Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Eddie lies on his back in bed, his bedroom darkened with only the sounds of his ceiling fan to fill the empty space. His dimmed phone screen casts shadows and harsh cool toned light on his face, highlighting the darkened bags under his eyes that his mother has been fretting about for a few days now. The hand that isn’t holding his phone is busy tracing the outline of his patch on Richie’s jacket that he accidentally took home with him that night, the one he hasn’t taken off in two days. It doesn’t really smell like Richie anymore.

He reads over the last text Richie sent him for what feels like the billionth time, sent a few hours after he dropped Eddie off at the end of movie night.

Bitchie>Spagheddie

3:02 am

Bitchie: hey i dont wana wake u up but uh

Bitchie: can i coe over wen u wake up?

Bitchie: i jst really need to talk

Spagheddie>Bitchie

6:34 am

Spagheddie: hey sorry but i cant hang today, im going on my run w ben and then moms making me go to church with her :/

Spagheddie: are you okay??

✓Read 6:34am

It’s been six days of radio silence from Richie, no texts or calls or pictures of stupid billboards he saw on his way to Portland. He’s texted Richie several times since then and even called him a few times, though the phone just rings hollowly until it goes to voicemail. He tries to come up with every possible explanation for Richie’s sudden drop off the grid, but he always finds a flaw in his logic. Maybe he left his charger at home by accident and his phone died. Maggie and Went’s phones have the same charger, he could use theirs. Maybe he broke his phone. Maggie would immediately buy him a new one because him not having one makes her anxious. Maybe he’s just been busy and hasn’t had much time to be on his phone. Richie always texts the group chat about stupid things his family says when he visits. 

In the end he always ends up circling back to the same two theories, each sinking a stone in the turbulence of his stomach and making him nauseous in their own ways. 

Maybe he’s avoiding you

Or

Maybe he’s hurt.

He doesn’t know which is worse, and he doesn’t really want to find out. All he knows is that it's been six days since he’s heard from Richie, and two days since he had the energy to leave his room on his own volition for anything other than to go to the bathroom. He’s only eaten when his mother forces him to come down for dinner, yelling his name up the stairs until he emerges from his room to silently scarf down whatever tv dinner she’s dethawed and tossed in the microwave for not enough time. 

Ben’s been by a few times, virtually the only loser his mom doesn’t have something bad to say about and charming enough to convince her to let him in. Eddie hasn’t really felt like going on runs, but Ben isn’t really there for that anyways. For the most part they don’t talk, or at least, Eddie doesn’t. Ben will fill him in on whatever project he’s working on for an online architecture course his shop teacher showed him, and sometimes he’ll lend encouraging words and reassurances Eddie’s way before he settles in on the floor against the bed and reads or sketches up his next project. Simply there to let Eddie know he’s not alone, and even though he can’t really express it at the moment, he appreciates it. 

He feels like a schoolgirl mourning the end of her first relationship, but he doesn’t remember the last time he felt this much anxiety pooled in his chest, swimming around his lungs to drown him from the inside out. He feels a little bit ridiculous, feels like he's definitely being overdramatic, but he doesn't think he’s gone this long without talking to Richie since they met , and he feels every second of it in his bones.

Part of him thinks he should text Maggie or Went, just to know that Richie is safe, but he hasn't gotten the chance to get their number since he got his phone a few months ago. He also figures that it'd be a pretty big breach of boundaries; If Richie really is just avoiding Eddie, he probably doesn't want his parents suddenly weighing in. Instead, Eddie takes a deep breath and starts a new group chat.

Spagheddie>Himbo Denbrough +4 more

11:48 pm

Spagheddie: hey has anyone heard from rich? i haven’t heard from him in like a week

Beaverly: nothin here :/ 

Himbo Denbrough: me neither didn’t he say he was going out of town?

Birdman: yeah but it’s not like him to just drop off the face of the earth

Cowboy Grandpa: i'm sure he just broke his phone or something

Eddie decides to bite his tongue at that in a thinly veiled attempt to keep the others from knowing just how much he’s over-thought this already.

Megabloks: I haven't heard anything since movie night

Spagheddie: im worried,,, this isn’t like him at all

Beaverly: maybe he just needs some time to himself while hes away?

Birdman: he has been kinda off lately, im sure bevs right

Spagheddie: but he would tell us right???

He’s about to fill the group chat with his various theories on Richie’s sudden absence when another text comes in from Ben, this one outside of the group chat.

Megabloks>Spagheddie

11:54 pm

Megabloks: Hey I just thought of this, didn’t really think anything of it in the moment but Richie texted me after movie night

Megabloks: It seemed kinda off but then you told me he was going out of town and I figured it had something to do with that

Megabloks: :ss.richietexts.jpg:

The picture that Ben sends is a screenshot of his texts with Richie the day after movie night, and Eddie’s breath hitches as he reads it.

Bitchie>Megabloks

6:35am

Bitchie: hey 

Bitchie: tke care of eddie whn im gone?

Bitchie: thx

Megabloks>Bitchie

8:20 am

Megabloks: Sure man, everything good?

Richie hasn’t read Ben’s text even 6 days later, and suddenly Eddie feels like the air has been punched from lungs. His hands shake as he brings the phone to his ear, eyes clenched shut as he listens to it ring.

“Hey Eddie, you feelin’ any better?” Comes Ben’s honeyed greeting, soothing the quickened beats of Eddie’s heart if only a little. 

“I-I think Richie’s hurt and I don’t- don’t know what to do,” He hiccups as tears well in his eyes, desperately trying to catch the breath that seems to be running away from him. 

“Heyheyhey, you don’t know that Eddie. Take a deep breath, do you need your inhaler?” He asks gently, no judgement to be found in his tone. Eddie shakes his head frantically before remembering Ben can’t see him.

“No, no I don’t I just- this isn’t like him at all, he won’t pick up the phone o-or even look at texts and I-I’m worried,” He takes a shaky breath and holds it before breathing out, “I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay to be scared, but I’m sure Richie’s perfectly fine-”

“But how do you know? He could be hurt o-or scared and alone or fucking- fucking dead , Ben! What if he’s f-fucking dead I can’t- can’t do this s-shit without him I-” He interrupts himself with strained breaths, sitting up in bed and clutching at his hair in a last ditch attempt to ground himself. His breaths are deep but too rapid to have any calming effect, his heart beating out of his chest so intensely that his mind screams at him that he’s having a heart attack. He clutches at his shirt underneath Richie’s jacket, whimpering as he scratches at the base of his neck like if he can claw his throat open it might just get some air into his lungs. 

“Eddie please, you need to breathe . I know you’re worried, I am too, but please just try to breathe. I’ll breathe with you, okay? I’ll count for you, just follow me okay?” All Eddie can do is whimper in response as Ben leads him through a breathing exercise, one he explains that his mother used to use to calm him whenever he was upset when he was younger. 

After a few minutes Eddie finally feels like he can breathe again, even if his breaths still rattle as he draws them in. His eyelids feel heavy and he can’t seem to blink away the throbbing pain just behind his eyes and radiating in his temple, and he's more tired than he’s felt since the Fourth of July. He wipes at his dampened cheeks with the sleeve of Richie’s jacket, sniffling pitifully to himself.

“Thank you,” He mumbles, voice too thick to produce anything louder. The skin at the base of his throat stings where he’s scratched it red and raw, and he stomps down the anxiety that whispers at him that it’s going to get infected. 

“Of course. Are you okay?” Ben asks quietly, matching Eddie’s volume like anything louder will send him into another spiral. Maybe it would. He doesn’t feel like he knows anything anymore. 

“What if he’s hurt?” He murmurs in lieu of an answer, feeling small as he lays back down and curls into the worn denim of the jacket blanketing him. 

“I know you’re worried Eddie but we can’t focus on what if’s right now, you know? I’m sure Bev’s right and he just needs some time to himself while he visits family. We’ll see him again when he gets back in town and get this whole thing sorted out, alright?” His tone leaves no room for argument while remaining soft, the firm sort of reassurance Eddie needs when his thoughts get away from him like that. 

“Alright,” He breathes even though a very persistent part of him still screams that something is wrong. But Ben is right, there’s no use working himself up when he doesn’t even know if there’s anything to get worked up about. Then again, he’s spent his whole life getting worked up over anything his mother deemed unsafe whether it was rational or not, so he thinks he has a bit of an excuse there.

"Just try to get some sleep, please? You really need the rest," Ben pleads, the tiredness in his own voice seeping through.

"I will, thanks again," Eddie yawns, eyes already weighed shut with the exhaustion of a hundred sleepless nights, "G'night Ben."

"Night Eddie. Talk to you tomorrow."

"Maggie?” Eddie calls from where he clutches his inhaler in Keene’s pharmacy, instantly recognizing the tight black curls at the top of a tall, thin silhouette. She jumps slightly at the sound of her name, turning quickly enough that she drops the box of gauze she’d been reaching for.

“Oh! Eddie, I didn’t see ya there,” She smiles shakily as Eddie crouches to collect the dropped boxes for her, “Thank you,” She breathes when he straightens and hands the box back to her with furrowed brows.

“Yeah it’s been a while huh?” He wonders as she pulls him into a tight hug against her chest, and he thinks he can feel her shaking, “How are you doing? How’s Went?” He wants to ask are you okay but thinks it might be a bit invasive, but in all honesty, she looks awful. Her eyes are red rimmed and puffy behind her glasses, and her usually immaculately kept curls are frizzy and sticking out in all the wrong directions like she’s been running her hands through them  too much. Her smile is watery and fragile at best, the bags under her eyes deepened to a bruised purple, and everything about her body language screams tired . Maggie is taller than Eddie but not quite as tall as Richie- he’s always said the only thing he ever got from his dad was his height, and he’s not wrong- but she seems small there in the harsh, flickering fluorescent light of the pharmacy. Eddie’s heart picks up at that, each thump slamming against his ribcage with a rhythm that sounds suspiciously similar to the chant of he’s hurt, he’s hurt, he’s hurt on repeat in his head . 

“Oh, you know,” She gestures vaguely, doing her best to force a smile, “Things have been better,” Is what she decides on in the end, shifting the various boxes of medical supplies in her arms. Eddie has a brief flash of nausea, but he rights himself and paints on a worried furrow to his brow.

“I’m sorry,” He frowns, “Did something happen in Portland? When’d you guys get back?” He asks innocently enough, carefully watching the confused scrunch of her nose that’s painfully reminiscent of Richie. 

“Portland..?” She mutters with a tilt of her head, her brows creasing more insistently now, “What do you mean? We haven’t gone out of town any time recently.”

It’s an answer that at least a part of him had been expecting whether he acknowledged it or not, but his heart still sinks like the stone it’s solidified into nevertheless.

“W-what do you mean? Richie said you were…”  He breathlessly trails off, clutching his closed fist around his placebo inhaler so tightly he hears the plastic creak. His vision swims as Maggie’s features bloom with realization, taking on a gentle empathy that brings his knees a little closer to giving out.  

