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It’s nine pm and Richie is lying in bed, belly full from dinner, watching a movie with the sound off. His head lolls off the edge as his eyes bounce around to follow the blur of shapes and colors flaunting about the television screen. His glasses are on the floor from where they slipped off courtesy to his upside down position, hair long enough to kiss to the floor in graceless waves.
He squints and his eyes ache.
It’s now ten pm and there’s a crick in his neck and a dried up track of drool on his cheek. With a grimace, Richie shuffles his head back onto the bed and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He snuggles his face into his cold pillow and it feels heavenly against his hot skin. It gets awfully warm in his house, especially in the summer.
A rapid knocking on his bedroom window then makes him jump out of his skin, a wave of chills traveling down the notches of his spine. He places the heels of his palms deep into his eyes, hard enough to see sparkles of fireworks that could rival the ones that get blown into the clouds on New Years. He pauses for a second when the knocking ceases, waiting for a sign. Perhaps he imagined it.
When the knocking starts up again, he realizes he hadn’t.
“What the fuck,” Richie breathes out to himself, mouth growing warm from the sentence. He quickly shuffles out of bed once the knocking becomes even more frantic than before, nearly stepping on his glasses as he did so. In an uncoordinated motion, he swoops down to retrieve the plastic lenses, flinging them onto his bed and almost falling forward in the process.
“Jesus, I’m coming,” he mutters to himself as he drags his heavy limbs to the window. The blear sight of smeared blood on the glass instantly drains all the sleep from his body. His breath catches in his throat as he goes inhumanly still. He waits.
It’s a trick, he thinks. He won’t move for a trick. When he swallows and he can hear it clearly. His stomach flips and he can feel it pull at his mind—he thinks for a second he might throw up. He breaks into a cold sweat (even in the damp atmosphere of his warm room) at the thought. He doesn’t dare move an inch, doesn’t even entertain the idea. He won’t move for a trick.
“Richie!”
His entire body then goes slack as he makes out the blurry face in the window and recognizes the voice calling out to him. It’s not a trick—it’s Eddie.
“Richie!” Eddie hisses again from beyond the window frame, smacking his hand on the glass for emphasis. It’s surely loud enough to wake the whole street. Curfew was hours ago and everyone was asleep—Eddie shouldn’t even be out this late.
For the first time in years, Richie fears for him in a way he doesn’t think he should.
After a beat, Richie lets out the breath he had forgotten he was holding and steps forward, fingers fumbling for the lock on his window. Swiftly, he slides it open, stumbling back when Eddie sticks his head inside without warning, nearly bumping his forehead with Richie’s.
“Whoa!” Richie squawks in surprise when Eddie practically shoved the rest of his body through the window. Richie surges over to catch his arms just as he starts to fall forward.
They both tumble to the ground in a flurry of blurry limbs, knees knocking and elbows sticking out in awkward angles. They lie there for a second, winded, trying to catch their breaths. Eddie’s face is more or less tucked into the crook of Richie’s neck, his nose barely grazing his pulse point. Richie is torn between shoving him off in a panic and enjoying the pleasant warmth his body radiates.
Eddie makes the decision for him when he crawls off Richie’s body slowly and nimbly, carrying himself like a wounded animal, head hung so low that Richie couldn’t see his face. He gently lowers himself onto his folded legs and places his hands in his lap. He doesn’t say a word. Richie sits up carefully, watching him cautiously.
It did something, Richie thinks at first. His mind then has to go back and rephrase the sentence. Something happened. Something happened because It is dead.
“Eddie,” Richie starts, voice wavering between a whisper and an almost inaudible murmur. The only response he receives is a shaky, ragged sigh. “Eds,” Richie gently reaches out for him. Eddie flinches.
Richie bites down onto the inside of his cheek. Slowly, he again tries once more, fingers flexing out to brush Eddie’s cheek. “Eds,” Richie whispers. Finally, Eddie looks up.
He looks absolutely wrecked.
Dark puddles of purple pool under his bloodshot eyes as fresh tears begin to cut through the smudged red on his cheeks.
Richie cups Eddie’s face with his palm and softly traces underneath his eye with the pad of his thumb. “There’s blood on your face,” he states quietly, as if Eddie couldn’t possibly have known. Eddie’s lips twitch into a purse. Richie’s eyebrows form a downward slope as he squints down at Eddie’s hands. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding.
