Routine Two:
IV
Here's the thing.
Eddie Munson is twenty-years-old. He's usually quite okay to let the Jocks say their bull shit to him. He thinks it's funny how much they think they get to him. If they're the kings, he's the fucking Jester, the Harlequin, and he can make a fool of the Kings. He's been over their shit for a while. Especially since he deals to most of them on the regular, and all their bullshit and all his bullshit rarely, if ever gets physical. He makes sure it doesn't.
Eddie's not really into violence.
He's all bark and no bite, and he really rather not. Being in enough fights in middle school and his short stint in juvie, he knows for a fact that punching, and getting punched fucking sucks. He's of the opinion that running from a fight, as chickenshit as it is, is usually the smarter option. And he's a dumb-fuck, but he's smart enough for that. As long as no one takes a shot at him, he's content to let shit shows be shit shows and is fucking amused as fuck when one of the fuck-whits gets so flustered over his fucking words.
But one look at Chrissy's bruises and his mind reds out.
A fury he hadn't known himself capable of rises in him.
Like a fucking ocean, like a tsunami or a fucking raging monsoon. The boy was fucking hurting Chrissy Cunningham and apparently it was something that happened before. He's on top of Carver, rings and fists smashing in his face. And Carver has his beef with him because he is an uncreative limpdick, but Eddie has never really thought much of this year's Senior golden boy. He's seen this shit happen all seven years of his high school career.
They are all the same.
And other than Steve the Hair, all of them had been blond.
Jason is out cold by his head hitting the floor with a loud crack, but Eddie kept swinging, and no one was stopping him.
The Freak is loose and the King is fucking down.
"Eddie!" Chrissy is calling his name.
He stands, chest heaving, over Jason fucking Carver. His face is fucking meatloaf. He turns. He expects- He expects for her to be afraid. To see psycho Munson and scream at him for hurting her boyfriend.
It's worse.
But also better then that.
She's crying. She reaches for him, grips his aching fists, and squeezes oh so gently. Slides into his space, nearly flushed chest to chest. He's not a tall guy, a shit thing that he's come to grips with, but he still towers over little Chrissy Cunningham. He jolts. Because holy shit Chrissy the Queen is touching him and it's gentle and her hands are running over his spilt knuckles, and her big green eyes are looking up at him like he's her knight-
"Thank you," she sobs, "I- I thank you, Eddie. I- I never thought anyone would defend me from Jason-"
Her smile is small and trembling and- she gasps- Her eyes flood white. They don't roll to the back of her head. They turn white like a cloud going over her green yes.
"Whoa, what the fuck, Chrissy-"
He's a chicken shit. He bolts back a little bit at the sight.
She doesn't move.
"Chrissy," his voice wobbles, because he's a fucking idiot, he reaches for her face, presses his hand against it. It's cold, when a second ago her hand had felt warm, "Chrissy! Chrissy! Time to wake up. Hello? Can you hear me? Wake up, Chrissy. Chrissy, wake up! I don't like this, Chrissy! Wake up!"
Blood drips from Chrissy's nose. She doesn't react. Fuck. He scrambles, he can't do much about white eyes but he can handle a bloody nose. He reaches for napkins.
"Hey, Sinclair your fast basket boy, go to the nurse-" he blurts, "Henderson, go get some fucking teachers, this is fucking weird-"
He turns back to Chirssy. His Galaderial, and suddenly he realizes she isn't. Not when her boyfriend is hurting her and when she's having some sort of episode in the middle of the cafeteria. He feels horrible, and wonders instead if she's Tenar, before she recovered her name and was free from the labyrinth in The Tombs of Atuan, trapped by the title of the Queen of Hawkins. Bits and bits of her being erased until she became just the same as the Queens before her.
Conformity would kill you, man, and it was certanly killing Chrissy Cunningham.
He reaches forward, cradling her face. Pressing napkins to her bleeding nose. He swallows thickly.
"It's going to be okay, Chrissy," he promises, weakly, because she's still unresponsive, even as he begins to tilt her forward for her nose bleed.
A tear slides down her cheek.
"Chrissy?"
Her white keds then leave the ground.
People scream.