure was beginning to be too much, so you made up an excuse to go lay down in his bedroom. He had mentioned he had patrol in the morning. Maybe some time away from him would help you relax.

You stared up at the white ceiling. The distant sound of children laughing outside through the closed window and then the door to the garage swinging open and shut acted as a soundtrack to your overactive thoughts. You almost had to laugh. It felt like your mind was constantly working, churning up information and digesting it only to always come up empty.

Absolutely nothing seemed familiar. Nothing about this place or these people felt like home.

You wished so badly you could remember something. Anything to make you feel like you belonged there. One little shred of hope was all you were looking for.

And then you remembered the journal.

Sitting up in bed, you tucked your legs underneath you and reached over for the black book. You fingers hesitated for a moment on the cover. It felt like an invasion of privacy, but how could that be when it was your own?

Taking a deep breath, you flipped open the journal and began at the beginning.

Right away, you could tell you wrote the entries. There was no doubt in your mind. Aside from your handwriting, your typical disorganization shone through like a beacon on every page. You occasionally remembered to notate in the margin the date, or your best guess at the date, but more often than not you were left with very little context for each small paragraph you read.

You were disappointed to realize the journal seemed to begin after you had met Joel. A big part of you was very eager to learn more about the person you were before finding Jackson, but it seemed as though you would have to depend on others to tell you stories you hopefully had relayed to them in the past.

The first page looked to be a list of items you had jotted down that didn't make much sense, but maybe when you first found the notebook, you hadn't intended to use it as a journal.

Socks, colored pencils, sunflower seeds, cards.

Flipping the page, you skimmed a short paragraph about a cabin you stumbled upon when on patrol. Again, it was more notes than anything of any substance. A description of approximately where it was in relation to Jackson along with a note to 'mention it at the next town hall meeting'.

Finally something interesting on the next page, you read a short paragraph about someone named Maria having a baby girl, and you frowned when you read the line Joel handled it better than I expected.

Continuing on, you read an entry about Christmas: Joel found me the softest sweater, it almost felt brand new. I really don't know how he managed to find it and I described the house I grew up in to Ellie and she drew it perfectly, I can't believe how talented she is.

One paragraph in particular grabbed your attention. It was about two people, and based on the context, it sounded like you were close friends. For the first time since we got here, I had the same day off as Ben and Lisa. We went fishing together and brought a lunch. It felt just like old times. As weird as it sounds, sometimes I miss being out there with them. We made a good team.

Maybe this Ben and Lisa would be able to answer some questions you had about yourself. Based on what you just read, it sounded like they knew you before Jackson.

There was a lot more to read, but the next page stopped you dead in your tracks. Your heart began to beat faster as you stared at the four words. Just one sentence, no explanation. A shiver slowly trickled down your spine as you sat there, unmoving, as your vision narrowed on the page: Joel lied to me.

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luveline · 1 year

Text

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie.

There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative.

You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little.

He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you.

"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?"

"I said you have good taste."

He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers.

You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of.

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious.

He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years."

"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?"

He blinks at you. "You know the scene."

"It's my scene," you say.

You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life.

"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away."

"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.

"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you."

Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music.

"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case.

Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour.

"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–"

"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart."

—

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"

You panic slightly. "I need a minute."

"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying."

Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya.

Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.

"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses.

"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed.

You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks.

She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks.

She's multi-faceted.

"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to.

"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them."

And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice.

You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.

"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up.

"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now."

"That's dramatic."

Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow.

You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice.

"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick."

She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem.

"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says.

Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke.

"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late."

You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events.

"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion."

You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed.

"Do we know those guys?" you ask.

Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters."

Ananya turns off the TV.

You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone.

Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.

"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"

You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part.

Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance.

She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.

"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?"

"I don't need practice," Morgan says.

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–"

Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks.

Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.

The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold.

—

Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away.

"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches.

Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.

"Shithead."

Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth.

"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks.

"You'll sneak out."

Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly.

But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist.

"You know this is stupid."

Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson."

"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now.

Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say.

"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded."

Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light.

"What are you losers doing?"

"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole."

"You're disgusting," Eddie says.

"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy."

Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image.

He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar.

Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles.

"I can't shower, I'm watching him."

"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot.

Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters

"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space.

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats.

There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside.

"Jame," he protests.

"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?"

"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move."

"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly.

Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?"

"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?"

Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears.

—

So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this.

“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs.

She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.

Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.

“Whose house are we in?” you ask.

“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else.

She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back.

You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her.

I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody.

The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card.

I need to get paid.

The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate.

“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn.

She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose.

You blow it away from her.

“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers.

“The floor’s fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession.

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her.

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.

You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly.

You find you aren’t asking Morgan.

In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty.

"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart."

Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun.

He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from.

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?"

"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?"

His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.

"You look familiar," he says.

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?"

He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you.

Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame.

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly.

You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot.

You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain?

