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Eddie hates parties.
Sure, it’s a way to sneak out of the house and get away from his mother for a while, but at what cost? Loud music, cheap beer, and an ever-lingering plume of weed and nicotine. Kids jostling into him at every turn, wrinkling Eddie’s favorite cardigan.
The last time he went to one, some slimy senior kid almost threw up on Eddie’s shoes, which would have been horrific. The only way he’d managed to avoid it was because Richie had scooped Eddie into his arms and pulled him away at the last second (“That would have been up-chuckalicious, Eds” “Please shut the fuck up, Richie”).
In conclusion, parties are terrible and the only thing Eddie might hate more is the nerd who drags him to them.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” Eddie asks as he follows the Losers into Greta Keene’s living room. It’s a Saturday night in December and the party is in full swing — every room and corridor is packed with kids from Derry High and from a couple nearby schools too. Everywhere Eddie looks, he sees a potential disaster, like two jocks playing catch with a glass vase, or a group of tipsy girls trying to slide down the stair banister blindfolded.
It’s all just way too overwhelming. How Eddie got talked into attending another one of these, he’s really not sure. That’s probably why he raised the question.
“Because her parents aren’t home!” Richie croons, and he’s somehow managed to snag a red solo cup even though they’ve been in the house for like, two minutes top. He downs the cup in a single gulp (head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing) and tosses it over his shoulder confidently.
“I wouldn’t have minded staying home,” Stan says, eyeing the party disinterestedly. At least one person is on Eddie’s side here.
“No one asked, Stanley,” Richie snorts.
“Eddie just did, dipshit.”
There’s a stereo system in the corner of the living room and around it is a sweaty throng of dancing kids. The music is painfully loud and Eddie can already tell he’s gonna have a headache tonight.
“I don’t know,” Ben shrugs, looking around the party curiously, “It doesn’t seem so bad. We should just try to have fun.”
Eddie’s pretty sure Ben’s only saying that because the song playing right now is by New Kids on the Block, but he doesn’t make a comment. Instead, he calms himself down by unzipping his fanny pack to count and recount the aspirins he brought.
“That’s the spirit!” Beverly cheers, giving her boyfriend a side-hug. She also seems to have magically procured a solo cup, but she sets it down on a nearby end table to grab Ben’s hand. “Let’s go dance!”
As Beverly and Ben head to the makeshift dance floor, Eddie finishes his count. 10. He slips the pills back inside beside his inhaler and zippers the fanny pack shut, feeling more at ease. Hopefully, that’ll be enough to make it through the—
“I can’t believe you brought that!” Richie exclaims suddenly, and as Eddie’s lifting his head to glare at him, Richie’s already reaching forward to unbuckle the fanny pack and pull it off Eddie’s hips.
“Hey!” Eddie snaps, lunging forward, “Give me that!”
Richie stands on tip-toe, holding the pack over Eddie’s head with a smirk. God, why did he have to be so tall?
“Nuh-uh, Eds,” Richie says, ignoring Eddie’s cries and curses of protest, “This is mine now.” With that, Richie buckles the fanny pack around his own waist, patting it down affectionately. “There,” he says, lifting his head to smile at Eddie, “Doesn’t look as cute on me as it does on you, but…”
Fucking idiot.
Eddie lunges forward again, causing Richie to back into the wall. Eddie presses him up against it. He can vaguely hear Bill saying that he, Mike, and Stan are going to go find some snacks, but right now all he can focus on is getting his fanny pack back from Richie.
“C’mon!” Eddie snaps, standing on tip-toe so he’s closer to Richie’s eye level, “You can’t just steal people’s shit!”
Richie’s laughing too hard to even reply coherently.
This was just like Richie. He was always pulling stupid stunts like this to mess with Eddie. Like stealing Eddie’s lunch so he’d be forced to eat it outside with him. Or coming up to Eddie in the library to take his headphones and listen to whatever song was playing on Eddie’s Walkman. He was like a fucking kindergartener with a
(crush)
never-ending affinity for annoying people.