Richie takes back his hand and reaches out for Eddie’s.
“What…What happened?” He asks as he brings them close to his face, examining the bloodied knuckles as best as he could without his glasses on. Eddie’s ducks his head down in embarrassment.
“I—I just—” Eddie hiccups and goes to wipe his eyes.
Richie keeps Eddie’s hands anchored down as he gives his head a shake. “You’ll get more blood on your face,” he tells him gently.
Without protest, Eddie nods curtly before squeezing his eyes shut, tears spilling from their edges. “I just—I got—got so mad, I…” Eddie curls his hands into fists and they tremble between Richie’s.
“I’m sorry,” Richie apologizes even though he isn’t sure what for. It felt right.
Eddie lets a sob rip from his throat as he shakes his head, his hair falling into his eyes in a disheveled manner. His entire body moves with him, shoulders shuddering as if he was being drenched in cold water. Richie watches painfully, not making any move. How was he supposed to comfort him if he didn’t know what was wrong?
“Eddie…you should’ve cleaned these up before coming,” Richie comments quietly as he rubs his thumbs over Eddie’s tender knuckles, spreading blood everywhere.
Eddie winces at the touch, pulling his eyebrows together. “What?” he comes to whisper under his breath, eyes filled with confusion as he continued to cry. It’s ugly, it’s bloody, and there’s snot dripping down onto his top lip. Richie thinks he looks a little too frail like this.
So Richie smiles and lifts Eddie’s hands to his lips without breaking eye contact. He places a gentle kiss on his knuckles and lingers there for a few seconds, ghosting his lips over them. When he pulls back, they’re redder than the blush that spreads across Eddie’s nose. When Richie licks them they taste like copper.
“Richie, that’s—” Eddie musters, eyes blown wide in shock. He gives his hand a small tug. “Don’t do that,”
Richie grins at him, teeth sharp. “Oh c’mon, we’re all friends here,” he says teasingly, somewhat mimicking the Cheshire Cat with his eyes squinted into slits. “I’m just kissin’ it better, Doctor K,” He gives the knuckles another kiss. And another. And another. Eddie doesn’t pull away this time.
They’re not friends. There isn’t a word for what Richie and Eddie are.
But as Eddie melts into calm with Richie pressing soft kisses into his skin, Richie thinks (and not for the first time) he wants their word to be boyfriends.
It’s inevitable, isn’t it? With the way Eddie acts around him (loud, foul, snarky, a little bit less stiff, a little bit more himself), Richie figures they should be. But then again, Richie doesn’t even know if Eddie likes boys or not.
Kid Eddie, the pipsqueak who could out-curse Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, never cared for girls—or anyone for that matter. Kid Eddie froze when he was spoken to by a girl and Kid Eddie had to learn how to be comfortable around Beverly, one of his friends.
Thinking back on it, Kid Eddie was an enigma.
Because Kid Eddie would poke, scratch, and pinch when given the chance. He’d pull Richie’s hair and kick his glasses off his face. But Kid Eddie was also a tiny, anxious hypochondriac who was too busy thinking about how many germs there are in someone’s mouth and how much bacteria there is on one’s clammy palms to think about anything else.
But, in all honesty, Eddie is an enigma even today.
Kid Eddie and Richie would shove each other and angrily share a hammock, swaying and tipping it dangerously with their constant scuffles and collective weight. They’d sleep in the same bed and and talk each other’s ears off until the sun rose from its slumber. They’d do almost everything together, even if it was accidental.
They’re not really like that anymore. Not ever since that summer, the one they’re all better off forgetting.
Eddie…Eddie is different now. He’s rude, and he’s expressive, and he’s just so much more. A handful, Richie thinks, high maintenance. It’s a good thing, somewhat.
He talks back to his mother and outright disrespects her wishes (he doesn’t take his medication, they’re bullshit, he says). He fools around more, like he’s a middle schooler again, only this time he rants less about contracting diseases from rusty nails and more about movies he’s seen and comic books he’s read. He’s happier and it shows.
And Richie…he doesn’t like it much.
