Author's Note: enjoy the fluff (for now) (or is it)
Bold: Eddie's pov
CW: panic mention
"So these nightmares," Eddie wondered aloud, reasoning with the information you'd given him "They've been bothering you for a while?"
"Yeah. Weeks, I guess," you conceded, thinking back to the time he'd caught you after that panic attack in the school bathroom.
You pressed a hand into your brow as he nodded; you were exhausted. Sleepless night aside, you didn't exactly feel well-rested after the pain behind your eyes had barely settled.
You yawned, absentmindedly collapsing back into your pillows while Eddie still perched on the side of your bed.
"You knockin' out on me, (y/l/n)?" the boy teased, nudging you as he stood.
"Not quite. Just... resting my eyes."
You gestured with a hand, sparking him to rise while you dozed.
His presence was comforting– comforting enough that you felt like you could sleep without shrieking yourself awake from a particularly violating nightmare.
__________________
Eddie meandered around your room, picking up picture frames and postcards, noting the way that everything seemed to make sense.
It had been dark that night when he'd been here last. Rushed. Distracted.
But now, in the afternoon light, he could see everything clearly.
Clearest of all was the guitar propped against the wall opposite your bed, surrounded by stacks of books and records.
He didn't even know you played; not that he'd ever asked. But from what he could tell, you didn't have any string marks or calluses on your hands like he did.
I hate that you're braver than me. I hate the calluses on your fingertips, and how much I wish I had my own.
That line seemed clearer now.
He lifted the instrument quietly in his hands, slinging the patterned strap over his shoulder as he ran his fingertips across the strings.
He glanced to your record shelf, then back to you, falling asleep across the room.
Seated at the forefront of the first shelf was a well-loved copy of Fleetwood Mac's Rumors.
It looked as if you had picked it up a million times, but made a constant effort to keep it in pristine condition.
Absolutely not his jam.
But the metalhead still recalled the days when he was first learning to play as a kid, stumbling through this very record with his uncle on his very first guitar.
He started quietly hammering the intro to the seventh track of the album, the one he'd played the most back then.
The Chain.
He'd always been drawn by the complex melody, the layered rhythm sparking his desire to perfect his muscle memory with the instrument.
And from the look of the record cover, you'd been drawn to it too.
________________
You stirred, not startled, but slowly brought out of your haze by the sound of pulling strings.
As you peered up around your bedpost, you spied Eddie, your guitar hanging from his shoulders as he drummed out the delicate melody.
"I didn't know you knew anything that wasn't the devil's music," you jeered, voice scratched from near-sleep.
He jumped slightly, turning to you with a boyish grin.
"Well, everybody starts somewhere, hot-shot."
You laughed at the nickname, rising to sit on the end of your bed closest to him as he continued.
"I didn't know you played," he remarked casually, staring down as he fumbled with the string posts.
"Yeah, not so much anymore." You avoided eye contact, instead taking an innocent glance around your room.
"I guess that's why this thing's so out of tune," he smiled, speaking softly enough to pull your attention back to him. "No time for it?"
"Something like that."
"So if I asked you to play me your favorite song, you couldn't do it, huh?"
"I am pretty out of practice, but it doesn't hurt that you were just playing it."
"Fleetwood Mac? Oh, Jesus, (y/l/n), we gotta get you some better taste."
You rolled your eyes with a smirk, elbowing him lightly as he took a seat beside you.
"Well, I suppose for now," he rolled his eyes, throwing his head back dramatically before returning his stare to yours, "I can show you a thing or two."
You didn't really need him to. You may have been out of practice, but you still remembered the tabs you'd memorized years ago, burned into your brain through years of reading in a little guitar manual you'd purchased from the record shop.
Still, you didn't object as he slid the guitar over you, settling it in your lap while he took your hands in his.
He fumbled with your fingers as he placed them on the frets.
"Here," he mumbled into your hair, concentrating behind you.
You tapped out the introduction of the song with his hand atop yours, guiding as the two of you passed each measure with dissonant strums on the opposite end of the guitar.
You couldn't help but laugh at the sound, sending him to chuckle along with you as you found a steady rhythm in the cacophony.
Despite the laugh-inducing attempt, you felt your face warm while his breathing steadied at your neck, your pulse nearly racing.
"I'm never gonna let you live this down, by the way," he mumbled into your ear, chuckling to himself once more.
"And what's that, Munson?" You half-turned to him, eyes still focused on the fretboard.
"The fact that this is your favorite song."
You rolled your eyes dramatically as he cackled, amusement lacing your annoyed glare.
"Not to worry, my pretentious foe," you mused, "I'm sure it won't come up again."
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. "...
