Author's Note: It's Memorial Day and we are thinking about him. Forgive me though if this is a touch shorter than the last, it's like 90F outside and I think my brain is melting; next chapter, we'll be eating good
It had been a week since your boy-scout-rivaling outdoor excursion with Munson.
After an awkwardly quiet, bleary ride home (in which he dropped you off half a block away, per your request), not much had been exchanged between the two of you.
You were avoiding him.
Similar to your dodging of Mr. Clarke and the Mathletes, you would duck your head and lose yourself in the post-bell rush any time you thought you'd pass the boy.
If it bothered him, you couldn't tell.
He had snapped seamlessly back to his usual, obnoxious persona. Yelling in the cafeteria, standing on tables, whooping in the halls with his geek cadre in tow... predictably unsettling, just the way you wanted things to be.
Today, he had a crooked grin plastered on his face, hunched over a locker with an elbow against the door, speaking to someone.
It didn't matter– shouldn't matter– who it was, but you found yourself squinting in their general direction regardless.
Normally, you'd push through the crowd to your next class, but you paused by a group of AP kids gathered at the water fountain, discussing the approaching final.
You mumbled something to Fred about your notes, sparking a catch in their conversation as the group now discussed the class to which you'd just referred.
Not that you were paying attention. Cloaked by the discussion, you angled your body toward the conversation, but peered over to your left at Eddie and the girl to whom he was speaking.
She was rolling her eyes, handing something to him before she gingerly closed her locker and scurried away.
A pencil.
Eddie Munson, who didn't so much as carry a backpack, found himself in need of a pencil.
He pushed himself off the locker, not bothering to watch the girl retreat to her class as he peered around, looking for something.
Or someone.
His eyes caught your own as you quickly looked away, attempting to assimilate into a begrudgingly dull conversation about the approaching US History exam.
Until he started sauntering toward you.
That was your cue.
You rambled a quick goodbye to Fred as the group began to scatter before the next bell.
The hallway was clearing, and there wasn't much crowd left to blend into.
Your heart was racing.
Not the kind of racing that felt like you were being hunted, but the kind of racing you'd felt when you were learning how to fish, and finally had one caught on the line.
More and more students were shuffling into their respective classrooms, leaving you and Eddie, walking in the same direction aimlessly down the hall.
You could almost feel his stare on you, not daring to turn.
The bell rang.
The hallway was near-empty.
You bit the bullet, knowing that the statute of limitations on pretending you were heading somewhere in particular had passed.
You stopped where you stood.
"(Y/l/n)," he stated.
After a beat, you faced him.
From the look in his eyes, the statement could almost be construed as a plea.
"Munson." You smiled, barely of your own accord, as if your face had simply reacted to the sight of him.
He was decked in his usual black jeans, a chain hanging from his hip. A denim vest was layered over his leather jacket, the very one which you envied, if only because you'd wanted to wear it since that day in the woods.
For the style, of course. Certainly not for the source of its ownership.
He still had that pencil in his hand, and was now drumming it on his fingers.
"Well, I'm sure you're wondering how I've been." He grinned, a snarky gleam in his eye. "Waiting patiently, I suppose."
You raised a brow, beckoning him to elaborate.
"See, if you recall, I was ensured a list of insults and other clever remarks which you were unable to deliver when we last spoke"
He raised the pencil.
"I figured, the only possible reason you wouldn't have it by now," he gestured widely, spinning on his toes dramatically, "is because you didn't have anything to write with."
A clarity washed over you as he held out the pencil, bowing forward as if he were presenting a sword to King Arthur.
The dramatics.
You bit back a laugh, raising your chin as you smiled knowingly.
"You read my mind, Munson," you mused, plucking the pencil from his hand.
"Have that on my desk by Monday!" he flourished, pointing like Mrs. Bouchebel when demanding a paper from a less-apt student.
You stepped closer.
"If by desk, you mean an abandoned picnic table in the middle of the woods, then sure. I'll have it to you by Monday."
He bowed dramatically, leaving the fluorescent hall lights to bounce off the heavy silver rings adorning his fingers as he flourished a hand.
"I'm late," you assured, turning to back away down the hall.
He stood in place as you walked on, with your books in your arms held close to your chest.
"Monday!" he shouted after you.
With the grace of your back to him, you weren't so unnerved by the electricity you'd felt in your pencil-exchanging hand, as his fingers brushed your own, nor the blush now returned to your face.
YOU ARE READING
the guitarist | eddie munson x reader
Fanfiction"weird is a strong word, (y/l/n)" the older boy rolled his eyes flamboyantly, making a mockery of the rumors about him. you were starting to think they might be true. even so, you kept pace by his side as the two of you stumbled through the woods. "...
