the guitarist | eddie munson x reader

epilogue

CW: drug mention, lightly suggestive imagery

Epilogue.

In the weeks after you'd collapsed in his trailer, Eddie had made a point to dote over you.

He'd been so reluctant to let you out of his sight that he'd started inviting you to band practices, D&D sessions with his club, even offering to have you crash with him anytime you so much as yawned in his presence.

Oh, and at some point between all of the fuss and rambling of the past month, Eddie had (begged, pleaded), offered  to take you on a date. A real one, no nightmares included. Though he'd never admit it, and despite his cavalier exterior, there had definitely been some pleading.

After one particularly hazy excursion through the familiarity of the woods, the two of you had made your way back to his trailer before slumping onto his bed upon your return.

You were rolling your eyes at some remark he made, your head thrown back on his pillow as he flung himself down beside you.

"So," he wondered aloud, pinning you with that smirk you knew all too well, "how would you rate my dating skills? Say, outta ten?"

"Dating?" you shot back, incredulous. "As far as I can recall, you, Eddie Munson, have never taken me on a real date."

He flung his hand to his chest, mocking your statement with a gasp. "What, you don't consider me teaching you how to roll joints a date?"

"No, as a matter of fact, because we can never actually roll anything after thirty seconds of me trying to pay attention and you losing track of what you're saying." You pressed an accusatory finger jokingly against his chest, noting the worn band t-shirt you'd been meaning to borrow.

He dropped his head in defeat, immobilizing you under that grin that had won you over all those weeks ago.

"Alright, alright. So I'm no professor, evidently a bit too easily distracted by the company. How about..." he trailed off, peering around before a knowing raise of his brows. "A picnic."

"A picnic?" you echoed, eyes on him as he continued.

"Oh, yeah. A picnic. See, I just so happen to know this sweet spot in the woods, not too bad of a trek. It's got this picnic table, even, that I hear some delinquents have carved their initials into."

EM + (y/f/i) (y/l/i). You recalled the feeling of the ballpoint pen in your fingers, his chin resting on your shoulder with an arm slung around your waist as you'd pressed the point into the aged wood.

"But luckily," he carried on, pulling you out of the memory as he gazed down at you intently with a hand reaching up to brush your jaw. "There's this little break in the branches above the canopy, almost like, at the exact right moment, a star refracting the light from the sun."

"Sounds like quite the place." you gleamed innocuously. "You go there often, Munson?"

"Yeah," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, "somethin' like that."

His lips brushed against yours, connecting as he raised your jaw upward toward him with a jeweled hand.

Yeah, maybe you did like him more than you planned. 

Maybe you really liked wearing all his stupid clothes, and the feeling of his arms around you as he held your guitar. Maybe you were glad you'd forgotten to tear out that page in your notepad, and maybe he's the only person on Earth who you'd have ever wanted to read it. Maybe your plan for perfection had fallen through the minute you'd fallen for him that first day in the woods.

But maybe, just maybe, it was better this way.

Here. With him. You and the outcast who'd been your solace. You and your pariah.

"So is that a yes?" Eddie mumbled, near-silent against your mouth.

"Sure, Munson," you breathed, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. "It's a date."