Archive of Our Own ^beta

Eddie Kaspbrak grinned sheepishly from where he stood, shivering on his bestfriend’s doorstep, body aching and face stinging. He looked like a mess no doubt, scrapes on his knees, cuts and dirt on his face, and what felt like an ugly bruise swelling out of a particularly nasty gash just under his right eye. Henry Bowers had known exactly what he was doing when he beat the shit out of him and shoved his face in the dirt. He knew just how much it would make Eddie's skin crawl, knew just what would bring tears to his eyes and make panic shock through him like white hot electricity out of a faulty wire. Eddie could feel the dirt now, like an extra layer of skin, caking into his wounds, mixing in with the sweat and tears and blood on his face. He needed to get clean, and it just so happened that Richie Tozier’s house was just around the corner from the…er…crime scene. 

“I fell off of my bike,” he recited the mantra he’d been repeating in his head on the way over, hoping he sounded a lot better than he felt. “I just need a couple Band-Aids, is all.” 

Richie looked unconvinced from where he stood, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed in front of him. It was one of the lazy mornings for the Losers Club - the kind where it was too cold to actually do anything fun, so everyone just ended up staying home or doing their own things (Eddie himself had been on his way back from the train docks before…well, everything happened).

Most people looked like shit in the mornings. Richie Tozier was not one of those people. He looked…good, Eddie thought, (despite everything, not that he really minded the distraction from the pain and panic currently shocking through his head). Real good, all bedroom eyed and soft, frizzy black curls sticking up every which way. His face was flushed pink from the cold outside, the faint patches of freckles on his cheeks shining like stars out in the freezing winter air. His mouth was kind wet looking, lips shiny with water, and the idea that maybe he'd seen Eddie’s distorted outline through the blurry peephole and rushed to brush his teeth made the smaller boy's face go a little hot. He was wearing a big, comfy looking hoodie over some old PE shorts - the kind that had grown over the years, the hem ending just above the middle of his freckled thighs. Eddie could just see the faint lines of unwashed pen on them - doodles of robots and lyrics and...and Eddie's very own name, i's dotted with little hearts...Richie always had this infuriating ability to look like some kind of big awkward teddy-bear 24/7, all warm and inviting with his sleepy eyes and his goofy grin. Eddie wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms and cry out of pure frustration, let Richie kiss his head and bury him in the warmth of that big Derry High Football hoodie of his (Ben’s actually, but they all knew once Richie got ahold of a piece of clothing, he never gave it back). He wanted to lie in Richie's lumpy twin bed and trace his own name on Richie's thighs as he spoke, finger following the old pen markings like they were just meant to be there amongst the stray hairs and endless freckles.

But Eddie wasn’t going to do any of that.

Because then he’d have to tell him everything.

The tall boy raised an eyebrow. “That’s some bike accident, huh?” He asked suspiciously, pushing his glasses further up his freckled nose with the tip of his pointer finger. 

Eddie huffed. “You gonna let me in or not, asshole? Its fucking freezing out here.“  

“Be my guest,” Richie winked, yanking the old mahogany door open far enough for Eddie to slip in past him.  

The Tozier household was Eddie’s favorite of all the Losers residences. Maybe it was because he’d spent so much time there while growing up—sticking glo-in-the-dark stars on Richie’s walls and building blanket forts in his cramped, cozy bedroom, pushing aside stacks of comics and piles rumpled clothes to make room for blankets on the hardwood floor.

Maybe it was because of Richie’s parents—nice folks, Wentworth was funny and Maggie was sweet.

Or maybe it was simply because Richie lived there, the boy he sort of, kind of kissed sometimes—chapped lips and heavy breathing in the darkness of his room—with his loud laugh and his spaghetti noodle limbs that held Eddie so nicely.

All he knew was that a wave of warmth came over him when he stepped inside just then, the familiar smell of cigar smoke and lemon scented floor polish calming him almost instantly. The panic and the anger and the adrenalin swirling inside his head dimmed, if only a bit. But it didn’t turn back time, didn’t erase what had just happened. Because it was true that Henry Bowers had punched the shit out of Eddie—it wasn’t something new, getting one beat by Bowers and his gang, routine more like. Only something had changed this time, and maybe it was that Eddie was a bit cranky, having not slept his full 8 hours the night before, or maybe it was cold as fuck and he wanted to get the hell home already, but something had compelled him to open his big stupid mouth.

I’m not fucking scared of you, Henry, he spat. Not long after that, a large bony hand was on his neck, pushing him into the scratchy trunk of tree. Hmm, not scared anymore, are we, runt? Would you be scared if I hurt someone else, someone ya love? Maybe the fatty, or - oh, I know -that faggot Trashmouth of yours. Not like anyone would give a damn if he showed up dead somewhere, one less cocksucker to worry about, he’d said.

And that’s where things got supremely fucked.

Because Eddie had thrown the first punch.

