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The papers arrive in the mail on a Tuesday. Eddie doesn’t open them until Thursday morning, instead opting for glaring at them from across the room for the bulk of a day and a half. The thick, off-white envelope makes him nauseated. It’s not that he’s regretting his decisions, but putting the final nail in the coffin of his marriage is such a huge step that he can’t help but want to flee. Hence, the Wednesday glares.
When he wakes on Thursday, Richie is already up, leaning against the kitchen counter and nursing a cup of coffee while his mouth hangs open in a half-smile. He’s watching the television, but Eddie can’t be bothered to figure out what’s making him laugh. All he sees is the envelope containing his divorce papers gripped in Richie’s other hand. He goes to pivot on his foot, turning back to crawl into bed for nine more hours of restless sleep, nightmares and changing the bandage on his ribs because he’s positive something is going to get infected and it feels like all he can control is keeping his wound clean. It’s almost completely healed and definitely doesn’t need the bandage anymore but he staunchly believes in the power of routine.
Unfortunately, Richie notices him making a run for it. Fuckin’ squeaky hallway floors.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Richie yells, and Eddie winces. Richie’s morning voice is far too much. He doesn’t let that stop him. “There’s coffee in the pot and the stupidity of these morning shows is simply,” he makes an exaggerated chef’s kiss, puckering his lips to his fingers and scrunching his eyes closed, “brilliant. Morning television is a revelation. Thanks for that, bud.”
Richie had become an early riser since cutting down on drinking in the evenings, (“I just don’t feel the need anymore,” he explained when Eddie asked him why he wasn’t whipping through whiskey with the same fervor, and Eddie still ignores the implications of Richie not needing to drink to get through life since beginning his foray into weird-nebulous-roommates-and-domestic-buddies time) and instead of trying to drag his ass out of bed just to entertain Richie when he complains about being bored before eleven am, Eddie tells him to start watching morning shows and Richie had taken the suggestion in stride even though Eddie was most certainly kidding, those shows are straight-up nightmares. Now Richie has made it a morning routine and he thanks Eddie way too much.
Eddie sighs, but he’s filled with something warm, despite his best efforts.
Having Richie around the past few months has been immensely helpful, even if he won’t admit it. Even if he’s still padding around his apartment in pajamas most of the time, pouting and refusing to return to any modicum of his previous life. Who wants to face reality when you could have a tall, lanky, mess of a human being take care of you while you ignore how safe and flustered that makes you feel?
The rest of the Losers have kept in close contact. Their group chat, weekly Facetime sessions and constant irreverent care packages have kept him going through the inevitable separation, moving out, and legal dissolution of his marriage that will be complete once he nuts up and opens that damn envelope. Fuck that thing. It’s taunting him. It doesn’t deserve the smug satisfaction of being signed. He may be projecting a lot of anger onto an inanimate object. It was his idea to divorce. What’s making him so angry about it?
No matter how near-death Eddie was, he’s not ready to give the universe what it wants and actually self-reflect. That would be far too painful and life-altering and would possibly even result in happiness, and Eddie isn’t sure he deserves that. Nor is he ready for it. He spent the last 27 years muddling through a boring existence of numb deflection and by god, he’s going to keep it up a little longer. It’s all he knows. But he also knows his resolve is slowly crumbling.
Especially with Richie in his space, his home, his life. He’s gotten used to it.
Richie annoyingly no longer requires caffeine to feel awake, but he makes a pot in the late morning for Eddie and drinks one single cup so he doesn’t feel pathetically dependent. He makes him food, easy and simple meals that are so surprisingly good Eddie finds very little to complain about. He usually goes for the presentation, since Richie has a tendency to drench things in sauce out of pure excitement. Eddie won’t admit he loves the enthusiasm with which Richie shovels his own cooking into his mouth and never fails to coat his lips in whatever brown sludge he’s covered everything in. Eddie eats and blushes and tries not to focus on how he itches to lick it off while telling Richie he’s the sloppiest bastard he’s ever met.
