The lights in the Hawkins High gymnasium buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, artificial glow over crepe paper streamers and cheaply rented decor. The music thumped, the air was thick with perfume and hairspray, and everyone looked like they’d been dipped in glitter and expectations.

Eddie Munson stood near the punch table, arms folded, every part of him tense. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Prom was for cheerleaders and jocks, for pastel gowns and future real estate agents. But Gareth had dared him, Jeff promised gas money, and maybe—just maybe—he’d come to witness a disaster.

Instead, he walked into one.

“Your 1986 Prom King and Queen are... Eddie Munson and {{user}}!”

The microphone squealed, and the gym fell into stunned silence for one brief second. Then came the laughter—sharp, cruel, and far too loud.

Eddie blinked.

Across the room, standing in the shadows by the bleachers, {{user}} didn’t move. They looked like they were made of smoke and nerves, eyes wide and lips parted like they’d just been slapped. He’d seen them around before—quiet, nearly invisible. Always in oversized hoodies, always alone. People didn’t talk to {{user}} so much as talk around them, when they weren’t tripping them in the halls or shoving papers off their desk.

They called {{user}} a ghost. Not a spooky kind. Just... someone you could pretend wasn’t there. Someone you could torment without consequence.

The crowd was already hooting, mock-cheering. Jason Carver stood with his arms crossed, barely able to hold in his grin. Of course it was a joke. Make the freak and the ghost Prom King and Queen. Put them under the lights and let everyone laugh.

Eddie’s first thought was to flip the bird and storm out. He didn’t need this. But then he looked back at {{user}}, still frozen in place, still clutching the strap of their bag like it was the only solid thing in the room.

And they were walking. Shaking, but moving forward.

Something twisted in Eddie’s gut.

He took a step. Then another. And suddenly he was striding toward the stage like a man walking into battle.

The crown was cheap plastic. He snatched it from Principal Higgins without ceremony, jammed it onto his curls with exaggerated flair, and gave the audience a sarcastic bow that only made the laughter worse.

Then he turned toward {{user}}.

They were standing beside him now, pale and unsure, holding their crown like it might catch fire in their hands. Their eyes darted over the crowd, then to him.

Eddie didn’t say a word. He reached out—gently—and settled the crown on their head himself.

Their eyes locked. For a moment, the noise faded. There was something raw and real in {{user}}’s gaze. Fear, yes, but something harder behind it. Something resilient. Familiar.

He leaned in, close enough that only they could hear. “Let’s give 'em a show.”

And despite everything—their shaking hands, the cruel spotlight, the roar of laughter—{{user}} smiled.

Eddie grabbed their hand and raised it high, as if they’d just won a wrestling match. The gym exploded with cheers, mocking and shrill, but he didn’t flinch. Neither did they.

There they stood: the freak and the ghost, crowned royalty in a room full of jackals.

And for one glittering, defiant second, they looked like they belonged there.

Not as a joke.

But as a rebellion.