It’s like, somehow, the more Eddie grew comfortable in his own skin, the less time he spent prodding at Richie’s. They’re not really like how they used to be—Eddie isn’t exactly the same Eddie Richie has had a fat crush on since fifth grade.
They don’t pretend wrestle and they don’t playfully bicker like the old married couple everyone always told them they were. They don’t squeeze into too-small hammocks and they don’t share beds; they don’t even have sleepovers anymore. Richie doesn’t pick Eddie up and heft him over his shoulder. Eddie doesn’t let Richie hop on his back to race the rest of the Losers to the clubhouse. And Richie definitely doesn’t pinch Eddie’s cheeks all while swooning about how “cute you look today, Eds!”
And it fucking sucks.
“You’re gross, fucking vampire lookin’ ass,” Eddie suddenly scoffs, lips curling into a small, amused smile. He covers Richie’s mouth with his palm and playfully pushes his face away.
There it is. The pushing away. Anytime Richie would get too close for comfort, in any way, Eddie would just brush him off like he was nothing. A strand of hair that had fallen out of place before you tuck it back behind your ear. It…it hurts. It makes Richie’s heart ache. He wants his Eddie back.
Thinking about it makes him feel nostalgic in the most disturbing way. Is it wrong? To yearn for someone’s former self? To want what they hated? Richie thinks it is. Doesn’t stop him from missing Kid Eddie though.
“Gotta get ya fixed up, Doctah K! Wouldn’t want ya momma ta see ya this way,” Richie slurs in his Southern Belle Voice in an attempt to play off the off-putting feeling bubbling at the bottom of his stomach. It manages to get another scoff from Eddie as well as a little sniffle. Tears had stopped falling at this point, Eddie’s cheeks were streaked.
“Fuck my mom,” Eddie sniffs quietly as Richie helps pull him off the carpeted floor.
Richie doesn’t let go of his hands as he begins to walk backwards. “I’m trying,” Richie jokes, offering Eddie a lopsided grin. Eddie makes a noise between a laugh, a sob, and a hiccup all at once as Richie guides him into the bathroom. Richie’s anxiety meter spikes to “Oh Fuck, Look What You Did.”
Richie flips the light switch and swivels them around, nudging Eddie toward the counter, palm on the small of his back. “Oh c’mon, Eds. You know you’re the only one I want,” he says in the most joking voice he could muster. He’s not lying.
“Beep beep,” is Eddie’s response, tired and breathy. He hoists himself up onto the counter, only getting a smudge a blood on the surface. He places his hands into his lap and crosses his ankles. He looks twelve again.
Richie’s heart soars at the sight.
“I think I have a first aid kit somewhere in here actually,” Richie informs as he crouches down and opens the cabinet, blindly searching for said kit.
“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says from above him, lightly nudging Richie’s shoulder with his foot. Richie looks up at his voice. “I brought it remember? From after that fight you lost with some kid at school?” Eddie continues, voice soft as he tilts his head to the side.
Nervously, Richie goes to adjust his glasses. They’re not there and he ends up wiping his nose so he wouldn’t look like an idiot in front of Eddie. “I didn’t lose,” Richie counters uselessly, knowing full well that he had been fucking obliterated that day. “I mean, you should’ve seen the other guy—I won fair and square,”
Richie had said that same thing when it first happened. Under no circumstances did he “win fair and square.” It was three guys against one. But it’s not like he told Eddie any of that though.
“He broke your fucking nose, Rich,” Eddie reminds him, pulling an unimpressed look. They had. They also gifted Richie a black eye and a split lip. A broken rib or two. Again, it’s not like he told Eddie that part. “And you probably deserved it too, what’d you even do?”
“Besides fuck your mom? I don’t know man,” Richie says, going back to looking for the first aid kit. He hadn’t done anything, people just like to pick on the (supposively) closeted kids.
After a few more seconds of scrummaging and pushing cleaning supplies around, Richie finds the kit tucked all the way in the back, right next to some spiders lounging on some cobwebs. He grabs it and pulls it out, swiping his fingers across the surface. A thick layer of dust rubs off.
Eddie makes a face of disgust, scrunching his nose and sticking out his tongue. “That’s gross, Rich,” he says as Richie wipes his hands on his pajama pants.