“Oh sweetheart,” Her voice trembles and the vibrations crack at Eddie’s ribs as her eyes well up, “Richie’s been in the hospital since last Sunday.”

He only registers her voice as far as hospital before the ringing in his ears drowns her out, his eyes glossing over with a far away stare that isn’t really seeing anything at all. He’s all too aware of the way the air in the pharmacy seems to be thinning out, the way his chest caves in and the prickling heat in the back of his nose. He’s less aware of the trembling of his fingers where they grip on his inhaler in one hand and the itchy fabric of his church slacks in the other; He’s caught somewhere between hypervigilant and completely dissociative, feeling like he’s watching himself disintegrate from a perspective that isn’t his own. 

“- woke up a few days ago, thank the heavens,” He realizes that Maggie is still speaking to him with her waterlogged voice and quivering form. When he looks back to her face he distantly registers the tears collecting at her jaw and the corners of her lips, and he doesn’t know what to say, knows there isn’t anything he could say to make this okay, to make her stop crying, to get Richie out of the hospital. He feels numb and hollowed as he turns away wordlessly, lets his legs carry his blank mind out the doors of Keene’s pharmacy into the beautiful warmth of the sun that feels like cruel mockery when it kisses his artificially chilled skin. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going as he turns to head down the sidewalk, but he breaks into a sprint, church slacks too tight and dress shoes a little too big for the way his feet pound against the sidewalk. His lungs burn bright but his eyes burn brighter and he shuts them against the breeze that whips his hair into his eyes, trusting his legs to carry him away from Keene’s, away from Maggie, away from himself, away away away. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he’ll be damned if he stops to think about it before he gets there. 

He’s barrelling through the door of the Denbrough house before he can think about it, too distracted to be thankful that neither Sharon nor Zach are home to question his rude appearance. He tumbles up the stairs with bleary eyes and he must be making way too much noise because Bill’s already standing outside his bedroom when Eddie gracelessly arrives on the landing, staring at him with a bewildered type of concern that finally rips a choked cry from Eddie’s throat. His hands are braced on his knees and the sob that wracks his body is enough to have him feeling a little unsteady on his feet, like a gust of wind or an unkind word could topple him completely. 

“E-Eddie what-” Bill doesn’t bother to finish his sentence before he’s rushing forward, hands hovering like he’s afraid that if he touches Eddie that he might crumble in his hands. Eddie thinks he really could. 

“Billy,” He whimpers breathlessly, falling forward into Bill’s chest with the ingrained trust that he’ll be caught, the knowledge that he always has been. He feels Bill stiffen beneath him before comforting arms wrap around his back and press him closer, ever the pillar he’s always been to Eddie, to all the losers. 

At some point they move from the stair landing to Bill’s room, with Bill backed up against the headboard and Eddie curled against his side, snivelling against his collarbone in a way that would disgust him if he were any more present. As it is he can do nothing but quietly weep in the other boy’s lap, listening to the quiet hums in Bill’s chest and feel his steady breaths against his cheek.

Bill whispers a quiet mantra of It’s okay, you’re okay, I've got you, into Eddie’s hair, palm gently gliding over his shoulder and occasionally squeezing it in a way that feels so familiar that Eddie can’t help but feel comforted by the steady weight of one of his best friends. It’s in moments like this that Bill’s stutter seems to all but disappear, his voice even and grounded in the way Eddie desperately needs it to be. He thinks it might just break him if the certainty in Bill’s reassurances wavers in the slightest. 

Bill doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t prod Eddie for answers he doesn’t have, answers he’s still searching for himself. Bill gives him space to think and the solace of not doing it alone, grounding him just enough to keep his thoughts on a consistent path. Eddie thinks that maybe Bill’s unquestioning comfort is the reason his body brought him here when his brain couldn’t steer him. 

The only thoughts occupying his mind are about Richie Richie Richie , as if that’s anything new. Richie hurt, Richie in a hospital bed, Richie scared, Richie alone. He whimpers quietly at the idea of it and buries his nose in the crook of Bill’s neck like it’ll shield him from his own thoughts. He can’t stop circling back to the last time he’d seen Richie; The way he’d painted on a too-wide smile that still didn’t reach his eyes, the way he’d so effortlessly told Eddie he was going out of town, the way he’d lied so easily like he’s done it a billion times before.

And still Eddie can’t figure out why , but he knows that there’s still pages of this story missing. Because Richie's always had an overactive imagination, spinning stories tailor made for each of the losers' individual humor because he knows exactly how to get them to laugh, but he never lies . Depending on who you asked Richie Tozier is a lot of things, but he sure as hell isn't a liar. 

But he’s been more than a little off since school let out, maybe before that if Eddie really thinks about it. Like regular Richie but a few inches to the left, his boisterous personality overlaid with something quieter, something a little dimmer. He thinks about the texts he sent after the last time they were together, I really need to talk. Tears start to spill over his lashes anew as the thought comes to him, a whisper in the back of his mind, that maybe this is his fault. Maybe if he’d talked less that night, asked Richie what was wrong like he’d intended to earlier in the night, never tried to talk about his crush, that maybe he’d be at Richie’s house right now instead of Bill’s. Maybe he’d be helping Maggie with dinner instead of helping her pick up boxes of gauze, laying with Richie reading comics instead of crying with Bill as Richie sits alone in a hospital bed. 

Because as much as he doesn’t want to acknowledge it- even though he’ll still pray that he’s wrong- Eddie knows what happened. The convenient cover up for the time missed, the look on his face when he thought no one was paying attention. His text to Ben; Take care of Eddie when I’m gone. When instead of while. When, with all its implications of inevitable finality, its decisive conclusions.

Eddie chokes on the thought that if he’d just let Richie come over, even for a few minutes, that this wouldn’t have happened. His sobs come back twice as violent this time around, his sternum feeling as though it might cave in with every gasping intake of air as Bill desperately works to calm him down. 

Part of him feels that maybe he should tell Bill why he’s crying, thinks he should tell Bill what Maggie told him at Keene’s. Because Richie is Bill’s friend too, and he would be just as heartbroken. But if Richie wanted them to know he’d tell them, and it isn’t Eddie’s secret to spill. 

Another more selfish part of him thinks he doesn’t want Bill to know because he needs the comfort, the blind reassurance that things will be okay. He knows it’s a shameful thought to have, but the shelter of Bill’s arms is too sturdy to leave behind. So he stays where he is, pressed into the hollows of Bill’s body until eventually his eyes close, and the tears stop.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up but the throbbing pain behind his eyes tells him it hasn’t been long enough. He shifts in bed, feeling a light blanket brush his hip where his button up has come untucked and ridden up his side. He throws his arm to the side with his eyes still closed, frowning when the body he’s inefficiently searching for isn’t there. He rolls onto his side and pushes up on his elbow, rubbing at one eye as he slowly blinks the other open. 

“Bill?” He calls out timidly, voice raw and gravelled from crying. Bill turns to him with a gentle smile from where he’s sat at his desk, right hand flicking a pencil as he sits bent over his notebook.

“You’re a-awake,” He states, setting the pencil down and turning in his desk chair to more openly face Eddie. He runs a hand through his hair before leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, crystalline eyes dancing over Eddie’s worn features like they might give him some answers, “You wanna ta-talk about it?”

“No,” Eddie states simply, sitting up in the bed and staring down at crumpled bed sheets.

“Okay,” And Bill doesn’t push, because he never does. 

“What time is it?” 

“Almost th-three,” Bill replies casually as Eddie reaches for his phone, groaning at the numerous texts from his mom crowding his lockscreen.

 “My mom’s pissed,” Eddie sighs, anxiously clutching at his hair as he tries to think of an explanation as to why a pharmacy run took him damn near five hours. Sorry mom, I found out the boy I have a huge gay crush on is in the hospital and I had a mental breakdown so now I'm at Bill's, see ya tonight! Yeah, he figures that won’t necessarily go over too well.

“A-are you still wanting to come to the qwa-quarry tonight? You can just s-stay here till we go if you wa-want,” Bill offers as he stands to stretch, leaning against the desk instead and crossing one ankle over the other and his arms over his chest.  

“Fuck, I forgot that’s tonight,” He sighs, sliding to the edge of the bed and plucking at a loose thread on one of the buttons of his shirt, “Yeah, I’ll stay here I guess, I’ll be fine by tonight,” That’s not really true, but he’ll certainly feel better staying than if he goes home. 

“You wa-wanna borrow some clothes? Those ca-can’t be comfortable,” He gestures to Eddie’s church clothes with a skeptical brow.

“Ugh yes please, I’m pretty sure I’ve had these pants since 7th grade and they definitely don’t fit anymore,” Eddie eagerly pushes off the bed and goes to Bill’s dresser, backed by too many years of friendship to play shy about it.

“They b-barely reach your an-ankles,” Bill snorts, watching Eddie rifle through the bottom drawer where he knows most of Bill’s older- and subsequently smaller- clothes are kept, “A-and that’s s-s-saying something for you,” He snickers. 

“Oh shut up, I’m not even that much smaller than you,” Eddie hisses as he pulls out an old t-shirt and black joggers, throwing them to the bed and turning to lightly shove Bill towards the door, “Now get out, I need to change.” 

“This is m-my room!”

“Yeah and I’m a guest, don’t be fuckin’ rude,” He chastises with a small smile as he pushes Bill out of the room. Bill just laughs and turns, catching on the doorframe.

“You hungry at all? I can s-start the oven and we can m-make pizza rolls,” He offers with a knowing smirk, knowing Eddie never gets to have pizza rolls at home and practically foams at the mouth at even the mention. 

“William Denbrough, I would love some pizza rolls, go start the oven and I’ll be down in a sec,” He instructs as he grips the handle to the door.

“O-only if you agree to never call me W-William again,” He scrunches his nose in distaste, “You sound like my m-mom.”

“I’m closing the door now,” Eddie sings as he does just that, strutting back over to the bed as he listens to Bill’s laughs trail further down the hall. He dresses quickly and for the most part the clothes fit, the shirt baggy but not overly-so, and the pants a little loose on his hips and just a bit too long but nothing unbearable. He leans down and cuffs the bottoms of the joggers, before folding his church clothes neatly on the bed and glancing around for where Bill put his shoes. He scrunches his nose at them when he sees them by the bed, debating asking Bill to borrow a pair of tennis shoes but knowing they won’t fit. He turns away and decides to worry about it later, standing in front of Bill’s full body mirror to take a good look at himself. 