Richie hates to do laundry, but Eddie loves it. Richie also hates folding laundry, and, well, so does Eddie. Luckily, Richie always joins him on the couch while he’s pairing socks and makes fun of him, pulling laughs from him, sometimes out of pure shock and disgust, but the folding always goes faster when he’s there. Eddie’s started to look forward to Sunday afternoons to see what kind of voices Richie can conjure while shoving different articles of Eddie’s clothing over his head and gesturing wildly.
When Eddie has somewhere to go, Richie makes sure he’s there when Eddie returns. To be fair, Eddie doesn’t leave often these days. He’s currently more than halfway through a six month sabbatical from work, where he had returned for approximately twelve minutes after his chest wound had sufficiently healed only to find a request for data on street sewer accidents on his desk and high-tailed it out of there before he had a full-blown panic attack. His hands shook as he phoned Richie on the way home, and Richie was there to greet him when he returned, long fingers gripping his shoulder and helping him breathe the memories away. Richie gave up the ghost after that incident and checked out of the hotel he had been staying in, tossed his duffel bag onto Eddie’s couch and declared them temporary roommates.
Eddie is always annoyed when Richie bids him good morning every single day, without fail, but he can’t help but wonder how he would get along without it. At this point, he expects Richie to steal his towel and forget to replace it. He expects Richie to make a dumbass joke about his tattoos every night when he comes out in a short-sleeved pajama shirt. He expects Richie to be there when he finally stumbles out of his bedroom, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee, the morning light pouring over his unkempt hair and thick-rimmed glasses.
He doesn’t expect a lecture on the speed with which he will decidedly not open his mail.
Richie holds up the envelope, jiggling it in Eddie’s face and chanting, “Your future has arrived, Eddie Kaspbrak, and it appears in the form of,” he stops, eyes bugging and grabbing suddenly at Eddie’s arm, “LEGAL PAPERS! How long have these been here? Don’t answer that, I know it’s more than a day because I almost had a heart attack when I saw you hadn’t immediately slashed them open and returned them first-class to your lawyer.”
Eddie groans and turns toward the coffee pot, grabbing for the mug Richie left out for him on the counter. It’s blue and says “FUCK” in bold font. Richie had found it in an old vintage shop two blocks from Eddie’s apartment while he was exploring town shortly after arriving. He knows it to be Eddie’s very favorite curse word, thanks to an old game of Truth or Dare, and even though Eddie had rolled his eyes and mumbled, “I was thirteen, dipshit,” when he opened it, he still uses it every single day. The first week because Richie left it out for him. The second week because he found he could drink it slowly in the kitchen while Richie talked at him, pointing to it when he was too tired to respond. The third week because he actually began to like it. From there it became habit.
“You love the post office, Eds, don’t you miss your friends there?” Richie grins. Eddie finishes pouring and holds the mug between his hands, willing it to cool down. He needs coffee for this conversation.
“Working on it,” he says, “and please, it is too early for your voice and this coffee is too hot,” he whines, pouting over the mug. Richie doesn’t fall for it.
“Nice try, but I’m immune to your charming morning grumpiness, and don’t even think about pointing at your fucking mug one more time,” he warns, and Eddie pouts even harder . He will die on this hill if he must. Richie throws up his hands. “Fuck me, forget it, don’t tell me, but please stop pouting before I pinch your fucking cheeks, cutie.”
Eddie blushes and takes a sip of his coffee to deflect in his panic, forgetting that it’s scalding and immediately burning his tongue.
“Fuck,” he curses and inwardly applauds himself for being the most predictable human mess that ever existed.
He slams the mug back down onto the counter and presses a hand to his burned mouth.
“Fuck,” he says, resigned, as he reaches for the envelope and rips it open in one go. Richie peeks out at him from the living room and Eddie ignores him. He slams them down on the counter, grabs the nearest pen he can find and signs on the three different dotted lines.
He tries to drown out the applause he hears erupt from the living room by loudly sipping the rest of his coffee and humming loudly.
“Hey, Eddie, long time-no see!” says Brenda, waving, when he arrives at the post office five days later to mail the papers back, and he makes a mental note to never breathe a word of this to Richie as he waves back.
*****
Richie rustles up a group video chat disturbingly quickly, and early Friday afternoon he drags Eddie to the couch in front of his computer. He’s happy to see everyone, but he spends most of the call shaking his head.
