Mama Munson made Eddie’s Halloween costumes from scratch every year. She said it was because it looked cooler, but as he got older, he realized it was because she used scraps and cheap fabrics to make them and that’s all they could afford.
But his costumes were always great. Every year was better than the last.
When he got too old for trick or treating, she used Halloween night to teach him how to sew.
“For that jacket you wanna wear so bad, baby.”
It took a lot of effort, and a little bit of help for the thicker patches, but he managed to finish it in a few weeks.
That year for Christmas, he made her and Wayne battle jackets with their favorite bands and singers.
It became the thing he gave to important people.
Shortly after Vecna, when he was stuck in bed for nearly a month healing, he had his mom run to the store in Indy and start grabbing patches. Wayne found denim jackets from the donation store, surprised anything was left at all with how much people needed right now.
Eddie made all the kids jackets, even Max, who would probably think it was stupid in the same way she thought Lucas holding her hand was stupid (not at all).
He made Robin one, with a hidden rainbow flag patch on the inside pocket.
Nancy got one, even Argyle and Jonathan got one.
Steve didn’t.
Eddie didn’t know how to make it a friendly gesture, how to not make it look like he was screaming from the rooftops that he’d fallen hard for the guy who almost single-handedly saved his life. He was certain that giving him the jacket he made would be the end of the daily visits, the joking around, the fun.
“Baby, you think he don’t know?”
Eddie’s mama was trying not to laugh when he unloaded on her while he stitched the last patch to the front.
“He visits you every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes has to be dragged out by nurses, and ya think he don’t know?”
As usual, she had a point.
So Eddie was brave, gave Steve the jacket the next day when he stopped by.
Steve was silent as he took in every patch and pin, even the section of glitter glue Erica had insisted he add. Eddie played with his bare fingers, wishing now more than ever that he had his rings back.
Finally, Steve looked up, watery smile pointed right at Eddie.
“I love it. And you.”
Mama Munson slapped the back of his head gently later while Steve slept in the chair by his bed.
“I told ya so!” Her whisper was enough to make Steve shift around, his grip on Eddie’s hand tightening momentarily. “May have lost a nipple, but got yourself a boyfriend. That’s the Munson way.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Oh, Wayne never told you about losing his nipple in ‘Nam? Flirted with the medic and blamed it on blood loss, but wouldn’t ya know? The medic was a little light in his loafers, too!”
Eddie rolled his eyes.
“Wayne didn’t lose a nipple. You’re makin’ shit up again.”
“I ain’t never lied to ya! You ask Wayne tomorrow. There’s a reason he don’t ever go shirtless at the lake.”
And sure enough, the next day, Wayne lifted his shirt and showed Eddie where he had nothing but a scar where his nipple should be.
“So what about the medic?”
“Oh! Grant.” Wayne smiled. “We still write to each other sometimes. He’s married, got a few kids.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We wouldn’t have worked anyway. He lives in Maine. Can’t imagine dealin’ with moose.”
Mama Munson just raised her brows from her chair and smirked.
When Steve came by after his shift, he was wearing his jacket and the biggest smile Eddie’s ever seen.
“Anything new?”
“Nothin’ really. Just found out I’ve got a lot more in common with Wayne than I thought.”
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i love graffiti. "comics and jazz are the only american art forms" you forgot graffiti. did you remember graffiti? That art form birthed in Philly and NYC in the early 70s by poor Black kids. that art form that spread all over the world and influenced so many. that's used without irony in commercials when they're trying to appeal to a "young urban" customer.
did you forget graffiti? that racism broken windows theory victim? that reach the establishment takes claiming that it's exclusively violent gang members throwing up those full-color pieces and wildstyle tags in the middle of the night outsmarting fifty security cameras because the billboard was ugly anyway. as if, even if it was, it wouldn't be impressive as all hell. risking brutality and fall damage so your art can occupy the space a gentrified condo named something like "Coluumna" took away from you. proving that despite only assholes affording to live here anymore there's still a soul beneath it. an animal with dripping stripes and teeth that go clack-clack tsssss
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