You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here.

He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.

You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe.

The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in.

He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone.

You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection.

Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks

The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance.

Joan, you could hit him.

"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"

Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at.

"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…"

"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that."

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?"

"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?"

"No, that one passed me by."

"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand.

You take it. You tell him your name.

—

Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets.

"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks.

The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so.

You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation.

If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it.

"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.

You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here."

"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics.

It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever.

But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it.

Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room.

"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up.

Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home."

"Why's she so upset?" you ask.

Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing.

"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably.

You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing.

You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it.

If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough.

They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go.

They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me.

The subtext isn't important.

You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions.

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone.

"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing.

You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target.

"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks.

Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you.

"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?"

You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day.

"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me."

You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night.

"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things.

She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short.

"This tastes awful."

You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie.

You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable.

Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue.

"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin."

You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?"

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist."

"The loud one."

"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him."

"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible."

"Can you get me something from the minibar?"

You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems.

"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse."

"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine.

She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing.

An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones.

"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles.

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got."

The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes.

There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight.

After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume.

A familiar scent pricks your attention.

You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown.

He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way.

He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters.

It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time.

"Have we met before?" you ask.

He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle.

Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick.

Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?"

"You look exactly the same," you say.

It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.

This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you.

You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment.

The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front.

"You'll catch flies."

You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend.

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek.

"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror.

His lightness fades. "Nice."

"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it."

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually.

You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow.

"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh.

Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily.

He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments.

Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise.

Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet.

After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go.

He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch.

"Can I help you?" he whispers.

You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you.

"Fucking move," she says.

His expression flickers.

"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy.

You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.

—

Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle.

You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day.

Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh.

"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs.

Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good.

"She's hot," he furthers.

"Jesus, Gareth."

"What? She's fucking hot."

He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time.

The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything.

The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin.

He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot.

"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?"

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser."

"I was just asking."

You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about.

He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline.

You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.

"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?"

"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange.

Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given."

"I did."

"And only that."

Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds.

"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that."

Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise.

You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.

Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.

Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green.

He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you.

Fuck it, he thinks.

What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder.

Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.

You appear and blitz past him.

"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"

You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory.

Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure.

"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired.

He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers.

He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks."

"Yeah."

He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice.

"She's a piece of work."

You shift uneasily.

"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.

"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart."

He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?"

You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that.

It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks.

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?"

He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog."

"Fuck you, I do not."

He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue.

"What would you know?" you ask.

"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit."

Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve.

"I must like it," you quote, strained.

"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?"

He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too.

"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options."

That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk.

"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out.

"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start."

He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it.

"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift."

"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.

"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."

"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.

The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe.

He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you.

"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen."

Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast.

"You don't know anything," you murmur.

"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."

Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else.

He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.

"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel.

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all."

"They're hardly desperate."

"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares."

Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now.

"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile.

"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads.

He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless.

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?"

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?"

"It doesn't."

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him.

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone."

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up.

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath.

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon."

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column.

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows:

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see?

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror.

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off?

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad.

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him.

"And Cindy."

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously."

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs."

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks.

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave."

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks.

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up.

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet.

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks.

"Because she was jealous of my success."

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out."

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands.

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy.

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious.

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue.

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right?

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and—

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely.

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself.

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room.

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it.

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch.

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly.

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face.

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted.

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end.

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes.

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly.

"Sorry."

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?"

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID."

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips.

"You're American?" the cashier asks.

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say.

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card.

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie.

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together."

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now."

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that.

"I thought you didn't know who I was?"

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said."

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till.

"What were you really gonna say?"

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean."

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown.

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway.

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm so serious," he says.

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it.

"You're hot when you're mad."

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same."

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?"

"I thought that too," you say.

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice."

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter.

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival."

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor.

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention.

"Seriously, come on."

"No."

"No?" he asks.

"No. I don't have to listen to you."

"You're being stupid."

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care."

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?"

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?"

"Tormenting me."

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other."

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–"

"You started it."

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his.

"Don't touch me," you say quietly.

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea."

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car."

You're infuriating.

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…"

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd."

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that."

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people.

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt.

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his.

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl.

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him.

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats.

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has.

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second.

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson.

You don't do that.

You wave.

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat.

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do.

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face.

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left.

A wooden board creaks.

You look up.

"Hey, you–"

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat.

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view.

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest.

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You want to mess with me, is that it?"

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart.

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson."

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation.

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft.

You lift your chin.

I dare you.

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in.

"Are you going to–"

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours.

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you.

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away.

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much.

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth.

"Don't play games," he says.

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist.

"You like games," you argue.

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once.

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt.

"Stay still."

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own.

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?"

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it.

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan.

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks.

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding.

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice."

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again.

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart."

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance.

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game.

You'll have to be better.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

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