“Of course we need to celebrate!” Richie says, and Eddie pinches him on the thigh.
The Losers are all contained to small boxes on the screen of Eddie’s laptop, and Richie pats him, hard, on the shoulder when they all cry out in agreement.
“Guys, it’s okay, I’m perfectly fine and I picked up a six pack of wine coolers to enjoy in my bedroom, so I already have plans,” Eddie says, but no one is listening, thanks to Richie and Bev conspiring on what kind of celebration is appropriate for the finalization of a divorce.
“I knew you were going to say s-s-strip club, Tozier, and n-n-need I remind you that I am a married man?” Bill says, not sounding terribly put-out but tired in a pleased way. Since their time back in Derry, no one can manage to be genuinely irritated with Richie. (“Thank you, thank you,” Richie had cried, cradling Eddie, desperately grasping at all of them, and they had encircled him while waiting for an ambulance, whispering apologies and assurances that Eddie would make it through. Eddie had just gripped his hand a little tighter.) They all scoff and boo and call him Trashmouth, but they can all see the new life in him, the new life Eddie sees every single day and blames entirely on their friend group being back together, not the way their two lives have entangled comfortably and intimately.
Eddie only realizes after Richie has said his name a few times that he’s missed most of the contentious conversation and they’ve made a decision.
“Bust out your dancing shoes, my adorable and single friend, we are off to the karaoke bar!” Richie leaps from the couch and begins to make a series of phone calls to find an open private room anywhere in the city. When he succeeds, Eddie lets a lot of his favorite expletive fly.
The others hang up with promises to meet them as long as Richie texts details to the group chat and Eddie thinks longingly of the peach-mango wine coolers burning a hole in his fridge.
*****
The place is nice, and for a moment, Eddie thinks that maybe he should learn to trust Richie. He regrets it almost as soon as he thinks it.
Twenty minutes in, a troupe of waiters bursts forth from the kitchen with a cake that reads, “You’re free!” in dripping red letters while the Losers applaud and laugh hysterically and Eddie forgets why he likes any of these fucking people.
They all pat him on the back, and Bev kisses his cheek. Richie cuts him the first piece, complaining the entire time about how nasty marble is, but he knows it’s Eddie’s favorite and that weird fact alone makes Eddie’s ears rush because when have they even eaten cake together?
Richie spends the whole night singing the dumbest songs, off-key, and the drunker he gets, the more eye contact he makes with Eddie, and Eddie feels like he’s drowning. He’s two shots in, plus the two gin and tonics, and something Richie handed him which tasted like mango. It definitely didn’t make up for not having his wine coolers but it soothed him nonetheless. He has a comfortable and warm buzz going, but Richie’s deliberate stare makes him feel light-headed and he spends most of Richie’s rendition of “Sugar” by Maroon 5 squirming in his seat.
After a couple hours, the six of them are all mingling in separate corners, having increasingly drunker conversations, and Richie is a stubborn bastard so he’s singing a slow and soulful tune Eddie’s only heard once before, “The Art Teacher” by Rufus Wainwright. Richie’s voice is just low enough to pass as almost good, and Eddie smiles, even though he’d just been rather invested in a conversation Bill and Ben are having about how good dogs are.
Richie catches his eye and winks, and Eddie waves a dismissive hand at him.
He had taken our class to the Metropolitan Museum
He asked us what our favorite work of art was,
But never could I tell it was him
He watches Eddie as he sings, uncharacteristically serious, and everything else falls from Eddie’s vision but the way Richie presses his lips to the microphone, the drunk fog telling him to ignore how many gross sets of lips have drooled on that microphone before Richie.
He told me he liked Turner
Never have I turned since then
No, never have I turned to any other man
Eddie is suddenly fourteen, watching Richie with rapt attention, gripping at his own knee with the passion of a thousand confused and burning suns. His stomach is full of butterflies, and he wants to blame the fact that he hasn’t been this drunk in a very long time, but the truth is he’s been feeling this way ever since Richie moved in with him. Fuck, he thinks. Richie really lives with me. The thought does the furthest thing from scare him.
