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

epilogue

AN: i've been procrastinating this because i hate endings and i don't wanna say goodbye to this story

CW: alcohol

Bold: Eddie's POV

"Holy shit, (Y/n/n)," your roommate rasped from where she and some girl with dyed red hair were propped up with heavy textbooks on her bed. "You look hot."

You'd been in the bathroom, staring intently into the mirror while you'd smeared black shadow into your waterline, dragging it out to form a sharp line at the edges. After a close encounter with your iris, you'd followed suit with an inky-red tint rubbed onto your lips, careful not to stain the heavy metal ring poised on your thumb.

Now, a smile tugged up at the corners of your mouth as you let out a contented sigh, satisfied with your current place on the visual line between 'fresh-faced' and 'corpse-bride.'

"Where are you off to?" Robin's guest chirped from the foot of her four-poster bed.

"Just into town for a bit," you answered casually, pushing your hair back from your face. "It's a live music night at the bar on the corner."

"(Y/n) here is very into live music," Robin crooned, muttering to the redheaded girl. "And live musicians."

You shot a playful glare to your friend, muttering a quick goodbye before departing down the block to the dive on the corner.

It was already emanating the dissonant sounds of rock, muddied with voices calling from the pit to the bar and back. You'd been to the place a few times since the semester began, with you and Robin needing a getaway from lecturing professors and droning textbooks. Without the existential dread hanging over you like it had in highschool, you'd realized studying was actually pretty tiring, and you'd never really given yourself a chance to be truly sated before.

That's why tonight already felt so dizzying– having something to look forward to was intoxicating in and of itself after enough time spent moving through the routine of your class schedule. Not to mention, you hadn't heard any truly good music at any of the no-name gigs or open mics you'd attended here, and the anticipation for something extraordinary was brimming in your veins.

Surely enough, the band didn't disappoint. The drummer was crashing into the symbols in perfect rhythm with each bang of the bass, the vocalist screaming into the mic with perfectly-toned ferocity. And, of course, the guitarist– slashing along, shredding in an epic, prodigal tome of sound. The familiar buzz of strings through the massive amps made your heart sing.

It certainly didn't hurt that you already knew the lyrics.

The symbols crashed, droning into the crowd as the bodies around you jostled and cheered, begging for an encore.

You just smiled, rolling your eyes, knowing it was already going straight to his head.

Satisfied with the foresight that they'd make their way back up to the stage at some point during the night, you pushed through the crowd and over to the bar, where you'd batted your lashes at the bartender in exchange for a gin and tonic and a promise to keep it on the downlow.

The first sip was as bracing as you liked it, coupled artfully with the murky red light bleeding from the ceiling fixtures, painting everything in a dim hue reminiscent of the exact shade you'd guess was blooming on your face.

"Now," a familiar voice grumbled from behind you at the bar, "what is a pretty thing like you-"

You grinned, feckless and wide, heart thundering against your ribs.