His hair is ruffled on one side and flat on the other, sticking up at odd angles in the front where he’d been gripping at it. He’s got the ghost of a pillow imprint pressed into the left side of his face, ruddy cheeks the same red color as his puffy eyes. He looks about as good as he feels, and he grimaces at his reflection as he tries to tame his hair into something at least vaguely presentable. He turns away from the mirror before he can focus too much on why he looks half dead, shaking his head as he finally heads downstairs to where he can hear Bill milling around in the kitchen. He looks back over his shoulder from where he’s digging in the freezer, smiling warmly when he sees Eddie and pulling out the treasured bag of Totinos. 

“G-good timing,” Bill chirps as he closes the freezer door and walks over to the baking sheet he’d set out, tearing a corner of the bag with his teeth in a way that makes Eddie squirm, “H-how many do you want?”

“Honestly just pour the whole thing and we’ll split it, I haven't eaten since breakfast,” He admits, patting at his stomach when it gives a well-timed growl. Bill just shrugs agreeably and tears the rest of the bag open, upturning it and noisily spilling its contents onto the baking sheet. He sets the timer on the oven and sticks the sheet in the oven, closing it and leaning his hip against the handle. 

“12 minutes o-on the clock,” He smiles as Eddie moves to seat himself atop one of the benches by the island. They talk aimlessly for a while, Bill telling Eddie about how he and Mike have started watching Avatar the Last Airbender together and have already decided which Nation each of the losers would belong to. At some point he mentions the upcoming cross country tryouts and how he needs to buy new running shoes, and Eddie remembers his earlier debacle.

“Hey, before we go to the quarry later can we stop by my house? I need to drop off my clothes and grab some different shoes,” He explains, mind wandering to the worn denim jacket still laying on his bed from where he’d fallen asleep in it last night, “And some other stuff,” He tacks on distantly.

“S-sure, as long as you can m-make it back out without your mom k-killing you,” Bill chuckles, perking up at the sound of the oven’s timer sounding. He turns and opens up the oven, leveling Eddie with a slightly mournful look that stills him in his seat, “This is my l-least favorite part,” He sighs before turning back to the oven and reaching for the sheet with his bare hands, grabbing it and hissing as he quickly works to roughly toss it onto the countertop, muttering curses and ‘ow’s as he does so. 

Eddie can do nothing but stare with wide eyes in absolute shock, mouth agape at the sheer stupidity of everything that is Bill Denbrough. Eventually he can do nothing but laugh at the wounded puppy dog look Bill casts his way, a full-bellied laugh that has him doubled over the kitchen island and tears edging the corners of his eyes. It’s a welcome distraction.

“You’re so fucking dumb Bill,” He giggles breathlessly, tone too fond to be mean, “You should really leave the cooking to Mikey,” Bill pouts in return, but Eddie can see the slight upturn at the corners of his lips, and his chest feels a little lighter.

They divvy up their pizza rolls and make their way to the living room couch to put on a movie neither of them pay attention to, and if Eddie steals a few extra from Bill’s plate, the other boy doesn’t mention it. They stay in more or less the same position until the sun starts to fall behind the trees, signaling them that it’s time to get a move on and meet up with the others. Eddie grabs his pile of clothes from upstairs- slipping back into his dress shoes for the time being, no matter how much he dislikes them- while Bill dumps their plates in the sink and starts the car. 

Sonia is asleep in her rocking chair when Eddie quietly pushes through the front door, the blinking light of whatever soap she’s watching this time bathing her in dim cool toned light that washes her out. Eddie makes quick work of going upstairs and placing his church clothes on his bed, kicking off his dress shoes a little more aggressively than strictly needed in favor of his best running shoes. Before he leaves he makes sure to grab Richie’s jacket, his mind already spinning through an arsenal of excuses for why he grabbed it as he slips his arms through the sleeves. Bill gives him a look when he slides back into the car that Eddie can’t quite pin down- something pitiful almost, but with a more knowing undercurrent. It leaves a bitter taste on Eddie’s tongue- but he doesn’t mention it as he backs out of the driveway.

By the time they climb out of the car at their designated meeting spot near the quarry, Bev, Ben, and Stan are already waiting for them. Stan is the only one wearing actual swimming clothes- that are visible, at least- because he is, as always, the only sensible one, and Mike has yet to arrive. Eddie wordlessly wanders over to Ben and Bev, receiving twin sympathetic smiles as he folds himself into Ben’s chest with his arms tucked between their torsos. Ben wraps his arms around Eddie’s back without hesitation, squeezing him just the right amount to be comforting and grounding without crushing him.

“Hey Eddie,” He hums as Eddie pulls away with a valiant attempt at a smile, turning to wrap his arms around Bev’s lower back and rest his cheek on the sun-warmed skin of her shoulder. 

“Glad ya made it spaghetti, we’ve missed ya,” She wraps one arm around his shoulders as the other hand comes up to ruffle his hair affectionately, and Eddie doesn’t have the energy to correct the nickname- he never does, really, when it comes to anyone but Richie. It just isn’t as much fun. But he’s trying really hard not to think about Richie right now, so he shakes the thought and smiles a little brighter at her before he breaks away to hug Stan.

His hug with Stan is brief, which isn’t surprising, because Stan’s never really been one for abundant physical affection. But there’s a kind of unspoken understanding hanging in the air that Eddie’s had a rough week, and he sure as hell looks like it, so he doesn’t need to ask for hugs or be questioned, and they all know it.

There’s something uniquely comforting about each of the losers’ individual hugs, something that radiates from each of them differently. Ben’s hugs are easily given and all encompassing, an infinite warmth that wraps around you like a blanket. Bev’s hugs are more like the slow warming to the core that you feel when you lay in the sun after swimming, fatigue weighing your bones in the most blissful way. Eddie’s never been on a plane- too many germs in airports, according to his mother- but he imagines stepping onto solid ground after a long flight feels pretty similar to the hugs Bill gives. Stan’s hugs are soothing in the way that Vicks vaporub is when you’re sick, relaxing every aching muscle you might have and bringing about a kind of hard-to-pin nostalgia that’s readily welcomed. Mike’s hugs are some of Eddie’s favorites, like drinking freshly brewed lavender tea surrounded by old books and candles with pretty scents. Mike is also just a hell of a lot bigger than Eddie, which is always nice when it comes to hugs. 

Richie’s hugs are- well. Eddie could wax poetic about how Richie’s hugs feel like drinking hot chocolate in the safety of your house when it’s snowing outside, or sitting in front of a fire on a rainy day when the sun hides behind greyed clouds and cracks of thunder. He could fawn over how Richie is just the perfect height for Eddie to slot against his chest like they’re vases molded from the same clay, how Richie always rubs shapes into the space between Eddie’s shoulder blades in a way that’s so minutely comforting that he probably isn’t even thinking about it. He could give a starry eyed monologue to rival Shakespeare’s about Richie’s hugs, but really, he doesn’t need to. Every metaphor and analogy he could come up with would all lead back to the same point: Richie’s hugs are like home. No monologue required.

Mike shows up not too long after Eddie and Bill, and as Mike hugs him with enough enthusiasm to briefly lift his feet from the ground, he feels some of the water that’s been crowding his lungs start to retreat. They all chat idly as they unpack towels and a cooler from their cars, Bev proudly boasting that she brought beers and wine coolers if any of them care to partake. Eddie sees all kinds of problems with that and promptly starts in on a rant as they begin to walk down to the bank about the dangers of drinking and swimming, especially at night, are you stupid- when they all hear a car rolling over the gravel toward them. Their conversations halt as they listen to the tires come to a stop and the opening of a door, a familiar playlist quietly floating through the air with an even more familiar voice humming along.

Richie appears over the hill of the embankment a few seconds later, an easy smile stretching his lips as he strolls along like nothing happened.

Several of the losers let out a unison chorus of “Richie!” as they all rush forward to greet him. Stan hangs back for a second with the small smile that Stan does- the one that to everyone else looks like barely anything at all, but to the losers is as good as a shit-eating grin- before he ambles over to join the group hug that’s formed around their missing member. 

And Eddie? Eddie stays put, feet firmly planted as his vision tunnels and zeros in on wire frame glasses and untamed curls.

If he wasn’t sure before, Eddie is now a firm believer in the fact that time, as a concept, is utter bullshit. Because it shouldn’t be able to stretch at will like this, slow and expand like wading through molasses, to manipulate Eddie’s already poor perception skills. Suddenly he feels like he’s watching the rest of the losers through a two way mirror, bearing witness to the festivities in front of him without really being a part of them, separated by a wall they aren’t even aware is present.

Because Richie looks- Richie looks fucking fine . He looks so god damn, impeccably okay that Eddie almost questions his own sanity, wonders if the past week of worrying and the conversation with Maggie at Keene’s ever really happened. Sure, he’s a little pale, and the bags under his eyes are sunken in and a little darker than usual, and Eddie would confidently wager that he’s lost some weight, but maybe the others don’t notice those things the way Eddie does. And he’s almost convinced himself that he’s crazy, that he’s finally hit the mental break he always kind of anticipated and somehow conjured up the past week entirely inside his own head, when Bill glances back over his shoulder at Eddie, that same, bitter tasting look he’d given Eddie in the car rearing its ugly head again. Except this time it’s laced with an unmistakable excitement, a silent “Look! He’s here!” kind of glimmer that for some reason both freezes his veins shut and boils his blood at the same time.

Richie’s wearing the black and white horizontal striped longsleeve that he hasn’t worn in months- its fucking August, they’re about to go swimming, what the fuck- with his ugliest hawaiian shirt hanging open over it, plain ripped black jeans covering most of his legs. His hair curls out from his head like the devil's horns, frizzy and messier than usual but with none of its usual volume or life. And Eddie really is worried he’s losing it, because somehow this outfit is wrong , and it's unsettling enough to quicken his heartbeat. Because the outfit is by no means normal- no sane person would ever wear that, the patterns clash and frankly it’s just fuckin’ ugly together, but its not wrong in the right way. There’s no absurd phrases written across the chest in curly letters, no hat with something vaguely sexual stitched into the front, no fishnets or booty shorts or anything even remotely eye-catching in the way Richie’s outfits always are. By Richie’s standards this is the most boring outfit he’s worn in months, and something about it completely solidifies the reality of this situation to Eddie. Richie was in the hospital no more than twelve hours ago, hooked up to god knows what kinds of machines, barely fucking alive a few days ago by Maggie’s account.

And now he’s here, standing in front of Eddie surrounded by all their friends, grinning with buck teeth and acting like nothing fucking happened. And Eddie almost wants to snap. Something in him is twisted too tight, hanging by a last thread of patience as he finally tunes into Richie’s loud greetings.

“Where the fuck have you been, Trashmouth?” Bev questions in an excited yell, jumping onto Richie’s back and playfully choking him out as he cackles, “Did Satan himself finally come to get your dumbass?”

“He wishes he could get a piece 'o this sweet ass,” He replies without missing a beat, grinning as he spins in a circle with Bev happily screeching as she does her best to hang on, “That would’a been way more interesting than whatever the fuck I’ve been up to the past week.”

