Archive of Our Own

“I’ve gotta piss like a racehorse,” Richie groaned, rolling forward and hauling himself up off the floor by Bill’s bed.

“You don’t have to announce it, Rich,” Stan said from the desk chair with a roll of his eyes. Bill and Mike snickered, the springs of the bed squeaking as they shifted.

“Bev,” Richie asked, looking to her for support. She raised her hands and leaned back against Ben. “Eds?”

Eddie glanced up, locked eyes with Richie. Richie tried to remember how to breathe. Eddie was sprawled out across the floor beside where Richie had been, ankles crossed, wringing his fingers together, looking like every single one of Richie’s fantasies.

Richie wanted to take his hand and still those restless fingers. He knew Eddie was nervous, and with good reason. He would be eighteen in approximately four minutes. Five minutes from then, and for the rest of his life, Eddie would feel everything his soulmate felt.

Richie was nervous, too, if he was being honest. He’d turned eighteen four months earlier and hadn’t felt anything other than what he was supposed to. He’d even scribbled notes onto his skin, hoping his soulmate would see and answer, but there was just silence. A small part of Richie—okay, the overwhelming majority of him—hoped that meant his soulmate wasn’t eighteen yet…because Eddie wasn’t eighteen yet. Not for another three minutes.

“Can’t you hold it?” Eddie asked, staring up at Richie with wide, desperate eyes. “It’s almost time.” Richie shook his head.

“Been holding it for like two hours, Eds,” he said, then ducked out of Bill’s bedroom and across the hall. He didn’t have to pee. He just didn’t think he could sit there in the anxious silence pulsating off Eddie. He didn’t think he could be there when the clock struck midnight and Eddie pinched himself for his soulmate.

Richie knew that was Eddie’s plan, the pinching. It was supposed to be a hello that was obviously intentional at exactly midnight on his eighteenth birthday. They’d talked about it, Eddie with dreamy and nervous eyes, Richie cracking joke after joke because it hurt too much to think about Eddie pinching himself and Richie not feeling it.

He didn’t think he could sit in the room with Eddie, not feel it, and not let it show how stupidly in love he was with Eddie.

Richie resolved to pee anyway, just so he didn’t feel like so much of a dirty liar. When he was done, he bent down to flush, came up too quick, and smacked the back of his head on the cabinet over Bill’s toilet. He barely grunted, used to knocking his head into anything shorter people didn’t consider as being hazardous, but across the hall Eddie’s voice rang.

“Ow! Fuck!”

Richie turned, his brows pulling together.

Jesus, how had Eddie managed to hurt himself just by sitting on the floor?

Richie was just about to pull open the door and see, when he felt two sharp little claws digging into the skin above his hipbone.

Richie yelped and jerked around.

There was no one there, just the towel cabinet, slightly askew from bashing into the back of Richie’s head.

He raised his shirt, craning to get a look in the bathroom mirror.

There was nothing but an angry, red mark.

His heart slammed hard as he stared at the mark. It looked…suspiciously like the aftermath of being pinched. A jolt of unabashed hope tore through him and dangerously tight on its heels, crippling doubt. There was no way Eddie fucking Kaspbrak was his soulmate. Richie was not that lucky. Eddie was not that unlucky.

But still, Eddie had planned on pinching his soulmate. And Richie…Richie had felt the pinch, the very first thing he had felt from his soulmate. He had to be sure.

Richie spent a solid ninety seconds scrabbling around in Bill’s bathroom drawer, frantic, praying to God there was a pen. His fingers brushed over something pen-shaped, and Richie jerked his hand out, a beautiful ballpoint in his grasps and thanking whatever fates may be on his side that Bill was exactly the type of person to do the crossword while he pooped.

Richie pulled in one shaky breath; then, he drew a tiny heart on the inside of his wrist, right over his pulse point. He recapped the pen, shoved it in his pocket, and forced himself back across the hall.

“Richie!” Eddie shouted, as soon as he was through the threshold. “Look!” Eddie held his wrist out, and there, matching exactly the shaky scrawl on the inside of Richie’s own wrist, sat a tiny heart over Eddie’s pulse point.

A broken sound left Richie.

Fuck, it was, it was a lot.

Eddie fucking Kaspbrak was his soulmate.

He was going to be so disappointed.

“That’s great, Eds,” Richie managed through the lump in his throat. He shifted a bit, so the sleeves of his jacket crept down, covering the heart. “Hey, uh, I’m gonna go. ‘M not feeling so great.” Eddie’s hand and face fell.

“What? Really?” he asked, shifting his weight. Their friends stared on in silence, chewing their lip or holding tight to their own soulmates. Richie ached.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Happy birthday, Eddie,” he said. He gave Eddie as much of a smile as he could muster, then turned away, hands shoved into his pockets, sleeves clenched in his palms.

Eddie stared after Richie with his mouth hanging open and disappointment rattling around in his chest. He’d barely convinced his mom to let him go to Bill’s on his birthday, and he’d done it almost entirely so he could share the small air mattress with Richie that Bill always hauled out on sleep-over nights. (Not that Eddie would have admitted to that being the reason.)

