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At this point, he’s not exactly sure what they are.
Before, it had been so easy to tell; in the light of day, with the sun beating down in the Barrens, so hot their foreheads shone—kids, loud and abrasive and clueless, not bothering to give those second glances second thoughts.
But now, it’s different. Now those glances are all Eddie can think about, day or night. He thinks about the way his stomach always flips and his cheeks flush and his palms start to sweat and...
And they’re not kids anymore.
Or maybe they are. Maybe that’s why Richie’s so damn stupid, and why he’s so damn scared.
Maybe it’s the other way around.
Eddie bites his lip, tucking his hands deeper inside the pockets of his sweatshirt. It’s actually not even his, it’s Richie’s; a faded band logo, a hole by the collar, the faint smells of cigarette smoke and laundry detergent.... it’s like Richie’s with him, which is all Eddie really wants.
Which could be why he’s walking to Richie’s house at one in the morning.
The air is so cold it bites—unforgiving and perfectly Maine. He hates it here. In the back of his mind, when he thinks about the future (which, even if he’s seventeen now, feels so far off he always gets tunnel vision), he thinks warmth. He thinks of belonging somewhere, slipping into a place he was always meant to be. A real home.
Eddie sighs through his nose. It comes out as a while cloud of air, dissipating upward into the still, black night sky. The leaves don’t shift. Everything feels sort of frozen, like someone hit the pause button on Derry.
He runs across the street, feet echoing infinitely on the blacktop, and stops under Richie’s bedroom window.
The blinds are all the way up, slightly bunched at one point from the time Richie messed them up sneaking out once. It makes them hang uneven.
For a second, a dumb one, Eddie wonders if he should even go up there. Richie is probably asleep, and even if he isn’t, it would be totally weird for Eddie to just show up without even texting him first, right?
He starts climbing the tree anyway; fingers feeling for the familiar knots, shoes hooking into just the right places like second nature, even if he hasn’t snuck in for like two months.
He doesn’t even know why they stopped. Everything had been okay, and then it wasn’t. There’s a sort of weird disorder to their little group, now; like it’s shifted on its axis. Eddie’s tried learning how to balance with the new way, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to find a way back to how it was before; no hesitance, no awkward silences, no glancing at their shoes when none of their friends are around to fill the gaps in their conversations.
They’d gotten too close. It really has to be it. He can’t think of any other reason. Summer nights spent sweating, bare-chested on their backs in one too-small bed; feeling around in the dark, breathing shallow...
They collided and rebounded. Eddie doesn’t like the shift. He thinks in some way his gravitational force is bound to Richie’s—it always has been, since that day on the playground when Richie had tied his shoes and rambled on about dinosaurs and comic books and I think we should be best friends forever. What do you say Eds?
He said yes.
Eddie absolutely refuses to lose forever.
His fingers rap against the frosted glass. The thin ice melts with his heat, creating little condensation droplets. Richie always draws on windows when they get like that—smiley faces, dicks, hearts (and once, in the car on the way home from a someplace Eddie can’t remember, he’d written Eddie’s name, and then his own, and seeing them like that, together, had made his heart skip a beat).
Eddie can barely see inside. There’s no movement, so he knocks a little harder.
Something shifts, someone groans, and then the room fills with a dim orange light.
Eddie wipes the window and flips Richie off through the clear spot he’d made.
Richie’s half propped up in bed, squinting at Eddie, hair all messed up (but Eddie doesn’t even mind, he’d stopped caring about that stuff a long time ago with Richie, who seemed to live and breathe the laws of chaos and still somehow manage to be cute).
Richie snatches up his glasses and shoves them on his face. He blinks a few times, confused, before shooting up out of bed. He gets tangled in the sheets and trips over them.
“Eds?”
His voice is groggy. Eddie sort of feels bad for waking him up, especially when there’s no good reason other than I want to be near him so bad I can’t breathe.
But also, being with him leaves him breathless, because Richie looks so worried and he has that little line between his brows and it’s so unbearable, this constant lead-like weight in his heart.
Eddie tries to speak but the words won’t come out.
Rich just takes it in stride. He helps Eddie inside without another word, hands around Eddie’s wrists, and even that leaves him lightheaded.
“Are you okay?”