“Give it to me!” Eddie demands, reaching his arms around Richie’s waist as he fumbles for the fanny pack’s clasp. In the process of doing so, he grazes over where the hem of Richie’s sweater rides up to expose the skin of his back. For some reason, it makes Eddie’s fingers feel like they’ve been electrocuted. Probably just because of static electricity or something.
Eddie jerks his hands back quickly, suddenly aware of how closely their chests are pressed together and how Richie’s thighs are resting against his.
“You’ll get it back after the party,” Richie says once he’s finally stopped laughing, “You need to loosen up Eds, and your fucking crotch pharmacy isn’t helping.”
Eddie’s face darkens. “Never call my fanny pack a crotch pharmacy again.”
“Crotch— “ Richie begins impishly, but then Eddie’s tickling him, just to get him to shut up. Richie lets out a yelp that nearly rivals the volume of the music, which causes Eddie to burst out laughing, even though he definitely didn’t plan on doing so.
“You’re such a dumbass, Rich,” Eddie giggles as he wriggles his fingers over Richie’s sides.
“T-Thank you, th-thank you very much,” Richie pants out in a terrible Elvis impression that Eddie hates himself for laughing at.
After a few more seconds of going back and forth, Richie manages to place his own hands over Eddie’s, halting his touches.
They’re both a little breathless as their eyes meet, and when Richie’s gaze locks onto his, Eddie feels that electricity again.
What the actual fuck?
“Got you,” Richie says, barely audible over the roar of the party, and suddenly Eddie doesn’t hear the music or the kids chanting CHUG in the kitchen, nor does he smell the booze and the weed that lingers in the air like smog. It’s just Richie’s hands over his, Richie’s thighs, Richie’s chest, Richie.
Eddie breathes out shakily, wanting his inhaler, but something else happens to bring the weird moment to an abrupt end. Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie spots two girls. They’re standing a few feet away, watching them. Their gazes are judgmental as they scan over the boys, their whispers even more so, and Eddie again becomes hyper-aware of just how close he’s standing to Richie, how this isn’t right.
He feels…dirty. Embarrassed. Exposed.
Eddie pulls back quickly, brushing off his clothes, heart drumming in his chest. “Where’d everyone else go?” He says, trying to distance himself from Richie as much as possible.
If Richie notices how weird Eddie’s acting, he doesn’t say anything. “You heard them,” He replies, moving away from the wall, “Snacks and dancing.”
“Right,” Eddie nods, tugging at his collar. Why the hell did he choose to wear a sweater tonight? He’s practically sweltering. “Uh, let’s go find them.”
“Sure thing, Spaghetti Man,” Richie shrugs. He turns away from Eddie and heads toward the kitchen, and Eddie follows him closely, “I’m still keeping this fanny pack though.”
Because of course he is.
It’s a couple of hours into the party now, and Eddie’s more than ready to go home. His friends have danced themselves out (Ben even managed to talk Eddie into dancing with him and Bev), and most of the party guests have drunken themselves into a stupor.
Then Greta just had to go and announce a game of spin-the-bottle.
“Basement, five minutes!” She calls out, giggling enthusiastically. There are some squeals as she and her friends head downstairs, stumbling their way to the basement.
“Oh, fuck yeah!” Richie grins. The Losers are all standing in the kitchen and turn to look at him with mixed levels of enthusiasm. “We’re so going!”
“Why?” Stan asks, looking skeptical.
“Because it’ll be fucking hilarious.”
“I-I don’t know,” Bill hesitates, “W-what if we have to kiss someone we don’t like?”
“It’s not like it’d be the end of the world,” Beverly shrugs.
“I’ll come,” Mike offers, “But only to watch you guys make fools of yourselves.”
“Same,” Stan contends.
“I’ll play,” Ben says shyly, intertwining, “But only if I land on Bev.”
Richie makes exaggerated gagging sounds, to which Bev flips him off. The Losers then shuffle off toward the basement, leaving Eddie in the kitchen, where he plans on spending the rest of the party.
Unfortunately, Richie, as always, notices him.
“Aren’t you coming, Eds?” Richie asks, stopping to look back at him.
