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“If I have to watch Back To The Future one more time, I'm actually gonna shoot myself.”
The seven of them were crowded into Bill's living room for yet another movie night, and as always, hadn't been able to mutually agree on what to watch. The tradition of bi-weekly sleepovers had lasted them throughout middle and into high school, meaning they had cycled through Bill's limited VCR collection more times than they could count. So when it came to deciding what to watch, the debate usually lasted longer than the film did.
For instance, on this particular night, it had been more than an hour since their arrival, all of Bill's tapes were strewn out across the living room floor, the television was still switched off, and they had already gone through the majority of their snacks.
“What's wrong with Back To The Future?” Ben asked, a little too defensively, holding the box in his hand. Stan rolled his eyes and groaned in typical Stan fashion.
“We've watched it like seven hundred times, dude. I'm getting really sick of listening to Johnny B. Goode,” he replied, rubbing circles into his temple, “why don't we just put on Raiders?”
“Because we're trying to pick a good movie, Stan,” Mike piped up from his spot on the floor. Stan shot him an unamused look and opened his mouth to retaliate.
“Indiana Jones is the-”
“Can we please not have this goddamn argument again, guys,” Beverly interrupted, sounding slightly exasperated. “Bill, your house, your rules. Choose something.”
“I already s-said what I wan-n-nted to watch, you all complained.”
“That's because you wanted to watch a chick-flick, dude.”
“F-footloose is not a chick-flick, asshole.”
This started another round of arguing, everyone talking over each other, the noise level climbing to dangerous heights, as Bill's parents were still upstairs and they had already told them all off once that night. None of them paid much attention to Eddie as he got up from the floor beside Richie on the floor, picked up a random tape and turned the television on. He slumped back down into his spot as the film started, the drumbeats of 'Don't You Forget About Me' by the Simple Minds cutting all their squabbling short.
“There, we picked something, now zip it,” he said, an unusual amount of authority behind his voice, pulling the blanket he was sharing with Richie back up to his chest. Stan looked like he was about to protest again but Bill nudged him with his elbow and shot him a glance that made him huff in defeat. They all settled back, expressions of annoyance quickly fading as the familiar monologue started. Soon everyone's eyes were glued on the screen.
“How the hell did you do that?” Richie whispered, leaning in close to Eddie so no one else could overhear.
“What can I say? I'm just brilliant,” he whispered back, biting back a grin as Richie kissed his cheek, sweetly and delicately, the brush of his skin sending a slight shiver down his back. He curled up against Richie, leaning into his chest, fingers tracing patterns into the fabric of his shirt. Richie put an arm around his shoulder, pulling his closer, turning his head as subtly as he could to make sure no one's eyes were on them.
It was so new to them, after all.
It had only been a week since the years of pent up feelings the boys had for each other came spilling out onto Eddie's bedroom floor. Richie, as had become increasingly common for him to do so, stumbled his way through the window at some ungodly hour of the morning, sporting a fresh split lip and a swollen mark on the side of his face that would later turn into one hell of a bruise. Neither of them said anything as he climbed under the covers and Eddie's thumb ghosted over the injury. It was never a shock anymore, seeing Richie like this, and that thought sent his heart plummeting into his stomach. Richie fell asleep without a sound.
They didn't talk until the morning. It was Sunday so there wasn't an alarm set, but Eddie still woke up early, with his face buried in Richie's chest and Richie's arms around his waist. It wasn't the first time he had woken up like that, so close to each other, but it felt different this time. Like it revealed something to him that he hadn't noticed before, or at least something that he had noticed but had tried his best to ignore and repress. Suddenly, he realised, the boy in his bed wasn't just his friend. He had become so much more.
It scared him to an extent, that sort of realisation is always going to be slightly jarring, but he also felt happy, like a weight was lifted off his chest. It made sense, he thought, we make sense. So when Richie blinked awake a while later, wincing at the sunlight coming through the window as it hit his eyes, Eddie couldn't help it. He pressed the smallest of kisses to the corner of his mouth, avoiding the cut on his bottom lip that had already started to scab over. Richie looked surprised, still foggy and half asleep, and Eddie doubted himself for a split second, but then Richie smiled, and they both smiled, and it felt right.
