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Things slow down over time. Richie would be lying if he were to say he hadn’t noticed from the very beginning, but he’d been too afraid then, too unsure of it all, to say anything about it to Eddie.
Even if he were to say anything, he wouldn’t have known how to. He wouldn’t have known what to say in the first place. How could Richie have confronted Eddie with his fear that they were becoming... soft? Content? Different? His worry that they were growing older, becoming less interested in petty, heated arguments, fist fights, and their perverted ways; in their shared insults and exchange of hurtful words and in their overall, outright knob-headedness.
Richie and Eddie are changing as people. Outwardly, yes, but on the inside as well. They’re evolving, if not a few decades too late.
The first changes started only a few months ago, so minuscule that had Richie been as oblivious and insulant as everyone seems to think he is, he wouldn’t have noticed. The changes were just little bumps in their routines that could easily be ignored. Changes not only in the world around them, but in Richie and Eddie themselves.
Richie, for one, had stopped feeling the need to crack dirty jokes during every conversation. Even to himself while alone. The motivation was no longer there. On the off chance he did make a joke, Eddie wouldn’t laugh. And not like he did before, mind you, but the deafening silence that followed would be enough to colour Richie’s cheeks red hot with embarrassment and prevent him from repeating the same mistake. His jokes had always been a bit shit, anyway.
Around the same time as this, they’d found pride in their surroundings. They cleaned the flat. Every room, every corner and every crevice, from top to bottom, until it smelled entirely of lemon cleaner fluid and bleach. They dusted all surfaces and mended all of the furniture. They even bought in new so-called artistic pieces to decorate the walls and bleak empty spaces. A framed illustration here and a couch cushion there. They stay on top of the maintenance, too, and Richie has a new found love in polishing their kitchen. It practically gleams with how shiny it is, and they cook proper meals now. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, shared over many plates and glasses of fruit juice and cups of tea, with their socked feet tangled thoughtlessly beneath the table. The flat is more of a home than a hovel, and they’ve created it themselves. Wordlessly and lovingly.
Not too long ago, Richie got a haircut. Just a trim to shorten the length and even out the edges, and a nice blond colour to boot. He likes it. Eddie had pouted at him as he returned home from the barbershop then, saying something or other about his bald head and how he's stuck with it for the rest of eternity. Richie doesn't think a bald head is that bad. He can't imagine himself without any hair, though. That'd be quite strange. He said as much to Eddie, who laughed and softly scraped Richie's hair back into a bobble, his knuckles brushing the warm skin at the back of Richie's neck.
Richie estimates that they’re some six and a half months down the line of what he’d call their ‘long-awaited evolution as human beings’ when Eddie says that he wants to learn how to read.
“But why not read and write?” Richie asks him from the kitchen, eyes scanning the fridge shelves for the block of cheese. He only bought it yesterday, so it should still be in there... White, extra mature. “Why not do both?"
“I thought it’d be easier learning one at a time, you know,” Eddie says, hooking his coat up on the new wooden stand, stepping into the kitchen area and pressing the tips of his cold fingers to the back of Richie’s neck, making him jump at the feeling.
“Oi! Stop that,” Richie chides, but he smiles to himself. He grabs the block of dairy from the top shelf of the fridge and continues on with the macaroni and cheese dish he has been working in for their dinner. He'd found the recipe in a little old cookbook he’d uncovered from the darkest corners of the flat. It'd been unused, old and dusty, but a small treasure.
He spares Eddie a small glance, concentrating hard. He has already messed up this recipe once before. “And I don’t know what would be easier, really. I learned to read and write at the same time in primary school. I don’t much remember how difficult it had been at the time.”
Humming in reply, Eddie leans back against the counter as Richie slices through the cheese with a small knife, and he folds his arms across the breadth of his chest. He has loosened his shirt and tie, and the curve of his throat is exposed to the elements. Milky-white skin gleams underneath the hanging ceiling light of their kitchen.
“I could try doing both, then.” Eddie tilts his head black and closes his eyes. Richie realises with a small jolt of surprise that he smells good. Good— that is, of sweet aftershave and not pungent alcohol or anything else equally as disgusting. It’s a nice smell and Richie has to keep his focus as to not inhale it in. At least not in an obvious way.
”You could,” Richie agrees, feeling compelled to look at Eddie but ignoring the pressing feeling. He packs away the cheese and places the thin slices over the surface of the pasta tray in neat little lines, ready for the oven. “Will you need help with it, do you think?”