“No fucking way,” Eddie scowls, shaking his head, “You guys can go without me.” He’s leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded, trying to ignore how sticky the tile feels beneath his shoes. Gross.
Richie frowns and walks over to Eddie, stopping less than a foot away from him. “Come on,” he pleads, poking Eddie’s arm, “It won’t be as fun without you.”
“No!” Eddie snaps, glaring at him.
“Why not?” Richie persists.
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Because I don’t want to!”
“Why, dipshit?”
“Because! I don’t wanna kiss any—“ Eddie’s voice falters abruptly as his skin starts to prickle. Scratch that: it’s not a prickle, but more like a white-hot all-consuming rush of boiling humiliation.
What the FUCK was he just about to say?
“Any what?” Richie asks, eyeing Eddie with a keen interest.
Girls?
The word hangs between them, unspoken and yet, at least to Eddie, insufferably loud.
“Anyone here,” Eddie says quickly, unable to think about the connotations of girls (dirty embarrassed exposed).
Richie whimpers and pouts at him. “Shit, not even me?” He steps closer and gives Eddie a puppy-dog pout, batting his lashes. His doe eyes, all wide and soft and chocolate brown, look cartoonishly big behind his glasses. Between that and the way his plush lips are downturned in an
(adorable)
obnoxious pout, Eddie can’t help but smile. “Definitely not you,” he mutters, pushing Richie’s face away. Eddie chooses to ignore the spark he feels when his fingers hit Richie’s freckled cheeks.
Richie simply smiles and leans a little closer. “Well, alright Eds, I guess you can stay up here if you want, but I won’t be around to save you from any upchucks.”
“I don’t need to be saved,” Eddie replies with a huff, though his stomach is already churning at the thought of being left alone with all these rowdy party goers.
“Course you don’t, Edward,” Richie randomly replies in a British (or is it supposed to be Irish?) accent, “Yee got a lot o’ grit to yuh!”
Eddie fights back another smile. “Seriously, shut the fuck up.”
Richie looks satisfied with his ability to make Eddie laugh. He smiles proudly for a moment, allowing Eddie more time to think things over.
“Soooooo, are you going to come?” Richie asks hopefully. He lifts a hand and casually draws circles over Eddie’s hipbone. Though Eddie hates to admit it, he’s certain Richie could get Eddie to give him the world and then some if he kept touching him like that. It’s terrifying, but it’s true. That much Eddie can’t deny.
And so that’s how, approximately 14 minutes later (according to Eddie’s calculator watch), he’s seated in the circle of spin-the-bottle players. There’s Greta, some of her ever-giggling friends, and a few older guys. It’s mostly girls though. Ben, Bev, and Richie are playing too, while the others watch from the couch along the wall.
The basement is dark, quiet, and cool, and a surprisingly welcome relief from the humidity of the upper floor. There are white Christmas lights strung along the ceiling, and a single lamp lit in the corner. The carpet is thick and plush; Eddie curls his fingers in it idly as Sally Mueller (the first to spin the bottle) and some junior kid finish their 7 Minutes in Heaven in the nearby laundry closet.
It’s kinda — okay, extremely — awkward just sitting around knowing that two kids are making out less than 10 feet away. The other kids are talking amongst themselves, seemingly indifferent to it all, but Eddie can’t stop the overwhelming sense of icky-ness he has at the moment.
Richie is seated across the circle from him. Their eyes meet for a moment, but Eddie looks away quickly. He’s still kinda mad at Richie for taking his fanny pack, and for convincing him to play this stupid game, and for bringing him to this party in the first place, and also for looking unfairly good in his tacky neon patterned sweater, fanny pack, and ripped jeans.
What an asshole.
Less than a minute later, the cooking timer Greta has in her lap goes off. She rises to her feet and prances over to the closet, knocking on the door aggressively. “YOUR TIME’S UP!” She barks, voice surprisingly thunderous to come from such a small and prissy person.
“Jeez, Greta,” Sally pouts as she and the guy emerge from the closet moments later.
