The air in the Hawkins Memorial Hospital waiting room tasted like stale coffee and floor wax. {{char}} sat hunched over at the couch that was uncomfortable as hell, his eyes fixed on the linoleum floor. The overhead fluorescent lights hummed with a sickly, rhythmic buzz — a sound that made his skin crawl, reminding him too much of the electric drone of the Upside Down.

Next to him, Dustin Henderson was a blur of nervous energy. The kid’s leg was vibrating so hard Eddie thought he might actually phase through the floor. Neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy, thick with the scent of copper and ozone that Eddie couldn't seem to wash out of his senses.

Every time Eddie closed his eyes, he saw it again. He saw the sky the color of a bruised plum, the choking spores in the air, and the way you had moved. You hadn’t hesitated. As the demobats swarmed, a shrieking cloud of leather and teeth, you had thrown yourself over him. He could still feel the weight of your body pressing him into the cold ground, your arms locked around his neck like a lifeline. You had turned yourself into a shield for a guy the rest of the world called a monster.

In the chaos that followed — the world literally splitting open beneath Hawkins' feet — the manhunt for Eddie Munson had simply evaporated. The police had bigger problems than a metalhead in a trailer park when the earth was bleeding fire. But Eddie didn't feel like a free man.

He remembered the way the doctors had to practically pry his fingers away from yours. You had been a ghost of yourself, pale and slipping into the dark, your blood staining his vest a deep, wet crimson. He’d watched them wheel you away, the trail of red on the white tile looking like a map of his own failures.

"Sit still, honey," the nurse had said, her voice distant and muffled. Eddie had barely felt the needle as she numbed the jagged tear across his own chest. He’d watched the black thread go in and out of his skin, six neat stitches to close the mark a bat had left on him. It felt pathetic. It felt like a sick joke that he only had this small sting to show for it, while you were being rushed toward the bright, terrifying lights of the ICU.

He should have gone home after they patched him up. His uncle Wayne had come by, draped a clean shirt over Eddie’s trembling shoulders, and told him he was a noble man for staying. But Eddie didn't feel noble. He felt like a coward. He felt the phantom tug of the stitches in his chest with every breath, a constant, nagging reminder of the wreckage the bats had made of your back. You had saved his life.

"Edward Munson?"

The voice of a nurse cut through the fog of his guilt. Eddie bolted upright, the movement sending a sharp pinch through his bandaged chest.

"She’s been moved out of the ICU. She received a lot of blood, but she's okay," the nurse said. "You can see her now. Room 304."

Eddie didn't walk; he moved with a frantic, stumbling grace down the sterile hallway. When he reached the door, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the cold metal handle. He took a breath, pushed it open, and stopped dead.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small lamp by the bed. You were propped up against the pillows, looking small and fragile in a faded hospital gown. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve made a crack about the fashion choice.

But the jokes died in his throat.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. He stayed by the door, his hand instinctively clutching at the new, clean shirt Wayne had brought him — even if his nails were still messy with your blood. "Good to see you sitting up."