Chapter Text
“No, no, no,” you shouted over the din of the music. “Stop. You guys, this sucks.”
The shrieking racket that shook the garage slowly faded, to the relief of the neighbors, presumably. You, however, agitatedly pulled your guitar strap off over your head and leaned it against its rack. Massaging your temples, sighed at your band members in exasperation. Hawkins’ local Battle of the Bands was coming up in a week, and your latest set still sounded like shit.
Since middle school, you had dreams of forming a band. You were serious about making it big time, not just settling for those half-assed bands that guys make to get chicks—a real band, one that played for the music, not for the fame. Despite facing roadblocks at every turn, in which people claimed that girls can’t play rock n’ roll, still, you persisted. But now that there was a chance for you to finally prove yourself to this closed-minded small town, you were crashing and burning. And you refused to let this opportunity slip through your fingers.
“What the hell are we gonna do? We’re running out of time!” you exclaimed, starting to pace around the cramped space.
“Oh, come on, are you kidding? It sounded okay to me,” Joan said sourly, folding her arms across her own guitar.
“Okay isn’t enough. We need to be amazing,” you retorted.
“Well, hold on,” Rhiannon said. She picked gently at the strings of her bass, trying to clear the tension. “It wasn’t terrible, but you’re right. We still need more practice.”
Penny set her drumsticks down and stretched, considering the situation before her. “Yeah,” she admitted. “It doesn’t feel like this rhythm is working for us.”
“Look, we’ve all been at this for a while,” said Stevie, pushing the microphone back into its cuff. “We’re tired and frustrated. Maybe taking a break will help?”
“Sure, yeah,” you said with a sigh. “Hopefully.”
The group promptly dispersed, and you wanted to take a seat, legs aching.
But first, you should probably apologize for being an asshole.
You crept around the side of the house, spotting Joan leaning against the wall.
“Joan?”
“Hm?” Joan grunted, still clearly upset about the situation.
“I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean for it to come off that way. It really isn’t bad, it just… needs some polishing, you know?”
“It’s okay. I get it,” she said, kicking at some gravel with her boot. “I know you want us to be the best, and so do I, but we’re all working really hard, including you. I don’t want you to strain yourself so hard you blow a gasket.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” you responded with a chuckle. “I think we’ll do one more run through, and then I’ll call it. Christ, I’m exhausted.”
“Sounds good to me.” Joan looked up at you, raising her eyebrows in an amused smile. “We’re gonna kill it no matter what. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” you said, returning her smile. “Those guys won’t know what hit ‘em.”
✮✮✮
You yawned into a fist as you tried to focus on the numbers on the board. The rest of last night’s rehearsals hadn’t gone any better, and you hadn’t been able to sleep, worrying over the Battle.
As soon as the bell rang for lunch, you raced to the cafeteria, looking for the fated sheet. You spotted the corkboard and approached it. A set of slanted staples held up the paper that read: COMPETE AT HAWKINS’ BATTLE OF THE BANDS!!! $500 CASH PRIZE. SIGN-UP HERE:
You picked up the pen that lay on the table, scanning the sheet for your competition—and stopped short in disbelief. On the first line, someone had scratched in a half-legible text: CORRODED COFFIN.
That name sounded familiar. A little too familiar. But before you could place it, something pinged off the back of your head. You spun around to look for the culprit, and promptly locked eyes with him.
Ah. So that’s why the name sounded familiar—it belonged to Eddie Munson, the notorious and alleged Satanist who had competed against your band freshman year— and won. You narrowed your eyes at him as he sauntered up to you, giving you a cocky grin.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like someone wants a rematch.”
“Screw off, man,” you muttered, not wanting to cause a scene. You avoided his gaze as you penned your band down on the list.
He glanced at the name you had written, raising an eyebrow. “You guys still have the same band name? Thought you would’ve changed it after that shitshow freshman year.”
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” you snapped, turning to meet his piercing gaze. “We’re gonna crush you this time, so you better watch your back.”
His eyes glittered dangerously, seeming almost delighted that you were as invested in this verbal sparring match as he was. They seemed to take up your entire being, penetrating your aggressive front and bringing your past memories to the surface. Were his lips as soft as you remembered? Did he taste the same, of beer and blackberries and cigarettes?
Wait, what?
You scoffed and shook your head at him, trying to snap out of your reverie as you stalked away irritably.
“Aw, don’t be mad, sweetheart,” he called after you. “It’s all just fun and games!”
✮✮✮
You made your way to the soccer field to meet Robin at your usual lunch spot, seething with rage. Robin poked at her food as you paced around in agitation, trying to make sense of it all.
“I mean, what the hell? This asshole decides to ruin our reputation, disappears for three years, and comes back for round two? This whole situation is just—argh!—so screwed up!”
“Maybe it’s a good thing,” Robin suggested around a mouthful of her sandwich. “If you win, you’ll get your revenge, and maybe even get signed by a label.”
“Yeah, but that’s if we win. He probably knows the judges; maybe they buy pot from him or some bullshit. There’s no way we’ll win when he’s on the board.”
"You buy pot from him,” she pointed out bluntly.
"Not helpful, Robin.”
“Okay, look, forget Munson. You’re gonna win, okay? Trust me. I know these things. And besides, I need you guys to win so Joan will go on that date with me.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the bell rang, the shrill noise drowning out any response you had.
✮✮✮
It was freshman year, and you were picking away at an electric guitar in one of Hawkins High’s band rooms. You were about a month into school, and no one had so much as invited you to sit with them for lunch. Turns out that your dreams of being a rock star didn’t do as much for a girl’s popularity as it did for a guy’s—something about your ‘not being feminine enough’. Whatever that meant.
