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Richie Tozier was fucked.
The simple sound of Eddie's gentle swaying was enough to make his heart flutter and his fingers fidget like some kind of schoolgirl. He cursed internally, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. Just knowing that Eddie was nearby was enough to make his stomach flip. He had to resist the urge to leap up - to crowd himself in on the other side of the hammock just to hear more of Eddie’s voice. To be closer to him.
It was embarrassing, really.
Richie never knew when it started, not really. But one thing he did know for sure was that he loved him. From the way he parted his hair in the morning to those stupid fanny packs he insisted on wearing... he loved every bit of it.
He quickly realized that he didn’t give Eddie shit just for laughs. He bugged him mostly to hear his reactions; his dorky snorts, his high-pitched retorts, and plenty of fuck-you’s sent Richie’s way. But he found himself chasing that high; searching for more ways to make Eddie laugh. Searching for more of him and all that entailed.
Every moment with him just seemed to make his life a little brighter.
He spares Eddie a fleeting glance, and can’t help but think about his trip to the Kissing Bridge. About how the wood peeled beneath the careful etching beneath his fingers. The way his hands shook as he curved the top parts of an R, and the way his heart jumped up to his throat as he began the E even more slowly - meticulously. The way his palms sweated and the way he found himself looking over his shoulder, suddenly nervous. He searched for any sign of Bowers behind his too-big glasses.
But behind him there was silence, stillness, security.
Richie had breathed a sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding. He'd carefully chosen a time that he figured Bowers or the Losers would be busy with their summer, but even still he felt the familiar prickle of fear crawling up his spine.
Even though just glancing at those two letters together gave him a surge of joy and comfort that he’d never felt before, he knew that others wouldn’t feel the same way about it.
Echoes of “faerie” and “faggot” ring in his ears. The way that the words were always spat with such malice will stick with him forever as memories of what the world thought of him. Flashes of grimacing faces and disgusted looks race through his mind. His face dropped.
No one could know.
"--Rich!"
Eddie's voice pulls him from his thoughts with a jolt. His brown eyes flicker up from the comic he was pretending to read, sprawled on the clubhouse floor.
"Seriously, what the fuck has got you all glaze-eyed, trashmouth?"
"I dunno…” Richie says, feigning exhaustion. “I'm probably just tired from fuckin' your mom all night."
"Ugh, gross Rich,"
He smirks, trying to play off the pounding in his ears when he caught sight of Eddie’s annoyed scowl. He wanted nothing more than to reach out - to brush his fingertips against the knuckles that hung lazily off the side of the hammock. But he resisted, swallowing the urge with a shaky gulp.
There is a beat of silence, and then two. The only sound is the idle chatter of Stan and Mike in the distance. But Richie can tell that Eddie is watching him from the corner of his eye.
"Are you sure you're okay, Rich?" His voice is softer this time as he peeks his freckled face over the edge of the hammock. His voice is low enough that the rest of the Losers wouldn’t be able to hear. It strikes him at once that Eddie was concerned. He and the Losers had been through a lot in the last couple of months. Even though they all pointedly decided not to talk about it, it was clear they were all affected in one way or another. And in all his weirdness, Eddie probably thought Richie was having a hard day and wanted to check in on him.
He wants to make sure that he’s okay. Richie’s face softens, and he meets Eddie’s eyes.
“I’m just peachy, Eds.” he says. “Thanks for checking.”