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The boy sitting next to him is definitely the shortest person in his class.
Richie has a compulsion to carry him around in his backpack. He’s almost certain he would fit.
“Edward Kaspbrak,” the teacher calls out.
The boy next to Richie flushes. “Here, Miss. It’s just Eddie.”
“Edward Asscrack?” Richie asks, wondering if he can make the blush expand.
But Eddie just gives him a dark look. “Eddie Kaspbrak, asshole.”
“Eddie Kaspbrak-Asshole?”
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says with a sigh. “Would you just let me concentrate?”
“…On the roll call?”
“Yes, on the roll call, I’m angling to see if there are any normal people in this class or if it’s all dickweeds.”
When the teacher calls out Richie’s name, Eddie turns to stare at him.
“You’re Richie Tozier?”
“Uh-huh. You heard good things?”
“I heard things,” Eddie corrects. “…A Beverly Marsh told me you were funny, and now I’m wondering if she has a brain injury.”
“We don’t talk about it,” Richie says quickly, face serious. “Brings up too many memories. She can’t even be around a forklift, now.”
Eddie gapes.
“Sorry. I didn’t actually…I didn’t realise that-”
Richie can’t help the smile that inches onto his face.
His eyes narrow. “…You’re fucking with me.”
Richie hums happily.
Eddie frowns and his mouth sets in a firm line. It makes his chin jut out, like he has a mouthful of jellybeans.
It’s adorable.
“Just don’t talk to me for the next hour, capisce?”
“The name’s Tozier. You’re Capisce.”
“It’s Kaspbrak,” Eddie says, pitch heightening, then clamps his mouth shut again, and stares at the board at the front. “Some of us are trying to learn.”
For once, Richie regrets having to go home. Now that the little firecracker hates him, he’s sure this term is going to be fun.
His smile drops as soon as he sees Henry Bowers at the kissing bridge. A little patch of hope where two names are scrawled. Leslie and Abigail.
FAGS BURN IN HELL is inscribed over the top, now.
“Speak of the devil,” Bowers says with a grin.
Richie doesn’t try to run. Where to? This was always his escape.
So he opens his big, dumb mouth instead.
The pain is in crystal clear technicolour, but his eyesight hasn’t caught up yet.
He pats his hands along the wooden slats, searching for his glasses.
“Richie?”
He looks up. Sees a cute little Lego man, blocks of colour.
“Eddie Kaspbrack-Asshole. As I live and breathe.”
Eddie doesn’t respond, which is worrying. Richie wonders how bad he looks.
He sees Eddie come closer, feels the plastic ends of his glasses slip over his ears.
He waits for 20/20 vision, and doesn’t get it. He maybe should have anticipated that, when both his eyes started stinging. He feels at them with his fingers. At least one is swollen.
A hand swats at him.
“Jesus. Get your dirty hands away from your face. What happened? Wait, you can tell me later. If-If I run back home I can call an ambulance. And then I’ll come back, stay with you until it comes.”
An ambulance? For a rough-up? Where did this kid think he was?
“Don’t,” Richie pleads. “My parents can’t afford that.”
Fortnightly hospital stays were definitely not in the budget.
“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,” Eddie says, but something in Richie’s eyes makes him pause.
“Ok,” he says. “Ok, just. Come home with me, then? I have medical supplies. And high-strength painkillers.”
“Any coke?”
“I’m not allowed to have sugary drinks in the house,” Eddie says apologetically. When Richie snorts, his face looks taut, torn between confusion, irritation and concern.
There’s something addictive about that look.
“I’ll come home with you. Just don’t take advantage of me in my weakened state,” Richie says, standing up and putting an arm around Eddie’s shoulders.
Eddie huffs. “What a struggle. You’re a real belle of the ball right now.”
“So?” Eddie asks, as he helps Richie hobble to his house. “What happened?”
“Beware of mullets, Spaghetti. Henry Bowers specifically. The longer you can avoid meeting him, the better.”
Richie can feel Eddie’s fingers tense where they wrap around his torso.
“But don’t worry,” he amends. “I’ll be your knight in shining armour. Your valiant protector. Your-”
“I get the picture,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “And it’d be a little more convincing if you didn’t look like a calzone with a leak.”
“Are you calling me a hot pocket? Because-”
“We’re here,” Eddie announces. “Thank God.”
Richie collapses on the couch as soon as they enter, and Eddie makes a noise that sounds a bit like a mouse squeak.
“Um. Maybe we could go up to my room? Just. If my mum comes home and sees you…”
“She’ll want to ravish me immediately. Got it.”
They struggle up the staircase.
But it’s worth it, to crash in Eddie’s bed.
It’s comfy, and it smells of fresh linen. And just a little bit of toast.
