Work Text:
The Cherry on Top
One-Shot Request: "The Cherry on Top"
The hum of the cassette player fills the trailer with the low, raspy growl of Dio’s vocals, humming like a heartbeat beneath your easy chatter. You’re sprawled on Eddie’s old couch, one leg tucked underneath you, the other stretched out dangerously close to where his thigh is angled across the cushion.
Neither of you are really talking about anything important. You’re just… there. Comfortable. Close. Too close, if you stopped to think about it- which you absolutely refuse to do.
Eddie’s sitting sideways, arm thrown over the back of the couch, rings tapping absent patterns into the upholstery behind your neck. He’s grinning, eyes half-lidded, face soft from the lazy rhythm of the day. There’s an open bag of pretzels on the table, forgotten. One of your hoodies is balled up at your side, still holding your body heat from earlier.
You’d watched a movie hours ago. Or at least started one. Now it's just staticy music and half-finished conversations, the kind that drift off when they get too honest.
And in a moment of autopilot, you fish out your cherry chapstick. Twist the cap. Swipe it across your lips.
That’s when everything shifts.
You don’t notice him freeze- not at first. But he does. Like someone hit pause on his whole body. His eyes flick to your mouth and stay there, lips parting the tiniest bit, as if caught in the middle of a thought he forgot to say out loud.
“…What flavor is that?” he asks, like it physically hurts him not to know.
You blink at him. “Uh. Cherry.” You roll the cap back on and toss the stick into your hoodie pocket. “It’s really good, too.”
Eddie nods once, slowly. Then leans in just a fraction. “Can I try it?”
You’re already reaching for your hoodie, digging out the chapstick again. “Sure,” you say, holding it out between two fingers.
He doesn't take it.
Instead, Eddie leans in, slow but certain, like gravity’s finally had enough of your mutual pretending. His hand brushes your wrist, lowers the chapstick gently. Then- without giving you a second to react… he kisses you.
It’s not rough. Not frantic. Just deliberate. Lips warm and firm against yours, tasting faintly of cherry and Eddie and a hundred things you’ve never had the courage to name.
He pulls back just a breath, close enough that you can feel the smirk forming on his mouth before he even speaks.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “You’re right. It does taste good.”
You stare at him, brain officially fried. Function: unavailable. Thoughts: error 404. All you can do is sit there, lips tingling, mouth open just a little, totally wrecked by one kiss and a comment about chapstick.
You’re still staring at him.
He’s still staring at you.
The trailer is quiet. Like, you can hear the hum of the refrigerator and the flick of his thumb as he nervously picks at a loose string on the couch.
Then Eddie clears his throat. Loud. Awkward. Dramatic. “So,” he says, voice about an octave higher than normal, “you, uh… think Dio would survive in a bare-knuckle cage match against Ozzy?”
What.
Your lips are still tingling, and this man is asking about metal frontmen hypothetical brawls like he didn’t just bypass years of friendship rules and press his mouth to yours like it was nothing.
“…Are we seriously not gonna talk about what just happened?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
He glances at you. Smiles. Shrugs.
“Dunno what you mean,” he says coolly, casually, the picture of someone who is not currently imploding on the inside. “I asked for chapstick. You gave it to me. I tried it. It’s good. Mission accomplished.”
You blink. “You kissed me, Eddie.”
He fake gasps. “I did? Oh no. Must’ve slipped. Could’ve sworn I was reaching for the stick.”
“Eddie-”
“Hey, d’you wanna throw on another tape?” he interrupts, already getting up, not looking at you. “I think I’ve got that W.A.S.P. live album somewhere in the crate. Or- wait, no- Queen! We need to appreciate the artistry of Brian May more.”
He’s practically scrambling toward the tape shelf, muttering nonsense, hair falling in his face, while you sit there in complete disbelief.
You don’t push. You don’t chase him down or beg for clarity. You’re too scared of what it might do to the delicate thread tying the two of you together- so you let him keep pretending. You help. You joke. You nod along when he makes some stupid remark about Freddie Mercury’s god-tier vocal range.
But neither of you laughs the same.
The air’s different now- tight, humming, like a storm you both agreed not to name. You make it through the rest of the afternoon with polite smiles and long, loaded silences where your knees accidentally touch and neither of you breathes.
Eventually, you say you’ve gotta head home. Something about chores, or helping your mom, or feeding your cat. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get out.
He walks you to the door, as always. He tells you to page him when you get home, as always.
He doesn’t mention the kiss. At all.
And you don’t either.
Not until you’re in your room later that night, lights off, fingers brushing your bottom lip like you’re checking to see if the feeling’s still there.
You try journaling. You write “HE KISSED ME” in all caps three times before ripping the page out and stuffing it under your bed like a confession. Then you pace. Then you lay down. Then you sit back up. Then you wonder what would’ve happened if you kissed him back just a little harder, or said something like, “Do it again.”
But you didn’t.
And now you’re spiraling, tangled in your sheets, a cherry flavored ghost still dancing across your lips, trying to figure out if he meant it- or if he was just being Eddie.
It’s been days.
Days since “The Incident.”
Days since the kiss he never explained. Days since you half-lost your mind and wrote a fake letter to him you’ll never send titled, Dear Eddie, please do that again, I beg of you.
Now you’re back at his trailer, like nothing happened- except everything did. You’re both pretending to be normal. Again. You’re on the couch. Again. He’s doing that dumb thing where he pokes your knee with his toe like a child seeking attention. Again.
But tonight, you’re ready. Tonight, you brought props.
You wait until the timing’s perfect- he’s mid-rant about how Ace of Spades was robbed at the Grammys' when you interrupt with:
“Hey, so… remember when you totally stole my chapstick with your mouth and then never brought it up again?”
He chokes on a handful of Doritos. “I mean, stole is a strong word-”
You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure there’s a federal charge for grand larceny of flavored lip balm.”
He snorts, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright, maybe I panicked. Maybe I got carried away.”
You lean forward on your elbows, casual but not really. “You know there’s an actual Chapstick Challenge, right? Where you’re supposed to guess the flavor by kissing someone?”
He freezes. “…That’s real?”
“Yup.” You pull a little zippered pouch from your bag and spill a rainbow army of chapsticks onto the table. “I brought options.”
His eyes go huge. “You’re kidding.”
You smirk. “Nope. Wanna try the official version this time?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
He launches himself across the couch, lips crashing into yours with so much enthusiasm you laugh into the kiss. His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting for clearance, and yours tangle in that ridiculous mop of curls. It’s messy and a little clumsy, both of you grinning like idiots between breaths.
You taste like strawberry first. He gets it right. Then vanilla mint. Right again.
“Okay,” he gasps between kisses, “I’m kind of a prodigy at this.”
“Shut up and kiss me again.”
He does. Over and over between applications. With gusto. With reverence. With the sort of soft desperation that only comes from finally getting the thing you thought you’d never have.
“Wait- what flavor is this?” he mumbles against your mouth.
You blink, confused. “I didn’t put anything on-”
He grins. “Hmm. Must just be ‘You.’ That one’s my favorite.”
You shove his shoulder. He kisses you harder.
Eventually, you’re a giggling, half-dazed mess on the couch, limbs tangled and chapstick containers strewn around like colorful evidence of the war you just won.
He pulls back only slightly, forehead pressed to yours, and whispers:
“So… you wanna, I dunno… maybe be my cherry-flavored girlfriend or something?”
You smile and kiss him again.
Translation: Yes.