“Yeah w-what gives, you just d-disappeared on us,” Bill’s attempt at an interrogation is undermined by the fond smile stretching his lips.

“Some of us were very worried,” Stanley chimes in from behind Bill, wicked smirk twisting his mouth, “I have no idea why, I was really enjoying the peace and quiet,” He grins as Richie barks out a laugh, shoving at Stan before wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him tightly into his side. 

“I missed you too Stanley the Manly,” He coos in a baby voice, ruffling Stan’s hair until he’s inevitably pushed off. 

Meanwhile Eddie's having a fucking out of body experience on the sidelines, so far unnoticed by the others. 

“Seriously man, what happened? You drop dead or something?” Mike chuckles fondly, and Eddie’s shoulders stiffen at the same time that he watches Richie’s smile falter, a split second fracture in the facade that has every atom making up Eddie’s body absolutely screaming .

“Yeah, ha,” Richie forces an awkward laugh, shaking his head minutely as if to get himself back in the right mindset, “Got into a fight with the old man the day we left and he took my phone,” He feigns annoyance like a pro, and Eddie wants to scream and laugh and cry all at once. 

“You feelin alright though? I mean, not to be a dick but you look kinda rough Rich,” Ben observes, and Eddie feels a strange sense of relief that someone else notices, the smallest validation that this isn’t just his paranoia or his medical anxiety picking apart Richie’s features to find something wrong after a week of not seeing him whatsoever. Richie certainly doesn’t feel the same comfort, if the panic that momentarily flashes in his eyes is anything to go by. 

“Haystack, nothing you could say could ever make me think you’re being a dick,” Richie reassures with that same toothy grin and a nudge to Ben’s shoulder, “If you must know, I think one of my nieces got me sick or something, haven’t been feelin’ too hot the past few days,” Eddie has to give it to him, he’s quick on his feet with the lies, but to be fair, he’s probably had a few days to think about it. Eddie’s stomach churns, and he wants to cause a scene, throw a fit that he’s lying , he was hurt, he almost fucking died-

But he can’t. Because Richie is making it more than clear that he doesn’t want the losers to know, doesn’t want Eddie to know that he was in the hospital, why he was in the hospital. And the worst part is that Eddie can’t really blame them for believing him, because why wouldn’t they? Richie’s not a liar. And if Eddie hadn’t run into Maggie, he’d believe him too. Because the losers don’t know what Eddie knows. Richie doesn’t even know that Eddie knows, because clearly he doesn’t want him to. And something about that hurts, aches in a way that Eddie can’t really identify, but his vision’s a little hazy and it feels like he’s breathing through a straw.

And he wants to make a scene, but then Richie’s looking around past the losers, and Eddie’s forcibly pushed back into his own body again, his own perspective. Because he knows, on a deeply instinctive level, that it’s him that Richie’s searching for. 

“Anyways, where’s Eddie? Mrs. K got him locked up again?” And it’s almost theatrical, the way the losers so easily part, as if Richie is Moses commanding the same of the Red Sea. The easy grin that splits his cheeks when they lock eyes lights the fire in Eddie’s cheeks that’s been stomped out since last week, and he can already feel his resolve melting under the heat.

“Hey Eds,” He breathes, and something about it is just so fucking heart breakingly tender that it makes Eddie’s lower lip quiver, sparking that same tingling in the back of his nose that he’d felt in Bill’s bedroom. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that, you fucking-” And he wants to lay into him, call him an asshole and a dickhead and whatever other increasingly creative insults fall from his lips, to fall into routine and claim some kind of normalcy. But he sees the furrow of Richie’s brow, the brief way he flinches back like he’s bracing to be hit, and it mutes anything else that might have followed. He clamps his mouth shut so hard his teeth click together and simply stares at Richie for a beat before he’s shaking his head and taking a step forward. The step quickly turns into a sprint before he's practically tackling Richie to the ground, crashing into his chest hard enough that Richie lets out an audible ‘oof.’

“Asshole,” He breathes shakily into Richie’s breastbone as the taller boy regains his composure and wraps his arms around Eddie’s back in return, burying his nose in Eddie’s- still unbearably messy- hair. He clutches at Richie’s ugly hawaiin shirt so hard that his fists shake, but they’re no different from the rest of him anyways. And Richie must notice, because he hugs Eddie even closer, curling down and around him and pressing them so tightly together that Eddie’s forced to stand on his toes, and he wants to cry at the feeling of it, the absolutely euphoria making his chest so light he feels a little dizzy with it. He tries his best to ignore the nagging thought that he came so close to never having this again, having Richie again, in his arms and pressed to every inch of him like they were made to go together. His throat burns and he can feel the tears gathering on the edges of his eyelashes, so he buries his nose further in Richie’s shoulder and thinks if there is a god, please just let me have this. Just this, and I’ll be happy.

"Is this my jacket?" Richie asks a little too loudly with a little too much humor in his tone as he starts to pull away to get a better look. Eddie only pulls him back in with twice as much force. 

"Shut up shut up shut the fuck up I can't fucking stand you," He hisses even as he burrows further into the juncture of Richie's neck. Richie simply chuckles low in his chest- Eddie can feel it vibrate against him- and squeezes him tighter, leaning down to place his lips closer to Eddie's ear. It sends a shiver up his spine that he chooses to ignore for the moment.

"I missed you too, Eds," Richie murmurs low enough for only Eddie to hear, so gentle and painfully genuine that he can't hide the broken hitch in his breath or the half-laugh-half-sob that tumbles past his lips. 

"Are you drama queens gonna keep hogging the moment or are we gonna get to swimming?" Beverly's teasing tone breaks through the bubble surrounding them to crash them back into the moment like she's pouring ice water onto their sleeping forms, yanking them back into reality so quickly that they each have to take a second to remember where they are and get their bearings. They pull away from each other, Richie grinning as wide as ever while Eddie has at least enough dignity to be embarrassed. It only lasts a second before he’s back into his rant about night-swimming as the others begin to strip down to their underwear.

“You guys can go ahead, me n’ Spaghetti will stay here and keep watch,” Richie swiftly cuts Eddie off, slinging an arm around the smaller boy even as he fumes silently at being interrupted once again. He raises a questioning brow at Richie, receiving only a small smile in return that does nothing to answer him.

“S-suit yourselves,” Bill shrugs, tugging his shirt off by the back of the neck, “Just try not to f-fuck too loudly,” He grins mischeviously and turns on his heels to run to the lakeshore before Eddie can swing at him, the others snickering and bumping past he and Richie as they run to join Bill.

“I hope you drown Denbrough!” Eddie calls back with burning ears and tingling in his chest, huffing when the others let out loud laughs and crash into the water, splashing each other as they head further towards the middle of the quarry. 

“Assholes,” Richie chuckles awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck as he starts to head back up the hill, “C’mon,” He turns to Eddie to nod his head in the direction of the cliff they all normally jump from, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

They stop at Richie’s truck on the way to the cliff, and he pulls the same blankets from the Fourth of July out from the toolbox in the back and carries them clutched to his chest as they trek the rest of the way up the hill. Richie sets out the blankets carefully on the ground as Eddie idly stands by, stacking them to create a more cushioned area to sit than the rough sandstone that makes up the cliff. They sit close but not close enough to be touching, and Eddie does his best to resist the urge to move closer. He hugs his legs to his chest and sets his chin on top of his knees in an attempt to keep warm, glancing at Richie who’s taking up far more space. He’s leaned back on his elbows in a way Eddie knows won’t be comfortable for long, one long leg stretched out with the other angled up at the clear sky hanging over them. He’s struck by the deep seeded need to get into Richie’s space and demand his attention, but the knowledge that he probably couldn’t handle it at the moment without breaking down again. He needs to be held but he would crumble under the touch, and at the same time, he feels like he’ll scream if anyone lays a finger on him again. 

And he kind of hates how pretty Richie looks like this, leaned back with his face turned toward the moon and his hair- God, it really has gotten long- hanging back out of his face. Eddie can’t help but think the cool tones of the night time suit him, bathing him in blue light and navy shadows that only serve to accentuate his eyes behind his thick lenses. Eddie can’t quite see his eyes from the angle he’s at but he’s sure he knows exactly what they look like in this light, clear and as blue as sapphires, sparkling in the particular way they only ever do under the moonlight. He looks a little paler like this but somehow it doesn’t wash him out, it only serves to make the freckles scattered across his nose all the more visible. Eddie would press a kiss to every one of them if Richie would let him. 

He feels like an absolute live wire, humming with excitement at being so close to Richie again but filled with the anxiety of every sensitive topic balancing on the tip of his tongue. He wants to confront Richie, ask him about the texts or the bags under his eyes or the long sleeves, but he bites his lip to hold it in, knowing it’s not the right time. The space around them feels too big, too open, the splashing and sounds of laughter and chatter from the losers below them reminding them that they aren’t alone, not really. And as much as Eddie wants answers, wants to make sure Richie’s okay, he knows that spaces like this aren’t meant for that kind of conversation. 

What breaks the silence hanging between them instead is, “Why’d you come if you aren’t gonna swim?” He mutters it absently, staring into the inky black expanse ahead and hoping Richie doesn’t take it as harshly as he worded it. Richie huffs a quiet laugh, which is a good sign.

“I’m happy to see you too, dollface,” He smirks, tilting his head to the side with a slightly more serious expression, “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Yeah, but I never swim at night. You could be havin’ fun with them, I guess I just don’t get why you’re sitting up here with me,” Eddie mumbles, resting his cheek on his knees to stare far too obviously at Richie’s sleeve riding up his wrist. Richie must notice, going by the way he sits up, pulls his sleeves down to cover his hands, and hunches forward. He rests one elbow on top of his bent knee and keeps the other hand in his lap. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m not havin’ fun sitting up here with you Spagheds,” He turns to Eddie with a gentler version of his usual grin, “Look, I knew if I didn’t come you’d just be sittin’ on the bank all by yourself like a dweeb, so I figured I might as well come bother you. Besides, I don’t really feel like swimming anyways.” 

Eddie doesn’t really know how to reply to that, so he doesn’t, opting instead to look back across the quarry and try to hide the small smile that tugs at his lips. They fall into a lull like that, simply existing in the same space without the need to fill the silence. Eddie listens to what sounds like a splash war down below, and Richie mindlessly toys with his hair with one hand and taps out a senseless rhythm on his thigh with the other. 

That morning feels so far away, feels like another life that had him standing in Keene’s in stiff dress shoes trying not to fall apart at his seams. The pain in his chest and the way his knees had shaken almost doesn’t feel real with Richie sitting next to him, humming a song that doesn’t exist and filling the space beside Eddie that he’s almost sure was made especially for Richie. Part of him wants to forget about it, to just move on and pretend he doesn’t know anything about Richie’s hospital stay, to get loud and bristley and joke with Richie in the same obnoxious way he’s gotten so used to. He thinks it would be nice to cling to the normalcy of it all.

