Robin had gone home an hour ago, but not without taking home a tupperware container of an extra slice of lasagna.

For about the first thirty minutes, Eddie and Willow had taken to lounging in her living room. Eddie had insisted upon it to be respectful of her mother, now that she clearly knew that he'd been sneaking in and out, and he wouldn't let Willow fight him on it. Something about 'having to make a good impression' now.

If only he knew that he already had her mother's praises.

But then the clock struck ten, and like Cinderella, Eddie insisted he had to go home.

"Since when do you care about curfews?" Willow had whined when he moved her legs out of his lap, standing and stretching dramatically.

"Since I met your mom. That's serious business," he teased back.

Willow dropped her voice to a whisper, "What if you spent the night?" He gave her a look of disbelief, but Willow carried on, not caring if she was sounding clingy, "She obviously doesn't care, Eddie, or else she would have said something sooner."

It had only taken a few more minutes of convincing before Eddie had agreed that yes, he would spend the night, but he still needed to swing back by his trailer to get clothes for the next day. They still had school, after all.

Which left Willow in her current position, sitting criss-cross on the floor of her room, digging through her box of mixtapes. She had long since changed into comfortable pajamas after Eddie's departure, and had taken on the task of finding something to listen to when Eddie returned.

She'd tossed a few cassettes to the side, including Fleetwood Mac and Queen, but she had yet to find anything she thought Eddie would also enjoy. She had warned him, to be fair - she wasn't a metalhead like him. Sure, he had caved and listened to quite a bit of her music taste, but she felt bad for not returning the favor.

Maybe I should make a trip to the shops soon, buy something he'd like.

That's when the idea hit her.

She did have something closer to what Eddie might enjoy, buried in the back of her closet, sealed away in a box she'd allowed to gather dust for years. The moment she considered it, she froze.

He probably doesn't even like Blue Oyster Cult. Would it even be worth it?

As it turns out, she didn't really care if it was worth it - her body moved to its own accord as she shuffled to the closet and shifted around until she found the box.

It's large and heavy, and she struggles to tug it out into the open. There's a shoebox on top as well, barely sealed shut with wasted tape, that she places to the side. When they'd first moved, she'd used an entire roll between the two boxes, pretending that if she sealed them shut so vehemently, it would not only keep the memories inside safe from moths and such but her own pain and loss.

The shoebox has her own messy scrawl over a piece of tape placed on the top, PVJ , but the larger cardboard box has its own sharpie label directly on the surface.

Parker's shit.

It wasn't her handwriting, or her mother's, or even her father's.

It was Parker's handwriting.

She'd snatched the box from his room, already having a few of his forgotten items thrown into it, before either of her parents could take it. It wasn't as if her mom or dad were going into that room, though. Not after what happened.

She could remember the afternoon clearly, unfortunately for her. The sound of her parent's current fight echoing the halls as she'd slipped into his room soundlessly, locking the door behind her before she'd turned and faced the room locked in time.

"How the fuck do you think I feel? You think I'm not hurting? Seriously, Anne! You act as if we aren't all- " The door cut off her father's rage as the click of the lock sounded. She could still faintly hear their yells, but now muted.

Her hands shook as she continued to face the white wood, unprepared to turn and face what was waiting for her.

How many times had she found refuge in this room? How many afternoons had been spent lounging in here with her brother, him pretending to be annoyed at her presence but still never telling her to leave as she pilfered through his music and comic collections?

For a moment, she's fooled herself that he'll be waiting for her, sitting on his bed with his favorite Superman comic, legs stretched out and a lazy grin as he'll ask her what the hell she's doing. Maybe he'd have a tape already ready, headphones in hand to help her block out their parent's screaming match.

But when she turned, all she saw was a room gathering dust.

The bed was lazily made, a comforter stretched over the sheets but not tucked in. A binder and a can of coke mingled with more mess strewn across the desk. The chair, his chair, wasn't even pushed back under the desk - it was still pushed out, as if he had just left to go hang out with his friends for the afternoon.

He wasn't out with friends. He was six feet under the ground, too far away for Willow to find solace in his arms now. Somewhere she couldn't reach him, somewhere no one could reach him.

The funeral was two days before. And ever since then, the room had resembled a crime scene while the rest of the house resorted to becoming a battle ground.

Willow hadn't been able to hold back her sob. The moment she took in the empty room, she'd broken down. She'd nearly collapsed under all the misery packed into her twelve year old body as she made her way to his bin of cassette tapes. There were a few vinyls stacked on top, and she fought the urge to fling them against the walls.

She was angry. She was sad. She was guilty. She was mourning.

She was mourning, all alone, unsure of what happened now.

With aching fists, she fell back on the ground, one of the vinyls clutched to her chest. He had just bought it last week. She'd been with him, despite his crankiness, and had tried to barter for him to buy her own copy of the album. She didn't know the band, didn't know a single song on the album, but she'd been desperately clinging onto what connections she could still form with her brother. Her brother who had been deteriorating right before her eyes for months, who had become a stranger in the blink of an eye.

Her brother, who had been alive and here, just last week.

