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“Stop! Squirming! ”
Ambient noise from the bar outside is drowned out by your laughter as your boyfriend tries to shift away.
“I’m not! I’m not!” He insists through a laugh of his own, all while wiggling even further away. “But…if I was, can you blame me? That thing is a torture device.”
Your gaze follows his toward the pencil eyeliner in your hand, and you roll your eyes. “If you didn’t move so much, it wouldn’t actually hurt. Here-” Looking around the tiny back hallway of the Hideout that’s being treated as a greenroom, your eyes land on a rolling desk chair and you pull it over. “Sit.”
Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, Eddie shoots you a lopsided grin before following your orders with a low, “yes ma’am.”
Behind you, Gareth whistles, scooping up his drumsticks and muttering, “good luck with that, Munson.” The room fills with the clinking of glasses and chatter of the bar’s regulars once again when he slips out the saloon door to finish setting up his kit.
“Alright, now,” you spin the chair so that Eddie is facing the dim overhead light and stop it by the armrests, then shift up onto it with a knee on either side of his hips and give a little wiggle for good measure, just to make sure you aren’t going to fall.
“Well hello ,” Eddie breathes through a smirk, his hands wrapping around to you to land securely on your ass, the fingers of his left hand tracing absently at the tear in the denim just below your cheek.
“Hi,” you purr back, reaching out to hold onto his chin firmly and then add, “eyes closed.”
Thankfully he listens.
Not that you don’t love the position you’ve found yourself in, but Rob the bartender just called for 5 minutes till showtime, and you’re not about to send Corroded Coffin out on stage with a frontman who’s only halfway ready.
You quickly finish lining his eyes with the pencil and smudging it out with your ring finger - with less resistance from him, but definitely a few attempts at distraction. When you shift forward his grip tightens on your behind, and when someone out front puts Judas Priest on the Jukebox, he uses every part of your body he can reach as a drum set; tapping out a rhythm on your hips, bouncing his knee and jostling your whole body along with it every few beats. You’re laughing the whole time but trying your best to get him show ready.
When you’re satisfied with your work, a smoked out black ring around his eyes and smudged down onto his cheekbones, you cap the pencil and slide it into your back pocket. His hair is crisp with Aqua Net when you reach out to ruffle it affectionately, and the action only musses it up even further. It’s a striking contrast, really, the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he smiles at you against the dark makeup and unkempt hair, but it’s so Eddie. You can’t help but smile back and grab his cheeks, pulling him to give him a proper kiss before you have to head out and take your place in the crowd.
“Break a leg,” you whisper against his lips, not wanting to part just yet.
He smirks again and leans back in the chair ever so slightly, the springs creaking against your combined weight, “with my good luck charm in the audience?” He pecks your lips once more, then your forehead, “baby, it’s guaranteed.”
You can hear Rob announcing the band over the crackling sound system and reluctantly get up, reaching for Eddie’s hand and dragging him toward the main room with you. Promises of seeing him after the show are rushed under your breath as he hops onto the stage, and you applaud loudly as you make your way to the bar to order a drink, urging the rest of the room to clap along with you.
The drunk next to you mutters something under his breath about men in makeup, but you just sip on your drink and roll your eyes, not taking the bait.
Because that eyeliner is just one of many pre-show rituals you and Eddie have, but it is by far one of your favorites.