Eddie peers through his eyelashes, through the lenses of his glasses, head still lax. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
Richie, having followed almost every step in the macaroni and cheese recipe from the cookbook, dusts his hands together and undoes his apron from behind. He drapes it over the handle of the cutlery drawer. There’s a place for everything in this flat now.
“I’ll be popping that dish in the oven once it warms up. I do hope it'll be good this time 'round.” The memory of blackened, burnt cheese and rock hard pasta from the previous week sticks in the forefront of Richie's mind.
Eddie stands a little straighter, completely undoing his tie and pulling it from the confines of his weak shirt collar. “It was good last week, love,” He says casually, winding the silk material around his hand distractedly, one foot crossing over he other as the kitchen counter takes his weight still, “Just a little bit too much oven-time, you know? Nothing to worry about.”
Richie gnaws softly on his bottom lip, distracted. “I suppose.” He catches Eddie's eyes and holds them. “How was today, then?”
Eddie tilts his head, eyes drifting away from Richie’s as if deep in thought, recalling his appointment with the job centre earlier this morning. He says, “Good. Got to the meeting on time. They say I should have some luck with applications this week. A lot of vacancies or something. Holiday season an’ that.”
Good news. The sooner Eddie bags himself a job, the sooner they’ll have a more steady income. Less to worry about. Richie doesn’t fancy himself a working man; he’s already too settled into his housewife type work here. Speaking of...
“Oh, I should’ve mentioned before,” Richie begins, fiddling with the smooth hem of his shirt, “Do you think I should... I don’t know, get a job, too? I mean, It’d be great money-wise, and you can never have enough of that!” He grins, wanting to share a joke, but it falters when Eddie’s eyes widen with an emotion Richie can't read. “What? What?”
Eddie shrugs nonchalantly, brushing the question off with a practiced ease, but the tension has set in and Richie can never back down when he knows there is a secret hiding somewhere. He's like an overly curious cat, never backing down until he finds out what he wants. Why would Eddie be keeping anything from him, anyroad? He thought they were changing— evolving, like he’d witnessed over the last few months. No secrets, no hidden truths. Not anymore. So, Richie touches Eddie’s shoulder as the man begins to move away. It does the trick, keeping Eddie in place.
Taking a breath and questioning just why he’s so nervous all of a sudden, Richie asks, “Would you have a problem with me getting a job?” at the same time Eddie mumbles, “I’d prefer if you were here when I get home from work.”
Oh. Right. Richie opens his mouth, hand dropping from Eddie’s shoulder with a small realisation burning on his tongue. “Oh.”
Colour blooms high on Eddie’s cheekbones, painting his face a delightful pink and making little butterflies form low in Richie’s stomach. Eddie finds his voice again, taking a cautionary step back from Richie to distance himself. Richie would like to have them close again; the way they’d been only seconds ago, in one another’s personal space and warmth. But something has wedged itself between them. Richie isn’t too sure what.
“Look. It’s fine. I just— I would like...” Eddie looks around the flat. Richie contemplates running out of the door, thundering down the stairs and out into the streets, all the while screaming father loudly. “I’d like if you were here. Once I get a job, when I come home. Here, in the flat. You.”
Richie blinks slowly, watching the blush spread from Eddie’s cheeks to his exposed neck and further south, to his chest which peeks out from the inviting dip of his shirt collar. Eddie wants Richie here, in the flat. For him to come home to. If Richie were to get a job like him, they’d no doubt have different schedules. Different working hours and different holidays. Eddie would have no one to come home to; to greet after a long day. Richie would have no one to prepare meals for, to look forward to seeing after hours spent alone.
“That’s fine,” He manages, silently revelling at how Eddie’s head perks up, his eyes finally meeting Richie’s own. They’re vulnerable, wide, and Richie fears that his own mirror those very emotions. “I understand. I— I like the idea, too. Of you coming home and me being here.”
And Eddie smiles. Just a little one, a little crook at the corners of his lips and a slip of teeth, but Richie feels— suddenly, all at once— like someone has tipped a bucket of freezing cold water over his unsuspecting head. His stomach feels tight at the sight in front of him. It's only Eddie, smiling with a curious softness that he seems to have grown into. His face, relaxed with a semblance of fondness that mirrors the emotions in his eyes, behind his glasses. It's only Eddie, but that's just it, isn't it? Christ. Oh, Christ. Oh—
Richie is in love with Eddie. And it feels, now, as though he always has been.