She couldn't breathe as she cried harder at the thought.

Willow doesn't realize the tears are already streaming down her face as she stares lifelessly down at the box until a tear hits the brown cardboard, leaving a dark spot. It springs her into action, nails digging under the old tape sealing the box shut until she gets a good grip and rips it open. She tears into the box of memories as angrily as she had wanted to tear apart his room that day.

She had been angry, so angry, the first month he was gone. She'd made it a ritual to sneak into his room, lock herself away with her misery and sob until her throat was raw and her eyes were painfully dry. Fights between her parents were a nightly occurrence, and she couldn't help but curse her brother's name for the wreckage he'd left behind.

When the anger left, all that had occupied its space was a terrible numbness.

The first item she sees is a sweatshirt folded neatly on top of the items in the box. It was a gym class hoodie from their local high school in her hometown. The bright yellow gives her a headache, and when she yanks it from its prison, all she smells is the dust that had still gathered despite her best efforts with the abundance of tape. It makes more tears fall freely.

Twelve year old Willow hadn't mourned, not really. What she had done, sitting in her brother's room and weeping, wasn't how one should mourn. Mourning should have been in the company of her parents, reminiscing on good times and not just the tragedy that had occurred. It should have been with counselors who helped her work through her trauma and friends who would have held her when the floodgates broke. She hadn't been awarded any of those luxuries - she hadn't believed she deserved any of those luxuries.

With the hoodie removed, Willow's eyes trails over the other items that compiled the contents of the box. A soccer trophy, several mixtapes, polaroid photos of Parker with his primary school friends, the vinyl she'd clutched that first time she'd reentered the room, and more - any memorabilia she'd been capable of snatching without her parents noticing. Her mother had thrown a fit when she caught sight of the box while moving, and Willow had panicked, promising that she would store it away in storage, out of sight and out of mind.

She had lied. During one of the busier days, filled with movers and dull phone calls for her mother, she'd snuck the box into her closet.

And here it was, five years later after the move. Still out of sight and out of mind, technically, but within reach for when Willow needed it. And right now, she needs it.

She doesn't hear the rapping of gentle knuckles on her window at first. She's too preoccupied as she runs a careful finger over her brother's youthful face in one of the photos. But when the knocking grows more insistent, she's freed from her daze.

" Red ?" a familiar voice questions, muffled. When she pulls back her curtains, she finds him standing there, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

She immediately swipes at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hands in a panicky manner, hands shaking as she pries open her window for him.

" Shit , sorry. I hadn't heard you at first, I was-"

"Have you been crying?" He interrupts her with unbridled concern, eyes warm as he grabs onto her window sill with white knuckles and lurches himself into her room.

She steps back and watches him fumble with his lanky body, losing his footing briefly before standing back up straight, towering over her. "Why would you think that?"

Her nose betrays her, sniffling a bit.

"Because your eyes are all pink, your cheeks are wet," he lists off, a thumb coming up to swipe away one of the stray tears she'd missed, " And you're sniffling. What's up, sweetheart?"

"It's nothing."

"It's gotta be something if it made you cry. Was it me? Or-" he cuts himself off in his thinly veiled panic of a ramble as he places his bag on her bed, turning and catching sight of the box still open, some of the contents strewn out onto the floor, "Or... that?" his voice rises in pitch, curiosity getting the best of him, "What's that?"

"God, you really are nosey, Munson," she tries to laugh off tearily, but her words come out strained. Eddie immediately sits himself down on the ground beside where she had been moments before, hands curiously reaching for the hoodie on the ground, "Don't!" she starts to yell, but reminds herself that her mom is in the other room. She's not so much scared of her catching them as she is of her mom seeing her brother's belongings, "Don't... touch that."

She takes a seat beside Eddie, grabbing the hoodie and moving it to her other side, out of his reach. He looks stunned by her outburst but continues to inspect the box. That's when he sees it, the messy scrawl of Parker's name.

"Is this... your brother's stuff?" he's cautious in the question, each word slowly leaving his tongue as his eyes lift to hers. She's quiet, picking at her pajama shorts before nodding stiffly, "Shit, sorry - I won't touch."

He goes to pick himself up off the floor, but she grabs his bicep quickly, holding him in place beside her.

"It's fine. I just... I was looking for some music and remembered I had some of his tapes," she turns to look at him and his face still reads terribly guilty, "Seriously, Eds. I promise I'm not mad."

He nods, no response as he keeps his hands tightly clasped in his lap. She picks through the box until she comes across the tape she'd originally been looking for: Agents of Fortune by Blue Oyster Cult.

She flips it around in her palms a few times before holding it out to him. "I wasn't sure if you were into them, but I figured you were sick of Fleetwood. Wanted to switch it up for a change. Something more to your taste, I guess."

Eddie laughs softly at that, "I appreciate it, doll, but I don't mind Stevie Nicks. They kind of grew on me, I guess."

"Do you like Blue Oyster?" she asks, eyes hopeful as he holds the tape delicately, as if he's scared it'll break.

He shrugs, "Who doesn't? 'Don't Fear the Reaper' is sort of a classic."

