Through A Glass Darkly | Eddie Munson x Reader

Chapter Eleven

"Hey," Eddie said, voice smokey - from weed or cigarettes, you still couldn't tell. "Wanna hear the first song I ever learned?"

You perked at the unexpected offer and set aside the spell book you'd been paging through.

"Sure."

"'kay, hang on."

Knowing it was coming, you pulled the headset away just in time to miss the plastic clunk from his side. A distant clatter and footsteps filled the void. He muttered a 'son of a bitch' before something heavy hit the floor.

You grinned as you determined his voice was smokey from weed. No doubt about it. He wasn't the most graceful person when sober. When high, he was loose-limbed, yet uncoordinated. Like a bloodshot-eyed fawn.

Static from the phone announced his return.

"This is gonna be an awkward set-up, but I think you'll hear me."

"Cool."

The plastic clunk came again.

As he strummed the first notes, you recognized "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd.

It was easy to imagine him - scrawny, baby-faced, already jaded - with a guitar too big for him. His fingers struggling to keep pressure on the strings. You wondered who'd introduced him to Pink Floyd. Or was it something he'd heard on the radio? Had he looted an adult's record collection?

Then Eddie sang, hitting David Gilmour's inflections. Your breath caught at how much emotion Eddie could put into such simple lyrics. It was as though he were on the verge of something, yet he exorcized it through the song.

You wanted to sing with him, but your chest was too full of that same something. All you could do was listen and feel it.

When the song ended, it was quiet on his end. You had no words - even though you wanted to tell him how much you loved the song, his playing, his voice. You covered the mic with your palm and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. It released a tension that felt like the prelude to a sob.

"You there?" he asked.

You uncovered the mic.

"Holy shit, honey."

Your voice remained tight, but you stretched your neck to help that wane.

With a smile in his tone, he said, "Yeah?"

"Holy. Shit."

He chuckled.

You asked, "When did you learn that?"

"Uh... Twelve?"

"No fucking way!"

"Yes fucking way!"

"You're a prodigy, baby."

He let out a 'pfft.'

"I'm serious."

It was quiet for a beat. You didn't know how to fill the silence. You didn't want to push your opinion, though you would repeat it if he argued. Because he was talented.

"I know," he murmured. "Thanks."

You hummed. "My pleasure."

"Is it?"

You felt him waggling his eyebrows.

"Absolutely."

He let out a breath before saying, "I've been working on another song."