“I have to go.” Richie wastes no time in evacuating the flat, ignoring the hurt, trampled look on Eddie’s face as he turns, and bolting. He takes the stairs two at a time, rushing through the front door and out into the street, hyper-aware of how he has just bailed during a very emotional and somewhat touching moment between he and Eddie. Damn him. Why must his emotions resemble that of a teenage girl? Once he is a couple of blocks away, outside the vicinity of the flat, he kicks at the gravel at his feet.
The streets of West London are surprisingly quiet for a Thursday afternoon. Richie doesn’t much mind. It’s bloody cold, though, and in his haste he has forgotten to bring along his outdoor jacket. Another point for... well, whomever Richie is up against. The world, perhaps. God, if he believed he existed at all. Regardless, it feels as though Richie has taken the most cowardice path — rather than facing his problems he has ran from them. Quite literally.
He walks by shop windows which have been expertly designed to entice possible customers to come inside and splash some cash. They don't work on Richie, whose mind is elsewhere. He keeps to a leisurely pace as he traverses the familiar streets, never going too far from the flat, but staying well enough away. He has to clear his mind. And he knows that he has to go home eventually. Eventually. Not now, not yet.
Turning the corner on one of the many streets, a small café seems to pull him in. It's nothing special, with a simple sign reading 'From the Ground Up' and a beige interior which welcomes Richie with a warmth he had not noticed he'd needed, having spent no less than fifteen minutes aimlessly wandering around in the cold. Despite its seemingly simple exterior, there's a homey feeling inside which compels him to move further into the space. At one side there is a counter, fitted with menus and little display cases of various muffins and cakes, and at the other side, there are a handful of tables and chairs.
The room is small, not too busy. It smells delicious; sweet and bitter all at once. No doubt the result of the sweet pastries and cakes, as too with the coffee and tea. Richie's mouth waters and he thinks of the macaroni cheese in the oven back home in the flat. He'll have to return soon to take caren of it. Perhaps sooner than he’d like to.
He takes a seat, fumbling around for the menu. He is about halfway down the laminated card of writing when he realises that he hasn’t brought any money with him. At all, whatsoever. His wallet is in his jacket, which is still hung up on the coat stand. In the flat. Fantastic. It’s just like him to go scampering off with his tail between his legs and forgetting to stop for his valuables in the meantime. Talk about natural selection.
“Would you like anything today, sir?”
The voice holds a thick accent, something Eastern European, Richie thinks, and a friendly lilt. The waitress is young, probably eighteen or nineteen if the colourful, out-there tattoos and face piercings are anything to go by. Her hair is straight and short and brown, clasped behind her large ears with butterfly clips. Her work uniform is beige, like the rest of the café. She’s pretty, but Richie feels a hunred miles away.
“No,” He tells her rather sternly. Then, kinder, “No, sorry. I forgot to bring money. Evacuation-type situation, you see. Left in a bit of a hurry.”
She smiles knowingly, warmly. She tucks her notepad and pen into her apron pocket. “Lover’s quarrel, then?” Upon Richie’s look of dismay, she smiles harder, dimples breaking out in her cheeks. Richie wonders just what on Earth is so funny. “Oh, I see. A not-quite lover’s quarrel. I understand.”
She takes a seat opposite Richie, scraping the chair closer to the table. A few heads turn their way, but the customers quickly return to their mugs of coffee. She continues, “So, what is it? Unrequited love? Or is it requited love, but you’re both idiots and keep dancing around each other and doing nothing about it?”
Richie opens his mouth and closes it again. He isn’t really sure, now that he has been asked. He thought— he thought he’d seen that... look on Eddie’s face. The very fond one, the one that seemed to mirror the warmth Richie had blooming in his chest. The one that said Eddie loved Richie. But Richie can’t be certain, not from a single look alone.
He says, “I’m not too sure.” Taking a second, Richie watches the waitress’ face, sizes her up and then, satisfied, feels confident enough to slip a pronoun into his next sentence. “He’s— I don’t know if he’s in love with me. Like I... like I am with him. I don’t know. I don’t know how I’ll ever know, actually.”
“Ask him.”
A loud, throaty guffaw from Richie really does turn heads this time and he has to cover his mouth, avoiding the eyes of curious customers. He smiles in disbelief. “If it was that easy...”
