Eddie had complained through the entire drive.

Not in a half-hearted way, either but full commitment with windows-down, arm-flailing, voice-cracking kind of bitching. He’d made dramatic vows about how he was being betrayed by his own friends, how Hawkins clearly no longer respected the sanctity of guitar distortion and righteous noise, how if he heard a single goddamn tambourine he might actually perish on the spot.

Steve had told him to shut up, Robin had laughed at him and Nancy had said, very calmly, that he didn’t have to stay if he hated it so much which, obviously, only made him stay out of spite.

The venue was small; intimate, with ow ceiling, warm lights, the kind of place that smelled faintly like incense and old wood and something sweet he couldn’t place. Eddie lingered near the back with his arms crossed, battle vest hanging open, already mentally composing insults for later. Folk-adjacent, they’d said, ethereal.

And then the lights dimmed.

The first sound wasn’t a guitar screaming or a drum pounding—it was soft, almost reverent. A voice rose into the room like a held breath finally let go, clear and aching and full. Not polished in a pop-radio way, not showy. It curled around the crowd, threaded through them, settled somewhere deep in Eddie’s chest before he could stop it.

He forgot, briefly, how to breathe.

The music built slowly, layers stacking like a spell being cast; strings humming, rhythm steady and heartbeat-warm, lyrics that felt like they were being confided rather than performed. Eddie found his arms dropping to his sides without permission. His weight shifted forward and someone brushed past him and he barely noticed.

All he could see was you, bathed in soft light, entirely yourself, like this was the most natural thing in the world, standing there and pulling a roomful of strangers into something intimate and strange and beautiful. He hated how much he loved it.

Hated the way the melody sank into him, the way it reminded him that music didn’t have to be loud to be devastating. That distortion wasn’t the only way to bare your teeth at the universe. When the song ended, the applause felt distant, like he was underwater. Eddie blinked, stunned, like he’d just woken up from a dream he hadn’t known he was having.

The set ended too soon, the lights came back up and people began to talk, to move, to exist normally again but Eddie did not.

He hovered near the edge of the room, fingers worrying at a loose thread on his vest, heart still doing something stupid and fast. He watched you step offstage, smiling at someone who congratulated you, accepting praise like it wasn’t a revelation. The urge to leave warred violently with something louder—something that demanded he say something, even if it killed him.

Eventually, momentum won.He crossed the room, boots heavy against the floor, suddenly acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look: metalhead relic stumbling into a space that felt far too gentle for him. He stopped a few feet away, cleared his throat, then froze, a crooked grin breaking through despite himself.

“I'm not used to say that but... this was music,” Eddie admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was really good. You were really good up there.”