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Sundays were their favorites. They were aware of the fact that all of their classmates and friends hated them, because they meant the end of weekend and the terrifying thought of procrastination reaching its own final, making of the tons of homework piling in the desktop something unavoidable.
But, for them, Sunday was the perfect day. The delightful feeling of getting out the suffocation of church clothes and changing to something more comfortable, more like themselves. The incomparable joy of taking a look at the clock and remembering that there were still plenty hours of freedom, before the unforgiving whips of responsibility and pressure reached their backs once more. That sweet, yet confusing meeting between routine and absolute liberty. That tightrope they liked to dance on every time they had the chance.
It was Sundays and only Sundays when they could be like this, just enjoying the lazy rays of midafternoon sun under the shadow of their favorite tree, not a single worry on their minds.
That was how they were now. Resting on the grass —Eddie secretly rejoicing in the fact that his mother would lose her head if she found out—, a bunch of comics scattered around their feet and the soft summer breeze getting under their clothes, giving that weird sensation of being able to fly if the wind blows hard enough. Eddie was sitting with his legs crossed and a number of The Flash on his lap, while Richie was practically sprawled over the dirt, a bag of chips lying on his belly, spreading its content —mostly crumbs— all over his t-shirt. The other boy was tired of calling him out about that. They both knew he was too lazy for moving his hands for more than turning the page of the Batman comic that was placed against his flexed legs.
Actually, Eddie thought it was better that way. He could bare Richie constantly moving when they were with the rest of the Losers, but, when they were alone, it was impossible to not look and get tense every time he did something as simple as toe-tapping or shaking his head. The littlest thing Richie did demanded his absolute attention.
Maybe their relationship wasn’t flowing as naturally as it should, but they were just starting, so it was normal to feel this nervous about everything. They had just kissed once, and it was rather a kindergarten peck than the stuff they were used to see in those cheesy romantic comedies. It wasn’t disgusting, though, just different. Even though Eddie had a crisis when he got home, they could agree they liked each other and would do more kissing in the future. In a very distant future.
For now, just hanging out together was nice. The incessant fluttering of butterflies inside their chests was a part of the experience, and the small, scary details like that were what made the whole picture so appealing. Not the stories about other couples making out at the theater or going on special dates that usually ended with rumors of pregnancy overheard at the girls’ bathroom. Not the unwanted heat caused by a suggestive magazine or an adult film, filled with unrealistic bodies and unrealistic voices.
It was the reality of each other what made it so exciting. How Richie’s hand was always sweaty when Eddie took it and how Eddie liked to pretend he found it disgusting without letting it go. How they hated it when the other praised them, as if they were trying to keep the distance of their friendship, avoiding any signal of the forbidden word. ‘Boyfriends’.
Of course, they were boyfriends, but they didn’t plan to be that kind of couple. They didn’t want to be like Ben, writing poetry about the girl he loved, or like Bill, who would draw doodles of her in all his books. They didn’t want to be like Henry Bowers and his friends, bragging about who they took to bed that weekend. They didn’t want to change, because changing always comes with a risk, and they would rather die than risk what they achieved.
Then it happened. Richie’s scraped knee subtly rubbed against Eddie’s ankle. A gentle touch, barely noticeable, but more than enough to send shivers down his spine. It was always like this. It was exasperating. Why did they have to be like this? Why couldn’t they be like everyone else? Why didn’t they want to be like everyone else?
Richie probably felt him get tense, because he raised his magnified eyes from the comic book and looked at him, an eyebrow slightly arced.
“Y’okay?” He asked, mouth full of chips.
Eddie couldn’t help but smile like an idiot, as Richie’s lips searched for the straw in the Coke bottle that stood a few inches away from his face. It never ceased to amaze him how Richie managed to keep himself fed and comfortable making the least moves possible.
“Yeah,” Eddie answered, trying to hide his smile, “I’m fine.”
Richie nodded, absently, leaning up on his elbows while looking around.
“What are you looking for?” Eddie questioned.
The other boy didn’t say anything. He was starting to get frustrated when he finally remembered. Slapping a hand to his forehead in disbelief of his own lack of organization, he raised his bottom and put his hand inside the back pocket of his pants, making a clear effort to not fall.
“Here,” He announced, revealing a chocolate bar, “Your favorite.”
Eddie stared at it. It was melted by the heat of summer and crushed by the weight of Richie’s body —of course he would forget about it and accidentally sit on it—. A viscous, brown fluid leaked through its sides and impregnated Richie’s fingertips. But, disgusting or not, it was his favorite. And the thought of Trashmouth Tozier going out of his way to buy him his favorite candy was the most heart-warming thing he could imagine.
He couldn’t reject it. Richie wasn’t even looking at him, concentrated on his comic book as it wasn’t big deal —even though it was—, but he knew he had to accept the gift. So he opened his fanny pack, grabbed an exaggerated amount of tissues and took the damn chocolate bar.
As he tried to remove the wrapper —his hands getting a bit dirty regardless the precautions—, he felt observed. Damn, Richie was watching him with such anticipation in his eyes that it made him look like a little kid on fucking Christmas morning. This was important.
Eddie threw the wrapper away, gulping. The bar was warm and a small portion of it fell off, dangerously close to his bare thigh. Richie was waiting.
“Well,” Eddie said, “Here I go…”
Closing his eyes, feeling his inhaler through the fabric of his fanny pack, he bit it. It didn’t taste that bad —not as bad as it looked, at least—, but it was still repulsive. He thought he would get sick after that.
“You…” Richie started, sitting up and adjusting his glasses, “It’s your favorite, right?”
Eddie swallowed, trying to dissimulate the shiver that ran over him. He had to take a few seconds before talking. Otherwise, he would have vomited.
“Yeah…” He said, forcing a smile, “Thank you.”
Without putting a lot of thought on it, he leaned towards Richie and gave him a small peck on the cheek. Richie’s face turned red at the instant, as he faked annoyance.
“You don’t have to be so gay about it, y’know?” He mumbled, looking down.
Eddie chuckled.
The tenderness of the moment vanished as soon as he remembered what he had in his hand.
“Uh… wanna share it?” He offered, pointing at the chocolate bar.
Richie didn’t try to convince him of keeping it.
“Eds, if I ever find myself wondering why I decided to date you, I’ll remember this day,” He replied, disappearing the candy from Eddie’s hand and materializing a dark brown stain around his mouth.
Eddie laughed again.
“Me too, Rich.”
A few hours later, when the sun was setting and with Richie’s sleeping head resting against his arm, Eddie intertwined their fingers —still dirty, still sweaty— and kissed him on the forehead. That was the kind of thing they only could do when one of them wasn’t conscious. But it was worthy. The wait was worthy, the uncomfortableness was worthy, the stupid fights and silly jokes were worthy. As long as there were days like this, as long as Sundays existed, they had nothing to wish for that they couldn’t find in each other’s company.