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

part eight: one way to do it

AN: Eddie "Advil in a shot glass" Munson I am free Thursday night

CW: alcohol mention

Bold: Eddie's POV

He was right.

The hangover did not feel hot. In fact, it felt horrible.

Your head was throbbing, a dull pain persisting intermittently behind your brow. Luckily, not the kind of migraine that used to be associated with the nightmares you'd fended off this past semester.

No, this was just a good old-fashioned, horrible decision headache.

You groaned as you propped yourself up on an elbow, shielding your bleary eyes from the morning light with your spare arm.

Your left arm, you realized with an embarrassed groan; not the arm you'd typically employed to block the light streaming in from the right side of your bedroom. Because the light was coming in from the left. Because this wasn't your bedroom.

Fucking hell.

You could recall bits and pieces of your interaction with Munson, but had completely blanked on the whole "drunkenly commandeering his bed" thing. Possibly to save yourself from the humiliation of passing out in a heap of your own booze-coated sweat on someone else's sheets.

As if on perfect cue to heighten your shame, the door swung open.

"Morning sunshine!" Eddie burst in, a fresh cup of water in one hand, a shot glass in the other. He slammed both lightly down on the nightstand beside you.

Upon further inspection, you realized, the shot glass contained two Advil tablets, the cup filled to the brim with water.

"I warned you," he crooned, absolutely relishing in the sight of you disheveled and angry in his bed.

"Loud!" you croaked, "Jesus Christ, Munson, loud." You flopped back down on the mattress, pressing both hands to your face in a sorry attempt to cave out the morning light, along with that stupid 'I-told-you-so' look on his face.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he flashed you that obnoxious grin, holding his hands up in surrender. That pet name dripped off his tongue like poison, but went down like honey.

You missed it, even his mockery. You missed him.

"Really though," he began, still grinning but sincere in tone, "how are you? You were out like a light after... we spoke."

You remembered what you said. He was dancing around it, likely unsure what exactly you could recall. In fairness, it was all choppy– filtering back to you through a hazy blur.

You pushed yourself up to sit against his headboard as you reached for the shot glass, followed by the water to wash down the painkillers you'd knocked back.

"I feel like a million bucks. Actually ran 5k this morning before you came in," you deadpanned, the effect of your sarcasm waning at the strain in your voice.

What the hell was in that booze concoction anyway?

"Well, that explains the sweat," he chuckled, pressing a palm against your forehead to test your temperature. He took a seat at the edge of the bed beside your legs. "That's my girl," he muttered. "Always a champ."

You squinted up at him, still tilting your head against the light. "I didn't say anything too embarrassing, did I?"

"Oh, no, just your deepest, darkest secrets. You know, hopes, dreams, regrets, fears, highly classified spy information, your secret identity, pretty standard stuff, really."

You chuckled at his teasing, nudging him with a heel. "Alright, alright, other than the secret identity."

"No," he conceded, voice instantly drained of jest. "Nothing embarrassing."

There was a reassurance in his tone, a cloaked message for you to interpret only if you really wanted to– if you really wanted him to know that you remembered.

"Good to know."

The two of you sat, staring at each other in the misty morning silence, before you cleared your throat.

"Eddie–"

The sound of his name on your lips made his heart skip.

He pleaded with whatever higher power was left to take pity on him that you'd maintain whatever emotion led you to that confession last night.

"I, um," you glanced around his bedroom, eyes darting to each poster decorating his walls, anywhere but his face. "Thank you," you settled, "thanks for being there. And looking out for me."

He met your frantic gaze, your heartbeat calming at the sight of him before you, sincere and free of judgment.

"I'll always look out for you," Eddie whispered, patting you on the leg before rising again.

He brushed a hand against the back of his neck, cursing himself for the concession.

He needed some air.

Fuck.

"I'm gonna make some coffee," he grumbled, starting toward the hallway. "Don't puke."

"No promises," you shot back as he left, attention recentering to the teddy bear wedged between the mattress and the wall. You must've kicked it in the night.

You pictured him throwing darts at that stupid balloon wall, Dustin jiding him just like Robin had teased you.

Your gaze then shifted back to his desk, where he'd sat with you time and time again, watching you do homework, playing songs for you, gushing about his favorite albums, each one he'd claimed to be the 'best in the world.'

His boots sat idly at the foot of his bed; the same pair that tracked prints on your bedroom carpet for the first time all those weeks ago. He'd inadvertently pulled you from your own head, washing away your worries with his words.

He was right; he'd always been there for you.

Even that day in the hallway after English, that chance encounter, he'd been there when you'd felt like falling through a bottomless pit of your own design.

You jolted up from his bed, clarity rising in your epiphany as you threw the sheet off your legs and stumbled out toward the kitchen.

Eddie was waiting for the last bit of coffee to finish brewing, fishing a spoon from the drawer to stir in sugar, the way you'd always insisted on taking it.

As he turned to set it down on the counter, his eyes widened.

You looked concerned.

"Hey–"

"I love you–" you interrupted, frank and full of pent-up emotion that had been brewing for weeks like the coffee on the counter. "I'm in love with you."

His heart nearly stopped in his chest.

The spoon clattered to the floor.