Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chrissy Cunningham dreamed of Woodstock.

She had read so much about the music festival in her youth. The balance of wild reverence towards nature, the emphasis on peace and love, the delirium of music and drugs across the green. She dreamed of the freedom Woodstock could give her, particularly in her lonely moments, when her mother was too much and her life was collapsing in on itself. It was a little silly to want to be a hippie, particularly the kind that her parents despised. But she didn’t care.

She was able to move away at eighteen. Years of babysitting money, scholarships, and the deep desire to get as far away from her mother as she could enabled her to do it. She moved to New York for college and never looked back, breaking all contact from her family.

Her twenties were hard. She balanced a full-time job with full-time university at NYU in the English Literature program. New York was a lonely place to be when you didn’t know anyone and Chrissy barely had time to make a living, let alone friends.

But she did it. She graduated with honors, she found work as a tutor for Upper West Side families, and she wrote poetry and essays, submitting them to everywhere that accepted them. After years and years of applying, she’d finally gotten a job reviewing children’s books for a literary and music magazine—something of a dream job for her, though she still hoped to publish.

When a coworker mentioned to Chrissy that a few of the music reporters were planning on going to Woodstock ’99 in Rome, New York, she was immediately interested. It had nothing to do with her job of course, and at 29, she half-wondered that she was a little old for a music festival. Her thirtieth loomed and she couldn’t quite escape the sound of her mother’s voice, telling her she was a complete and utter failure for not settling down.

Nevertheless…Chrissy decided that Woodstock ’99 would be her thirtieth birthday present.

She was mostly excited to see Sheryl Crow. But she was also looking forward to seeing Alanis Morissette, Jewel, and particularly…Willie Nelson. She had loved Willie Nelson as a child, loved hearing her father softly sing ‘On the Road Again’ to her before she fell asleep. Simpler times, before he had shut down on her, closed his eyes to her mother’s criticisms and snaps.

Chrissy glanced around herself. The sun baked the thousands of people on the asphalt unpleasantly and she wished she’d thought of wearing shorts—instead, she’d chosen a willowy skirt and a flowered crop top that showed off her belly button. (Something of a victory for her—Chrissy hated showing off her belly)

She was near the west stage, excitedly waiting for Sheryl Crow to make her appearance. She unscrewed her water bottle and took a deep sip—water bottles were stupidly expensive here, but she wasn’t willing to pass out in the middle of the pavement due to dehydration.

A topless girl blithely walked by her, causing Chrissy to choke. Nudity seemed to be encouraged—not that that was dissimilar from Woodstock, but somehow she hadn’t thought of how leering the men would be. As she made her way to the stage, several men yelled, ‘SHOW US YOUR TITS!’ and she tried her best to ignore them.

A familiar opening chord started and Chrissy cheered, recognizing the riff. Sheryl Crow stepped onstage, waving at the crowd, a smile on her face.

The smile faltered a little when several men shouted, “SHOW US YOUR TITS!”

“Show me your tits?” Sheryl Crow played it off. “You’d have to pay a lot more money than you did to see my tits.”

Chrissy laughed at that, but several men around her booed. Sheryl Crow ignored them, continuing into her next song with determination. A few men threw bottles at her.

Chrissy scowled at that. Where the hell was security?

🎸

It would not be the first time Chrissy wondered that. As the day passed and more musicians performed, the crowd got thirstier and more manic. Drugs were sold openly around Chrissy and by the time the sun started to fade in the west, the majority of people around her were blackout drunk.

Chrissy had had a drink, but at 29, she was very concerned about sunscreen and hydration, so she’d just kept refilling her water bottle. She was just considering finding her tent and taking a long rest when the announcer bellowed out:

“Give it up for…Corroded Coffin!”

She quirked her head. She was still fairly close to the stage. She’d never heard of the band before, but apparently she was in the minority—the crowd screamed in excitement, roaring at the sight of three young men crossing the stage.

The woman next to her, clad in a string bikini, shrieked deliriously. “I love you, Eddie Munson!”

Curious, Chrissy followed the drunk girl’s gaze…and that was when his eyes met hers.

She noticed his eyes first. Dark and soulful, deep and penetrating…her aunt would’ve called them ‘cow eyes’. His eyes widened a little towards her and he started playing an opening riff—something intense that made her bones vibrate.