“You’re covered in blood, Eds. Sorry this isn’t romantic enough for ya,” Richie quips as he stands, knees now tender. He places the kit right next to Eddie, who not-so-subtly scoots away. Richie rolls his eyes endearingly as he clicks the box open. Inside there’s bandaids of varying sizes, bandages, and antiseptic wipes among many other small medical items.
Richie gives a little hum as he grabs the antiseptic wipes and rips through the little packages with his teeth, unfolding them carefully. He looks up at Eddie, who has a small frown on his lips.
“May I have this dance, darlin’?” Richie asks him, holding out his palm with a toothy grin. Eddie is the one who rolls his eyes this time, slotting his hand into Richie’s nonetheless.
“Just do it already,” Eddie tells him before pursing his lips, taking a deep breath through his nose.
“Alright, alright. Just relax okay? It’ll be quick,” Richie says softly before wiping the small towelette over Eddie’s knuckles. Eddie winces, sucking a breath through his teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut, looking like he’s going to start crying all over again.
Richie gives a little huff and continues to clean up his knuckles, whispering words of encouragement as tears like diamonds begin to fall down Eddie’s cheeks once more, almost cutting through his skin. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s alright,” Richie murmurs as he goes through a couple more wipes, each one redder than the last. When there’s no more blood, Richie wraps Eddie’s knuckles in bandages and gives them a kiss.
“Voila,” Richie smiles sadly, reaching out to wipe Eddie’s tears away. Eddie gives a little hiccup. “On to the next…Is that okay? Or do you wanna take a break?”
Eddie shakes his head furiously, puffing his cheeks out in frustration. “No, just—just fucking do it,”
And so the entire process repeats; more tears are shed and more whispers fall from red lips as blood and anguish are scrubbed away. A clean slate. Eddie is left drained, eyes tired from crying.
Richie presses more kisses into his knuckles.
“Throw that shit away, and wipe your face,” Eddie says slowly, gesturing towards the blood stained wipes on the counter with a look of disdain. They had been used on his hands and face, looking no cleaner than when they started.
Richie quickly leans into Eddie’s space and blows into his eye all while smiling, making Eddie squeal in surprise. “Okay, Doctah K,” Richie says smugly, wadding up the towelettes into his hand as Eddie throws him a glare.
“Don’t do that, asshole,” Eddie grumbles, wiping his eye as a reflex. Richie playfully puckers his lips at him, blowing a kiss and tosses the bloodied wipes into the trash bin beside the toilet. Eddie wrinkles his nose. “One point,”
Richie scoffs and brushes his hair out of his face when he tries to adjust the glasses that aren’t there once again. “That was a three-pointer and you know it,” he says as Eddie carefully wiggled off the counter.
Eddie’s feet meet the linoleum without a sound. “Nah, it was one point. You almost missed,” he says, rolling a shoulder and vaguely gesturing to the bin. Richie scoffs again and reaches out, palm cupping the back of Eddie’s head and pushing him forward into a weak noogie.
“Okay spaghetti,” Richie says as Eddie tries to pry him off.
“Fuck off, Rich.” Eddie replies, shoving Richie into the doorframe before walking back into the bedroom. Richie stumbles after him and with an offended gasp at being shoved, lunges forward to wrap his arms around him from behind. Eddie lets out a surprised yelp at the abrupt action and nearly knocks his head into Richie’s chin.
“What the f–eeek!” Eddie then screeches a little too loudly for someone awake at ten pm, squirming under Richie’s hold. Richie had shoved his face into the crook of his neck and began to blow raspberries into his skin, knowing full well that Eddie was ticklish and couldn’t stand being tickled.
“Get offa me!” Eddie squeals, bending at his knees in an attempt to escape Richie’s arms. Richie only balls up his shirt into his fists and tries to keep him standing straight even when Eddie started to flail his arms around like a toddler having a tantrum.
“Apologize!” Richie whisper-shouts before blowing another raspberry into Eddie’s neck.
Between the screeches and giggles, Eddie manages to sputter every curse word he knows, all while shoving his elbows into Richie’s stomach to get free. “Fuck you! I didn’t do shit!” he claims, still wriggling around. “Let me go!”