“I hope he’s okay,” Eddie murmured, turning back to his friends.

“He will be,” Bev said, offering a sad smile. “It’ll just take some time, you know?”

Eddie felt his brow pull together.

“What do you mean?” he asked, watching in confusion as the color drained out of Bev’s face.

“Oh. I…”

It was Stanley who filled the silence.

“He’s in love with you,” he said, leaning back in the chair and considering Eddie very seriously. A feral, joyous feeling tore through Eddie. Richie was in love with him?? Eddie barely had time to process it before Stan was continuing. “He’s upset that he’s not your soulmate, but he’ll get over it.” Eddie’s stomach dropped.

“Oh,” was all he could think to say. Eddie had been so excited about the heart appearing on his wrist, the awful knock on the back of his head even, so excited to show Richie. He hadn’t even considered that…that it meant it wasn’t Richie.

Eddie felt his lip wobble. It wasn’t Richie.

Eddie had always kind of expected they wouldn't be soulmates. They were exactly wrong for each other in every way. They bickered constantly, irritated each other incessantly, and Eddie had never felt more like he had a home than when Richie was grinning at him over the latest Mothman.

Disappointment settled through Eddie’s chest like a blow.

“Are you tired, Eddie?” Mike asked, sitting forward on the bed with a concerned look on his face. Eddie blinked and tried to smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “You guys ready for bed?”

The six of them spread around the house. Stan took the couch downstairs, Bev and Ben took the guest room (since they were soulmates and Bill’s parents weren’t home), Mike took the bed with Bill (since they were soulmates and Bill’s parents still weren’t home), and Eddie took the air mattress, alone. He tried not to cry as he stared out of Bill’s bedroom window, moonlight cutting in.

The feeling of a pen scratching against the wrist opposite the heart pulled Eddie’s attention.

Sorry I banged your head. I’m clumsy, it said. Eddie watched the letters shake their way onto his skin with a heavy feeling in his gut. He knew he should let go of all this, of his crush on Richie. It wasn’t fair to this person with awful handwriting who was supposedly the perfect compliment to Eddie. But the thought made him sad. He didn’t want to let go of Richie.

Eddie glanced back at Bill and Mike, sleeping soundly while curled around one another, and crept out of his blankets. He opened the bedroom door as quietly as he could and fled down the stairs.

The only light on the bottom floor of Bill’s house was haloing out from the stove hood. It bathed the kitchen in enough light that Eddie could clearly make out the scratch of his soulmate’s writing. It was on his right wrist, meaning his soulmate was a leftie. Eddie felt the ache in his chest redouble. Richie was not a leftie.

“You know,” a voice said from the doorway. Eddie startled and spun around to see Stanley standing in the threshold in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He went on in a low voice, crossing his arms. “I loved Bill from the first moment I saw him,” he whispered.

Eddie felt it like a punch to the gut. Mike and Bill had known they were soulmates the second Mike turned eighteen. And Stan…Stan had to watch it all, all the while being in love with Bill.

“You’re not eighteen yet,” Eddie said back, as though that were some kind of solace. It wasn't. Eddie knew just because you were able to feel your soulmate didn’t mean you stopped loving the people you loved before. He knew that all too well.

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Stan said, pushing himself off the frame and stepping closer to Eddie. “It only hurts to hold onto.” He pressed a pen into Eddie’s hand, and as his fingers curled around it, tears sprung to Eddie’s eyes, hot and painful.

“I wanted it to be him so much,” Eddie murmured. Stan swallowed, hard.

“I know,” he murmured back.

After what felt like an eternity, Eddie’s hasty script appeared on Richie’s left wrist.

Sorry I pinched you.

Richie’s heart hammered. He still couldn’t believe this was happening.

He’d raced all the way home on his bike in full panic mode, and after a solid half-hour of worrying what Eddie would think when he realized, Richie had come to the conclusion that all he could do was be absolutely the best soulmate Eddie Kaspbrak could ask for. Or, at least try to be.

He’d thought an apology was the appropriate place to start, and apparently it had been, because there Eddie was, writing back.

It’s okay, Richie wrote clumsily.

His left-handed writing was atrocious and unrecognizable, which was exactly what Richie needed. He tried to imagine what normal soulmates did in this situation, but he didn’t exactly have a lot to go on. Every soulmate pairing he’d been around had known each other long before their eighteenth birthday had confirmed it. Richie debated asking Eddie his name like a stranger might, then decided the only natural response from Eddie would be for him to tell it, then ask Richie his name right back. Richie didn’t want to have to lie to Eddie.

So, how are you? Richie wrote instead, still fumbling with the pen. It was a genuine question. He always cared about how Eddie was. Eddie’s answer was almost immediate, neatly aligned under the reply he’d already given.

I’m okay. It’s a lot, you know? The whole soulmate thing…

Richie snorted. “A lot” was probably the understatement of the century. Richie felt like he’d been hit by a bus twice in the last two hours alone, in the best and absolutely most nerve-wracking way imaginable.

