eddie munson

edmund waylon munson was the stupidest guy you'd ever met, and you were down horrendous for him.

he was smart when it came to english and reading and making you things, but when it came to common sense, his ass was clueless.

evident by the fact that he was dating you.

you were, by no means, a good person. at least in your mind. you were self-sabotaging and shit at commitment. you could be standoffish, forgot days and anniversaries and shut down whenever you fought. you did not understand why in the world he stayed. you'd settled on it being a pure lack of brain function.

eddie, on the other hand, called it love. you could never fully believe it.

so he told you. every minute of every day of every month- you'd racked up over twenty-four months with him, now- he told you he loved you. it wasn't always verbal, though he liked that too- it was making you breakfast in the morning, or pressing kisses to the top of your head when you were sick, or buying you flowers with his last ten bucks.

you didn't know why he'd fallen so hard. you could feel it in your bones- this wouldn't end well, nothing ever ended well, not with you involved. his hands couldn't hold you so gently forever- either his grip would bruise you or you'd burn him, somehow.

but...you might as well enjoy it while it lasts. that's been your mentality through this whole endeavor.

so you did. soaked up every moment you could- basked in every second in his presence, and accepted the way he held on to you as tight as he could. let him seep into your brain.

today was a normal day, really. maybe slower than usual, maybe your head ached, maybe you'd gotten, like, negative sleep last night- but a normal day. you were over at eddie's trailer. he sat on the edge of his bed, guitar in his lap. his fingers plucked at keys, but his brain produced nothing. it was driving him mad, frankly.

his ring-clad fingers roved uselessly over the strings, knee bouncing with anxiety. or, maybe anxiety wasn't the right word. pent up energy? restlessness? he wasn't certain the exact terminology. he wasn't certain if he was in the same ballpark as the word. oh, whatever.

"i can't write," he said, words somehow tinged with simple, unquestionable finality, and lighthearted frustration all at the same time. he flopped melodramatically back onto the mattress- sheet-covered, because even after two years he'd rather you not be forced to lie on a...what, eleven year old hunk of foam? he'd had it since he first moved in with wayne- age eight- and god knows what stains were on it. "seriously, man, there's nothing up here," he gestured vaguely to his head.

"d'you wanna-" he blew a raspberry idly, "-god, i don't know. go out? watch a movie? get food? wanna- wanna spend time with you. do shit."