But he can’t ignore the fatigue that bows his shoulders inward, the type of vaguely melancholic numbness that weighs the air around him so persistently. He can’t ignore the way his nose is still running from his earlier crying fits, or the way Richie keeps fiddling with his sleeves with shaky hands that look a little thinner than before. 

Part of him wants to forget about it, but the cruel reality of it is that he couldn’t even if he tried.

And he’s almost struck by how angry he feels. Not quite the boiling point, scream until your lungs ache with it kind of anger he’s used to- the kind his mother draws so effortlessly- but rather a low, simmering type of anger that feels sticky in his throat. And he’s not necessarily surprised that he’s angry- he’s pretty much always at least a little angry, just as a default. He thinks maybe he should work on that, but that’s a thought for another time- but he is surprised at just how persistent the fire licking at his sternum is. All he knows is that this anger has been broiling in him since that morning, though it had taken the backburner for a while to make room for the more urgent senses of panic and grief he’d been nursing. That’s what this is, really-he’s just cycling through the first four stages of grief over and over again trying to process the past week. And he hasn’t quite gotten to acceptance, relief straying just out of his reach even with Richie so solid and real beside him.

He closes his eyes against the light breeze that stings them, only to see images of Richie painted on his eyelids like he belongs there- he probably does. Stills of Richie with his head thrown back in laughter, grinning in the way he does that always accentuates his overbite; Eddie used to make jokes about it, but it was only ever to hide the way it always threw a wrench in his breathing. But just as they always seem to the past few days, the memories inevitably warp. He thinks of Richie at the barbecue, silently sitting back with no food in front of him as the rest of the losers loudly bantered with their mouths full. He thinks of the countless looks he’d gotten from Richie that day, the ones he couldn’t quite figure out, the ones Richie only casted when he thought Eddie wouldn’t see. He thinks of saying goodnight to Richie that night, of knowing he should turn back but going forward anyways, of his conscious screaming that something was wrong with Richie as his mom laid into him for being late because of that disgusting Tozier boy. He thinks of Richie’s last texts, of Richie staying up all night waiting for Eddie to reply only to be shot down, of the desperation he must have felt-

“Eds?” Richie’s voice rings clear even through the volume of Eddie’s muddled thoughts, a merciful pull back into reality that tugs him away from the metaphorical cliff’s edge, “You alright?”

He almost wants to laugh at the irony of Richie asking him if he’s okay.

“Hm?” He hums and shakes his head a bit, opening his eyes to take in the concerned furrow of Richie’s brow when he finally registers the question he’s been asked, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine just- just had a long day I guess.”

Part of him resents the quirked brow that lets him know Richie isn’t buying his shit excuse for a second. 

“No offense Eds, but you’re a shit liar,” He scoots closer as he talks, and Eddie’s skin both aches for the touch and screams for more space, “I can practically see the cogs turnin’ in your little head, what’s got you thinkin’ so hard?” He pokes at Eddie’s temple, and Eddie tries not to think of how easily he leans into the touch. He bats Richie’s hand away with a frown and hopes the cover is good enough.

“It’s really nothing, I promise,” But Richie doesn’t really seem to be taking no for an answer, so Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and steadies his breathing. And he lies, because it’s a hell of a lot easier, “I just- do you remember um, what we talked about on the Fourth of July? How you, uh, how you don't think you can fall in love?”

Richie doesn’t give much a reply outside of a slow nod, so he continues, looking down at the blanket beneath his feet, “Well I looked some more into it, and I think I figured out what it is,” By ‘looked more into it’ he means that he asked Bev, because she’s always known way more about this type of thing than he ever has, and that way his mom couldn’t find his search history, “And- and I might be wrong, you know, but you just seemed pretty upset about it so I thought I’d see if anyone else feels that way? Well uh, it turns out it’s like, actually kinda common? There’s a whole group o’ people that feel the same way, um, it’s called asexual- or, I guess aromantic, I don’t really know if you’d be asexual,” And he’s definitely rambling at that point, blood blooming high on his cheeks as he stumbles through an explanation, but Richie’s giving him this look that’s right on the edge of pure affection and he can’t really handle that right now.

“Eds-"

“I don’t know, I’m probably not making that much sense I just- you’re not alone, you know? Like, there’s a shit ton of people who feel the same way and- and it’s normal and it’s okay, ” He takes a breath to slow himself down, sitting a little straighter to look Richie dead in the eyes for the next part, “And it doesn't make you a bad person. It’s- you’re okay. You’re okay,” And maybe he repeats it more for himself than he does for Richie, but Richie doesn’t seem to notice, and Eddie thinks he’s earned at least that. 

Richie stares at him for a second like he’s searching for a crack in the surface, waiting for a punchline or a smirk or anything to tell him that Eddie might just be pulling some kind of cruel joke on him. But it doesn’t come. He turns away with a watery smile, adjusting his glasses like he’s resisting the urge to rub at his eyes and drawing in a shaky breath.

“Thanks,” He chuckles wetly, pushing his hair back away from his face and staring out towards the edge of the cliff. They listen to Bev chant ‘drown him!’ from below, and they look at each other for a brief second before dissolving into giggles, naturally leaning towards one another as they listen to Bill screaming in fear as Mike yells ‘get back here!’ after him.

“Yeah, get him!” Eddie cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, throwing his head back in laughter at the large splashing sound and cheers that follow, “Serves him right, that little asshole,” He snickers as he calms down, smile lingering as he turns to look over to where Richie’s fallen silent. He finds that Richie’s already watching him, lips parted and eyes a little wider than before. They glint with something Eddie thinks he might recognize but can’t quite name, something close enough to familiar that it gives him a sense of deja vu that sets off something warm in his chest and the tips of his ears. He turns away again, biting his lip to hold back the timid smile that stretches his reddened cheeks. 

“I mean it Eds, thank you,” Richie breaks the silence a moment later, voice quieter than before with a hint of hesitation. He opens his mouth a few times only to close it again, pursing his lip as he searches for the right words. He sighs, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before, “But, uh, I think-” He takes in a shaky breath, “I think I might have been wrong.”

And something about that sends an arrow through Eddie’s chest that feels like a strange cross between hope and panic. It’s barbed and goes straight between his ribs, stops just short of a beating heart that seems to speed up the longer Richie looks at him from the corner of his eye with his face scrunched up like he just said something he’s afraid is about to get him decked. 

“Oh,” Is the sound that’s punched from Eddie’s chest, falling from his lips not entirely with permission. He shakes his head a bit and plasters on a gentle smile to hide the mild panic nesting in his chest, “That’s great, Rich.”

Richie nods, shoulders settling back down as he turns his face away slightly and scratches at the back of his neck, “Yeah, it’s- it’s cool, I guess,” He breathes.

And Eddie knows he really, really shouldn’t ask, but, “Did, uh, did someone change your mind?” 

It's a question that doesn’t really have a right answer, a trap that’s going to leave Eddie feeling like shit either way. Because if Richie says no, then it’s a definitive end to any hope Eddie might have that his feelings aren’t unrequited, a boot stomping out the burning ember of optimism in his heart to reduce it to ash. But he knows, he knows so unequivocally that if Richie says yes, it’ll just introduce a whole new insecurity driven worry that it was someone else that finally caught Richie’s attention, someone far more worthy of it than he feels he is. And it isn’t really fair to Richie, because it’s a little selfish to probe at his identity crisis for clues as to if he might feel the same way Eddie does or not. But it’s a type of morbid curiosity that’s always been a downfall for him, the same kind that makes him poke at bruises just to see if they really hurt. There’s no way to win, but he waits with bated breath nonetheless.

“I don’t- I’m not really sure yet, I guess, but I-” Richie stops, shaking his head minutely with a frustrated furrow to his brow. He stops and turns to Eddie with a softer expression, that same almost-familiar glimmer in his eyes before he rephrases, “Yeah, yeah, I think so.” 

Eddie’s breath hitches and he can only nod, pressing his nose into the sleeve of Richie’s jacket and looking away once again. And he wants to ask a million questions, poke at the bruise until it darkens and he can feel the pain, however dull. He wants to ask who is it? Is it a boy or a girl? Is it someone I’d know? Is it one of the losers? Is it me? Please say it’s me. 

He feels tears start to well in his eyes and close his throat, suffocating him more than this week already has. Because frankly this week has been exhausting between the constant anxiety and the sleepless nights muddled with loud thoughts and quiet tears, and being around Richie is medicine that burns as it goes down. He’s struggling to keep his head above water when the yearning undertow has him in its hold and thoughts of you’re being selfish, this is your fault, Richie could have died, stop thinking about yourself are crashing at him in waves. And he wants to ask Richie about who he likes and be a good friend for once and show interest in what he has to say but he also kind of wants to cry and maybe he shouldn’t put Richie through that tonight.

All that he can manage in the end is a quiet, whispered plea of, “Can you take me home please?”

And he hates the way Richie deflates, the slumping of his shoulders and the twist of his mouth too reminiscent of the last time they talked. He hates the way the reminder sticks in his throat like all the unspoken words that have been buzzing in his head for a week now, hates the anxiety that surges through him at the way Richie’s eyes travel to the ground. Most of all he hates that he’s the one that caused that expression, then and now. 

But it feels like the weight of the day is finally landing on his shoulders, like Atlas retired and passed the world to Eddie; It’s too heavy to bear on unsteady ground and he can already feel his collar bones cracking under the pressure. He can feel the panic building at the base of his ribcage, filling up like a balloon until it squeezes every ounce of oxygen out of his lungs and finally pops. And he really, really can’t be here when it does, can’t be around Richie when he finally breaks down. Because it isn’t fair to push that weight onto Richie’s shoulders when he’s already collapsed, to force him to deal with Eddie’s problems on top of his own that are far from resolved. He just honestly, truly needs to get home, like, right now.

“It’s- Eds it's like, barely ten o’clock, I kinda just got here, I don’t-” Richie starts but Eddie’s already standing, shaking on his feet and trying his best to hold back the panic surging in the back of his throat like he could choke on it. He stands off the blanket and away from Richie, hands trembling and indecisively switching between gripping at his sleeve and carding through his tangled hair. He closes his eyes against the harsh thoughts of this is your fault, you’re ruining his night, you’re a bad friend, your fault your fault your fault that hiss in his ear. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I-I can walk if you want I just-” He’s tripping over his words in his haste to get them out, doing his best to hold back the tears burning his eyes despite the unsteady breaths betraying him, “I just want to go home, i-it's been a really long day and I just- I can’t- can’t be here right now, I don’t-” He keeps his eyes shut when he hears Richie scrambling to stand, holding his breath as he feels a tear slip down his cheek, “Please take me home, I- I just wanna go home,” He breathes, whimpering when warm hands cup his jaw and refusing to open his eyes to look at Richie.

You’re being selfish.

