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It’s nice, actually, this short period during the second break where Eden can just slip out of the school, sit on the curb there behind it and smoke her cigarettes. Makes it easier to cope with all of the stress—and God knows she can’t afford to smoke at home, not really.
Well, she can also slip away there—so many children will lead to her parents losing track of them—but she’s on babysitting duty a lot of the time, so. And if any of her siblings told her parents she’s been smoking… well.
Anyway, that’s exactly why being here is nice, despite the chill of the asphalt under her ass. Despite the other students milling around, smoking. It’s less than usual, though. It’s getting cold in Hawkins, and weak people will stay inside.
Eden is not weak. But, as she watches Jason Carver approach her, she thinks she’s also not very strong.
Tastes bitter on her tongue, like the smoke and the cold autumn air.
This is one of the less nice parts of hanging out here. There’s something steely in Jason’s eyes, there always is, but his blond hair is combed meticulously, and he’s dressed in a white polo and khakis.
He stops in front of her. Doesn’t sit down, doesn’t settle—perhaps he likes being so far above her, with her sitting on the ground, her knees raised to her chest. Shifting, he eyes her cigarette dubiously. Eden rolls her eyes—it’s not weed. Then again, it’s not like he has any moral high ground in such regards, she’s seen him during parties.
(Next to pretentious and hypocrite in the dictionary are pictures of Jason Carver in the flesh. Eden grits her teeth when the thought that she’d probably run her fingers over the page if that was true zaps through her head unbidden.)
“You like me,” he says, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Eden doesn’t even blink. No, she’s used to this—Jason is always like this, just storming up to her and saying the most ridiculous things in the world. She has no idea why he won’t just leave her alone.
This particular thing is a continuation of their last conversation. As usual, it ended in screaming and her slapping him across the face. When she looks really hard, she thinks she can still see her red handprint on his cheek. Makes her shiver, for some reason, but that might just be the autumn winds.
Eden flicks a bit of ash off her cigarette. “Not really, no,” she says. Lies, maybe. Who the fuck knows at this point?
(She swallows at the curse. Even now it is hard to be free—and maybe that’s part of why she can’t leave him alone. Religious guilt and the resident youth pastor altar boy. What a combo.)
Jason tenses his jaw. Just for a split second, but she notices anyway, and it makes something inside of her twitch.
He still doesn’t settle down. Just stands in front of her, hands shoved into his pockets, and she wonders if he’s not cold. Where his stupid varsity jacket is.
He lent it to her one time. Maybe in some ridiculous attempt at gallantry—and when Eden was home, she stared at it for hours, contemplating burning it or putting it on and smoking a shit ton of weed so it’ll smell like it or put it outside in the mud and run her father’s car over it. In the end, she’s done none of those things.
He doesn’t try lending it to her now. Doesn’t have it to lend in the first place. Maybe some other girl has it today. He’s not her boyfriend, after all, even when he likes to pretend he is. Likes to get pissy when she talks to other guys, likes to—
Finally, Jason kicks at the tip of her heavy black shoe. Not particularly hard, but enough to make her glare at him. Eden thinks he probably gets a kick out of it. Probably gets a kick out of all of this.
(Just like she does.)
“Your parents like me,” he says, then, as if that’s some kind of argument, and she snorts, takes another drag of her cigarette.
“Yeah,” she says bitterly, smoke spilling out of her mouth. Jason’s tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth for a heartbeat. “Another reason for me to not like you.”
And it’s true, really—Jason Carver is perhaps the only boy in all of Hawkins that her parents would tolerate her dating. He’s not mormon, but he’s a church boy through and through, recites bible passages from memory, volunteers at the church and is an all around upstanding member of society.
He also might just be Hawkins’ biggest asshole. He lifts his chin. Doesn’t kick at her shoe again, yet she still feels the impact. “And yet you still like me.”
Part of Eden wants to laugh. Part of her wants to say you’re the one who likes me, but she knows he’d just slip away then. Draw back, sneer at her, shut down, turn around and walk away.
And that’s the stupidest part of it all, isn’t it? She doesn’t want him to walk away.
Not that she’d ever tell him that.
“If that helps you sleep at night,” she settles on, shifting her gaze away from him. Ready to just start ignoring him—what else is there to talk about, anyway? She’ll just end up hitting him again and he’ll call her a nasty bitch and satan spawn or some bullshit like that and then he’ll be back again and they’ll start anew.
She wonders when he’ll try to kiss her. Wonders when she’ll let him.
Not today, apparently. No, today Jason Carver bends down, snatches the cigarette out of her hand—making her look up at him, which is probably exactly what he was trying to achieve—before slumping down onto the curb right next to her. He spreads his legs, presses his thigh against hers. Eden clicks her tongue.
“It does, actually,” he says, then, before lifting the cigarette—her cigarette, her goddamn cigarette, and it’s not like she gets enough pocket money to afford getting them—to his mouth and putting it between his lips. Sucking the smoke in his lungs, right where she wants to be. “Makes me know I’m getting through to you.”
That just causes her to roll her eyes. This bullshit again—Jason’s treating her like a charity project. Like he has to save her soul from eternal damnation because with the way she dresses and the music she listens to, she’s asking for it, or some bullshit. As if Jason Carver could save anyone’s soul. The only influence he could have on people is a negative one, she thinks.