Yeah, about that. How far do you think this feel-what-the-other-feels goes? Richie’s scrawl was halfway to his elbow now, growing ever messier with sentences curving oddly downward.

I don’t know. Can you feel this? Richie felt the words as they formed, then waited, paying particular attention to what he felt. His blankets were pooled warm around his waist, and air from his fan drifted lazily downwards. Then, a brush, a warm palm up the skin of his outer arm, Eddie’s palm, more hesitant than he’d ever been while touching Richie.

Yep, Richie wrote. This? Richie let his fingertips graze over the soft skin above his navel. Eddie’s scrawled reply dug in a little rougher than necessary, and Richie snickered.

Stop it, asshole. That tickles.

God, he couldn’t believe Eddie fucking Kaspbrak was his soulmate.

Calling your soulmate an asshole, huh? Kind of harsh. Richie felt Eddie rub a thumb across the words he’d just dug into Richie, then the pen scratch again.

Sorry. You’re right.

No, I was just teasing you. Hard to read inflection when there’s no sound, huh? The question mark curled up along Richie’s bicep, and he tapped the pen tip against the flat of his thigh. Eddie tapped his pen against the opposite thigh, like he understood. The next words appeared just above Richie’s knee.

I can be kind of an asshole though. Richie watched the words appear, feeling something heavy in his chest. He'd just picked up his pen to write back when a fresh line scratched into existence. You’ll probably wish it wasn’t me, once you get to know me.

Richie felt the words like they weighed a million pounds. He knew the feeling, knew exactly what he wanted to tell Eddie, namely, that Richie had never wished for his soulmate to be anyone but him. He brought his right hand over to his left and brushed a thumb across the knuckles, hoping it would be enough to tell Eddie what he meant.

Impossible, Richie wrote simply.

Are you a boy or a girl? came Eddie’s reply. Richie could picture him, red in the face, uncomfortable with emotional intimacy. Richie understood and let him divert.

Wow, sticking with the binary, huh? Richie wrote, smiling.

Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have assumed.

Teasing again. I’m a boy. Richie wrote the words and stumbled. He’d never heard Eddie say he was interested in boys. His hands shook as he scribbled out another line. Is that alright?

Eddie’s reply came after a beat, Richie’s heart thrumming.

I like boys, he wrote, and Richie let out a breath. He didn’t want to assume they’d be doing the kinds of things that would require Eddie liking boys—there were soulmates who chose to remain platonic, after all—but fuck, Richie really wanted to kiss Eddie right on his stupid beautiful mouth at least once in his life.

Lucky me :) Richie wrote. The smiley face came out kind of wobbly, but oh well.

I’m a boy, too… Eddie wrote. Richie could practically feel the anxiety rolling off him, even though Eddie was all the way across town at Bill’s. Richie rubbed his knuckles again and underlined the last thing he’d written.

Lucky me :)

Three weeks after his eighteenth birthday, Eddie felt like he was being torn in two. He and his soulmate talked constantly. He made Eddie smile, brushed ghostly fingers over Eddie’s knuckles, and never masturbated—this was in large part due to a horribly awkward conversation Eddie had had to endure after he’d dreamed of Richie, woken up hard, and had to beg his soulmate to never mention his dick again just so Eddie could forget the guilt from his dream.

Kinda bummed you’re not a girl, though, his soulmate had written. Always wondered what masturbation felt like for them. Eddie had rolled his eyes, but he’d talked with his soulmate enough to see it for what it was: an out.

Eddie liked his soulmate. Things felt…almost easy with him. And at the same time, like he was stabbing Richie in the back all the while.

Richie would hardly be in the same room alone with Eddie anymore. There was no more of Richie crawling through his window late at night. No more Richie flinging his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. No more Richie sharing the air mattress at Bill’s. It made Eddie want to cry every single goddamn time he thought about it.

Three weeks after Eddie’s eighteenth, the tears finally came. It was late at night, and his soulmate had been doodling idly on Eddie’s thigh for the better part of an hour. He’d watched the designs appear on his skin for a little while, appreciating that they’d moved to soft markers instead of pens, and then laid back in bed, suddenly overcome by how fucking much it still stung that wherever Richie was, he wasn’t the one drawing designs into his thigh.

The tears were falling before he could stop them, and his soulmate’s marker stilled immediately. Eddie hurried to brush the tears off his cheek, but he felt his soulmate’s touch ghost beneath his eye. The marker returned at his thigh.

Are those tears, baby? His soulmate’s handwriting was still horrendous, but surprisingly, it seemed to have gotten better. The thought made Eddie smile a little, which made the knot in his chest clench tighter. He sort of hated loving his soulmate.

Eddie picked up the marker he kept on his bedside table.

I’m okay, he wrote. His soulmate’s reply was immediate.

Tsk. Tsk. Lying to your soulmate. For shame. Eddie rolled his eyes. Trust his soulmate to be a smartass.

You can’t “tsk” at me. We’re not talking.