“You’re holding your pick wrong, you know,” said a voice above you, interrupting your resentful musings.
You looked up to see a dark mop of hair obscuring the cool fluorescent light that glinted off the strings of your guitar. Irritated, you turned your attention back to playing.
“I think I know how to play my own instrument, thank you very much,” you responded dryly, trying to seem uninterested in this strange boy that stood before you.
“But it’s not yours.”
You stopped and looked up at him again, your eyes following him as he took a seat on a stool.
“It says Property of Hawkins High right there on the body.” He grinned, clearly trying to get some kind of reaction from you.
You rolled your eyes. “Quit the smartassery, okay? Yeah, I borrowed it from the band room. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Look, I’m just trying to help. Here, see…” He grabbed the pick you were holding, his fingers just barely touching your hand. Then, positioning himself behind you, he reached around your shoulders, his hands brushing against your skin, and strummed out a chord. You could feel his warm breath on your neck, and you shivered, goosebumps crawling up your skin.
“Now you try,” he said, handing the pick back to you. He showed you how to position your fingers on it, and for a moment his fingers tangled with yours. “Better?”
“...Yeah, actually,” you said after too long of a moment. “Thanks.”
The boy shrugged, all traces of machismo gone. “Sure, anytime. I’m Eddie, by the way. Uh, Munson.”
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” you said, giving him a small smile along with your name.
There was a minute of awkward silence before he scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully and said, “We’re, uh, actually looking for guitarists. For our band.”
You looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“You should come check us out. Maybe audition.”
“Oh,” you said, feeling flattered. “I didn’t know you had a band. Yeah, that sounds cool. I’ll come by.”
His face lit up in delight at your response. “Great! Sure, great. I’ll let you know when we start practice. We’re called Corroded Coffin, by the way.” He raised a hand, making a devil sign. Rock on.
“Cool, cool,” you said, your stomach fluttering with the excitement of a developing crush.
“Maybe I can get your number, give you a call to see when you wanna come by and play for us?”
“Oh, uh, sure. Got a pen?”
“I should.” He rifled through his pockets, and pulled out a pen in victory before handing it to you. “Don’t have paper though... Guess you’ll just have to write it on my hand and hope it doesn’t smudge.” He grinned.
You shook your head in mock exasperation. “Fine. Here, give me your hand, then.” You scrawled your name and number down on the back of his hand, taking a little too much relish in the feeling of his skin against yours. “There.”
The both of you fell silent again. Then, you said, “Well, I should probably let you go and practice, too.”
“Oh, I wasn’t here to actually do anything,” he confessed after a moment. “I just like to come out here to smoke, ‘cause the teachers don’t check around the corner. Care to join me?” He pulled out a joint, waving it toward you as an invitation.
It didn’t take you long to weigh your priorities.
“Sure,” you said, following him out the door, both the guitar and pick forgotten in your wake.
✮✮✮
You drew a red line on the calendar, crossing out yet another day until the Battle. Days until the final showdown: 5.
The band had gathered in a practice room in Hawkins High. Even though the air felt stuffy and stale and the lights above were dull, your bandmates’ eagerness to practice dispersed the atmosphere. As you plunged yourselves into the music, your worries evaporated— you were finally playing good music. It sounded incredible, and you felt like the band had a chance at wowing the judges for sure. But just as you were about to play the chorus for the second time, a spark ran across the fluorescent lights overhead, and the power in the room died, cutting your amps with it.
“You’re kidding,” you groaned through your hands.
A knock at the door caught your attention, and you reached for the knob. Upon opening it, those beady, dark eyes looked into yours once again, and it took everything you had not to slam the door in his face. Instead, you stepped out, allowing for your bandmates to wait inside.
“So sorry to bother you,” Munson said, feigning innocence, “but I think we just blew a breaker in our practice room next door. Was wondering if it kicked yours off, too, but I guess that look on your face answers my question.” He grinned impishly, pushing the door wider with his foot.
“Right, sure,” you answered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And there’s no way that you tampered with the breaker box on purpose to hijack our practice session, either.”
“Absolutely not. Has anyone told you that you’re even hotter when you’re mad?” He tilted his head toward yours in a teasing matter. It was obvious that he was trying to rile you up. You needed to keep your cool.
“What, cat got your tongue?” He reached out to touch your hair, gently caressing your face. It had been so long since you felt his touch that your knees nearly buckled. Suddenly and without reason, you wanted to feel his lips on yours. But you fought the impulse and pushed his hand away as a surge of anger rushed through you.
”Cut the bullshit, you fucking creep. Get out !”
Before he could object, you slammed the door, just narrowly missing his fingers. You scoffed in anger as you leaned against the door, still feeling the heat of embarrassment in your cheeks.
“Okay, show’s over,” you snapped at your bandmates irritably, who had been crowding around the door in an attempt to eavesdrop.
“I can fix up the amp at home,” Joan offered, scrambling to cover up the fact that they were all heavily listening.
“We can just go acoustic for today,” Penny chimed in in an attempt to help.
“Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks, you guys.” You smiled at them apologetically. “From the top again?”
But as soon as you strummed out the first chords, a harsh screech of amplified guitar, drums, and some form of screaming erupted from the other room, completely drowning out your attempts to practice. It wasn’t difficult to guess who the culprits of this cacophony were.
“God DAMN IT!” Your words were muffled as you screamed into your hands in frustration. Dejected, you turned to your bandmates. “I guess we could just practice in the garage again.”