I was just a girl then;
Never have I loved since then
No, never have I loved any other man
Richie lets the piano play him out and just as the other Losers notice he’s done, they all stand and applaud. He bows, the corners of his eyes a little wet, and Eddie almost forgets to stand with the rest of them. He can’t and won’t take his eyes off Richie. An overwhelming sense of understanding settles over him, and he wonders how it took him almost four months to see it.
Whenever Richie finishes a song he drops into the seat next to Eddie, smirking, and takes a long swig from his beer. This time, Eddie leans against him and opens his mouth to ask a whole slew of questions that won’t come, but Richie smiles and points to the stage, where Bev and Ben have decided to duet on “Islands in the Stream.”
Eddie takes the bait, decides to save the conversation for back home, maybe when they’re at least somewhat sober, but he still feels like he might burst, so he scoots as close to Richie as he can get on the velvet couch. Richie hums quietly and leans back, throwing an arm around the back of Eddie’s seat and egging Bev on. They watch the cute and boppy duet while Richie cheers them throughout.
“Get it, Beverly! Show your hunk what you’re made of!” which, in context, makes absolutely no sense, but Eddie can’t stop the laugh that rumbles out. Richie reaches forward and rubs a hand down his back. At first, Eddie freezes, but then pushes into the touch. Fuck it, he thinks, and starts to turn around to face Richie when he sees Bev dancing toward him.
Bev is happy, her cheeks red and her smile wide. She catches Eddie’s eyes and starts draping her scarf around his neck, pulling gently until he’s fully standing. She leads him over to the stage, and as the song nears its end, Eddie realizes what’s happening and begins to panic. He makes a move to leave, but everyone jeers until he gives in and starts flipping through the electronic catalogue of songs at his disposal.
His eyes land on a Pink song and his eyes snap up to Richie as if he can read his mind and give him confirmation. This could be a disaster, but Eddie is horrible with feelings and words and emotions and he’s something like six drinks in so he hits the “start” button and his last semi-coherent thought is, the only thing I have to lose is everything.
“This one’s for the dumbass who dragged me out tonight. Fuck you, buddy,” Eddie says, and he hears someone whistle.
The music kicks up and Richie whoops his name loudly. Eddie tries not to throw up all over the machine in front of him. He brings the microphone up to his mouth and gives it his all.
Sometimes I hate every single stupid word you say
Sometimes I wanna slap you in your whole face
There's no one quite like you, you push all my buttons down
I know life would suck without you
Eddie sees Richie laughing, clapping his hands and spilling his beer with a deep red flush covering his face. Eddie bounces on his feet and holds the microphone tightly between both hands to give it more feeling.
At the same time, I wanna hug you
I wanna wrap my hands around your neck
You're an asshole but I love you
And you make me so mad, I ask myself
Why I'm still here, or where could I go
Eddie can’t sing, he knows he can’t, but who cares if you’re tone-deaf when your ears are ringing with the humiliation of simultaneously coming out and confessing your love for your childhood best friend via Top 40 hit?
You're the only love I've ever known
But I hate you, I really hate you
So much I think it must be
True love, true love
It must be true love
He knows everyone else is losing it, screaming at the top of their lungs, but all he sees is Richie.
Just once tried to wrap your little brain around my feelings
Just once please try no to be so mean
Repeat after me now R-O-M-A-N-C-E-E-E
Come on I'll say it slowly
You can do it babe
They all start singing with him. Richie just watches, standing now, hands fallen to his sides and stupid smile stuck on his face.
Nothin' else can break my heart like
True love, true love
It must be true love
No one else can break my heart like you
He lets his friends finish out the multiple sets of “Whoa oh, oh, oh’s,” Bill hanging around Richie’s shoulders and screaming into his ear. Eddie doubles over with a laugh, swinging the microphone in victory. He’s never seen Richie speechless, and that almost makes this whole “forced activity on the night of his official divorce” worth it.
Well, that and the fact that Richie’s gaze is burning holes in Eddie’s face, and he looks like he might eat him alive.
Eddie makes his way toward Richie, stopping with a few inches between them that Richie immediately closes by kissing him. Eddie squeaks against him in surprise, but Richie holds on tight, slotting their mouths together more firmly and Eddie wraps his arms around Richie’s neck and relaxes into it.
There’s a loud roar before they’re both tackled to the ground by the rest of their friends.