Just did. There was a pause, and Eddie felt fingers at his knuckles, then the marker reappeared at his thigh. What’s going on?

The tears welled up again. Eddie knew, he knew his soulmate deserved the truth. It wasn’t fair to him that Eddie was in love with Richie. He’d tried not to be in love with Richie. Hell, he’d spent his whole life trying not to be in love with Richie, all to no avail… And now, there was his soulmate, who Eddie sort of couldn’t help but love, too, and everything was a mess.

Eddie decided for a truth in the middle.

It’s my best friend, he wrote. He’s been avoiding me for weeks, and I just miss him. I feel like I did something wrong.

Eddie held his breath while he waited for his soulmate to respond. It took a long moment, and he wondered if maybe, somehow, his soulmate knew.

You’ve never done anything wrong in your life, came his soulmate’s soft answer. Eddie snorted.

You’re contractually obligated to think that. Richie, on the other hand, is allowed to be mad at me.

Richie is not allowed to be mad at you if it makes you cry. I’ll beat him up.

While initially, the prospect made Eddie smile, the more he thought about his soulmate and Richie actually being in the same room, the more Eddie thought he might actually have a panic attack. The panic leapt closer when Eddie considered that, if his soulmate and Richie didn’t get along, he’d have to choose between them, and everything in the universe would insist he choose his soulmate. He’d lose Richie.

Eddie choked.

I’m just going to sleep it off, Eddie scribbled, struggling to breathe.

Sweet dreams. His soulmate drew out a heart beside the words, and Eddie stared as it as he fought to keep his breath even. Before he fell asleep, he noticed that, while definitely a heart, it looked different than the first one his soulmate had drawn for him.

Three weeks after Eddie’s eighteenth birthday, and Richie was laying in bed, hating himself. Eddie thought he was mad at him. Richie?? Mad at Eddie?? It was practically a foreign concept.

He hadn’t meant to pull away like that. He just…he didn’t want to risk Eddie finding out yet. Richie wasn’t the soulmate Eddie deserved yet. Plus, he hadn’t really considered the possibility that Eddie would even notice he’d gone AWOL. Anytime they’d been together recently—with the cushion of their friends, of course—Eddie spent practically the whole time just sitting there, staring off in space, chewing his lip, and Richie had to sit there, across the room, not touching anything, pretending the ghost of Eddie’s teeth on his lip wasn’t driving him absolutely up the wall.

“You okay, Rich?” Bev had asked on one of Eddie’s more gnawy bouts. Eddie’s eyes had flicked up to him, which was bad enough, but his lip had slid out from between his teeth, so at least Richie could think straight.

“Peachy,” he told her, grinning.

“You’re looking a little stiff there, bud,” Mike said. Then, Richie had watched in horror as Mike lifted his hand, readying it to clap Richie on the shoulder. Eddie’s eyes were locked on Richie. If Mike touched him, Eddie would feel it, and the whole thing would be blown to hell. Richie ducked just as Mike came in, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“I’m fine, Mikey. Really,” Richie assured. Mike’s face had screwed up in concern, but Richie nodded fervently, and eventually, he’d let it drop.

It had been too close.

But now, it didn’t matter, because Eddie thought Richie was mad at him, and Richie as his mystery soulmate could comfort him, sure, but he knew Richie as Richie was the only one who could make it better.

He woke up early the next morning and showered off the massive marker masterpiece on his thigh, along with all that he’d written to Eddie. Eddie’s words wouldn’t come off until Eddie washed them off, but it was a start.

When he stepped out of the shower, he paused to take stock of the damage. There was a series of messages on his forearm:

What’d you bump into?

It had been his coffee table.

Klutz.

Richie told him to stop being a dickwad to the coordinatedly-impaired.

Coordinatedly? Is that even a word?

Richie had definitively said yes.

He wouldn’t be wearing short sleeves, then. Again. He sighed and toweled off, changing quickly into his favorite shorts and a t-shirt, layering up with a long-sleeved, moose-print flannel. The first line of Eddie’s words showed under the hem of his shorts, and he cursed, shoving them off and pulling on jeans.

It was hot as fuck. He was going to die of heat-stroke before this whole thing was over.

Richie felt a tickle on the back of his left hand.

Good morning.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie hissed, even as the thought of getting good morning messages from Eddie made his head feel a little light. “I draw the line at gloves,” he muttered to himself.

He went back to the bathroom and pressed a Garfield band-aid over the words, hoping to God Eddie was still drowsy enough to not think anything of the touch.

Then, because he was weak, he took the marker out of his pocket and pulled up his shirt.

Good morning, pookie :P

The words were upside down and warped and tickled even Richie as he wrote them. Eddie’s reply was almost instantaneous.

There is so much wrong with what you just did, he said, the words scratching and tickling just below (above?) Richie’s, and Richie laughed.

Big day today, my love. Write when I can? Richie scrawled, further still up his abdomen.

Richie felt Eddie’s hand rub a circle into his stomach—an acknowledgement—and Richie let his shirt fall, his head thumping dully against the doorframe.

