out of tune (the guitarist: book 2) | eddie munson x reader

part one: a place like this

AN: welcome back to the thunder dome (my brain) (i missed u) (i've been writing) (enjoy) (also!! readsbyrileyy on ig!)

CW: brief drug mention

Heraclitus wrote that you can never step in the same river twice; that the only permanence of which we could ever truly be sure was change itself.

Yet, as you stood in the pit before the stage, watching Eddie Munson slash his Warlock for dear life, you couldn't help but feel that the lighting shooting down your spine when he looked at you was never going to disappear.

It was a Friday night, the late June heat hanging in the air to thaw the icy remains of the past. Hawkins was recovering, and so were you.

Since that fateful night in the Munson trailer months ago, it seemed that your nightmare had finally ended; no more headaches, spontaneous nosebleeds or paralyzing dreams that left you screaming.

The only remainder was the boy on stage, bowed over his guitar like a priest at worship, ironically as Corroded Coffin carried out a particularly devilish tune.

There wasn't much of a crowd, your own legs being one of the only pairs standing in the whole joint, save for the bartenders and a couple of wandering drunks.

The only thing out of place was a man in the corner; a suit, paying particular attention to the stage.

You tried not to stare, instead snapping your attention back to the music as Eddie's nimble fingers made visceral work of the finale, letting the last note reverberate as he hovered the guitar in his hands.

The drums crashed, symbols smashing against each other as the final note sang, cuing your usual whooping from the floor; you screamed for an encore in the near-empty bar, enlisting your usual attempt to prevent your drink from spilling while you cheered.

Eddie bowed dramatically, cuing Gareth to approach the mic with a send-off equal to the confidence of a true Ozzy Osborne reincarnate.

You had to give it to them– despite the sameness of the venue, the predictability of its emptiness and lack of enthusiasm from the patrons, the guys never failed to match the excitement you'd expect from a sold-out stadium tour; Eddie especially. It was one of the things you'd always admired most about him, one of the things you'd so adamantly claimed you'd hated him for– his bravery. His passion.

And now, sauntering toward you, covered in sweat and propelled by the frenzy of the finale, was the adrenaline-filled accomplice to all of your late-night indiscretions.

"Now what is a pretty thing like you," he flashed you that shark-tooth, shit-eating grin, "doing in a place like this."

You laughed as he gestured with a ringed hand.

"Well, I found myself passing through and heard the music, and I just couldn't resist." You smiled, enthralled by the push and pull.

"The music?" Eddie carried on, flourishing his voice as he bowed. "And what did you think?"

"Like nothing I've ever heard before." You squinted, an incredulous hand on your chin. "I happened to really enjoy those lead guitar solos. And maybe the guitarist."

He raised a brow, grinning as you continued.

"It's a shame though," you shrugged your shoulders, sighing dramatically as you turned. "I hear he's dating someone."

"Oh, right, that someone. Yeah, real shame, I hear they're gorgeous. He'd have to be a real dumbass to dump a pretty thing like that."

You faced him again, that incredulous smile painting your face as you reached to tug at the collar of his denim vest.

"Well then," you mused, "he better hold on tight."

He laughed as he finally pulled you to him, lifting your heels off the ground in the embrace.

He reeked of Old Spice and weed. 

With sincerity restored, you gazed up into his eyes. "You guys were incredible, as always."

Before he could brash a response, Gareth was beside you, awkwardly clearing his throat.

Munson pulled away.

"Sorry," the boy mumbled, "Eddie, I gotta steal you for a minute."

He gestured with a nod over to the corner where the remnants of the band surrounded one of the hightops. At it sat the suit you'd spotted earlier, conversing with the drummer.

"Two seconds," Eddie bounced on his toes as he turned, facing you for a final moment before rushing over to the table with Gareth.

From across the floor, you peered over to the conversation, trying to piece together who the man could be.

You hoped he wasn't a cop.

Jesus, with all that weed and booze in the van, all five of you would've been done for.

Before you could spiral your theory any further, the man reached out to Eddie, passing him something before shaking his hand.

Not a cop, then.

At that, you didn't think much of the interaction, instead becoming more enthralled with trying to fish the lemon wedge out from the bottom of the ice in your soda, brows cinched in concentration.

Eddie finally made his way back over to you, a familiar gleam in his eye. Before you could get a word in, the guitarist planted an adrenaline-laced kiss on your forehead, slinging an enthusiastic arm around your waist.

You peered up at him, brow raised skeptically in silent question.

What was that for?

"Just a great night," he conceded, obnoxiously predicting your thoughts as usual, but peering into your eyes with that unshakable, heart-shattering smirk.

And through the sticky summer heat bleeding through your open windows on the drive home that night, you still felt the solid trace of his hand on your skin as you careened through town.

You wouldn't mind if that feeling lasted forever, the only thing that seemed like it would never change.

That is, of course, until you'd deign to eventually retrieve the envelope you'd left sitting in your mailbox for the past two weeks.