They decided not to tell anyone for a while, just so they could settle into it. Not that they thought anyone would care, necessarily, but still. For a week they were holding hands under the lunch table and stealing quick kisses when no one was looking, and Richie was at Eddie's every single night. It felt childish, sure, sneaking around and getting adrenaline rushes whenever someone would nearly catch them, but they revelled in it.
The movie ended, and everyone else had already dozed off, leaning against each other on the couch or lying wrapped in blankets on the floor. Richie got up to switch off the television when the screen turned to a blue static and the whirring of the tape ceased. He kissed Eddie lazily when he returned to his spot, then shifted them both so they were lying down, facing each other, legs tangled up under the blanket. It wasn't overly comfortable, their backs would definitely hate them for sleeping on the hardwood floor, but for now it was bearable. Eddie buried his face into Richie's neck, pressing soft kisses against his collarbones, eliciting small sighs from the other. They both drifted off not long after.
Mike woke up before sunrise, as always, for a reason none of the others could ever wrap their heads around. He couldn't actually move, however, as both Ben and Beverly had taken it upon themselves to use him as a pillow; Bev's head resting on his lap, Ben's on his shoulder. He used the hand that hadn't been pinned against his side to wipe the sleep from his eyes, looking around the still-dark room. Stan and Bill had somehow managed to stay on the couch. He couldn't decide who he though looked more uncomfortable; Bill had half his face smushed into the armrest, his neck held at an awkward angle, his left arm dangling off the edge of the sofa while his right was surely being crushed under his body, or Stan, who was still half-seated, head rolled back against the back of the couch and his mouth wide open, Bill's feet resting in his lap. He looked over to the other side of the room, to Richie and Eddie's spot, squinting to try and make out the figures in the dim light. They were facing away from him, the blanket they had shared discarded somewhere around their feet. And maybe it was just the dark playing tricks, but right then, he could have almost sworn they were...
Spooning?
As his eyes adjusted, his suspicions were confirmed. He could see Eddie leant back into Richie's chest, and Richie's arms around his waist. They were pressed about as close to each other as was humanly possible. Mike didn't notice the dopey grin that had gradually crept his way onto his face until his cheeks started to hurt.
He eventually managed to manoeuvre Beverly's head off his lap without waking her up – an unbelievably slow process, the sun was mostly risen by the time he succeeded – and made his way into the kitchen. Cooking breakfast and eating together had become part of the sleepover tradition a fair while back, and he was more than happy to do it, as long someone else did the dishes (usually Stan, because he was the only one who could do it right, he often explained). Before long, the welcome scent of fried eggs and bacon was wafting through the house. Bill was the first to join him, nudging his shoulder with his own and flashing a fond, sleepy smile before trudging over to the fridge to retrieve the orange juice. Then Ben and Bev came soon after, just in time for Mike to assign them table-setting duties. Stan, like always, had to be basically dragged off the couch, a duty which fell to Mike, as he seemed to evoke the least hatred from the boy – tired Stan was not a happy camper – and Beverly forced a steaming cup of coffee into his hands once he was seated at the breakfast table. None of them talked, for a while, just ate in silence, all still half-asleep, becoming increasingly aware of the two vacant chairs.
It ended up being Ben who spoke first, around when everyone had finished about half a plate.
“I'm guessing we're ignoring the fact that they're spooning over there, then?”
He looked around, receiving no concrete reaction from anyone. Mike shrugged, seemingly un-phased.
“I mean, it's kind of a long time coming, right? I'm just glad they finally sorted it out, shit was getting annoying,” Bev answered, barely finishing her sentence before shovelling a forkful of eggs into her mouth.
“Should we w-wake them up?”
They all turned in their seats and looked over to the living room. The two were still apparently asleep, though Eddie had turned around to face Richie, his face hidden in the other's shirt, Richie's chin resting atop his head. Eddie shifted slightly, curling himself up further into Richie's arms, and he tightened his embrace in return.
“Gross,” Stan croaked out, swivelling back around in his chair and taking a swig of coffee. Bill grinned and knocked their knees together under the table.
“Nah, let 'em sleep in,” Beverly answered softly, biting back her own smile, “reckon I could borrow your camera, Billy?”
“Aw, Bev, you wanna capture the moment?” Ben asked, batting his eyelashes teasingly.
“Sure. It'll make good blackmail.”