Eddie wakes up already in a bad mood. He’s got a raging headache that’s pulsing directly above his left eyeball and someone next door is singing Madonna loud enough to wake the dead. He groans, rolling over and burying his head under a wayward pillow in a desperate bid to muffle the absolute monster next door. Instead, the blender kicks on and somehow — somehow — the singing manages to get even louder.
Fuck, he’s not going to be able to go back to sleep, is he? And it’s— yep, right on schedule, six am on the dot.
He stays like that through the first, second, and third verses of Like a Virgin, gnashing his teeth under the blankets until they ache. When the blender cuts off, he thinks that he might get lucky enough to get a reprieve, but instead, the playlist shifts to Whitney Houston and he completely gives up on going back to sleep.
Eddie feels like he’s moving through molasses as he stumbles his way into the kitchen, making immediately for the bottle of Advil sitting on the counter and downing two with water straight from the tap. He presses his aching forehead to the cool metal faucet, willing his skull to stop throbbing in time to the beat of I Wanna Dance With Somebody.
He reaches for the tub of shitty grocery brand coffee and rustles up a clean spoon to scoop out the grounds, only—
Eddie frowns, peering down into the tub in disbelief.
Completely and utterly empty, with only the barest remnants of grounds clinging to the sides of the container.
As if mocking him, he hears Steve’s voice, as if from afar, asking so very sweetly, “Dontcha wanna dance?”
“No, I don’t want to fucking dance,” Eddie mutters, flinging the spoon back into the sink. It backfires when the clatter of metal on metal causes another spike of pain to shoot through his head.
kianamaiart
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