Richie didn’t need to look to know what Eddie wrote next.

Klutz.

He just brought his fingers up and pinched his lips between them. Eddie slapped his hand, and Richie let out a sigh.

He loved Eddie.

Eddie had just fallen back asleep when a sharp knock at the window startled him awake.

His heart gave a ridiculous, tumultuous roll when he looked over and saw Richie’s goofy, grinning face in the panes.

He rolled his eyes, of course he did, but he was to the window in a breath. Richie made his way through perhaps more gracefully than he ever had in his life, Eddie noted, as he stood back and watched.

Richie lowered the window gingerly once he was through and turned to Eddie with a broad grin.

“The fuck are you wearing?” Eddie asked, taking in Richie’s thick blue jeans and the long-sleeved, horribly-printed flannel. “There’s a fucking heatwave, man.”

“Denim’s always in style, Eds,” Richie said. He struck a few poses, because apparently, he liked to see Eddie’s heart clench and reclench in agony.

“Not that I’m not happy you’re here, but, uh, why are you here?” Eddie asked, crossing his arms across his chest. He was still in his pajamas. Richie had seen him in less, but Eddie suddenly felt a little like he was staring at a stranger in his bedroom. A stranger that he loved very, very much, but a stranger, nonetheless. The thought made Eddie ache all over again. Richie’s smile wavered.

“Missed you, I guess,” he said with a shrug.

Eddie chewed his lip, and Richie’s seemed to twitch in response.

“You want to play video games?” Eddie offered finally, and Richie seemed to sag in relief.

They spent the next three hours trading insults over who had the better Halo strategy, jabbing at the buttons. Eddie hoped vaguely that he wasn’t bothering his soulmate too badly on his “big day”, then lost the thought as Richie tossed his hands up in victory and yowled.

“That’s four for the Trashmouth,” he shouted.

“You’re lucky my mom’s at work, asshole,” Eddie grumbled, setting his controller to the side. Richie stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Your mom’s at work and you let me crawl in through the window?!” he asked, tossing his own controller away. Eddie smirked.

“You could have rung the bell. I’d have answered it.” Richie huffed and leaned back against the foot of Eddie’s bed.

Eddie sat forward, his fingers ghosting over the words he’d written for his soulmate to keep himself from leaning back against Richie and burrowing into his chest. He wanted to, though. With everything in him.

His soulmate, wherever he was, gave a soft touch back, and Eddie squeezed his eyes closed. When he opened them and turned to glance at Richie, he saw Richie’s brows furrowed and eyes trained on Eddie’s forearm, the words he’d written there.

What’d you bump into?

Klutz.

Coordinatedly? Is that even a word?

Eddie suddenly wished he was wearing a long-sleeve, too. He felt himself redden, and he scrubbed a hand down over the words.

“It’s nothing,” Eddie said, and Richie’s eyes flicked up to him. He looked, perhaps, even more troubled. Eddie’s stomach did a barrel roll. He didn’t know how to fix the hurt look on Richie’s face. He knew how he wanted to fix it, but he couldn’t. Richie wasn’t his soulmate.

They hadn’t even talked about it. Stan had said Richie was in love with Eddie, and Eddie knew he was in love with Richie, but now they were stuck. Now, they were not talking about it. Or about anything, really. Playing video games was the closest Eddie had come to feeling actually with Richie in a long, long time.

Richie put on a smile.

“Of course.”

They went back to their video game, quiet, and Eddie didn’t feel like Richie was anywhere near him. Soon after, he left, leaving Eddie feeling twice as miserable as before.

At least when Richie wasn’t around, Eddie didn’t have to think about how far away he was.

Eddie spent the next few days stuck in that miserable existence. He ate breakfast with his mom, went to class, lifelessly teased Richie about wearing all those fucking layers in the middle of a record heat wave, and wrote his soulmate.

The most frequent topic of discussion was what his soulmate had just bumped into. (Eddie thought he would recognize him by the bruises alone.) The day after Richie had come and gone, Eddie was flipping through a comic when a dull thud echoed through his skull.

“Shit,” Eddie huffed, rubbing the spot his soulmate had banged.

What’d you hit?

His soulmate wrote back a little while later.

Guess.

Eddie snorted. His soulmate crashed into things a lot. Eddie liked to make wild suggestions for the boring crash-sites like elbows and knees and hips, but Eddie had come to realize that his soulmate was so fucking tall that anytime he smacked his head on something, it could conceivably be literally anything. Getting it right was the challenge there.

A hanging plant? Eddie guessed, and his soulmate’s response was immediate.

Wow, that is remarkably close. It was a birdcage.

Mike had a bird cage. Eddie could waltz clean under it.

Listen here. I did not suffer my whole life being short to still bang my head on shit.

Eddie wished he could have seen his soulmate’s smile at that. He felt sure he would smile. He always said it was cute how short Eddie was, even though he’d never seen Eddie in person.

You listen here. It’s not my fault short people are gremlins who hang things at the perfect head-bonking height!