Richie pretends like he doesn’t care, but here he is, caring. His voice is soft. He hasn’t pulled his hands away yet.
“Um,” Eddie swallows, “I guess?”
How does he say all the things he wants to say? How does he tell Richie that whenever they so much as look at each other (like now) it... does something. How does he tell him that nights aren’t the same when he’s alone, and there are more nightmares without you.
How does he say I love you.
Richie only purses his lips, tapping a finger against Eddie’s temple. “You got a seriously screwed up noggin, you know that, Eds? I’d take it back if I were you.”
“They don’t come with refunds.”
A grin spreads across Richie’s face, and Eddie feels like he’s floating.
Maybe if you’re good while you’re alive, after death is just all the best moments replayed over and over.
Eddie thinks most of his would be that smile.
“So what’s got you in my room this late? Your mom run out of condoms and you had to make a pitstop?”
Eddie doesn’t even comment on the stupid joke. He can’t concentrate on anything but how tall Richie is and how his hair falls into his eyes and how the freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks could be constellations if you looked hard enough.
So he says,
“No,”
and then,
“I just missed you.”
For a second, time stands still, and in it Eddie can see all the ways this is about to go wrong. Richie’s just gonna push him away even more, and then they’ll be best friends who drifted apart because...
Because Eddie’s an idiot.
“I just mean—” Eddie tries to think of what else that could’ve meant and comes up blank. His face twists up with frustration. “Whatever, it’s late, I shouldn’t have come—”
Richie’s hand grabs his own. Eddie catches his eye and something... their in-between space charges like they’ve been hit with lightning, and they’re so close their noses are almost touching. The hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck stand up.
“Eds, don’t go,” Richie says. He sounds almost small, voice laced with desperation Eddie didn’t know he felt. “Please. It’s okay, I promise.”
Eddie doesn’t know what that means. It’s okay, you’re gay, I’m not, no homo bro. Or maybe, it’s okay, we don’t have to talk about this ever again, we’ll pretend it never happened.
He doesn’t know which is worse.
“We have school tomorrow,” he says stupidly.
“My parents aren’t home,” Richie’s fingers trail from his forearm to his hand. Eddie’s breath catches in his throat—
(just breathe, just breathe, in and out, you’ll be okay)
—and they both look down, transfixed.
“So?”
“So we’ll skip, or something,” Richie shrugs, like it’s no big deal. This is all just okay, they’re just friends, Eddie isn’t about to combust.
Their fingers intertwine.
He’s so gonna blow up.
“Richie...”
He doesn’t want to be fucked around with. He doesn’t want to get hurt. All his life, his mother hurt him by trying to keep him Healthy with a capital H. Richie was always his escape from that. If he doesn’t have Richie...
He doesn’t have anyone, because no one else matters quite as much.
“Eddie,” Richie returns. With his lowered gaze, Eddie can see his eyelashes so much more clearly. They’re long and dark and pretty. “I really don’t want to be alone, okay? Will you stay?”
Their gazes meet. Eddie would do anything for him, probably. So he nods, leans over to turn off the light and take his shoes off, following the old routine like he’s slipping into the past.
It’s weirdly the easiest thing to fall onto the bed. The mattress feels more comfortable than the one he has at home. Eddie’s always liked it better.
He curls up closer to the wall, letting his head hit the pillow that smells overwhelmingly of Richie (and just that would be enough for him, but then Richie lies down too and he’s just everywhere, all at once).
Eddie closes his eyes. He tries to focus on breathing. He doesn’t move at all for maybe five minutes.
Richie pokes his arm. “Eds, you’re stiffer than my dick.”
Eddie manages a scowl, rolling into his back. “I can’t believe that’s all it takes for you.”
“You’d be surprised,” Richie says. There’s a playful lilt in his voice that Eddie really, really missed. He feels the knot in his stomach unfurl a little, lets himself settle against the sheets.
Then Eddie catches his eye, and he sees how heavy the look Richie’s giving him is. It’s almost magnetic, and Eddie can’t (won’t) look away.
“Rich?”
“Yeah, Spaghetti-Man?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Your elbow is digging into my side.”
“What? Oh, sorry.” Immediately, Richie draws away, looking a little bashful. He ends up plopping down, half-burying his face in his other pillow, blushing.
