𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓢𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 | Daisy Jones and the Six imagines

they long to be (close to you)

Summary : Eddie doesn't understand why you seem to like him less then your other bandmates since moving to LA. little does he know that really isn't the case.

Ever since the move to LA, the shitty rental Billy had paid for was getting on Eddie's last nerve. Not because it was constantly too hot inside and too cold outside, not because of the lack of air conditioning, not because of the thin ass walls and not because of the way the sun never seemed to set enough that it wouldn't peak under his curtains when he was trying to sleep. The thing about the house in LA that got on his nerves the most was the fact that he couldn't escape you.

It wasn't that Eddie didn't like you - it was quite the opposite in that matter. Eddie really liked you, but it just seemed like you didn't like him, at least not anymore. Back in Pittsburgh, you and Eddie had been the best of friends, and you still were, but since you'd all moved into the same house, he'd noticed something; you never touched him.

Plenty of times had he seen you wrapped in a tight hug with Karen, her head atop your own as you hid your face in her shoulder, with one hand on the small of Camilla's back and the other holding her own as you danced around the kitchen together, Graham's legs intertwined with yours as you shared a blanket when the widows were wide open late at night - fuck, he'd even seen you tucked under Billy's arm with one arm wrapped around his waist as you made small talk.

But the worst was every time he saw you with Warren.

You were always together, seemingly inseparable in the way he thought the two of you had been back in Pittsburgh and it hurt. Everywhere he looked, if you weren't touching someone else, you were touching Warren. Holding his hand as you walked through the house or with his head in your lap (or yours in his) on the couch as you watched some shitty rerun, his arms wrapped around your waist as he held you from behind as the two of you stood together, his hands pulling you close to him as you cuddled up in his lap late at night in the living room, your hands in his hair as the two of you shared a blunt, or three, on the porch late at night. He couldn't escape it or the thought that that should be him.

Eddie longed to be close to you in a way you didn't seem to want with him. Boy, if only he knew how wrong he was.

In all the years you'd known Eddie, he hadn't been one for touchiness. If your hand brushed his he'd always been quick to pull it away, or if you reached for a hug he turned it into a quick side hug then carried in with whatever he was doing. As far as you were concerned, you were just respecting Eddie's wishes to be left alone.

Warren was happy to fill the needed affection you often sought out. He, himself, was quite the lover - always one to take a cuddle and hold onto a hug for way longer then most would deem appropriate - which was exactly what you needed. The two of you had spent many nights in bed together in LA just for the company of it, and not that you didn't like it, you just wished it was with someone else, instead.

"You coming to bed, sweet girl?" Warren asked with a tired drawl to his words, extending a hand out to you while the other held the remainder of his joint to his lips.

"In a little." You hummed back, taking a hit out the joint he offered out to you, the joint being held to your lips by Warren instead of taking it into your own hands. "I'm not tired enough to sleep."

Warren pulled the joint back to his lips, his other hand coming to brush your hair out of your eyes and behind your ear, his hand resting against your hair and keeping you tucked in the crook of his neck. "You want me to wait up with you? Or you can come keep my company? I'll put on some Fleetwood Mac, it'll help you sleep, baby girl."

That was another thing that had Eddie seething. The constant nicknames you let the others call you. Back in Pittsburgh, Eddie was the only one who'd ever called you anything but your name, and now he was the only one who didn't. Karen called you sweet-pea, Camilla called you sunshine as did Graham and even Billy, but Warren? Warren called you whatever he liked; sweet girl, baby girl, baby, doll, his.