Eddie smiled. He liked the banter. He was used to banter. Banter felt like Richie.

Or, it felt like Richie before, Eddie thought, his heart clenching, then clenching again when he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be comparing his soulmate to Richie. Stan had said it would only hurt.

Eddie learned early on in his relationship with his soulmate that his klutziness would probably be the least painful part of the whole thing.

Then, three days after Richie had come and gone, Eddie learned that the physical pain of his soulmate being a klutz could be pretty awful, too.

Eddie was just minding his business, taking out the trash, when a particularly heinous pain cracked through his knee.

“Ow, fuck!” he yelped, dropping the bag and wobbling in his step. He took a few experimental steps once the initial pain had ebbed and found, though throbbing and hot, his knee appeared to be in working order. His soulmate was lucky, too. After Richie had snapped Eddie’s first and only broken bone back into place, Eddie would be throwing hands if his soulmate had broken another. He circled back for the trash, tossed it, and hobbled back inside.

Jesus Christ! Eddie scrawled, as soon as the marker was in his hand.

Oof, I know. That one was a big ouchie, huh. Sorry, love. Eddie smiled as the words appeared and reached down to rub his knee.

What’d you do? Eddie underlined “do”, then underlined it again because his knee was still throbbing. His soulmate’s answer appeared quickly.

I tripped down some stairs… Eddie snorted and added three quick lines over the message.

Now, it said, I tripped down some stairs!!!

Richie wrote a quick reply, sitting in his truck outside of Ben’s house. He was getting pretty good left-handed, not the level he probably should be to be believable as an eighteen-year-old man who’d been writing left-handed all his life, but passable. Eddie never questioned him on it, just teased him about writing like a kindergartener. Richie liked the teasing; it was one of the main reasons he’d fallen for Eddie to begin with. They went at each other full-force.

I know! I’m sorry! It wasn’t my fault!

Eddie’s reply was immediate.

What? Someone push you or something?

While living as a geeky kid in the same town as Henry Bowers, where the idea of being pushed down stairs was not in anyway unfathomable, the truth was, admittedly, less dramatic.

…I tripped over a dog.

In Richie’s defense, Ben’s dog, Ember, had come out of nowhere.

Eddie went back and circled Jesus Christ! Richie grinned and tugged his shirt-sleeve down.

He left Ben’s thinking about how he was in charge of popcorn for the Loser’s club monthly movie marathon the next night, and how he was going to get Eddie’s favorite brand because he loved him.

The next night, Richie found himself at Bill’s house, nestled down in a beanbag chair, surrounded by his friends, all seven of them laughing at Stan’s completely deadpan reenactment of their principal’s latest spit-spewing spiel. Richie thought it had been about smoking on campus, possibly specifically directed at him and Bev, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d been too busy praying Eddie didn’t think anything of how sharp Mike’s elbow was in Richie’s side.

Richie paused in his laughter to glance over at Eddie, who was tucked down in the beanbag chairs just across from him. Eddie was smiling, but he looked like he was hardly listening. He did seem, however, to feel Richie’s eyes on him, because he turned away from Stan and gave Richie a flash-quick once-over.

“What?” he asked, his eyes locking once again on Richie’s. Richie tried not to turn red.

“You okay?” Richie asked. His instinct told him to reach out and brush Eddie’s cheek, but Richie bit it back.

“Fine. Why?”

Richie shrugged, but he clung to the hems of his shirt sleeves in a way he hoped was subtle. Eddie had been writing him little nothings all morning. Richie’s skin was practically soaked in ink, and Richie himself felt like he needed to be wrung out for all the I-want-to-kiss-Eddie-on-his-stupid-beautiful-mouth energy that was bubbling around inside of him.

He still didn’t feel like he was good enough for Eddie, so he held it back.

Stan’s recount came to the end, and everyone let out a good last laugh before settling back in their own conversations. Bev had her legs thrown in Ben’s lap, their backs pressed against the foot of the couch, and Stan was nestled snug between Mike and Bill, looking for all the world like the happiest little bean Richie had ever seen.

Stan’s eighteenth had been two days ago, and Richie had only felt a little jealous when Stan had felt the scrape of Bill’s hand through Mike’s hair on both his fingertips and scalp and had immediately let them know.

Richie had questions about the whole dynamic, but it seemed to work for them, so whatever. As long as his friends were happy, he was happy. He glanced back over at Eddie, just to verify that the most important of his friends was indeed happy.

Eddie was staring at Richie’s leg with a deep cavern tugged between his eyebrows. A stone of dread dropped into Richie immediately.

“How’d you get that bruise?” Eddie asked, pointing. All Richie could do was follow the line of Eddie’s finger to the frayed split in the knee of his jeans, horrified.

Richie had gone weeks, weeks without getting caught, and it was going to be holey jeans in a heat wave that brought him down?

He felt dumb just thinking about it. Dumb, and very, very scared.

“Uh,” Richie started, fumbling to think of a lie. Say anything, he told himself, literally anything, Rich. Say something!