“We gotta keep the game moving!” Greta replies with an eye roll. They all return to the circle and take their seats.
Eddie feels his heart start to hammer as his stomach drops. It was time for another spin. He’d barely made it through the first round — the guy Sally got is sitting right next to him. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for this again.
“Alright, who’s next?” Greta asks, looking at the group.
“ME!” Richie exclaims. He grabs the empty Coke bottle from the center of the group with a confident smirk. “Step right up ladies, it’s about to be someone’s lucky day!”
Eddie rolls his eyes.
“Fine, whatever,” Greta glowers, “You can go, I guess.”
Richie gives the bottle a few practice turns in his hand. He then lifts it as if to check its weight. After that, he sets it down, licks his middle finger, and holds it up in the air as if to test the nonexistent wind.
“Oh my god!” Eddie bursts impatiently, “Just spin it already!”
“Gee-wiz, hotpants,” Richie smirks at him, “You’re impatient tonight, huh?”
“No, you’re just fucking slow.”
Richie grins, eyes sparkling, “So, you want me to fuck fa—“
“HURRY UP, RICHIE!” Stan exclaims from the couch, voice cracking slightly.
“Y-yeah,” Bill contends, “Y-You’re taking f-forever.”
“Alright, alright!” Richie huffs defensively, “Don’t get your dicks in a knot.”
Eddie unknowingly begins to hold his breath as Richie sets the bottle down and gives it a purposeful spin. As the glass object spins in between them all, it catches the reflection of some of the Christmas lights, casting dancing flecks of light across their faces.
Eddie quickly glances up at the others, weighing out the best case and worst case scenarios. The best case would definitely be if Richie landed on Bev. She’s their friend and she’s dating Ben, so if she was to go into the closet with Richie, they’d just goof off.
The worst case scenario would definitely be Sally Mueller. With her long dark hair and thick, fluttery eyelashes, Richie would totally be all over her. Plus, Eddie still remembers the time Richie raved about how hot she was when they were in the 8th grade, which still pisses Eddie off, for some reason.
Please be Bev, please be Bev, please be Bev.
But the bottle doesn’t land on Beverly, or Sally, or any other girl.
It lands on him.
Stan bursts out laughing.
Richie looks like he just won the lottery (which, in a way, he kinda did). “Guess it’s you and me, my love,” he beams with a wink.
Eddie feels all eyes turn toward him and he blushes profusely. Before he can say anything though, Greta cuts in.
“Nuh uh, spin again!” she demands, crinkling up her nose in disgust.
“Why?” Beverly frowns.
“Because!” Greta exclaims, raising her arms as if it’s blatantly obvious. “Two guys can’t play 7 Minutes in Heaven!”
“Fuck that!” Richie scoffs before Eddie can say anything (again), “I fucking spun the goddamn bottle and now Spaghetti and I get to go in the goddamn closet!”
Eddie’s pretty sure his face has never been redder.
“Those are the rules,” Sally reminds Greta.
“S-So what?” Bill says diplomatically, “It’s just a dumb g-game. They d-don’t have to do anything they don’t want to do.”
Maybe Eddie’s just fucked up from inhaling all the second-hand smoke at this party, but the idea of not going into the closet with Richie is…disappointing. Not disappointing as in he wants to do it, definitely not. Disappointing as in...he got all stressed and worked up over the idea, and it’d totally suck for it all to be for nothing.
Right.
And so, Eddie rises to his feet and rolls his eyes with as much disgust as he can muster. “Whatever, let’s just get this over with.”
“Alright!” Richie croons as Beverly wolf-whistles.
Richie gets up eagerly and grasps Eddie’s hand, pulling him off to the closet. As Richie leads the way, Eddie averts his gaze to the floor, choosing to ignore the scrutinizing looks some of the kids are giving them right now.
(dirty embarrassed exposed)
“Enjoy your 7 Minutes!” Mike calls out, sounding like he’s desperately trying to hold back a laugh.
“Yeah, in hell,” Eddie finishes for him, only half-joking.
