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

part five: party poison

AN: just wanted to say thank u for commenting & sticking around so far! i'm putting a lot of planning into this since my last book, so the support so far means a lot :) i promise, things are looking up for our protagonists, next chapter has so much eddie page time ur head's gonna spin

CW: alcohol, profanity

Earlier that evening.

"Since when do you go to parties?" you pondered aloud to the empty room, Robin having disappeared through the adjacent bathroom to rifle through her small tin of makeup.

"Since," she emerged, a meager stack of assorted vials clutched in her hand, "a party became the perfect opportunity to cheer up my future roommate!"

It was the evening of the Fourth, and the graduated seniors were gathering at some loathsome kegger out by Lover's Lake. Robin had lulled you over with promises of a refreshing evening free of thoughts about your romantic predicament, though you didn't think she'd meant it so literally.

You rolled your eyes, smiling as she sat herself across from you by her desk.

"And I suppose this has nothing to do with that band girl you've got a major crush on?"

"Girl?" She looked away, focusing her eyes on the compact mirror in her steady hands. "What girl?"

"The one who makes you blush like that every time I bring her up!"

You chuckled as your friend turned to you, slumping in defeat with a sheepish grin on her face.

"Okay, okay, maybe I'm running on the possibility of potentially running into Vickie. But you coming along will get your mind off of Munson! You've been in your head ever since we ran into him earlier today," she pointed her fingers atop each other, stacking them point by point as if she were tangibly demonstrating the logic in her train of thought.

You raised an incredulous brow, too momentarily amused by Robin's crush to admit that she kind of had a point.

If there was anything that would wipe your worries from your mind, it was alcohol.

And so, it was alcohol that you spent the next couple of hours ungracefully consuming.

...

Motley Crue bumped through the stereo in tandem with your idle heart rate, spiking every now and again when you'd stumble over to the massive kitchen counter for another cup of 'fuel.'

Robin, Robin, find Robin...

"Haven't seen her, s-sorry," someone mumbled absentmindedly from behind you as you shoved through part of the crowd. Apparently, you had been speaking out loud.

It was hardly a question anymore– whether or not you'd had enough to drink– as the glaring lights hazed in and out of your shady focus; your eyes kept closing, forced open by every loud slash of guitar over the speakers.

You knew this song.

Rattlehead. Megadeth.

"We are not listening to that whiny, moany bullshit."

"The Smiths aren't whiny! They're annoyed!"

You'd pushed past him to the record player on his shelf, fumbling through the stack of sleeves.

"Here," Eddie had reached around you, tattooed arms pinning you on either side as he selected an intense-looking album with a skull on the cover. "Megadeth. Business is Good, sweetheart!"

"Fuck," you groaned aloud, eyes still scanning the revelry for your friend's face. 

The room was getting hotter, your own face throbbing as your skin became sticky to the touch of your fingertips. You slung off the sweater you'd thrown over your top hours before, grumbling at the interruption to your outfit and tossing it aside.

You were surrounded by couples, enthralled by one another, arms hooked around waists, bottles placed against lovers' lips.

Vickie. She'd probably found Vickie.

You hiccupped. Your head was starting to throb too, your vision plastered by an increasing vignette around everything you saw.

You were still searching the massive room, even after drunkenly deducing that Robin could be anywhere from upstairs to the shore of the lake.

But that wasn't who you were looking for, you realized, the thud of your own heart near-deafening. 

You wanted him there. Not whatever shortstop dealer they'd gotten to supply the kegs and pot being passed around the great room; him. He should be there.

In a drunken daze, and free of your usual, rational inhibitions, you wandered to the kitchen in search of the landline.

It seemed to call to you from across the room, glowing like a star– like a lifeline.

Your feet clambered beneath you as you rushed over, mustering as much grace as possible while having very little willing control over your own limbs.

You might've incautiously shoved someone out of your way.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Just the thought of hearing his voice made you grin like a goddamn fool. It was positively dizzying, especially with your head already spinning off its axis.

Months ago, lying in your bed in agony, you hadn't even been sure if the boy had a house phone. Now, even obliterated beyond belief, you had the number memorized.

You punched through the dial.

It only rang twice before the receiver clicked.

"Hello?" He mumbled from the other end. Groggy. Confused. Angelic.

"Eddie?" you croaked out.

Were you crying? You didn't think you were crying. Did it sound like you were?

"I'm at, um–" you looked around, trying to recall whose house this was. "Lover's Lake, uh, you know Lover's Lake?"

Were you slurring? Was anything you'd just said even slightly intelligible?

"I'm on my way."

The receiver clicked again.

You hung the phone back on the hook, mouth agape.

"You alright?" someone slurred from beside you.

Spinning on the toe of your shoe, you grabbed their face in your hands, not even trying to decipher who it was. "He's on his way," you stated simply, shrugging, grinning, giggling as you took your leave.

He was on his way. Nothing else mattered. He was on his way.

All you had to do was find your sweater.