“Woahwoahwoah, slow down Eds, c’mon, what’s wrong?” He pleads gently, thumb wiping away the tears on his cheek with such tender care that it absolutely breaks Eddie, “ Hey , look at me Eddie, c’mon, just look at me, it’s okay-”

You’re ruining his night, just like always.

“No, no I don’t- I can’t do this right now,” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes tighter and trying to steady his quickening breaths, tugging away from the steady grips of Richie’s hands only to be held a little closer. He feels disgusting like this, tears wetting his cheeks and sniveling a runny nose that makes him shiver. He knows he's selfish for crying over his own feelings when things could be- fuck, almost were - so, so much worse, but that doesn’t stop the suffocating panic constricting his chest the longer he stays there.

He could have died.

“Eddie please , just talk to me, you can talk to me,” Richie’s thumbs swipe across both cheeks now to catch the stray tears on their way down, and he presses his forehead to Eddie’s and gently shushes the quiet sob he lets out, “Do you need your inhaler? What do you need Eds, just tell me what you need from me, I’m right here,” And Eddie whimpers at the reminder, no matter how comforting Richie intended for it to be. Because Richie wasn’t here all week, he was in a hospital, he was hooked up to machines, he was half dead. 

And it’s your fault.

He grabs at Richie’s wrists, quivering at the hiss of pain Richie tries his best to hide and opening his eyes to look right through Richie’s cloudy blues with every ounce of energy he has left.

He’s better off without you. 

“I need you to not do this right now,” He whispers, too aware of the way Richie’s grip on his cheeks loosens and missing the warmth before it’s even gone, “Please, please just don’t do this with me right now, that’s all I need, I-I know you want to help and- and I love you for that, I really do, but please , Rich. I can’t do this right now,” And he knows how pitiful he must sound begging like this, how little sense he’s making as he pleads not to be helped. He knows he’s going to feel ugly and overdramatic later, knows that when he has a clearer head that he’ll be disgusted at how pathetic he’s being, but at the moment he just feels raw and tired and broken, and he’s doing everything he can not to put that on Richie.

He hates you.

Eddie lets out a sob at the last thought and Richie searches his eyes for a moment before he closes them and nods, hands dropping from where they cradle Eddie’s face as he steps out of the space they shared. Eddie shudders and looks away, hugging the jacket tighter to him and doing his best to steady his breathing. 

All you do is drag him down.

Richie goes about quietly packing up the blankets as Eddie does his best to calm himself and ignore his own thoughts. He debates how to let the others know he’s leaving. He could go down to the bank and call them back out of the water, go about saying his goodnights and deflecting questions about why he’s leaving so early and why he’s obviously been crying. He could, but he really doesn’t have the energy, so he settles for texting the groupchat. And he knows they won’t see it until they decide to leave the water for the night, knows that they’ll still ask questions when they do see it, but at very least this way he has a little bit of time to gather himself. 

They’ll be better off without you anyways.

“Alright spaghetti, let's get you home,” Richie sighs with a sympathetic smile, drawing Eddie back to reality from where he had zoned out staring at his phone. Eddie nods silently and follows behind him, keeping his head down as they stumble down the path back to the truck. He wipes away the tears still beading down his face with the sleeve of Richie’s jacket and it’s not Richie but it’ll have to be good enough.

Nothing will ever be good enough for you.

They stay quiet as they climb into the truck, and Richie passes the blankets to Eddie to hold for the ride back. Eddie hugs them to his chest as Richie sets up his usual driving playlist, connecting it to the truck’s sound system but turning it down low enough that it plays at barely above a murmur. The ride home stays silent but for the acoustic of the music filling the cab, and Eddie closes his eyes and presses his face into the blankets as he tries to focus only on the music and his breathing.

He notices a theme with the songs as they drive, a couple things they all have in common that seem a little too convenient to be wholly coincidental. All of them are slower, which, in itself isn’t that surprising. This is the playlist Richie only ever plays when he’s driving at night, so it makes sense that it would be made up of calmer songs. But the most notable similarities are the lyrics of the songs, the way each of them seems to be about something similar.

It's hard to see what you mean to me

I'll never know why it's got me so low.

The first song isn’t acoustic but isn’t upbeat either, a whining sort of electric guitar introducing a slow drum beat and lyrics sung with an almost mournful kind of reflection. It’s nice, and it’s not one he’s heard Richie play before. The next song is one that he knows, though he can’t place how. All he knows for certain is that it’s not one that he’s ever heard on this playlist. It’s a simple acoustic melody with exposed vocals, harmonies and emphasized bass coming together on the chorus to give it a bigger feeling, encompassing the entire car until it’s all you can focus on. 

Well you look like yourself, but you're somebody else

Only it ain't on the surface

And he can’t help the way he nearly flinches at the lyrics, thrown back to his earlier thoughts about how Richie hadn’t seemed like himself lately. He realizes though that he can’t really say much, considering he’s barely been functioning like a human being for the past week. 

The next song is little more than a few repeating notes on a piano, the breathy, almost mumbling voice of the singer and the strength of the bass giving a comforting sense of emptiness. 

Now would you hate me if I said goodbye so quick

You could eat my dust?

This isn’t a song Eddie’s ever heard either, and he trembles with the realization that they’re all new. Because he might be reading too much into it but that’s always been a gift of his, and the songs all share a distinct kind of melancholy that feels a little too on the nose to mean nothing at all.

“Rich?” He mumbles into the blanket, peering at Richie in the driver's seat and watching the way he tilts his head to let Eddie know he’s listening, “Um, are these new songs? Like, new in the playlist, I guess.”

“Oh uh, yeah, I’m actually kinda surprised you noticed,” Richie mumbles the last part, thumbs tapping at the bottom of the steering wheel as he glances over at Eddie in the passenger seat, “Yeah they’re just songs I’ve been listening to a lot or whatever.”

Eddie nods absently, eyes drifting somewhere between the glovebox in front of him and the seat between his thighs, “This is just your nighttime playlist right? Does it like… have a theme? Or..?” He isn’t really sure how to phrase it, and he feels like he’s running on empty at this point, but Richie seems to get what he means. 

“Uh, I don’t really know? I mean I never intended it to have a theme but I guess they’re all just songs that I’m like, kinda feeling at the time I guess? I don’t even know if that makes sense but yeah,” He explains halfheartedly, carefully watching Eddie from the corners of his eyes, “Why?”

Eddie doesn’t even try to think of an answer, shrugging as he pulls his knees to his chest and hugs the blanket a little closer. A mildly delirious part of him thinks that if he hides his face in it for long enough that he might just disappear into it. He kind of wishes that were true. Somewhere along the way he stopped crying, but it's hard to appreciate small miracles at a time like this.

They pull into the driveway less than a minute later, silence hanging heavily between them with no ideas of how to fill it. Richie turns off the truck and the headlights, and Eddie debates with himself what to do from there. He knows he needs to talk to Richie, knows he won’t be able to sleep if he lets this slip by unmentioned, lets Richie think he hasn’t noticed, lets him think he’s still alone. But his emotions have been running high all day- hell, all week- and he feels far too fragile, like he might just collapse any moment. He’s torn between wanting to open the door and fall out of the truck- to drag himself back into the familiarity of his room however constricting it might feel- and burying himself in Richie’s chest like he could build a nest in his ribcage.

In the end he knows he only really has one option, knows he isn’t quite ready to leave Richie’s presence just yet, so he sucks in a breath and sits a little straighter. He unfolds the blankets and lays them over his lap, clutching them just underneath his chin as he moves on the bench until he’s thigh to thigh with Richie. Richie goes easily as Eddie moves his arm around to burrow into his side, simply hooks his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and turns his body a bit to more easily slot them together. Eddie finds a comfortable spot for his head tucked under Richie’s chin and lets out his breath, wrapping his arms loosely around Richie’s waist as a hand comes up to play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. His knees are still pulled toward his chest and half resting on Richie’s thighs in a way that isn’t really comfortable for either of them but neither has the energy to fix, so they stay that way for now. Eddie gets the distinct feeling that he’s using Richie as a bomb shelter in a way, curling into the other boy’s body in a fruitless attempt to protect himself from his own atomic emotions. Richie presses his nose to the top of Eddie’s head, and if he feels the kiss Richie lays there he just closes his eyes and pretends he’s none the wiser because he really can’t process those kinds of emotions right now.

“How you feelin’ spaghetti?” Richie murmurs, threading his fingers through Eddie’s hair. Eddie can’t help but laugh a little at the question, a breathy humorless kind of laugh that’s more air than noise. He draws a deep breath before sighing, pressing his nose to Richie’s collar and making a home in the scent of his cologne. 

“Could be better I guess,” His answer is muffled from his place tucked underneath Richie’s jaw but Richie seems to hear him anyways, pulling away to readjust their position. He drags Eddie’s legs into his lap like he had at Bill’s house the week before, tugging the blankets around to cover Eddie’s stretched legs before he pulls the smaller boy closer once again to go back to playing with his hair. The hand that isn't in his hair is soothing circles onto his outer thigh on top of the blanket, and Eddie thanks God for the layers between them that dull the fire that would surely bloom on his thighs otherwise. 

“What's got you so down Eddie my love?” Richie questions with a halfhearted attempt at an undefined old-timey sounding Voice, but Eddie’s more focused on the nickname and the buzzing it causes in his ears. And he isn’t quite sure how to bring this up, isn’t sure how he should go about this kind of thing. He doesn’t want to come off too aggressive or too forward and scare Richie off, but he doesn’t want to skip around it so much that it’s unhelpful. He’s still angry, and sad, and fucking terrified, but what he’s feeling at the moment shouldn’t matter. He knows that this is his fault in the first place, and he has to let Richie know he’s not as alone as Eddie made him feel. So he decides to start there.

“I really missed you this week ya know,” He lets out another teary laugh, “It was kind of stupid how crazy worried I was. I’m pretty sure Ben is sick of me at this point, Bill too, I was a fuckin’ mess. I just- we’ve never gone that long without talking, ya know? And I thought- I don’t know, I guess I thought you were mad at me or maybe you were hurt or something and I just… couldn’t get it outta my head,” He breathes, and he feels like he’s kind of giving Richie a last chance to be honest on his own terms, to tell Eddie what happened on his own volition without worrying about the rest of the losers finding out and freaking out about it. Richie squeezes him a little tighter, and Eddie really thinks this might be it. 

“I missed you too Eddie, I could never be mad at you, promise,” He pauses to press another kiss to Eddie’s hair like it’s part of the apology, and Eddie appreciates the gesture, however empty it may be. Richie hesitates before he continues, and Eddie holds his breath, “I’m really sorry I just disappeared like that. I didn’t mean to I just- Went and I have been kind of at each others throats lately, it’s stupid,” Eddie hates that he can feel his heart drop to his stomach the longer Richie keeps spouting off a lie, “I would have talked to you sooner but we didn’t get back until tonight and-”

“You know, I ran into Maggie this morning,” Eddie starts when he can’t bear it anymore, shutting his eyes when he feels Richie’s breath hitch in his throat. The way he stiffens under Eddie’s cheek makes the smaller boy feel a little sick, but he supposes that isn’t anything new 

“O-oh, yeah, this morning, we got back this morning,” He backtracks, and Eddie sighs, as tired as the dead.