“You’re an asshole,” she hisses, before reaching out to grab for her cigarette, but he just lifts his arm, grins at her—and it’s slipping, a little bit, the mask is slipping, there’s an edge to his grin that makes something in Eden flare up—bends his torso away so his hand is out of her reach.
He’s not even that much taller than her. Four inches at most, yet there he is. A breeze rushes through their hair, tousling his so it falls into his forehead, and Eden swallows. Her hand trembles.
Oh, she’s so fucking pissed off. At this point, she doesn’t even care that there’s a few other students milling about, she leans in further, further, before shoving at his shoulder, still batting for his hand, for the cigarette.
Maybe not that good of an idea. It’s burning, after all, but really, Eden finds it hard to care about whether Jason burns his fingers or not.
“Jesus,” he wheezes, losing his balance, then he topples over backwards. The noise his shoulder makes when it hits the ground is a little ugly, but it’s not like she can really think about it much, because she’s falling down, too. Her chin hits his chest, making him wheeze again.
For a moment, it’s just that. For a heartbeat—or two, or three, or four—Eden’s head is on Jason’s chest and he’s lying on the asphalt on his back, her cigarette in his hand.
(Maybe it’s her who’s ruining him. Then again, she thinks he must have always been like that. She’s just bringing it out. Making it harder for him to hide.)
“You’re such a bitch,” Jason says, then, and that shatters the moment. She wants to lift her head, wants to get off him, but he wraps an arm around her shoulders, keeps her there. From the corner of her eye, she can see how he’s taking another drag from the cigarette.
The wind is cold. Jason’s chest is warm. Maybe the fight is leaving her. Maybe she’s just… tired, now, of this stupid game.
“Let go of me,” she mutters lamely, and he laughs again, taking another drag, before tapping the top of her head with his hand, the one with the cigarette perched between two fingers.
“If you say please. Some manners would really do you well.”
Instead of answering, she digs her hand into his side, and he groans in pain, letting go of her with a jerk. Quickly, she sits up. Brushes her hair back down, glances at where he’s lying, half on the curb and half off it, his eyes squeezed shut and his brows furrowed.
He dropped the cigarette. Eden finds it hard to care about that. Part of her wants to look around—glare at the handful of other students now probably gawking at them—but most of her wants to stare at him forever. His adam’s apple bobs, his eyes flutter upen, and his hair is disheveled.
(He looks best like this.)
“Fuck you.”
Eden gasps, pressing her hand to her sternum, widening her eyes as his focus on hers again. “By God!” she says, loud and high and almost smug. “Jason Carver, cursing? This is not God’s will! Be careful, or you’ll burn in hell for all eternity! May the Lord save your soul.”
This time, it’s him who clicks his tongue. With a small noise, something muttered under his breath, Jason gets up, pats down his shirt and brushes a hand through his hair—every inch the righteous church boy again—before reaching out and picking the cigarette up from off the ground.
“At least I won’t be alone,” he bites, as if it’s a threat, and it is, somehow. She pretends not to care—pretends to be strong and with her chin held high, pretends not to care about God and hell, but it’s still lingering in the pit of her stomach somewhere, this fear.
Instead of giving him the satisfaction, she snatches the cigarette from his hand and puts it back between her lips, grin tugging at the corners of her mouth at the look of disgust on Jason’s face. One point for team Bingham, or whatever.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mutters, voice dipping a little lower, always intent on ruining everything. Eden thinks it might be the only thing he’s capable of doing, but hell, they’re not so different in that regard. “Do what you like. You’re not getting rid of me.”
She widens her eyes again, puffs the smoke out and right into his face. Jason doesn’t flinch.
“Ooo,” she says, licking at the butt of the cigarette—where Jason’s mouth just was, but that’s not why she’s doing it, she’s doing it to piss him off—before taking another drag. “What a threat. I’m so scared. Aren’t you supposed to be the knight in shining armor saving me from eternal damnation? Why the dark face, church boy?”
For whatever fucking reason, that makes him laugh. A barky sound, his face lighting up with a glee Eden really doesn’t like.
Not that she likes anything about him.
Jason reaches out and ruffles through her hair, in something that’s almost affectionate. A boyfriend gesture, like when he gives her a ride home or gives her a chocolate bar randomly or lends her his jacket or holds the door open for her. Facade, facade, facade. He doesn’t actually care. Eden thinks everything he does is a performance.
Must be. Must be, must be, must be.
Then he snatches the cigarette again—this time, right out of her mouth, and something about that zaps through her hotly, harshly, making her swallow—throws it on the ground and crushes it with his shoe.
“That one’s dirty,” he says, then, before digging around in one of the pockets of his pants, throwing a cigarette packet at her. She manages to catch it just so. Really, she’s convinced he was aiming at her face. “Here, take these instead.”
And before she can complain—before she can tell him to stop giving her stuff because she knows he doesn’t actually care, alright, she’s one of the few girls at this stupid school that actually see through his bullshit—he stands up again, stretching a little with a groan.
“See you later,” he tells her, with no indication of what the fuck that even means—he’s going to start waiting for her at her front door or something like that at this rate—before fucking off. Eden flips him the bird, even when he doesn’t see it.
The little victories. She knows he will be back. And if not, then she might just be.