Richie pushes Eddie inside and shuts the closet door behind them. Inside, the world is pitch black. The only light comes from the strip underneath the door. As Eddie’s eyes begin to adjust though, he can make out more of his surroundings. The closet is more of a tiny room — it’s about 10 feet wide and long, and it has a washing machine and a dryer against the facing wall. Along the side walls are shelving units that house laundry baskets, detergent, and cleaning supplies.
“At least it’s clean in here,” Eddie comments appreciatively.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Eds,” Richie replies, standing across from him, “Not after Sally and her man were in here. I bet if you took a blacklight to this place it’d be more cummed up than your mom’s vagina.”
Eddie blindly swings an arm out to punch him, any part of him, but he only manages to lightly slap Richie’s elbow. “That’s fucking disgusting!”
Richie bursts out laughing. Eddie focuses on his face, and eventually his features emerge from the darkness — messy, curling black hair; obnoxiously large glasses; a laughing mouth.
Looking at Richie makes Eddie’s heart go all WHOOSH! and he doesn’t know what that means.
“I’m not going to kiss you!” Eddie suddenly exclaims. The worsts just come out of his mouth without warning, without Eddie to even fully think about why he feels the need to say them.
“Damn, Eds!” Richie replies, sounding taken aback, “No one said you have to!”
“I just wanted to be clear,” Eddie mumbles, looking away.
“Crystal,” Richie replies. He steps a little closer and casually runs a finger over Eddie’s arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind, “We can just...chat, or whatever the fuck.”
Eddie’s mind is screaming at him to pull back, to shove Richie’s hand away, but it’s as if his feet are glued to the floor.
Silence passes. Richie doesn’t move away and keeps drawing idle patterns over the sleeve of Eddie’s sweater. Eddie’s holding his breath again, not sure if he should try to say anything.
He should have known Richie wouldn’t be able to keep quiet for 6 minutes though.
“We were at a party,” Richie sings quietly.
“Huh?” Eddie frowns, looking up at him.
“His ear lobe fell in the deep,” Richie continues, grinning.
“No. Oh my god, no. STOP.”
“Someone reached in and grabbed it.”
“I swear to fucking god—“
“It was a Rock Lobster!” Richie belts out.
Eddie can’t believe him, he really can’t. As Richie begins the chorus of ‘ahhhhhhhh’s’, he grabs Eddie’s hands and pulls him into a little dance.
Eddie tries to fight back a smile but fails miserably. “I hate you!” He exclaims, grinning.
“Love you too, Eddie Bear!”
Eddie’s face flushes as Richie finishes their dance, giving Eddie a little twirl. Love? Like, as friends, right? God, he feels like he’s going crazy.
Eddie releases Richie’s hands and steps back to lean against the washing machine, needing to catch his breath.
Richie smiles at him, stepping a little closer to brush some mussed hair out of Eddie’s face. “You’re such a fucking cutie,” he says affectionately.
Eddie blinks up at him, breathless. “How are you like this?” He says, another blurted sentence he wasn’t planning on saying.
Richie frowns. “Like what?”
Eddie’s hesitant but continues. His curiosity gets the better of him. “You know...like, affectionate with other guys. With me. You’re always like...touching me and stuff in front of other people.”
Richie grins. “Do you like it when I touch you?” He asks in an exaggeratedly sensual voice.
Eddie feels his cheeks flare with heat. “T-That’s not the point!” He stammers, “I just mean that it doesn’t seem to bother you. You just called me your love and held my hand in front of all those guys out there.”
Richie’s moved in a little closer while Eddie’s been talking. The tips of their feet are touching, and Eddie can see his freckles now. “And?”
“And...and...aren’t you worried about what people will think?”
Richie tilts his head to the side curiously. “What do you mean?”
“You just...” Eddie pauses and averts his gaze, suddenly unable to make eye contact with Richie, “You seemed so excited about being with me. A guy. Aren’t you worried that people will think—“
“That I like you?” Richie finishes for him.
Eddie hopes that Richie can’t see how hard he’s blushing right now. He probably can — he’s so close now... “Uh, yeah.”