Eddie shuttered as he headed towards the Tozier's bathroom, through the dimly lit hallway just past the front door, fingers dragging along the worn flowered wallpaper. He heard the front door shut behind him with a soft thud, the current of chilly air flowing in from outside cut off abruptly. Richie was behind him not more than a second later, flipping on the light switch in the bathroom and motioning for Eddie to sit on the counter. He shut the door behind them, sparing the bruised boy a glance before turning his back to him. Eddie watched his friend as he rummaged through the cabinets on the far end of the small room nervously.

“…know there’s a fuckin’…first aid kit around here,” he could hear Richie mumble, pill bottles rattling and falling over at the fault of his big, freckled starfish hands. “So,“ he began, voice muffled from inside the cabinet. “Ya gonna tell me what the fuck really happened, or are you gonna keep a good man in suspense?”

Nobody’s gonna miss that piece of shit fag anyways.

Eddie’s fists clenched in his lap, and he flinched in pain, glaring down at the gashes in the knuckles of his right hand, drying with dark black blood. He’d punched Henry hard, hard enough to make them both bleed, and he’d do it again if he fucking could.

“I told you what happened,” Eddie replied stiffly, sliding his hand under his thigh with clenched teeth to hide it. He watched as Richie made it across the room in a single easy stride, kneeling down in front of Eddie to stick his head in the cabinet under the sink. “I fell off my bike.”

“A-ha!” Richie came back up, a silky thin spiderweb tangled on his hair and an old fashioned tin pail in his grasp. “I know you’re lying, Spaghetti-head. But I’m gonna patch you up anyways, just because you’re cute.“ He tapped Eddie’s nose with the tip of his finger, a grin playing at his lips. Fair enough, Eddie thinks. They both knew he was lying, both knew what really happened—what always happened, that didn’t mean he had to admit it aloud.

“Ugh, fuck you,” he pushed Richie’s hand away, fighting down the smile that threatened to stretch out his split bottom lip. “Just gimme the first aid kit. I’ll do it myself.”

“Nope,” the tall boy held the box out of Eddie’s grasp. “Sorry, Eds, but I’m the doctor today. You can call me MD Big D—Get it? Because I have a big di—”

“—yes, yes I get it, Rich,” Eddie rolled his eyes, cheeks going a bit warm. “Now could we get this over with before I bleed out?”

“Anything for you, Sweetums!” Richie soaked one of the hand towels hanging from a hook by the sink with rubbing alcohol and dabbed the corner of it to Eddie’s dust covered face, cleaning out the scrapes and dirt. It stung a little, but Eddie liked the sting of rubbing alcohol, it calmed his nerves, eased the panicky feelings that settled in his chest like stones—if it burned it meant it was healing, his mom always said. He only flinched a little bit when the rough towel brushed the gash under his eye—Henry had been wearing his dad’s stupid college football ring, fuck him.

“Shit…sorry ‘bout that, kid,” Richie mumbled. He was close—close enough for Eddie to smell the bubblegum toothpaste on his breath—he swore Richie was the only person above the age of 6 that was still committed to bubblegum flavored toothpaste, jesus

But the fact remained that maybe, just maybe... Richie Tozier had brushed his teeth for him.

“S'fine,” Eddie whispered, undamaged hand reaching out to curl around Richie’s slender torso, flexing his fingers against the warmth of his clothed spine for comfort. He could always count on Richie to be a human heater, and his hands were always freezing. “Just…stings a little is all.“

Richie sighed deeply, the hand towel on Eddie’s face slowing in movement just next to his mouth. “Fuck, Eddie,” he sighed, the pad of his thumb ghosting over the cut on Eddie's bottom lip, like he’d just noticed how fucked up his face was. "He…he never got any of us this bad before…what the hell happened?“ Richie wasn’t joking anymore, eyes sad and tired behind his glasses. God, Eddie wished he didn’t have to look so goddamn sad.

So much for not telling him anything.

Eddie sighed. “I’m just tired of it, okay? I’m 16 years old now, I shouldn’t have to cower and beg at Bowers’s feet anymore. Fuck him.”

Richie froze. “You told him something, didn’t you? Eddie—”

“Look, all I said was that I wasn’t scared of him anymore. And then he said…he started talking about you and just saying horrible things, Richie. And…and I was just so mad and..” Eddie was rambling now, angry tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, fuck.

“And…?” Richie coaxed.

Despite everything, Eddie grinned, proud and watery. He held up his fist for the other boy to see, bruises, splits, and blood and all.

Richie's mouth fell open in awe at the sight of Eddie’s split knuckles. “No. Way.“ His freckled face broke into a wide smile.

“Yes, way,” Eddie said proudly, flexing his fingers. “Punched that son of a bitch right in the face. Made him bleed, too.”

Because he said you didn’t matter, Rich. And I know you don’t think you do either, but to me, you’re the whole goddamn world.

“Eddie Kapsbrak, you’re my fuckin’ hero,” Richie said.