“I know you were in the hospital Rich. You don’t have to lie,” And it comes off a little harsher than he means it to but he only regrets it when Richie pulls away, sitting back in his seat and tilting his head towards the ceiling with a sigh. His hand falls away from Eddie’s thigh to drag down his face instead, and Eddie focuses on the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows instead of how hollow he feels at the loss of Richie’s hands. And all he can really do is stare absently at the space between them, biting the inside of his cheek just to will himself to feel anything . But all he can feel at the moment is the kind of emptiness reserved for hotel hallways at two in the morning and rural roads to nowhere at midnight; Vast, echoing expanses of nothingness that leave him with a hole in his chest and a lump in his throat. No thoughts occupy the rooms behind the old oak doors or the cars creaking slowly down the street with dim headlights, and it might be comforting if it weren’t so lonely. 

“You weren’t supposed to find out,” Richie admits quietly after a moment, and Eddie glares at the way the corners of his lips tug up, like this is funny to him. Like this was all a prank that Eddie found out about before Richie could pull back the curtain and gleefully yell I got ya! , like they can just laugh it off and go back to normal like nothing ever happened.

“So you were just never going to tell me?” Despite his best efforts, Eddie can’t help the betrayed lilt that slips into the question, though he feels sort of far away as he asks it. He can’t seem to tie his thoughts to his physical body, he feels almost like he isn’t real and it’s only getting worse now that Richie’s hands have given up their soothing. The space his eyes have landed on near the handle of the driver’s side door suddenly feels miles away, and all he can do is rest his temple against Richie’s collar bone and keep staring. 

“Ideally yeah,” And he has the audacity to huff out a laugh as he keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, and Eddie tightens his fists in Richie’s shirt to stem the anger that trembles his fingertips. 

“It’s not funny Rich,” He snaps, nose twitching as his brows furrow and his eyes remain on the same spot on the door. 

“Trust me babe, I know,” Richie gives a wet laugh as he brings a hand up to cover his eyes underneath his glasses, and Eddie shudders at the pet name but softens when he looks up to find the tear trailing down pale cheeks, “I’m just trying really fucking hard not to cry.” 

Eddie shuts his eyes against that and brings a hand up to hang off the collar of Richie’s shirt, his thumb rubbing back and forth against his breastbone as an apology. The arm Richie still has wrapped around his shoulder tightens as he draws Eddie closer, and he knows he should give Richie a moment to collect himself, but he can’t help the way the only question occupying his thoughts slips from his lips. 

“Why wouldn’t you just tell me?” He whispers, opening his eyes to trace down the long muscle in Richie’s neck as he turns his head away, “Do… do you not trust me?”

“Eddie, fuck, no don’t- don’t do that, that’s not-” Richie’s hand grips at the sleeve of his jacket on Eddie’s shoulder and he turns his head towards Eddie again, pressing his cheek to soft chestnut hair, “Of course I trust you. Of course.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” He mumbles kind of petulantly, because he’s too out of it to watch his tone. He feels small huddled in Richie’s lap like this, safe in a way that’s making him a little delirious, and he really can’t stop thinking about pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of Richie’s neck. It’s not the right time for a thought like that, but a voice that sounds strangely like his pastor tells him there will never be a good time for those kinds of thoughts, and he’s never been very good at compartmentalizing anyways. 

“Because I didn't want you to worry, I don't- it was just a stupid fucking mistake, I don't want to fuckin'…" He trails off for a second but Eddie let's him catch his breath in silence, and he can see exactly when Richie decides to switch gears, "I don't want you to think of me like that. Like- like I'm weak." 

“You’re not weak, ” Eddie mumbles, and he wants to give a better defence, to prove to Richie that he doesn’t think any less of him, but he can’t find the words. Richie doesn’t hum in agreement or shake his head in protest, and they fall into a silence as Richie’s hand hesitantly reclaims its spot on Eddie’s thigh. The song changes, the intro nothing but hollow white noise and echoing notes before it gives way to slow acoustic. It’s another new addition to the playlist.

“What happened?” That same morbid curiosity compels him to ask, but Richie stiffens again and he’s about to take it back when the other boy sighs and sits a little straighter without dislodging Eddie from his spot. 

I’m singin’ at a funeral tomorrow

“I don’t fucking know, I-I mean I haven’t necessarily been doing great lately, I guess. And if I’m being honest movie night was amazing, but I guess after I left your house I just kinda… crashed,” He breathes, but Eddie can tell he has more to say, so he waits, “I guess I’ve always kind of wanted to- I mean, I was never like actively suicidal, but like, I don't really wanna be alive , either. Like I'm not gonna kill myself but I wouldn't- I wouldn't mind if I just… died. If that makes sense."

For a kid a year older than me

It doesn't, not really, and Eddie kind of wants to throw up hearing Richie say that, but he just nods as encouragement for Richie to keep going. His hands are shaking for a different reason now and he thinks he could start crying again at any moment, so maybe it’s best that he let Richie do the talking. 

I’ve been talkin’ to his dad

“I got home and Mags and Went were already asleep and I’m shit at dealing with emotions so I stole some good ol’ tequila from Went’s liquor cabinet and went to town,” He laughs again before sniffing, and Eddie’s too scared to look up and see if he’s still crying, “And I was good for a while, Bev was still awake and I was texting her, so I was just drunk and distracted. So I was fine. And then Bev went to bed and I didn’t and- and I crashed again.”

It makes me so sad

And don’t get it wrong, Eddie’s happy that Bev was awake to keep Richie company while he was upset, but a part of him that he’s almost disgusted by wonders why it wasn’t him that Richie texted for comfort. He hadn’t fallen asleep until around two am that night, he would have been awake. And then that same voice hissing brutal words to him at the quarry proposes: He didn’t text you because you were the problem. And he can’t hold back the way he shudders at that, but Richie must think he’s cold, going by the way he readjusts the blankets covering Eddie’s legs.

When I think too much about it I can’t breathe

“A-and then what?” He asks against his better judgement, and he can’t even try to hide the way his voice cracks.

And I have this dream where I’m screaming underwater 

“And then I texted you, which I- I shouldn’t have done, it was honestly really fucked up to pull you into it like that I- that was shitty. I’m sorry,” He breathes, shaking his head at himself, “And- and I waited up for you for a while, and you said I couldn’t come over and I- uh,” Richie blanches, looking down at Eddie with eyes brimming with uncertainty, only continuing when Eddie gives a small nod, “I know where Maggie keeps her sleeping meds, like the heavy shit and I just… downed those fuckers like candy,” He laughs again, and Eddie’s so caught up in the offhanded confirmation that this wouldn’t have happened if he’d just skipped his run with Ben to let Richie come over that he doesn’t think to scold Richie for making a joke about it again. And he can’t stop the tears that start to soak Richie’s shirt at this point, but he tries to at least be quiet about it. 

While my friends are all waving from the shore

“And- fuck I guess I just… wanted to be sure it worked so, uh,” He doesn’t finish the sentence but instead just gestures vaguely at his covered forearm, and Eddie’s a little ashamed at the ugly sob that wracks his body at the action. Richie’s quick to pull him closer and run a steady hand through his hair, and Eddie’s startled by how angry he is that Richie is the one comforting him right now, “I don’t really remember anything after that, but I guess Mags found me a little later. Uh, nurses said I was out for three days, they had to pump my stomach n’ shit, the whole nine yards. I got released this afternoon.”

And I don’t need you to tell me what that means

“Wh-why would you, I don’t-” Eddie chokes out through tears and hiccups, shaking his head at himself and doing his best to get it out, “ Why? ”

I don’t believe in that stuff anymore

“I wish I fuckin' knew. Lately it’s been like- fuck, I don’t know, like I can only be happy when I’m around other people? Like when I’m with you- with any of the losers, I feel so fucking great, Top Tier Trashmouth, ready to fuckin’ burn the city down or whatever the fuck,” And Eddie can feel Richie smile when he lets out the smallest huff of a laugh at that, “But as soon as the party’s over and I go home it’s like I just… shut down. I can’t even tell you how many times this summer I’ve gotten home from hanging out with you guys and just started crying, for like no fucking reason! It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but it’s like… It’s almost like I just can’t be happy by myself, ya know?”

And as much as Eddie hates to admit it, that’s the first thing Richie’s said so far that he really, truly understands. 

Jesus Christ I’m so blue all the time

And suddenly Eddie’s struck by the fact that he didn’t know any of this, that it never came up in their late night talks in his driveway or their hushed conversations on the phone when one of them has a nightmare. And at first he almost wants to be upset with Richie, ask why he doesn’t trust him, why he never told Eddie any of this shit that he’s apparently been dealing with for months. But then he realizes that if anything he should be mad at himself, because he obviously hasn’t done a good enough job showing Richie that he cares. He’s been so caught up in trying to keep Richie from knowing how much he likes him that he started pushing him away right when he needed Eddie the most, so busy trying to be more than friends that he forgot to be a good friend first, and fuck if that realization doesn’t make him want to scream.

And that’s just how I feel

“I got my phone back the day after I woke up,” Richie continues a moment later, left hand smoothing out the blanket over Eddie’s thigh, “But they wanted to keep me for observation a little longer, I guess it really fucked up my stomach. They decided that I didn’t need to be admitted to the psych ward which- thank fucking god, who knows how long they would have kept me there. Apparently CPS made my parents sign a form saying they’d get me therapy and like, lock up any meds in the house n’ shit. So it’s- it’s okay. I’m okay, and Maggie and Went are still really upset but we’re- we’re working on it. It’s okay.”

Always have and I always will

And Eddie wants to yell, wants to grab Richie by the shoulders and tell him how not okay this whole thing is, how close he was to never being okay again, how close he put his friends and family to never being okay again. He wants to shake him until he understands the gravity of his words, until he knows his own worth, until he realizes how earth-shatteringly loved he really is. But he can’t quite get there, because that same part of him that wondered why Richie texted Bev instead of him is caught on a particular part of what Richie just said.

“Wait, you had your phone?” And he can feel the incredulous type of anger thickening his tone like molasses, but he feels powerless to stop it as he pulls back from Richie to get a clear look at his face even through the tears clouding his vision, “And you didn’t think to text me? To text literally any of us?”

I always have and I always will

“Of course I didn’t,” Richie laughs like it’s obvious, and Eddie can feel his lungs ignite, “Had to be able to keep up the lie. If you knew I had my phone you guys would be expecting pictures of Portland, and I was very much not in Portland.”