He broke away from her gaze to bellow into the microphone. “How you doin’ tonight, Woodstock?!”

An explosion of screams answered him back. Chrissy changed her mind about returning to her tent.

“We’re Corroded Coffin!” He strummed a powerful chord in emphasis. “And we’re here to fuck your shit up!”

The crowd roared in response and Chrissy timidly cheered with them. She looked towards the drummer, expecting the downbeat, but the drummer was still watching the lead singer…what was it the girl had called him? Eddie Munson…

“But first!” Eddie yelled into the microphone. “My good friend Sheryl just told me you all were yelling at her to show her tits.”

The audience bellowed in laughter and Chrissy shifted uncomfortably. She looked towards Eddie to see where he was going with this, but to her surprise, he looked…angry.

“I don’t want to see you fuckers saying shit like that again,” He snarled and a silence fell over the crowd. “She is Sheryl fucking Crow and she deserves your respect. I better not hear any Corroded Coffin fans talking to women like that.”

A mutinous murmur crossed over the crowd. Chrissy’s heart swelled and she smiled as a man next to her kicked an empty beer can muttering, ‘it was just a joke.’

Eddie nodded towards the drummer and he kicked up the beat.

🎸

Chrissy could hardly be called a metal fan. She knew of Metallica and Iron Maiden by name and name alone. Corroded Coffin rang a slightly familiar bell, but aside from that, she had never heard their music.

But now, she could call herself a devoted fan.

Eddie was incredible at guitar. His riffs and solos were out of this world and she couldn’t stop staring at the way his fingers leapt across the fretboard. She felt incredibly grateful she was so close to the stage.

She knew she was crazy but it almost seemed…it almost seemed as though he were catching her eye with every new power chord and verse. She tried to get the thought out of her head. How many dumb young girls thought the lead singer was singing directly to them? She was being silly. But she couldn’t help it, any more than she could help the flush that traveled up and down her body.

Chrissy needed to lie down. It was all in her head. She was probably just dehydrated.

I’ll go lie down after Corroded Coffin finishes, she thought to herself. A sudden feeling of loss struck her—after they finished, she would never see the handsome Eddie Munson again.

God, could I be any more of a loser? She was acting like a fifteen-year-old.

Eddie announced their final song—something called ‘Set this Small Town on Fire’. She liked the symbolism of it—the singer feeling trapped in their small town, leaving it in ashes and dust. It was pretty clearly a metaphor for moving on to bigger and better things.

Unfortunately, the crowd began to take it literally.

Chrissy smelled the smoke before she saw it. She turned around and six or seven feet away, there people throwing bottles of alcohol into a huge garbage fire, scream-dancing around it as Corroded Coffin sang. She tried to back away from it but ended up getting pushed closer towards it.

Eddie stopped mid-song. “The fuck, guys?” He had noticed the fire and as Chrissy looked on, she started to realize there were more fires popping up in the crowd, people screaming and chanting.

A cacophony of boos resounded. Eddie flipped them off. This seemed to make the crowd angrier and they started throwing bottles.

The bassist approached Eddie and whispered in his ear. Eddie nodded and started a new song—something slower and more mellow. Chrissy realized this was a cover, a cover of a Bush song she actually liked—‘Glycerine’.

She swayed to the music, trying to ignore how rowdy the crowd was getting. She caught his eye again (she was imagining it, it wasn’t real, but couldn’t she daydream just a little? Couldn’t she pretend?) and the lyrics hummed against her skin.

It must be your skin, I'm sinkin' in
It must be for real, 'cause now I can feel
And I didn't mind, it's not my kind
It's not my time, to wonder why…

He was trying to temper the crazed energy of the crowd. Chrissy hoped it worked. His voice was like gravel and she hummed along with him, staring into his gaze, wishing she wasn’t imagining it.

Something hard shoved against her. Chrissy fell down. Her hands caught her and scraped along glass shards of bottle, tearing her skin. She cried out in pain and tried to stand, but the crowd shoved against her more fiercely.

They were getting wilder, more fierce. She couldn’t hear Eddie’s cover anymore, she could only hear the roars of the crowd and something that sounded like an enormous crash. The music had cut short. Chrissy tried to stand.