Bev’s laughter burst out before Richie could get a grasp on the anything that was floating out of reach.

“Ember pushed him down the stairs,” she said, her voice too loud in Richie’s ear. He flinched.

Eddie’s gaze lifted to Richie’s face slowly. He cocked his head to the side, challengingly. There was a fire in his eyes.

“Trip down some stairs, Rich?”

He didn’t say it like a question. He said it like he knew. Richie’s heart slammed.

“Eddie,” Richie warned. It was a plea, begging.

“Take off your shirt,” Eddie said. His voice was low and serious and under normal circumstances, would have gone straight to Richie’s dick. As it was, the words slammed into his chest like shards of glass.

Richie heard the distinct silence of his friends watching, wide-eyed, beyond the ringing in his ears.

“Take off. Your shirt.” Eddie’s command came harsher this time.

“Eddie,” Richie said again. He sounded desperate even to his own ears.

“For fuck’s sake, Richie!” Eddie shouted, lunging forward.

Richie had a split second to brace for Eddie all but ripping the shirt off him before he realized Eddie hadn’t lunged for him. He’d lunged past him, for the marker on the table. Richie’s eyes swung back around just as Eddie ripped the top off.

“Eddie, no!” Richie shouted, but it was too late. He felt the sting of the marker tearing down his cheek as Eddie slashed at his own.

Richie closed his eyes tight, fear and dread and horror and all those nasty things Richie had been distinctly hoping to avoid by going about the soulmate business the way he had, all of it careened in on Richie.

When he finally found the strength to open his eyes, he saw Eddie staring at him, a long stripe of black down his cheek, an angry set in his eyebrows, and tears in his eyes. It was the tears that tore into Richie the most.

“You asshole,” Eddie said. His voice broke over the word, and before Richie could reach out to him, Eddie was shoving himself up out of the beanbag chair and throwing the marker down. It left an angry blotch on Bill’s mom’s expensive carpet, and Richie wanted to cry.

Eddie slammed the bathroom door so hard that it shook the floor under Richie’s feet. He felt hot tears gliding down his cheeks, and he wasn’t sure if they were his own or Eddie’s.

“Richie,” Ben breathed, the first of the five stunned on-lookers to break the silence. Richie clenched his eyes closed.

“I know!” he barked. “I know, okay. I fucked it up.”

“Honey,” Bev crooned, leaning close and brushing a hand down Richie’s shoulder. It ached to know that Eddie could feel it, too. “He’s your soulmate.” She put so much weight on the word that it made Richie flinch again. He didn’t know if she was trying to tell him that he should never have lied to Eddie, or that he had fucked it up with the only person who could ever love him, or that life without him would be the only thing worse than dying, but on any and every count, she was right.

(In actuality, she was telling him that he couldn’t fuck it up. Not all the way, at least. They were made for each other. Richie was too hard-headed to hear that, though.)

Eddie Kaspbrak was Richie’s soulmate, and he’d fucked it up.

“I know,” Richie said. It came out like a sob, wracking his shoulders forward. “What do I do?”

“Talk to him, dipshit,” Stan said.

The porcelain of the bathtub was unforgiving under Eddie’s tailbone. He just wanted to cry his heart out in peace, squirreled away in Bill’s bathtub, fully clothed, clutching his knees to his chest like that could somehow stop the shattering inside of him.

Eddie felt the knock at the door in his knuckles the same instant that he heard it.

“Eddie,” Richie called through the door, and just the sound of his voice tore a fresh gouge through Eddie’s chest.

He loved Richie. He’d ached over Richie. He’d even ached over Richie to Richie, and Richie had known they were soulmates all along. He’d let Eddie hurt, let him feel like he was being torn in two with how much he loved Richie and his soulmate both, shorn and forgotten somewhere in the middle. He’d lied to Eddie, the way a soulmate was never supposed to lie.

“Just leave me alone,” Eddie cried into his knees. Eddie felt the ghost of Richie’s fingers on his neck, and he shot backward, as he though he could outrun them.

The back of his head snapped hard against the wall.

“Ow, fuck,” he heard Richie say, then the fingers were rubbing into his scalp. Eddie cried harder, tucking his head back into his knees. “That’s payback, I guess,” Richie mumbled.

“Go away, Richie.”

“Eddie, please. I just want to talk.”

“I said go away, asshole!” Eddie shouted, raising his head and screaming at the door. He heard Richie huff, exasperated, before he felt the glide of marker over his forearm.

Calling your soulmate an asshole, huh? Kind of harsh. The words appeared in Richie’s normal, messy scrawl. It took Eddie a moment to place them, but then he remembered. He’d seen the same words on his wrist the night of his eighteenth birthday, one of the first things his soulmate had ever said to him.

It pissed Eddie off all over again.

“I’m glad you think this is fucking funny,” Eddie screamed. All he got back was a pained exhale and a thump on his forehead as Richie let his own fall to the door.

