Chapter Text
Statistically, this has a pretty high chance of working out.
Eddie thinks about the numbers as he peruses through the glass-covered cases, carefully analyzing the contents inside. As he inspects the rows and rows of rings, ranging from simple and elegant to quirky and intricate (ranging in price from pricy to stupidly pricy), he goes over the variables.
It’s been eight weeks since he and Richie got into an argument about something important. They bickered last week about the dishwasher ( “You load it from the back, asshole! Plates on the bottom, bowls on the top!” “Why does it even matter how I load it? It’s all getting clean!” “It’s about the aerodynamics !” “They’re dishes !” ) but they started laughing halfway through and ended up fucking each other silly against the counter, so that doesn’t really count. So. Eight weeks.
They’ve been together for nine months ( “Ten months,” Richie always argues, and then they get to bitching about the numbers instead of the dishes or the laundry, and then they fuck each other silly again). Eddie showed up in Los Angeles three weeks after Derry with nothing but a suitcase filled with hastily folded clothes, a ring-free right hand, and ridiculously high hopes. He’d looked up at Richie with the puppy-dog eyes that he’d practiced in the bathroom during his six hour flight from JFK to LAX, fiddled with his sleeve, and asked to come inside.
Richie let him come inside.
And then Richie let him come inside .
After that, it didn’t take long for the two of them to find a groove—especially considering the fact that they can’t fucking stand each other. They fell into an easy routine, and now they do all that stupid domestic shit like wearing each other’s clothes and bickering at the grocery store about the nutritional benefits of Pop-Tarts. (There aren’t any, but Eddie’s so whipped that all he can do now is stare at the box with disgust whenever he opens the pantry.) But Richie makes him coffee and knows to use Eddie’s favorite mug, and Eddie can always find Richie’s keys. He cleans Richie’s glasses, and Richie straightens his ties before work. They pick at each other’s hair and clothes like monkeys in a tree, and sleep nestled together like spoons in a drawer; Eddie is like a teaspoon, and Richie is a gangly soup ladle, which made it a little awkward at first, but Eddie likes being able to brush Richie’s hair aside and kiss the back of his neck in the middle of the night.
They have designated movie nights on Thursdays.
Eddie kills the spiders in the shower with hairspray and a tissue.
Richie takes naps on Eddie’s side of the bed when he’s not around.
They know each other, inside and out, outside and in, the way peanut butter knows jelly and bacon knows eggs. They know each other in a cosmic way too, the way the sun knows the moon and the way the waves know the shore. They know each other the way the French know how to make bread, and the way Italians know how to make bread, and why the fuck is everyone so good at making bread?
Myra never let Eddie eat bread. She said he had a gluten allergy, and because the words felt familiar, he believed her.
Richie brings bagels to his office whenever they’re running late and forget breakfast. And he should, because it’s usually Richie’s fault that he’s late anyway—sometimes they spend the morning bickering, and other times he drops his head down into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder and kisses his neck, and sleepily requests a quickie in the shower. Or on the couch. Or against the kitchen counter.
Variable number three: Eddie has never enjoyed living with someone until now. He’s never put his feet in someone’s lap while watching TV, or stared at someone as they brushed their teeth and suddenly felt overwhelmed with the need to kiss them. No one has ever snuck up behind him and grabbed his ass while he washed the dishes, or kissed him on the cheek while he folded laundry. He’s never been able to walk in after a long, tiring day, and have someone give him exactly what he needs without him even having to ask for it. Until now.
Richie doesn’t have to remind him to say I love you . Eddie just says it without even thinking. He says it when Richie nudges his leg under the table at brunch, and he says it when Richie kisses his hand while he’s driving, and sometimes he says it for no reason at all, just because he wants to.
And Richie says it, too, and he says it at the stupidest times. He says it over dinner when he reaches over and steals Eddie’s garlic bread from his plate, folds it in half, and shoves it into his mouth. He says it when they’re watching old sci-fi double features while he chucks a piece of popcorn at Eddie’s face. When he’s outside at the Shell station, filling the car with petrol, Richie breathes onto the window and writes it into the condensation on the glass.
The number thirty six takes Eddie’s chances of getting an enthusiastic yes from good to great. Thirty six. Richie fixates on it sometimes, Rain Man style. He uses it in his hyperboles ( “Did you see that?! There had to be like, thirty six dogs!” Ten. There were ten. ), and when he makes fun of Eddie’s job ( “You’re thirty six percent more likely to get some ass tonight if you just”—), and his drunken requests ( “I want thirty six chocobo supremes from Taco Bell right now.” “Taco Bell will make you fat, and chocobo supremes don’t even fucking exist.” ). Sometimes he tackles Eddie onto the couch and gives him thirty six kisses, and then pretends that he wasn’t counting.
Last time they had a fight over something important— one that left them in tears and sleeping separately rather than fucked out and slightly embarrassed—Richie sent thirty six roses to Eddie’s office, with a card that said I’m sorry. I love you. thirty six times.
Eddie finally asked him about it after they made up, rubbing Richie’s naked back and tracing circles into his shoulder.
( “What’s the deal with you and thirty six?”
“September first, 1981.”
“What? Did you whack your head on the headboard, or something?”
“No, dummy. That’s the day we met. In kindergarten. Thirty six years ago.” )
Richie didn’t have to say anything after that—and he couldn’t, because Eddie had grabbed him by the scruffy jaw and kissed him senseless.
Eight weeks since their last blowout fight.
Nine ( “Ten, fuckface.” ) months of living together.
Thirty six years of being madly, deeply, and stupidly in love.
Eddie’s chances of snagging a fiancé by the end the week are good. He leaves the jeweler’s with a ring in his pocket, two grand missing from his bank account, and a plan that couldn’t possibly go wrong.