Eddie wants to do stupid dumb stuff just then, like wrap his whole body around Richie and kiss him a million bajillion times and call him cute without having to worry about the consequences.
Instead, he rolls onto his side so that they’re kind of facing each other, lip between his teeth.
“Do you still get bad dreams?”
“Not when I’m with you.”
(stupid dumb stuff; kissing his cheek softly and slowly, and then the other one, and then his forehead, whispering things Eddie would have to be drunk to say right now)
He must take too long to answer, because Richie quickly averts his eyes. “You’re really fucking annoying when you sleep, though.”
Eddie prickles instantaneously. “What?”
“Yeah,” Richie grins. “You always kick the covers off and then get right up into my side because you’re cold.”
“Oh.”
“Not that I mind that much.”
There’s that soft look, again. It seems to hold a million answers to the million questions Eddie has, but he knows those will only leave him with half a million more.
He finds his courage, reaching deep down into wherever. “Maybe you’re just better at keeping me warm.”
Richie blinks. Then he shifts a little closer (or maybe it’s just Eddie’s imagination). “Eddie...”
He’s so sure Richie’s about to say something that’ll crush him, so sure he’s about to be let down, get a we can still be friends, though—he closes his eyes and braces himself.
Then there’s a hand on his cheek, and Richie’s most definitely closer (closer than close).
That in-between is almost nonexistent, leaving all of the energy to buzz in Eddie’s stomach.
“Yeah?”
Richie’s eyes dart downward just the slightest bit, catching for a moment, and then shift back up. “I missed you, too.”
He’s not even sure if he heard correctly. Wildly, Eddie almost wants to pinch himself. It can’t be real. They can’t really be laying like this, Richie can’t really be touching him (thumb gently stroking his cheekbone, melting Eddie from the inside out)...
Courage. Don’t be a baby, you can do this, it’ll work out...
Eddie moves his hand. It comes to rest against the dip in Richie’s side. He wonders if his weight feels as solid and right as Richie’s hand on his cheek.
And that’s when he realises there’s no going back from this. It’s farther than they’ve ever gone before. It’s all new and good and perfect.
He doesn’t know what it is, really, that gets him to move. He just does, acting on pure instinct alone. His lips touch Richie’s—a ghost of a touch, really—before they’re just...
Kissing.
All the space between them closes. Eddie hooks his leg between both of Richie’s. His hand finds the hem of the ratty old shirt he’s wearing, fingers toying with it before travelling under—one inch, two, and then he’s just touching Richie; smooth, warm skin against his palm.
They break apart once, breathless, a little stunned, but then Richie’s moving back in. He’s grinning like an idiot, which might be the most amazing thing of all time.
Eddie runs his fingers up the divots in Richie’s spine. Richie shivers, pressing just a little closer.
It’s the best feeling in the world, but Eddie pulls back anyway. “Richie—”
Richie blinks like all his senses are coming back to him. “Fuck, Eds, I’m sorry, I just—”
“No, Rich, that’s not what—” Eddie follows as Richie sits up, wrapping an arm around his torso, a stupid dumb incredibly nice-feeling thing. “I’m not upset.”
“Promise?”
Eddie takes his hand. “Promise.” He reaches out, fingers grazing Richie’s left cheek, and when Richie meets his eyes he feels his stomach swoop. “What about you?”
“Me?” Richie laughs a little. “Are you kidding?”
“No,” his voice sounds tiny to his own ears. He finds himself gripping Richie a little tighter. “I didn’t think that you...” a deep breath, “that you liked me like that.”
“Like you,” Richie echoes, seeming a little dazed. Then he smiles. “Eddie man, spaghetti, babe, I love you.”
It’s almost like a dam bursting; he’s being flooded with so many emotions all at once, and all he can think about is tackling Richie and kissing him, not a million times but once—soft and slow and then deeper.
So he does.
Richie laughs a little and then pulls him in. It’s so open and raw and even a little rough. Richie’s arms are wrapped around his waist, tight like he never wants to let go.
Eddie brushes his nose against Richie’s. He feels it all, then, and it’s not so overwhelming, it’s just right. Like he’s always belonged here, with Richie, like this.
(home)
“I love you, too, Richie.”
None of those other smiles from before will ever match the one he gives Eddie now.