“God, you’re so annoying,” Richie finally releases him, Eddie almost tripping over his feet. Richie snorts, wrapping his arms around his stomach as he doubles over into a silent fit of laughter.
“Says you,” Eddie accuses, giving Richie’s shoulders a light shove. Richie barely manages to stay up, upper body tipping this way and that, stumbling backward like some kind of drunk. Quickly, Richie fists the front of Eddie’s shirt and pulls at him before he falls right onto his ass.
He brings Eddie down with him.
“Aw, fuck you Rich,” Eddie says without much malice, sitting up and rubbing the shoulder he had landed on. Richie lets out a breathy laugh, seemingly amused at having fallen, and stretches out on the floor, arms and legs spreading out like a starfish. Eddie hits his arm when it flops into his lap.
“I didn’t know you liked me like that,” Richie jokes lowly, sucking in a breath afterwards. That’s not what he meant to say.
Eddie didn’t hear him, thankfully, or at least gave no sign of having heard. He picks himself off the floor with more grace than Richie thought he should’ve been able to, giving Richie’s torso a nudge with his foot. “Guess I’m taking the bed, then.” he shrugs, visibly unimpressed.
“Wait, nooo, it’s my house!” Richie protests with a whine, propping himself up on his elbows to send Eddie a pout.
“I’m a guest!” Eddie retorts, already kicking his shoes off and crawling into Richie’s bed. Richie sputters in disbelief and quickly scrambles onto his socked feet, practically throwing himself onto the bed. Eddie gives a little squeal of surprise followed by a laugh when Richie hits himself in the face trying to pry his own blanket out of Eddie’s balled fists.
“You wound me Doctah K! Really you do!” Richie gasps in one of his Voices once he finally manages to wiggle under the covers, Eddie’s legs brushing his own as he shifted onto his side to face him. Richie blushes and suddenly he’s glad it’s so dark save the hazy light coming from the television screen.
“Good,” Eddie deadpans as he scoots away from Richie, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Richie’s lips quiver into a small frown as he lets eyes roam over his Eddie’s blurry profile, soaking in the slope of his nose and the outline of his lips. They purse cutely before letting out a small sigh, turning to face Richie. Swiftly, Richie’s eyes flick up to Eddie’s.
“What?” Eddie whispers, eyebrows knitting together. He had caught Richie staring.
Richie blushes deeper than before, neck and ears flushing hotly. He tries to play it off with a little half-hearted shrug. “You don’t come over like this anymore,” he admits quietly, figuring that as a good enough place to start. “What happened?”
Eddie shyly turns back to face the ceiling, leaving Richie’s question unanswered. Richie sees him suck in his bottom lip nervously.
About ten seconds pass. Ten deafeningly silent seconds of Richie holding his breath for a response. Ten seconds of watching Eddie’s face make the slightest contortions, seemingly going through a thousand different emotions all at once. Ten seconds of Richie uselessly racking his brain for what could possibly be wrong with Eddie and only producing one single result: jackshit.
“It—I…Can we—Can we not talk about it?” Eddie finally says, quiet and rushed under his breath as he turned his head back to face Richie, eyebrows scrunched and a frown on his lips. Richie squints, reflecting his frown right back at him.
But Eddie’s eyes begin to watch him almost pleadingly and for the first time that night, Richie comes to realize why he crawled through his window and let him kiss his hands so gently. A nightmare.
“Yeah, okay. That’s okay y’know? You’re okay.” Richie blurts frantically. Eddie only stares and stares. He hadn’t said it out loud.
“Where does your mom think you are?” Richie asks instead, shuffling under the comforter to cross his arms over his chest as best as he could, trying to ground himself at this moment in time where Eddie was actually sharing a bed with him and this wasn’t just a dream. Or nightmare.
Eddie only scoffs and flips his head away, exposing the dip of where his neck and collarbone meet. Richie carefully watches with stars in his eyes. “Who cares where my mom thinks I am,” Eddie deflects with annoyance and frustration hugging his tone.
Richie gives a little smile, scoots closer, and nudges his fingers into Eddie’s stomach, ignoring the surprised squeak and saying, “What if she gets mad?” Eddie then looks at him, expression bemused with an eyebrow quirked. “What do you care?” He seems to ask silently. Richie’s smile morphs into a smirk as his hands find Eddie’s bicep, pulling him closer. “I can’t can’t always be there to cheer her up, Eds.”