Eddie rolled his eyes, face going hot under the other boy’s dark eyed stare. “Oh, beep beep, asshole. I’m proud of myself.“

“No, I’m serious, Eds,” Richie said. “I mean—You punched Henry Bowers in the face! Fuck—should I start callin’ you Rocky fuckin' Balboa now, or what?” he grinned, socking Eddie playfully in his arm. “I mean—God, how the fuck do you even like someone like me?”

Eddie frowned. “Someone like you?”

Richie’s grin melted off his face in surprise, like he hadn't meant to say the last pat out loud. "Uh...You know,” he said quietly - He fished a Band-Aid out of the first-aid kit and carefully smoothed it over the scrape on Eddie’s knee. “I’m just...I'm not like you, Eds. I can’t stand up to bullies, or tell people how I feel…I’m…weak," he laughed, but it sounded empty, and Eddie knew it was.

“Weak?” Eddie sputtered, arms reaching out to pull the boy into him. “You know you’re the only fucking person in this town that can actually admit who you are? I mean, hell—it still scares me how much I like you, I still get all freaked out when I look at you and realize you’re more than just my friend. I…I get so scared even thinking about telling anybody about…what I am. But you? You did it. Fuck, Rich, you’re my hero.“

You gotta know that, right?

Richie’s eyes bore into him, bitterness and sadness magnified behind his huge dorky glasses. The fact that could think so little of himself made something in Eddie’s chest ache. He wanted to show Richie how special he was, how much he meant.

“My fucking hero,” Eddie said again. He slid a hand up to hold the other boy's chin, guiding their faces together until their mouths met in the middle.

Kissing Richie was always the same. Warm, sweet, a little rough and awkward. But it always felt like it was the first time, they way the other boy’s ridiculously long eyelashes tickled Eddie’s cheeks, big calloused hands—musician’s hands—tugging at his shirt to bring him in closer to his body, to the warmth that was Richie. It always caught Eddie off guard, how soft Riche Tozier could actually be. To the outside world, he was loud, blunt, unthinking, but to Eddie? There was this whole other side that only he got to see. Sure, Richie was still loud, still made jokes about Eddie’s mom (ughhh), but he could be sweet like honey too, all open mouthed kisses and freckled hands on Eddie’s face, in his hair, pressed against the flat of his stomach...

Eddie sighed sweetly, his own hands finding their way into the sea of curls atop the other boy's head, tugging and yanking softly, just the way he knew Richie liked it. Richie hummed happily and deepened their kiss, tongue finding its way into Eddie’s mouth, warm and slick and sweet. He tasted like bubblegum toothpaste, and maybe Eddie liked it, liked how it reminded him of his childhood, back when he didn’t have to worry about things—like Henry Bowers or being a fag in a town full of fag-haters, or the well-being of this boy pressed up against him, bony and freckled and humming happy little sounds in the back of his throat whenever Eddie tugged at the roots of his curls. And he felt like that again for the first time in a long time, carefree.

Because Eddie Kaspbrak wasn’t brave like Richie. He wasn't smart like Ben or bold like Bev—he was just stupid and brash and most of the time he acted on impulse and feeling, alone. And he’d probably just signed himself up for a one way ticket to Hell with Bowers because of what he did, but he just couldn’t bring himself to give a damn, not with Richie keeping him warm. Because he knew he was safe here, in Richie’s house, with his lemon scented floors and glo-in-the-dark stars. Eddie would worry about the wrath of Bowers later.

Richie tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, and Eddie hissed in pain.

“Mm-shit, sorry,” Richie laughed breathlessly, pulling away and smiling down at him, embassasment evident on his face. Eddie gazed up happily at him, liking the flush in his cheeks, the slick swolleness of his lips. Fucking gorgeous, he wanted to say, but he didn’t. Maybe one day he would finally work up the courage to say it, out loud. One day, when he wasn't so afraid of the love and the want he held for his annoying Trashmouth.

“S'alright,” Eddie said, still catching his breath. “I forgot where I was for a second.”

Richie smiled, slowly and lazily. “Yeah, I have that affect on people, Eddie-kins.”

“Jesus, shut the fuck up,” Eddie snorted, chucking the hand towel at him. “Come ‘ere.” He pulled Richie back into his embrace, bony hips settled in between where Eddie’s legs hung off the counter. He cupped Richie’s face in his hands, leaving a line of soft kisses down his jaw-line. “You gonna patch me up, or what Dr. T?”

Richie guffawed. “Its MD Big D, actually.” He pressed a lazy kiss to Eddie’s lips before bringing the rag back up to his face.

“There’s no fuckin’ way I’m saying that,” Eddie said, flinching at the stinging cut under his eye.

“Give it time, Eds. Give it time.”

Richie eventually finished cleaning out Eddie’s scrapes, all the while assuring him that it stated so in his PhD that kissing “boo boo’s” was part of training at medical school, and once Eddie was covered in bandages and kisses, face flushed and heart light with warmth, his sort-of-maybe boyfriend grabbed his hand and pulled him off of the counter. 

“So…” Eddie began. “What do you wanna do now?”

Richie wriggled his eyebrow. “I think you know…”

Eddie did. “Blanket fort?”

Richie grinned.

“Hell yeah."