“Would that really be such a bad thing?” Richie muses. His voice is lower, and a little softer, not in a cheesy way like before, but in a genuine, heart-stirring, breath-catching kind of way. Eddie can feel the shift in the air as Richie leans in even closer.
He can smell Richie’s cologne, Richie’s pine-scented shampoo, Richie’s cigarettes smoke, and though he hates it, he’s also kinda intoxicated by it, too. He also can’t speak because of it, apparently, because the only sound that comes out of his mouth in response is, “uhh.”
Richie steps closer. His hands graze over Eddie’s hips, traveling lower, moving backward. His breath is tickling Eddie’s ear as he whispers, “Because I wouldn’t mind if everyone thought you were all mine.”
Oh.
The air feels electric between them. Eddie can feel something sparking between them, too bright and too powerful to ignore any longer. To be honest, he doesn’t even want to ignore it any longer. He’s tired of suppressing his feelings, tired of second-guessing everything. For once, he wants to want and to be wanted. And so...
Fuck it.
Eddie turns his head, and just like that, they’re kissing. And not just kissing, but like, really kissing. Their hands and mouths are everywhere all at once. It’s passionate and messy and frantic, the way their lips part, the way Eddie clings to him, the way Richie’s hands palm over his ass, the way Eddie can’t get enough.
Eddie should probably be repulsed because he can taste the cheap booze on Richie’s tongue, and because Richie’s tongue is in his mouth, and because Richie. Honestly, though? Eddie can’t bring himself to give a fuck. This feels good. Better than good, actually. It feels warm like summer afternoons, sweet like popsicles, soft like warm blankets, and brimming with possibilities like Saturday mornings. Like everything good and wonderful in the world but even better.
Richie hooks his hands under Eddie’s thighs and lifts him up so that he’s seated atop the washing machine. Eddie takes advantage of the new position and wraps his legs around Richie’s waist, using a tug of his ankles to drag the taller boy closer.
Eddie curls his fingers in Richie’s hair as Richie breaks the kiss to suck on Eddie’s neck. Eddie can feel a bruise forming as Richie nibbles and kisses his skin fervently. At first, Eddie feels a brief, but searing flash of panic — what if people see it? — but then Richie says something, voice ragged and breathless, that sounds like, all mine, Eds, only mine, and Eddie melts and combusts at once.
“Jesus, Richie,” he whimpers, accidentally gripping onto Richie’s hair too tight. The action causes Richie to groan lewdly against Eddie, and the sound is something Eddie’s sure he wouldn’t mind hearing for the rest of his life.
He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t mind having all of Richie for the rest of his life, actually.
His, only his.
Eddie yanks on Richie’s hair again, pulling him up for a searing kiss. Richie’s lips are softer than he expected, but that’s a good thing. Eddie revels in the way they press against his, insistent and needy and taking.
And just like that, it’s over.
Greta pounds on the door, breaking the haze of bliss between them. “TIME’S UP, FREAKS!”
Eddie and Richie pull apart, panting and flustered.
Wow.
“We’ll be out in a minute!” Richie calls back once he regains his breath, “We just gotta get our clothes back on!”
Eddie punches him in the stomach but doesn’t pull away. “Asshole,” he mutters.
Richie only smiles and leans in for a light kiss. “Cutie.”
Eddie rolls his eyes but leans in closer, still seated atop the washing machine, and tiredly rests his forehead against Richie’s. God, why had they spent so much time talking? They totally wasted their 7 minutes.
Richie looks up at Eddie through his lashes, seeking hesitant. “So, uh, what do we do now?” He asks, and for the first time tonight, he actually sounds a little scared. Like he’s worried Eddie’s going to brush him off, to yell at him, or to shut him out.
Only that doesn’t happen. On a Saturday in December in the basement laundry closet of Greta Keene’s house, around 12:04 A.M., according to Eddie’s watch, he officially decides that that’s never going to happen.
Eddie reaches forward and intertwines his hand with Richie’s. “I guess we just have to figure it out together.”
“Together?” Richie echoes with a smile.
Eddie beams back. “Together.”