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

part fourteen: with love, your freak

AN: HEY sorry for this one taking an extra couple days, something came up thursday night, and then ln i was watching vol2 askjhsdjkf but here u go, enjoy, i hope all of u are mentally well. also, longest chapter ever, i just couldn't stop

CW: lightly suggestive imagery

"Christ, sugar, what do you even have in here? Bricks?" Eddie grunted as he lifted one of your duffle bags up from where you'd packed it on your bed.

Despite knowing for months that you'd be leaving tomorrow morning, you had procrastinated the whole 'packing' part of going away to college– a step that is generally considered to be imperative and unskippable.

An hour prior, you'd called Eddie in a stress-flourished frenzy, throwing books and clothes into piles and running around to find places to store everything. Jeans and t-shirts were slung over your desk chair, books tossed haphazardly over your shoulder, cassette tapes pulled from the shelf and placed in a box, only to then be dumped out and relocated. It was calamity, to say the least.

Now, Eddie was finishing up with organizing your bags by your bedroom door, which you'd found the state of mind to pack once he'd clambered through your window and calmed you down. His method may have been of the 'twirling around your room pointing and narrating at everything' variety, but it worked nonetheless.

You scurried over to the other side of the room where he was dramatically dropping a black duffle bag you'd just added to the 'done packing' side of your bed. With a pitying grin pasted on your face, you unzipped the top to reveal an entire shelf's-worth of books. "Somethin' like that!"

"Alright, smartass, I'll leave your bag of bricks over here," he chuckled, smoothing back your hair with a ring-heavy hand as he stepped over a pile of sweatshirts on your floor.

Despite the hour, your parents were still out at some friend's gathering, either celebrating or mourning the fact that this was your last night at home until November. Of course, they would have stayed to help you pack all of your things had you not adamantly insinuated that you had everything taken care of. Technically, not a lie, since you had all the help you'd need in the form of the metalhead currently draping a silky cardigan over his chest and flouncing around like a maiden in a Shakespeare ballad.

You smiled to yourself as you started tossing folded pairs of jeans into a new box, stacking them by color.

Waiting for you to finish that box, your boyfriend was messing with the trinkets on your dresser– jewelry trays, scrunchies, Altoid containers– until he landed on the empty soup can you saved for important momentos. It contained three items: your first guitar pick, a photo booth set of you and Robin making faces at the camera, and a pencil. He picked it up carefully, holding the small wooden cylinder with as much care as he held his own guitar, as if he were afraid it wasn't real.

"You kept it?" he whispered, turning the pencil over gingerly in his jeweled hands.

You laid a pair of red corduroys on top of the box on your bed, glancing up at him. "Of course I did." It was the very pencil with which he'd bowed before you months ago, presenting it to you so you could finally have a suitable utensil fitting for the list of witty remarks you'd come up with to insult him. Just like he'd asked. "What else am I supposed to write with?"

You crossed to the side of your bedroom he'd occupied, reaching up to push a strand of dark hair from his face.

Eddie leaned into your touch, lowering those big brown eyes to you, sending your heart careening. You stroked his cheekbone with a thumb as he placed his lips against your palm.