Eddie lets out a laugh in spite of himself before shaking his head. “…I’m tired.” He says quietly.
Richie knows exactly what he means.
So he lets Eddie’s eyes slip close and breath grow steady. He doesn’t know how much time goes by, but it’s enough for the television to display an inactivity notification and shut itself off, leaving a hazy blue glow around its edges. He’s somehow kept awake and blinking at every time Eddie shifts in his sleep.
At what has to be Eddie’s tenth time changing sleeping positions, Richie allows himself to breathe out a sigh. “I have nightmares sometimes too,” He admits into the dead of night, voice soft as to not disturb Eddie although he sort of wished he was listening; just so he would know it was okay.
“Yeah?”
Richie’s stomach does a flip as he flinches away from Eddie’s not-sleeping figure, heart jumping. “What the shit, I thought you were asleep,” he hisses as a dorky grin splits Eddie’s cheeks. His heart jumps for a completely different reason. “You scared the fuck outta me,”
“Sorry. I thought you were asleep, you weren’t talking. So I tried to, but it's—it’s not really working…” Eddie says sheepishly, wriggling further into the comforter in embarrassment. Richie scoffs a laugh, burying his head into his pillow in an attempt to rid himself of the blush warming his cheeks once again this fine night.
“That’s okay, Eds,” Richie says, reaching out to poke his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s fine,”
Eddie gives out a sigh. He doesn’t say anything else for another minute or two, accidentally piquing Richie’s anxiety meter and causing dozens of thoughts to bounce around his head. Finally, just about Richie thinks he’s really fallen asleep this time, he says, “What helps you get through them?”
And Richie doesn’t need to ask what he’s talking about.
So without giving it much thought, Richie whispers truthfully. “Nothing, I think,”
Eddie looks at him with scrunched eyebrows and a rather painful look on his face. “Nothing?” he repeats, the word coming out unsure and more unbelievable than how he heard it. Richie blinks at him and his blush spreads all across his chest, blooming like a flower in spring.
“Well,” he starts off, not entirely sure on where he was going with the sentence. His mouth likes to talk before he gets the chance to think anything over. “I guess that remembering that they’re not real is a start…”
And although he’s sort of bullshitting this answer, Eddie watches him in some sort of awe, humming and nodding his head along as if everything Richie was saying he was taking to heart. Thankful for the dark and his shitty vision, Richie continues on. “And…the fact that I’ve…that I’ve lived through worse helps a lot too…Um, It can’t hurt me anymore, y’know? And…and nightmares are stupid as fuck so…”
Eddie then bursts into little, sleep-deprived giggles, trying his hardest to stifle them under his palm. Richie feels his heart soar at the melody, faintly thinking to himself that it was rather cheesy of him to consider it to be his favorite song.
“They…they are stupid,” Eddie agrees once he’s stopped laughing, snuggling just a little bit closer. Their legs brush and there’s nothing Richies wants more than to wrap his arms around his torso and hook a leg over his own. Maybe even spoon him to make up for his sleeping troubles.
Damn, he’s whipped, isn’t he?
Eddie presses his bandaged hands into his eyes, “And they suck. They…they suck a fuckton. They can fuck off. I—It was bad, Rich. It…It was alive and It…It kept…saying things and—and I got so mad and I—I just…I woke up and I—I lost it. Punched a hole in my wall. Then another, and another, and I woke my mom up and we fought and I left and I—I came here and I just…” Eddie drifts away from his ramble once his voice began to wobble, cracking like he was about to start crying again. “I didn’t know where else to go,”
Richie’s heart drops right into his stomach. “Eds—Eds c’mere,” He whispers, already stretching his arms and reaching out for him. Sniffling, Eddie scoots over and tucks himself into Richie’s arms, face buried into his chest as he wrapped an arm over his torso. And because Richie doesn’t know where their line is drawn, he gives Eddie a reassuring squeeze and places a kiss on the top of his head.
“It’s stupid, I know—” Eddie tries to say, only to be cut off by Richie pushing him back and looking him in the eye even in the dark.