He takes the initiative of standing and this time, she doesn't stop him. He pops the tape into her stereo and adjusts the volume before 'This Ain't The Summer of Love' begins to play lowly over the speakers. He has it so low she almost has to strain to hear it.

"Skip it to Reaper. It's my favorite off the album," she insists from the floor, and he listens, pressing the buttons on the stereo a few times before the familiar guitar riff washes over them. Quickly, he joins her back on the floor, and she finds herself scooting next to him until their knees bump.

They let the first minute of the song play out without a single word exchanged. But Willow grows restless in their silence.

"So, dinner was a success," she starts, chewing on her lip for a moment, "My mom adores you."

"You really think so?" Eddie asks as he reaches up and plays with some of his hair before hiding behind a strand, the scrunchie once holding it up atop his head now on his wrist.

"Absolutely," she encourages before grabbing his wrist that is decorated with her hair band, "By the way, I better get this scrunchie back."

He smiles sheepishly, "Thought you wouldn't notice."

"You're a worse thief than Clyde."

"Does that make you my Bonnie?"

They fall into laughter, her hand sliding from his wrist to fiddle with his fingers. He lets her, his hand settled into her lap as he watches her carefully.

He swallows hard before asking his next question, the stolen scrunchie forgotten, "Do you... do you want to talk about it?"

"What? My mom being your biggest fan or my dead brother's stuff everywhere?"

Her words shock her as much as Eddie. She can't believe she's finally said it out loud - dead brother. She had avoided telling Eddie for as long as possible, but it just slips out in her stormy emotions the box has dragged up. It's not her brother that's possibly estranged, not her brother who might have gone away to college and left her behind; It's her dead brother.

"I- Either," he stutters, looking unsure, completely caught off-guard in unfamiliar territory.

She continues to spin his rings, "My mom said you reminded her of Parker tonight. I guess it... I don't know... brought up a lot of emotions?"

"That's reasonable," Eddie nods, watching as the silver skull below his knuckle rotates.

"It's a compliment, so you know. He was- God , he was always mom and dad's favorite. You know how parents aren't supposed to have favorites? They did. They'd never say it, at least my mom won't, but he just..." she trails off, wanting to find the right words, "I couldn't really blame them, you know? He was the dream kid - active in sports, loved by everyone. He was their first born. The golden child."

"He sounds great," Eddie softly says, and when her hands stop playing with his rings, he takes to holding her hand instead, "They shouldn't have had a favorite though - you're great, too. You're- shit, Red, if I've ever met anyone golden, it's you."

She takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering close. "Yeah, that was all him. It's not that our family was ever dysfunctional growing up, but he just... he put in that effort for me. I think he knew about mom and dad favoring him, and he spent every second trying to make up for it. You've ever been in a room and knew someone else was everybody else's favorite person, but you knew that you were that person's favorite? It made it a bit more bearable," she pauses, and Eddie's looking at her like he knows exactly what she means, "Like, it's fine, because the person shining the brightest thinks you shine just as brightly. I sound stupid, don't I?"

"You don't sound stupid. I know the feeling."

She has no tears left to cry, but her head still falls to Eddie's shoulder in defeat, "He was a great brother. I miss him."

His arms wrap her up, squeezing her into his side tightly. He doesn't say anything, knowing what she needed right now was anymore reassurance or apologies for what she lost - she just needed him to be there for her, to listen to her.

She knew she could leave it at that. Eddie wouldn't mind or press her for any more information. But she wanted him to have the whole story, to tell him what she hadn't spoken about with anybody else about before. She was ready to hand over one of her most vulnerable pieces of her soul, and she had known it since she was standing in her kitchen with her mother.

She wants to tell him what happened. And she knows by the way he's holding her, he's willing to listen.

"He... he died of an overdose," she whispers into his shirt. The words hang heavily in the air before she carries on, "That's why I hate Halloween. You were right - I used to... Fuck, Eddie, I used to love Halloween. It was my favorite holiday and he always spent it with me. Even... even when he started hanging out with the wrong crowd," her eyes pinch shut and she can taste the metallic of the blood from biting her lip too hard to suppress emotions, "It happened on our way to a party, the night before Halloween. I was really too young to be going to those things, but he didn't want me to feel left out, you know? And he didn't think he was going to be long - he was going for a deal. His dealer was at the party. He was going to get the drugs, and he was going to take me back home to celebrate instead."

Each breath is shattering her chest, splintering into her lungs.

"It was my fault."

"Don't do that," Eddie finally speaks up, holding her even tighter, "Don't blame yourself."

"No, Eddie, you don't get it. I-" she pauses, her chest so tightly wound that it feels as if it could tear open at any second, " I was the one in the car. It was raining, and I could tell something was wrong, but h-he- the guy, he just- he told me to drive. And...I...I crashed. I was the only one there. I was there."

Her body aches to cry harder, but she refuses. She stares forward, breathing heavy as she focuses on maintaining her composure, recalling the night for Eddie.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked the boy who she had only met twice before when he approached their car, her brother slumped into his side, looking impossibly out of it.

"You need to drive."

"What the fuck did you do to my broth-"