“Eds, please,” he murmured, barely loud enough for Eddie to hear. He sounded broken, and as much as Eddie knew Richie deserved to feel broken for playing with him, it made him hurt all over, too. “I’m so sorry, Eddie,” Richie said. Eddie felt fresh tears falling down his face, but they weren’t coming from him. Richie was on the other side of the door, crying.

Something wrenched horribly in Eddie, and before he could tell it not to, his arm was snaking out from behind the shower curtain and unlocking the door. He curled it back around himself immediately, and there was a moment of buzzing silence before Richie opened the door.

Eddie could see his silhouette through the curtain.

“Can I come in?” Richie asked tentatively, his hand hovering at the edge of the curtain.

“Yeah,” Eddie whispered, his lip trembling. Richie pushed the shower curtain aside and stepped into the tub with Eddie. They barely fit, with all six-feet-gargantuan-inches that was Richie Tozier, but Eddie curled tighter on himself, and Richie folded himself down, his knees nudging Eddie’s. He slid the curtain back closed before his eyes made their way to Eddie, hesitant over the stripe Eddie had watched materialize on him.

“I’m sorry,” Richie whispered. Eddie dropped his eyes.

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, but I really mean it.” Eddie chewed on his lip, and Richie groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Eds. Please stop with the lip-chewing. I can already taste blood.” Eddie’s head snapped up.

“You don’t get to be angry!” Eddie shouted. It sounded a lot louder in their porcelain hide-out, but Richie matched him in energy, just like always.

“I’m not angry! It just makes me crazy!”

“Then be crazy, asshole! You lied to me!” Eddie reached out in the small space and shoved Richie. He felt both the shove and the hard jab as Richie’s spine knocked into the faucet. “Ow, fuck! You fucking fucker! I can’t even push you because it hurts me!”

Richie grimaced, shifting his shoulders.

Eddie’s breath came out hard and fast. He thought he might cry again. He thought he might push Richie again, even though he knew it would hurt him, too.

“You lied to me,” Eddie hissed, his voice hard. Richie dropped his eyes. His fingers dipped into the hole over his knee, plucking at the sparse strings. Eddie felt Richie’s fingers wriggling and slapped his hand down, feeling the sting in his own wrist at the contact.

“I know,” Richie said. “I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that, but I think you can understand why it’s a little difficult for me to believe, Richie.” Eddie tried to sound as furious as he felt. Mostly, he thought he sounded pathetic and broken. Like his best friend and the love of his life had just ripped his heart out and stomped on it. Richie’s lip quivered, and Eddie ached.

“I didn’t want you to be disappointed,” Richie whispered, his voice catching. Eddie stared at him, stunned silent.

Did…did Richie not know? Did he not understand how fucking much Eddie loved him? Had always loved him?

“I was trying to be better for you, Eddie,” Richie went on, his voice catching again. Eddie thought if Richie cried again, he would crack in half. Richie drew in a shuddering breath, and yeah, there Eddie went. He felt clean cleaved in two, watching the tears spill down over Richie’s cheeks.

“Rich,” Eddie murmured. Richie’s curls were wild across his head and neck, rocking softly as he cried. He didn’t look up, and Eddie reached out, locking his fingers through the curls and tugging Richie’s head up.

The feeling on his scalp raced through him, and Richie’s eyes went wide. Eddie leaned closer, both pairs of their knees crammed between them.

“Do you even know,” Eddie breathed. He felt his own breath across Richie’s lips, felt Richie’s tongue dart out across them. “Do you even know how badly I wanted it to be you?” Richie eyes were still wide, flicking back and forth between Eddie’s eyes and his lips. “How terrified I was that you’d feel something before I turned eighteen? How much I hated myself for loving you when I thought I was someone else’s soulmate? Then, I hated myself for loving my soulmate when I only wanted to love you! Fuck, Richie, do you even know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Then, Eddie hauled Richie forward by the handful of curls he held, and kissed him.

Eddie Kaspbrak was Richie’s soulmate, and Eddie Kaspbrak was kissing him with that stupid beautiful mouth.

They were hunched together in Bill’s bathtub, and Eddie Kaspbrak was kissing him with his hands threaded through his curls, tugging him closer and closer.

Eddie was kissing him.

They were soulmates, and Eddie was kissing him.

Richie pulled away, his chest heaving.

“Wait,” he gasped. Eddie’s eyes were wild, searching Richie’s face. “Do you mean to tell me, we could have been doing this,” Richie dipped forward, kissed Eddie again, “All along??”

“Yes, you idiot,” Eddie answered, darting forward and nipping Richie’s lip. Richie groaned. He’d felt Eddie biting his own lip a million times but it was so much better when Eddie was biting Richie’s lip.

“Fuck,” Richie groaned, then stole Eddie’s mouth again, licking in hungrily.

“Now do you see why I was upset?” Eddie asked between kisses. Richie thought he was probably joking. He knew it was more important than kissing, but Richie was a little too lost in the slide of Eddie’s tongue to understand how anything could be more important than kissing the shit out of his beautiful soulmate.

Eddie Kaspbrak was his soulmate.

Richie had loved Eddie all his life, and there they were, kissing.