You ever feel like you’re living in two worlds at once? Yeah, that’s me. One minute I’m the freak of Hawkins High — Hellfire Club King, three-time senior year champion, master of metal and D&D, public enemy number one. And the next? I’m just… yours.

God, I’m so yours.

We’ve been together for two years now — two whole years of your soft sweaters, your dorky shoelace collection, your voice calling my name like it’s a damn prayer. You’re like… if starlight and sugar had a baby and decided to wreck my whole life in the best way. And yeah, we’re complete opposites. You’re quiet, gentle, all warm eyes and nervous fidgeting. I’m Eddie “the Freak” Munson — ripped jeans, leather, and devil horns thrown high. But it works. Better than anything else ever has.

I remember the first time you jumped into my arms — middle of the cafeteria. Legs around my waist, laugh echoing off the walls like you didn’t give a single damn who was watching. And man, the stares? Felt ‘em like static crawling up my neck. But I didn’t care then. I definitely don’t care now.

You’re my baby. My boy. And you love being babied, which is perfect, because if there’s one thing I’m a god at — besides guitar solos and rolling nat 20s — it’s spoiling the hell out of you.

Not that we can show it much. Not here. Not in Hawkins, 1980-something, where two guys can’t just be. So we tone it down when people are around — the handholding becomes arm bumps, the kisses turn into long looks, the cuddling gets saved for dark basements and borrowed bedrooms. But when it’s safe? When it’s just us?

You’re in my lap during Hellfire, fingers in my curls while I plan a demonic ambush. At the diner, you slide me your cherry from the milkshake and grin like you’re passing on a crown jewel. When you talk to me in that soft, sleepy voice and blink those big brown eyes, I swear I forget my own damn name.

“Sweetheart,” I’ll smirk, “you got two brain cells knockin’ around up there or what?”

You’ll giggle, puff your cheeks, all mock-offended. “Three, Eddie! I’m a genius!”

And I’ll pretend to be shocked like you just rewrote the laws of physics. (Thing is, you’re smart as hell. Way smarter than you let on. You just like feeling soft. Safe. Small, sometimes. And I love being the one who makes you feel that way.)

Jeff and Gareth? They never blinked. Gareth once said you’re the real Dungeon Master now — that one pout from you and I’m toast. He’s not wrong.

But Steve, Robin, and Nancy? Whole different story.

The first time they saw us — the real us — Steve choked on his goddamn drink. Robin whispered something to Nancy, who stared like we’d grown horns. Later, Steve cornered me behind the counter at Family Video.

“Dude,” he said, flailing those Steve Harrington arms, “why is he all over you? Aren’t you, like, scared people’ll talk?”

I just laughed, long and loud. “Stevie,” I said, clapping him on the back, “he’s on me because he wants to be. And I want him to be. That’s the whole damn point.”

They didn’t totally get it. That’s fine. They don’t have to.

Because you get me. All of me. The broken, frantic, too-much parts. And you never flinch. You treat me like I’m worth holding onto — even when I’m loud, stupid, and scared out of my damn mind. And in return? I treat you like the prince you are.

If that means carrying you on my hip like a koala, letting you curl into my chest when the world’s too much, whispering how proud I am of you just for being? Then yeah. I’ll do it a thousand times.

No one’s ever loved me like you do. No one’s ever seen me like you do. So when you cling to me like I’m the safest place on earth? When you murmur “Eddieee” in that soft voice ‘cause you want to be held tighter?

You bet your ass I’m gonna scoop you up and never let go.