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It’s Friday.
Friday, and there’s jack shit to do. How does that even happen? How is it possible? A perfectly good Friday afternoon and everyone is busy. The odds are totally against him.
It blows, too, because he’d managed to snag three firecrackers from the barrel in the general store yesterday afternoon; the cashier’s back had been turned at just the right minute, Richie’d been quicker than ever, and then bolted the fuck out.
But of course, chores and family and homework all come first. Homework which Richie did during school hours, when he’d finished all his assignments before everyone else (it happens a lot). Chores, which he did this morning. Family...
Richie huffs, flopping back against the soft bed of grass and clovers. He stares skyward, at the canopy of branches above him. In his science textbook there’s a picture of a forest in Malaysia, where the trees don’t even touch, forming channels of blue between the leaves. Crown shyness, or something. Here, light streams down like it’s beaming through shards of broken glass. Everything in Derry is broken.
“Hey, Rich.”
He starts, looking toward the voice. There, of course, is Eddie. He’s wearing the same scuffed jeans he’d had on earlier, only now they’re covered in grass stains too.
“I thought you were with your mom.”
Eddie shrugs. “She fell asleep,” he says, hands in his pockets as he comes over. “I didn’t really feel like gardening anyway.”
Richie smiles like an idiot. He knows it’s an idiot smile because he feels like one, but Eddie doesn’t say anything. He just sits down, brushing off his denim covered knees, and stares out at the barrens contemplatively.
“Hey,” Richie whacks Eddie’s arm. “Why do they call it a green thumb if you’re using all your fingers?”
Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“I say, I say, what’s got you so glum?”
There’s something about the way his shoulders are sagging, about his frown. Richie doesn’t like it.
“I don’t know,” Eddie says again.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Geez, who knew you could get dementia so early. Do you know me, Eds? It’s Richie, it’s your best friend, we’ve been inseparable since the first grade—”
He shakes Eddie’s shoulder as he speaks, all desperate, practically falling on him.
Eddie laughs, rolling over onto his side. “Stop it, Richie!”
“So you do know me? Oh, god, that’s great, for a minute I was worried. I thought we might have to reenact all our good times.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Good times?”
“Yeah, you know, like that time on the playground when I poured sand down your pants, or the time I broke your ma’s favourite vase and you yelled at me for twenty minutes, or the time I stole those comics and you had a panic attack in the parking lot—”
“None of those times were good,” Eddie snaps.
“What, you still got sand in your crack?”
Eddie snorts. There’s something about his half-smirk and flushed cheeks that makes Richie feel a little bit like melting.
“Can you get off me, already?”
Richie realises, a little late, that he’s practically straddling Eddie—half on him, half off, pinning one of his arms down.
He blushes. “What if I don’t feel like it?”
“Richie.”
“I’m pretty comfortable, Eds.”
“Don’t call me Eds.”
“You got a problem, Eddie Spaghetti?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Aw, that’s cute,” he reaches up, pinching Eddie’s cheek. “Cute stuff, Eds—”
Then all the sudden he’s on his back, and Eddie is above him; tickling him and whacking him upside the head more than once. Richie can’t breathe, he’s laughing so hard.
After a minute, Eddie stops. He looks down at Richie with his head half-cocked and eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me cute.”
“Hey, I’m just stating a fact,” Richie tries for an innocent act, but his face is hot and Eddie’s scrutinising him like there’s no tomorrow. It’s intimidating, to say the least.
“So you think I’m cute?”
Rich bites his tongue. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds...”
A silence. Eddie leans down a little. “Sounds what, Richie?”
“Like, y’know...”
“No, I don’t.”
“Like you—” he pauses, swallowing. It feels like his stomach has completely disappeared; like he’s just full of air. Even his brain is gone. He could be floating. “Like I like you, or something.”
Eddie leans back, seemingly satisfied, and suddenly all Richie can do is panic. It’s like something has opened in the space between them; some chasm of unspoken things. His breath quickens. He feels like he might vomit.
“Huh.”
“Forget it,” he tries for a laugh—tries really, really hard. “I’m just messin’ with ya. I mean, there’s no way—”
“Richie.”
“I’m just reading too much into it. I mean, I don’t read into anything, since there’s nothing to read into—”
“Richie—”
“I’m just being stupid, I’m such a fucking idiot—”
“Richie.”
“I just mean, sometimes you look at me and I just—”
“Richie for the love of fuck, shut up.”
He does, but not voluntarily; it’s just that Eddie’s lips are on his, and he’s too busy sitting there like some frozen idiot while his best friend kisses him.
Holy shit.
“Eddie—”
“Rich,” Eddie’s hands are on either side of his face. He’s closer than close and Richie’s lips are still burning. “Stop talking?”
“Yeah,” Richie nods. “Okay.”
This time, it’s a little softer; their noses brush, and then their lips touch—but somehow, suddenly, it’s so much more; it’s open mouths and Richie on his back (what the fuck? when the fuck?), with Eddie’s fingers tangled in his hair, and his glasses are gone, and wow Jesus Christ this is great.
Richie is vaguely aware that Eddie is the one initiating most of this; he’s the one who keeps tugging Richie closer, who snakes his hand beneath Richie’s shirt. He’s the one that finally tugs it off him and sends it who knows where.
“Eddie—”
“This okay?”
Richie blinks up at Eddie—his vision his slightly blurred without his glasses, but he can still make out flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and fucked up hair. “Yeah,” he swallows. “Great. Um, are you sure—?”
He really, really hadn’t expected this. Not from Eddie, who gets grossed out at like, everything. Germs, is all Richie can think.
But Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. Their lips move together; fast and fervent, passionate, what in the name of good fuck.
His confusion slowly melts away, though. It feels like he’s slipping into some other plane of existence; one where it’s just Eddie’s rib cage beneath his palm, his skin, his lips.
And then, everything is like, totally amplified from a holy shit to a holy good fuck, because Eddie moans. Like, actually. Like, against Richie’s mouth; desperate sounding and heated.
“Jesus,” Richie breaks away, panting. “Eds...”
Their foreheads press together. Richie keeps his hands at Eddie’s waist, trying to catch his breath and failing because Eddie won’t stop touching him; he runs his fingers up Richie’s spine, lightly pressing his lips to his cheeks and nose.
“Something wrong?”
“Wrong? No. Fuck no. I just... I didn’t expect you to be so...”
“So what?”
“Forward?”
Eddie begins to speak, and then hesitates. “What did you expect?”
Richie blushes, because there it is. He totally just admitted he’s thought about doing this before (which he has, like, a lot—not that he ever planned on letting Eddie know). “Um...”
Eddie kisses him; really soft, this time. His fingers brush Richie’s curls. It feels so good. Somehow it’s even more breath-taking than making out for like four minutes flat.
“Something like that?”
Richie blinks. “Um.”
“Cat got your tongue, trashmouth? Can’t speak anymore?”
“Shut up.”
He does, gladly.