the guitarist | eddie munson x reader

part two: with a little help from my foe

Author's Note: 

    CW: description of anxiety

     [This chapter's a bit short, but the next one's longer and has way more Eddie page-time!]

"And for tonight, finish off the last act and start planning those essays!" Your English teacher's voice echoed through the room as your class began filing out, rushing towards the hall to avoid missing their buses.

Despite it being the end of the class, and the day, you had already finished the final act of A Midsummer Night's Dream. After spending the latter half of class plotting out your essay, you decided to hang back and ask about your topic to get the most out of the chaotic outline you'd already drawn up.

Unfortunately, what was intended to be a brief clarification on Shakespeare's use of allegory, quickly developed into a full length discussion about Mrs. Bouschbel's personal observations.

"You're a bright young student, (y/n)," she assured as you dropped your bag next to the seat by her desk. "You've been applying yourself quite artistically lately, and I've seen some real depth in your writing."

Ah, yes, the hours you spent pouring over textbooks and Shakespeare to avoid the strange sense of dread haunting you whenever you had too much time to think and not much else to think about.

"Thank you," you choked out, bringing back that grimace-smile for an encore performance.

She went on to describe some key aspects of your writer's voice, ironically noting your attention to detail as you began to zone out.

Apparently, acknowledging your anxiety was not wise, even if it was just for a moment. You felt it broiling under your skin, a lightning-like prickling from your shoulders into your fingertips.

You looked at your outline, at Mrs. Bouschbel's family photos propped up on the desk, at your shoelaces and the space between the cinderblocks lining the classroom walls. Your frantic glances only seemed to work up more stress, until you suddenly stood.

The chair screeched briefly as you mumbled, "I just need to run to the bathroom, I'll be right back."

With no time or attention to wait for a response, you rushed from the classroom down the hall, bursting into the empty restroom.

Your fingers gripped the cool porcelain sink as you bowed your head and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to calm your racing, incoherent thoughts.

You raised your head to peer in the mirror, looking yourself in the eyes, taking deep, steady breaths. The faucet ran a stream of cold water in response to your shaking fingertips, enough to run over your hands and face as you kept breathing. And breathing. And breathing.

It seemed to be dying down. You pressed your hand to your chest, steadying before rubbing your face and checking your reflection.

Your mascara had run, just a bit, but nothing unfixable.

Finally, assured that the moment had passed, you collected yourself once and for all, and exited the bathroom, staring at your shoes as you began to make your way down the hall.

You made it about four steps before someone smacked into you.

"Jesus!" You jumped, your hand returning to its position defensively pressed against your heart.

"Woah there, sorry 'bout that, LMC." Eddie Munson's dry chuckle reverberated as your heart steadied.

"Whatever, man, just move."

You began to push past him, avoiding eye contact, but he stopped you lightly with an outreached hand.

"Hey," he started, softer than before. "Hey, you alright (y/l/n)?"

There was concern in his usually-obnoxious stare.

"Fine, yeah. Fine," you mumbled, meeting his gaze.

The two of you stood there for a moment, both not quite believing the assurance, but not refuting it either.

"Alright. If you're fine..." he nodded, as if he were assuring himself, before he began to walk back toward the sound of what you could only assume to be Hellfire club.

"Wait."

Your voice almost betrayed you, barely cracking.

He stopped instantly.

Munson turned back on his heels, facing you once more, concern and confusion written on his face.

You stepped closer, looking around before muttering: "I could use your help with something."