And maybe it’s the casual tone or the- likely accidental- condescension, but the words seem to be somewhat of a last straw for Eddie. 

I have a friend I call

“Of course? Of course you had to lie?” He starts slowly, ignoring the tears still rolling down his cheeks as he pulls his legs off of Richie’s lap to get them under himself instead. And Richie must know he fucked up there, going by the way his face pinches as he recoils a bit, “Richie, you didn’t have to fucking lie! You could have fucking talked to me, you could have talked to Bev, we could have helped ! I didn’t even know you felt like that Rich, how am I supposed to help if I didn’t even know you wanted to-” And he chokes on his words because he can’t bring himself to say it no matter how worked up he is, so instead he just closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair as he breathes out, “Fuck.”

When I’ve bored myself to tears

“I just didn’t want you to worry,” Richie mutters like a child being scolded, hands moving to pick at his steering wheel without Eddie’s warmth to keep them busy, “And I didn’t- this wasn’t planned. I mean, I guess I’ve thought about it before but I never- I never wanted to go through with it,” And right as Eddie’s starting to melt at the soft regret of Richie’s voice, he adds, “I was drunk, ya know? It was more impulse than anything.” 

And that same fire in his lungs spreads across his chest and up his throat, sets his tongue alight behind his teeth.

And we talk until we think we might just kill ourselves

“ Impulse? Richie are you fucking kidding me? This isn’t some stupid fuckin’ shirt you buy on a whim, you could have died !” His voice is too loud for the liminal space of the truck cab and he’s doing the hand chopping motion Richie usually makes fun of him for but he’s scared and half-mourning and hurt and so, so fucking sad and this is the way it’s manifesting. And maybe it’s not healthy but it sure as hell hurts less to just roll with his anger instead of thinking about how close he really was to losing his best fucking friend because Eddie was too selfish to give him the time of day.

But then we laugh until it disappears

“Well yeah, that was kind of the point,” Richie chuckles awkwardly as he scratches at the back of his neck, and Eddie knows what he’s doing, he knows that Richie’s only making jokes because he’s uncomfortable and that’s always been his go to, his role in the group. He knows this, but he lets it get to him anyways.

And last night I blacked out in my car

“Can you stop joking around for two fucking seconds Rich,” He bites out, and he hates the way Richie flinches but the momentum keeps him going anyways, “It’s not fucking funny, it’s- it’s fucking selfish! How do you think your parents would have felt, what about the losers, what about me ?” And he shouldn’t have added the last part and he kind of wants to shrivel up at the darkened look Richie’s giving him right now but he’s not quite done, “You always act like you’re fucking invincible Richie but you’re not ! You can’t just do whatever the fuck you want whenever you feel like it, you have to fucking think about others once in a while!” 

And I woke up in my childhood bed

“Oh, oh you’re calling me selfish?” Richie’s got that quiet kind of anger in his voice that’s always kind of terrified Eddie, and he can already feel all his indignation dying in his throat as Richie sits a little straighter, “You’re the one making this about yourself! It was just a drunken fucking mistake Eddie, this isn’t about you!” 

Wishing I was someone else

And Eddie deflates at that so quickly that he practically caves in on himself, tears blurring his vision again as his jaw clamps shut and whatever sharpened words he had left dull in his mouth. Because Richie’s wrong- in a way this is about Eddie. Because this is his fault, this is the culmination of every time he’s pushed Richie away or ignored the signs that this might happen, every selfish fucking decision he’s made just to save his own feelings. Because this all could have been avoided if he’d just taken an hour out of his day to listen to Richie, to comfort him and take care of him when he was in a bad place. And he didn’t. And Richie almost died. And it’s entirely Eddie’s fault.

Feeling sorry for myself

And there are so many things he wants to say, so many apologies dripping off his tongue, but the only thing that makes it out is the smallest, weakest squeak of, “I-It’s not?”

And Richie stares at him for a moment with a confused kind of annoyance, before the furrow of his brows smooths out when he finally seems to pick up on what Eddie’s thinking. 

When I remembered someone’s kid is dead

“Oh my god,” He breathes, red rimmed eyes wide behind his glasses as he reaches for Eddie’s shoulders to fold him to his chest in a tight hug, “No, Eddie holy shit, this had nothing to do with you, this wasn’t your fault at all, God no,” He murmurs right by Eddie’s ear as sobs wrack Eddie’s body, shaking fists desperately clutching at the back of Richie’s shirt as he buries his face in the taller boy's shoulder. He vaguely registers hands around his hips before he’s being hoisted to sit on Richie’s thighs, Richie gently coaxing Eddie’s legs to rearrange so he’s comfortably stradling the boy beneath him. 

Jesus Christ, I’m so blue all the time

“I’m s-sorry, I’m so fu-ucking sorry,” He can’t really get the words out through the hiccuping sobs and the muffling of his face pressed to the juncture of Richie’s neck, but he keeps trying anyway, “I-I should have let you c-come over, I didn’t know, I-I didn’t know, it’s my fault, I’m so s-selfish, I'm so sorry Rich, I didn’t fucking kn-know,” He feels like a chilren’s toy stuck repeating the same few phrases but he needs Richie to know he’s sorry, that he never meant for any of this to happen. 

And that’s just how I feel

“Shh, It’s not your fault Eds, don’t say that,” Richie pleads as his hands soothe up and down Eddie’s back, hiding the tears in his own eyes by pressing a million little kisses to the side and top of Eddie’s head, shushing the smaller boy’s cries as he goes. Eddie’s trembling in a way that has nothing to do with the cold but Richie reaches for the blankets anyways, pulling one up to cover Eddie’s back and shoulders, “This was never your fault spaghetti, I mean it.”

Always have and I always will

Eddie shakes his head and goes to deny it again but Richie already knows his every move, pulling back to cup Eddie’s cheeks in his hands and press their foreheads together, wiping away the tears cascading down freckled cheeks like fallen stars, “Look at me sweetheart,” He whispers, patiently waiting as Eddie whimpers and opens his eyes to search Richie’s own, “I’m right here, okay? I’m alive, I’m okay, I’m not going anywhere, alright?” He waits until Eddie hesitantly nods to continue, “I’m not mad at you, and it wasn’t your fault. It was just a mistake because I was way too fucking drunk and I got in my own head, I would never- fuck Eddie, I would never leave you like that, okay? I promise,” He murmurs, holding eye contact to make it damn clear that he means every word he’s saying. 

I always have and I always will

Eddie sniffles miserably and does his best to steady his breathing, looking down at the small space between him and Richie and finally having the presence of mind to blush at their position. He draws in a shaky breath before looking back up to Richie, searching watery blue eyes for any trace of dishonesty as he asks, “You promise?” 

And it’s 4 am, again

And Richie smiles- really smiles, the kind that he only ever shows to Eddie, the kind that only comes out on late nights spent sneaking into each others rooms or sharing beds they got too big to fit in together three years ago- and it’s such a soothing sight that Eddie almost wants to keep crying.

“I promise,” He confirms, prying one of Eddie’s hands away from where it’s still gripping Richie’s shirt to lock their pinkies together with a grin. Eddie’s breath catches in his throat at he stares at that grin, heart stopping as he thinks about how easy it would be to just lean forward and-

And I’m doing nothing

“I think I need to sleep for a decade after today,” He mumbles absently instead, shooing away any thoughts of kissing Richie to file away for another time. Richie barks out a startled laugh, resting his forehead to Eddie’s shoulder as they giggle together for the first time in what feels like forever. And maybe he didn’t get to kiss Richie tonight, but that’s probably for the best- his fantasies of kissing Richie for the first time have always been in far more romantic settings than this, and he would like to live up to that, if he ever gets the chance. Besides, getting Richie to laugh is just as good anyways.

Again.

“Yeah, fuck, you definitely need to get some sleep,” He agrees through residual laughter as the song fades out around them, his hands falling from Eddie’s waist as the smaller boy awkwardly maneuvers his way off Richie’s lap and back to his own seat, “You’re mean when you’re tired.”

“Shut up,” Eddie laughs as he wipes at his eyes, looking back to Richie with clearer eyes. His hair is somehow even messier than before, his bottom lip bitten red from where he’s chewed at it and somehow looking so small in his slightly baggy shirts. His cheeks are flushed and ruddy and he’s got tear stains lining his cheeks, straw droplets still clinging to long curled lashes. And he still looks stupid- that outfit is really, really bad- but he’s still smiling and his eyes are sparkling behind his glasses and Eddie thinks that maybe he’s never looked prettier, so he thinks it’s justified when he looks straight through glass lenses and mumbles, “I love you.”

And Richie melts a little bit at that, his features softening into something a little shyer as he responds, “I love you too spaghetti.” 

But Richie Tozier can only be so serious for so long, so he grins and ruffles Eddie’s hair before gently pushing him toward the passenger side door, “Now get your ass to bed before Mrs. K finds you, I can only hold her off for so long, the lady’s fuckin’ insatiable. ”

“Ugh, Richie!” Eddie scolds as he hops down from the truck, “Beep beep, you fucking perv. I take it back, I hate you.”

“Oh I know it babe,” Richie winks, and Eddie hopes the red in his cheeks passes as leftovers from his crying fits, “Goodnight Eds.”

“Night Rich,” Eddie grumbles with a hidden smile, closing the door and spinning to walk away. He stops in his tracks after only a few steps, frowning to himself and picking at the sleeves of the jacket as he heads back to the truck. Richie rolls the window down as soon as Eddie turns around, so Eddie leans his forearms on the windowsill as he asks, “Um, do you want your jacket back? I kinda forgot to give it back last week, so…”

“Nah you can keep it, it looks good on you,” He decides after a moment.

“Are you sure? You worked so hard on it…” Eddie resists with a frown only to hide how giddy he is at the idea of keeping Richie’s jacket even a little bit longer. It’s disgustingly couple-y, and he can’t say he doesn’t kind of love it.

“Yeah go ahead, if I want it back I’ll just break into your house and take it back, sound good?” He proposes, speaking over a yawn that reminds them both of how long the day has been.

“Or you could just knock on my front door like a normal person,” Eddie monotones with an arched brow, trying his best not to crack a smile when Richie laughs again.

“Yeah yeah, I guess I could be boring about it, whatever. Get inside pipsqueak, it’s past your bedtime,” And if Richie were any closer Eddie would punch him, but he’s not, so Eddie sticks with his meanest scowl and hopes it has the same effect.

“Whatever dickhead, goodnight,” He rolls his eyes for lack of a better response, and he stops halfway through his turn away to look back towards Richie over his shoulder, “Text me when you get home?” 

“Will do, but you better be asleep when I do or we’re gonna have an issue,” Richie threatens, serious expression breaking seconds later to blow an over dramatic kiss Eddie’s way.

Eddie laughs and turns away, finally heading inside for the night with Richie’s jacket still wrapped snugly around his torso, and Richie doesn’t leave the driveway until Eddie closes the front door.