Discord Thread History: Band Fantasy 1.0
Eddie Munson x Cole Montgomery @waldenwritess
Thread #1: Cole's Sexy Y/N Band Fanfic
tw: drugs
Eddie Munson
Their first song was a wash. It’s not like anyone but himself could tell, but Craig’s drumming was a fucking mess. Probably because of the pre-show coke. Eddie refrained from participating this time around. In fact, he did a pretty good job of showing up at this Lower East Side hole-in-the-wall sober, relying on a lukewarm beer kept by his feet to power through their setlist. The establishment itself wasn’t glamorous. Hell, he was surprised they even had a stage. There weren’t any big lights, backstage, fancy equipment – it was just them, amplifiers, and the sweat dripping down their denim. It was a comfortable environment for Eddie, reminiscent of dive bars that became his makeshift homes along the coast early on his career. The crowd itself was tight in front of the stage but he never paid much attention to the audience while performing. With his feet planted firmly on the tempered hardwood, he kept his eyes on the strings, thighs bucking into the backing of his fender. His eyes only bobbed up occasionally to hit cues with Stacy.
Eddie ended their set with his head tilted back, slinking a single smile at the crowd as a final salutation for the night. Cheering could still be heard as Brody mouthed off his signature thank you spiel, as much as a crowd in a shady bar would holler. He proceeded to prance off the stage with his guitar in one hand and lukewarm beer in the other, polishing it off on his way to the artist’s corner. Twisted Pickle wasn’t playing any gigs tomorrow – which usually meant that they’d all go hard at the after party. It was a familiar routine if they stuck around long enough for the next band to finish. He usually waited around for all the artists to wrap up their performances before taking off. It’s not like the night wasn’t young.
He bee-lined for the bar after packing up his gear. His elbow settled on the counter, yelling above shitty overhead intermission music – who plays U2 after a set like theirs? “I’ll take a rum and coke!” The tender shook their head at his choice. “What? – you don’t have rum? – Coke?” He leaned deeper over the bar to clarify, a playful grin curling at his expression, “Is this a bar?” The dude didn’t find it very funny. New York, what a friendly fucking city. “I’ll have two shots then – whatever you got, thanks.” He reached for the bifold in his back pocket and set down a few bills, fingering the ring on his index finger as the tender poured shots.
Cole Montgomery
Truthfully, Cole had no idea what show he was being dragged to, only that his friend Farrah was bringing a friend and the show was in the Lower East Side, so they wanted to use his place as the meeting spot. He didn't mind much. If not for a few select friends, Cole would never see the outside of his apartment. He was reclusive by nature, and since he'd slowed down on drinking and started on his manuscript, Cole had fallen into a routine of early nights with his cat. There were a few lost months, too, months that turned into half a year of drinking to forget. He’d never been very good at finding a middle ground, so the only way Cole could conceptualize not drinking to forget was locking himself away, the Emily Dickinson-style seclusion. Lately, though, he’d been trying to find a balance… or rather, his friends were forcing him to find a balance. Cole was grateful for a growing community, a group of people who truly cared for him, but it was hard to deny the guilt he still harbored. It felt wrong to let loose and have fun when he'd hurt so many people-- Lee, Max, Jonathan, Will, his mother. The list of people he'd disappointed wasn't short, and maybe he should suffer for that. It was only right, right?
Buzz. The self-loathing would have to wait for tomorrow. Cole spent a few seconds circling his apartment looking for Neetz, and before he could find her the buzzing had begun again, buzzes in rapid succession. “I hear you, Jesus Christ!” he yelled as if Farrah could hear him from the third floor. He was about to give up when he spotted a familiar tuft of black fur wedged between the radiator and the bookshelf. Cole chuckled, gave her a goodbye pat, and shoved his keys and wallet into his pocket. A quick glance at his watch told him they were running late, so he took the steps two at a time and spilled onto the street, breathless. “Fuck you, I heard you the first six times you buzzed,” he greeted his friend with a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, I’m Cole,” he smiled at the new friend. The two blocks to the bar were filled with casual conversation, the weather, other such forgettable things— but Cole’s mind was elsewhere.
As they shrugged into the crowded pub, Cole welcomed the loud music and the feeling of the snare drumming in his chest was weirdly soothing. After his eyes adjusted to the dark, Cole glanced on stage. He recognized the hair first, long, brunette curls shaking with every move he made. Eddie fucking Munson. For a moment, Cole thought he was surely dreaming— or hallucinating— but he hadn’t taken anything in weeks. Cole’s eyes were glued to him throughout the whole set. At first to make sure he was real, and then… because he couldn’t look away. There was something addictive about him, and Cole’s stupid high school crush on Eddie “the freak” Munson came flooding back. The music was good— or so he thought, he wasn’t fully paying attention, but Farrah and her friend seemed to enjoy it. Cole spent the whole set figuring out how to get backstage, who he needed to bat his eyelashes at, and he’d solidified a plan. Only then did he notice that Eddie hadn’t gone backstage; in fact, he’d made a beeline to the bar. So Cole did the same, game plan effectively thrown out of the window.
He slid into a seat a few spaces down from the rockstar and eavesdropped for a moment. Cole laughed at the joke, for what it was worth, and caught the bartender’s eye long enough to order an Old Fashioned. Just one drink, just for the liquid courage to actually approach Eddie, who may or may not even know who he was; God knows they hadn’t talked much back in high school. But, who knows, they both had… certain reputations. Maybe the noticing wasn’t one-sided. “Thanks,” he breathed when the bartender returned with his glass. Cole took a large gulp and glanced up at his target. Sliding the glass over as he moved into the seat closes to Eddie, Cole offered a wry grin. “Long way from Hawkins, aren’t you?” he mused, projecting nonchalance. “I’m Cole Montgomery. Hawkins High class of ’85.” It was weird, being this close to a blast from the past. They hadn’t exactly run in the same circles— as if Cole had a social circle at all— but still, it had him lost in thought, remembering high school. His chest felt heavy, all of the sudden, at the thought of how things used to be. Who he used to be. Cole took another long swig of his drink and turned squarely to Eddie. “Good set, but I gotta ask. What the fuck’s the deal with the name?”