As she did, she realized what had caused the crash. One of the stage towers had been pulled to the ground—people were dancing on it, tearing off metal pieces and beating each other with it.

This was getting dangerous. Chrissy wanted to leave. She started to move away from the stage, trying to weave herself out—but someone snatched her upper arm.

It was a man in a bucket hat, eyes blurred and completely drunk out of his mind. She tried to shake him off.

“Get off me,” She pulled harder. “Let go.”

Instead of releasing her, he moved closer. His breath stank of cheap beer and rotting meat—it made her stomach turn. He pulled her towards him and started trying to take off her top.

“Stop it!” Chrissy shouted. “Get off me! Help! Help me!”

No one seemed to hear her—or worse, no one cared. She stomped on his sandaled foot hard, but whatever drug cocktail he was on seemed in inhibit his pain receptors. Her eyes filled with angry tears and she tried her hardest to punch him—

All at once, the drunk was knocked to the ground. Chrissy blinked, holding her top together—it had been ripped during the altercation. Eddie Munson stood over the drunk, breathing hard, guitar strapped to his back. The drunk was bleeding from the mouth and Chrissy dazedly noticed blood glinting on Eddie’s rings.

He whirled around to her. He did not ask if she was okay, did not say anything, only reached his hand out towards hers.

She took it.

This turned out to be the smart move. Eddie hopped back onstage within seconds before the crowd noticed his intrusion, helping Chrissy up too. He flipped the crowd off a final time and kicked the microphone on his way, leading her backstage.

🎸

His hand was sweaty; rings slick against her fingers. Chrissy tried to ignore just how attractive they felt on her skin. They were somewhere beneath the stage, closed off from the rest of the crowd. He finally turned towards her, eyes filled with concern.

“You okay?”

She nodded, pulling the ripped ends of her crop top a little tighter. A flare of anger flickered in his eyes and he paused for a second.

“Here,” He let go of her hand and she felt bereft at the lack of contact. But he pulled off his T-shirt and awkwardly handed it to her. She took it gratefully, sliding it over her small form. It was damp with sweat.

“I saw the whole thing,” Eddie shook his head tiredly. “Fucking dicks. I don’t know what drugs these kids are on, Jesus fucking Christ…”

“Th-thank you,” She whispered. “Thank you.”

And then she burst into tears.

It was intensely embarrassing, sobbing like a toddler in front of a rockstar who’d just rescued her from—she didn’t want to think about what could have happened. But to her surprise, he pulled her into a warm hug.

“Sorry,” He whispered. “So sorry. My concerts aren’t usually like that. Something about this fuckin’ place, the heat, the overpriced drinks, it’s making everyone nuts.”

“It’s not—your—fault,” She hiccupped against his skin. She noticed a black widow spider near his collarbone.

He hugged her tighter. “We should’ve backed out after Sheryl told us what happened. They’ve been psycho for hours.”

“Yo, Munson!”

Chrissy startled and made to move out of his arms, but he continued to hold her, looking up. A pretty young woman with a bright blue mohawk looked at them, but did not comment.

“Car’s here,” She told him. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. I told you Woodstock is always a mistake.”

Chrissy wiped her eyes and smiled at him gratefully. “You should—you should go. They’re going to be pissed that you just left in the middle of your set…”

“Who gives a fuck?” Eddie arched a brow. “Listen…I swear I’m not coming onto you. But do you wanna come with me? We’re just gonna get out of Rome, away from all these fucking idiots. Plenty of room in the limo.”

Insane. The proposal was insane. Then again, the last fifteen minutes had been utterly insane. One of the biggest rockstars in the world had punched someone out for her, pulled her onstage with him, and was holding her so gently, like she was made of porcelain.

The woman with a mohawk spoke. “He’s a good guy. I saw what was happening with you too. Wish I could say you were the only girl who’s been harassed in this fuckin’ place. You need some water, maybe some snacks. And a joint.”

Her comment was the deciding factor. She leaned against Eddie and nodded. “Okay.”

“Great,” He started to steer her towards the mohawk woman and then stopped short. “Um—by the way—what’s your name?”

She giggled. “I’m Chrissy. Chrissy Cunningham.”

He held out his hand. “Eddie Munson.”

She took it and squeezed, butterflies dancing up her spine.