The waitress shrugs, lounging against the back of her chair. When she stretches her neck, the red tattoo wrapped around it flexes. “What are you going to do other than that? What other options do you have? You go home— he lives with you, I presume?” Richie nods and she continues, steadfast and with determination in her voice. “Well, you go home. You do not speak about it. You continue your life as you have done... Is that what you want? To sweep whatever it is that has happened between you and him under the rug?”
Richie doesn’t have to think twice. He’d hate for that to happen. It would be torture. Purgatory, even, like those religious folk sometimes mention. Every day and every night would be spent pretending they were okay, that they were friends. Just friends. The things they had said and how they’d said them would be buried and ignored. Richie would hate it, so he shakes his head. The waitress nods, just once, as if proving her point.
“Well, there you go.” She dusts invisble dirt from her lap and stands. “I hope you did not mind me intruding... I see someone in a crisis and I suppose it is my natural instinct to step in to help them.”
Richie stands, too, hands nervously wringing together. “No, it was— thank you. Really.” He extends his hand— sweaty, shaking; how embarrassing— and she clasps it firmly.
“It was nice to meet you,” She says, grinning. When she releases his hand, she shoos him out of the front door and Richie is hard pressed not to laugh. “Now, go. Good luck, sir.”
The door to the café shuts. The air is icy. Richie takes off back through the streets of Hammersmith, shoes hitting the pavement with a dramatic thud that may actually be his thudding heart, pumping away in his chest and low, rumbling, in his ears. By the time he reaches the flat, stumbling through their drawing room door, he is entirely out of breath. Another moment of embarrassment for Richie, as though he was falling short of them lately. He kneels over, hands on his knees keeping him from dropping to the floor.
“Jesus, Rich,” Eddie’s says from somewhere in front of him. Richie heaves breath in, out, in out. Warm hands flutter over his hair, his shoulders. Richie pulls himself up until his back is straight— this has to be it. Right here, right now. If not, they’ll pretend like nothing ever happened and that will surely be worse than any possible rejection.
“Sod it.”
Richie stands, taking in the second-long look of worry plastered over Eddie’s face, before leaning forward to kiss those stupid lips on that stupid face. His nose presses uncomfortably against Eddie’s own, just a little, and Richie isn’t too sure what to do with his hands or how to properly kiss, and his thoughts are derailing, derailing, until Eddie kisses back. The push-and-pull of it all is intoxicating. Eddie’s hands cup Richie’s jaw, his chin, down to his neck. Richie finds sanctuary in placing his palms to Eddie’s firm chest, fingers twitching and catching on the fabric of his shirt.
When they eventually stop and separate, they’re both out of breath, red-faced, slack-lipped and looking entirely debauched. Richie likes how Eddie looks. And, as it turns out, how he tastes, too.
Richie feels compelled to apologise. He does. “Sorry for running away. Was silly of me.”
That smile— that smile— ghosts over Eddie’s mouth. Teasing, almost. “Nah, it’s alright. You seem to have sorted it all out while you were away.”
Suddenly bursting with that familiar warmth and child-like glee, Richie just shakes his head, the smile on his own lips surely beaming by now. “We’ve wasted so much time. Eddie, I— well.” He pauses, suddenly feeling vulnerable. Can he say those three words? He means them, yes, but...
“Love me? Yeah,” Eddie does smile, then. Properly, skin around his eyes crinkling. “Me too.”
Richie presses his lips together. This... this is everything. His emotions are thick in his throat, stinging at his eyes, and he’s worried they’ll come spilling out if he says too much. So, instead, he asks, “How would you like some macaroni and cheese?” and they move as one into the kitchen.
*
Much later, once their dinner has been dished out alongside a generous serving of garlic bread and the sun has properly set over the city, Richie revels at how his life has turned out: perhaps not in the way and in the sequence of events he had ever envisioned, but he’s happy nonetheless. And that’s what this is, this feeling— happiness. Eddie’s sleep-lack face, smushed into the cotton pillow to his left fills Richie’s chest with this ever-present warmth. Despite it having always been there, he supposes his recent discoveries have finally attached a name to this feeling...
Love.
"Come to sleep, you tosser," Eddie grumbles, and he kneads at the bare skin on Richie’s arm with his hand, pulling him down to the mattress. Richie let’s himself be gathered into warm, welcoming arms and, tucked beneath the clean duvet, he closes his eyes.
Tomorrow, Eddie will begin his lessons in learning how to read and write. But tonight, all they have to do is sleep.