“It’s not stupid, okay? I’m here for you, Eds. You’re okay, okay?” He says softly and sincerely before, very quietly, adding “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”
It goes dead silent for about a minute.
With his heartbeat pumping in his throat, Richie breaks into a cold sweat. He holds his breath for the upcoming rejection, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself not to start crying right then and there. When another minute goes by without a reaction, he pries an eye open, antsy. “Eds?”
Any further sentence is cut off by a firm pressure on his lips and a nose softly bumping into his own. Richie then remembers how to breathe only to forget all over again.
It’s Eddie’s fault. He’s gentle and he’s sweet and the scent of rubbing alcohol and fruity shampoo follow him as he presses further into Richie, like he’s trying to crawl under his skin. Gladly, Richie returns the gesture, cupping Eddie’s cheek and holding him even closer than before. When Eddie nips at his bottom lip, he eagerly complies, relishing in the sweet warmth he had been craving for so long.
“I love you too,” is hummed back and then repeated like prayer in between kisses and Richie melts, becoming putty underneath Eddie’s roaming hands. He thinks he might cry out of sheer joy.
“I’m—I’m gonna stop now or I’ll pass out right on top of you,” Eddie murmurs as he presses one last kiss on the corner of Richie’s mouth.
Richie, elated and sporting a cheek-splitting grin, shifts onto his side, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and burying his face into the crook of his neck. “Maybe that’s what I want,” he whispers into his skin right before placing a kiss there.
Eddie squirms under him, tickled. He pushes Richie’s face away and adjusts his position so they’re facing each other once more. He pats Richie’s cheek. “No you don’t,” he says simply before turning his back to him. “Now spoon me, please,”
Without missing a beat, Richie latches onto his waist again, pulling him close and slotting a leg between both of his. He then slips a hand under Eddie’s shirt, just because he could. Eddie giggles at the action, but doesn’t comment. He places his hand over his.
It’s quiet for a brief moment. A soft, content silence that makes Richie feel like he’s died and gone to heaven, lying on a cloud and holding an angel in his arms.
Cheesy, he thinks to himself once again, his face growing hot. He prods the nape of Eddie’s neck with the tip of his nose, slowly growing embarrassed. He tries to bite back his smile.
“I can feel you thinking. What’s up?” Eddie whispers, nudging Richie’s side with his elbow. Richie barks out a laugh.
“It’s just…I’m sorry. That confession was so unromantic,” Richie admits, now completely flushed. He snuggles further into Eddie, burying his face in his hair. “And well, I thought you hated me for a second there, not gonna lie,”
Eddie then cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder in an attempt to catch Richie’s eye without moving too much. “What? I don’t hate you,” he says, lips curling into a little frown.
Richie laughs again and wiggles up the bed, leaning over and pressing a kiss onto Eddie’s cheek. “I know that now. But we don’t hang out a lot anymore. I thought you got sick of me or something,” he says, voice gruff.
It takes a second for Eddie to process the sentence in his sleepy, about-to-pass-out state, but he manages, even turning around Richie’s arms to face him and cup his cheek gently, the bandage rough on soft skin. “I’ll never be sick of you, Rich. I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you—”
Richie snorts. “So you have been ignoring me?”
Eddie scowls, but it’s not really seen. “Will you let me finish?” he asks in faux annoyance. Richie nods against his palm, laughing. “Okay, so, I have been ignoring you, but only because I wasn’t sure if you liked me back…I didn’t know if you even liked boys or not,”
The statement hits Richie like a bag of bricks, he’s almost winded.
“What a fucking conicidence. I was too chickenshit to make a move cuz I wasn’t sure if you liked boys either,” Richie sighs, too tired to laugh at their idiocy anymore.
Eddie sucks in a breath. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He whispers incredulously, dropping his hand from Richie’s face and letting it settle on his hip. “We could’ve been together this entire time if it weren’t for us being a couple of wusses?”
“Uh huh,” Richie confirms. “Like schoolgirls with a crush.”
Eddie lets out a groan, exasperated. He drops his head on to Richie’s chest. “Jesus fucking…If anyone asks I confessed first.” he grumbles tiredly.
Richie only hums, leaning down to give his hair a kiss. “No way in hell,” he sighs dreamily. “Goodnight Eds.”
“Goodnight Rich.”