Author's Note: SORRY (lie) Also this one's a bit different of a format, I wanted to mess around w/ that for artistic purposes, hope you enjoy!
CW: Profanity, anxiety description
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
He had the notepad. Eddie had the notepad.
Annoying, obnoxious, infuriatingly charming Eddie Munson had the notepad.
You were so totally fucked.
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Eddie's van groaned as it started. The key screeched in the ignition.
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You were pacing around your room, hours after Clarke's meeting had ended.
With your hands raking through your hair, you took shaky breaths, your chest rising and falling to the beat of your nerve-wracked internal drum.
"He's gonna hate me. Like really, totally, properly hate me," you rambled aloud, your voice hushed in a nervous whisper as you worked yourself up.
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"Damnit!" The wheel met the slam of his jeweled hands. The second red light of the ride.
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"Eddie 'the Freak' Munson is now in possession of the capital to think I'm an even bigger freak than he is."
You glanced frantically around your bedroom, trying to pinpoint something– anything– to calm yourself down.
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Green. He slammed on the accelerator.
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Your eyes caught on your guitar, then darted away. Not today.
Finally, you spied your record player peeking out from under a pile of books stacked next your shelf, having received the short end of the shelf-real-estate stick.
You hurried over, dropping to your knees as you shuffled through your records, sorted semi-alphabetically in an old shoebox against the wall.
You fingers caught on your copy of the Talking Heads' True Stories.
The up-tempo bass rocked your floor as you listened, Byrne's vocals reverberating along with each slash of the lead guitar.
You laid there by the record player, your feet propped on the wall, hands folded over your stomach as you zoned out to the sordid sound.
The position sent a knowing remembrance down your spine, hurtling you back to foreign-yet-familiar picnic table in the woods. Though you'd only lounged on it once before, it felt as though you'd made the journey a million times over.
Perhaps it was the company.
The very company responsible for the bolt of electricity through your entire central nervous system as you recalled the hazy afternoon.
His crooked smile.
The gleam in his eye.
The way he glanced at you, looked at you while you stared at the sky, as if you were the only thing he could see.
The carefulness in his gaze.
You shook yourself out of the daydream, nauseated at the certainty that you'd ruined things.
You tried to focus on something else, realizing with great futility that you couldn't get him off your mind.
With your hands thrown over your face in childish defeat, you rose, swinging your feet off the wall to avoid knocking into the record player.
It was midnight, you realized with a begrudged glance to the alarm clock on your nightstand.
Too late to be wreaking havoc on yourself over how much you'd ruined things.
Over much it killed you that you'd probably never see that crooked grin again, the one that seemed particularly reserved for you.
Over the pit in your stomach you realized how quickly– how chaotically you'd fallen for the metalhead with the charming smile. And how carelessly you'd tossed your chances, whatever they may have been.
You were in the middle of pondering more self-defeating reparte when you heard a tap at your window.
It hardly registered as you moved to find the record sleeve to return it to the box.
But when you leaned down, you heard it again.
And again. And again.
Finally, you caved, curiosity and nerves pushing you to yank the curtains aside and push the window open.
Your heart caught in your throat.
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. "...