“…Do you eat in bed, Crab Shack?”
“No. That’s so unhygienic.”
Richie raises an eyebrow.
“…One time.”
“Yum,” Richie says, turning his head so he can sniff the pillow like a bloodhound. “Did you leave any crumbs for me?”
Eddie wrinkles his nose. “God you’re disgusting. Stay there. I have to get some supplies.”
Eddie returns laden with supplies, then kneels on the bed so he’s just a few centimetres from Richie.
He pours rubbing alcohol onto a cotton bud. “Sorry. This is going to hurt a bit.”
He presses lightly against the gashes on Richie’s cheek and brow.
Eddie’s wrong. It hurts a lot.
Luckily, Eddie’s hands are fast and efficient, and it’s not long before he’s reaching for a box full of bandaids of every shape and size.
“Whoa,” Richie says. “I’m not going to school with a face covered in bandaids. Makes the whole wounded warrior thing much less hot.”
Eddie gives him a look. “They keep infection out. And make the healing process faster.”
Richie gives him a look right back.
“Fine, just wear them over the weekend. Maybe that will do something, at least.”
There’s something fascinating about how methodical Eddie is. The way he peels back the plastic on each bandaid with his tiny, perfectly even nails, careful to avoid touching the gauze.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin your French manicure there, Eds.”
Eddie glares at him. “This is for your benefit, asshole. Unless you’d rather I rub my hands all over the bandaids I’m about to put on your face.”
“Don’t mind me,” Richie says. “Rub away.”
Pink cheeks. Cute cute cute.
Eddie smooths each bandaid out with a finger after he sticks it on. He’s one of those people who stick the tip of their tongue out in concentration.
Cute cute cute cute cute cu-
Then, oh, Eddie’s lightly tugging on his hands. And the process begins again. Cotton bud kisses and bandaids reaching their arms around each finger. Except that now Eddie’s holding his hands, sort of.
Don’t, Richie.
Eddie hands a towel-covered icepack to Richie. “Hold it to the swelling around your eye.”
“Does it work on all swelling? I just want to be prepared in case your mother and me-”
Eddie manages to pinpoint the one unbruised part of Richie’s body, and hit that.
It’s quite considerate, really.
“If I called your mum, would you be able to sleep over?” Eddie continues, as if he hadn’t just slapped Richie’s shoulder. “You should really move as little as possible.”
Don’t, Richie.
“I usually wait for the second date to-”
Another whack to the shoulder.
“Sure thing, Eduardo.”
Eddie insists that Richie takes the bed. He’d also insisted that if they both slept there, Eddie would accidentally kick him in the face at some point.
“Accidentally?” Richie had asked, sceptical.
“No,” Eddie had amended dryly. “Repeatedly, and with great intent.”
Richie turns to Eddie, on the floor next to him. He’s not sure if he’s sleeping, or just has his eyes closed, but he looks a hell of a lot calmer than he does in daylight.
Maybe he could get to sleep by counting Eddie’s lashes.
Maybe he could be less of a creep, he thinks, turning back to face the ceiling.
His dreams have never listened to him.
Eddie brings his breakfast up the next morning.
“You think you can stay here for a little while longer? It’s just, my mum won’t leave the house for another hour, and she doesn’t exactly…know that you’re here.”
Richie may not have met Eddie’s mother. But he already dislikes her.
Eddie’s face crinkles up. “Is that too long? I can tell her that-”
“No,” Richie says. “All good, Eduardo.”
I hate it when boys with nice eyes bring me breakfast in bed. I can’t stand another hour of watching you get all animated talking about why fast food harbours parasites. Watching you make expressions that are way too big for your tiny face. Gross.
“Wait,” Richie says as Eddie hands him a bowl of cereal. “Did you eat already? What did you tell her? This is your second breakfast?”
“Um. I just skipped, for today.”
“What?” Richie shoves the bowl back towards him. “You have it.”
“Be careful, dipshit,” he says as milk threatens to spill over the bowl. “This is why I don’t eat in bed.”
“But you do eat in bed.”
“One time,” Eddie says, glaring at Richie as if he’d brought up a shameful past mistake, instead of eating in a fucking bed. It reminds him of Stan triple-tying his shoelaces. Something sad wrapped up in something so endearing.
“Clearly,” Richie says, motioning to the bowl. “I can’t be trusted with it.”
Eddie sighs, and hops into bed next to Richie.
Oh. That’s happening.
“Fine. Half-half. I’ll go first, because no way am I swallowing all of your backwash.”
Eddie takes a few bites, and it’s possible that this is Richie’s favourite Eddie. Cheeks full like a chipmunk’s, somehow getting a milk moustache already. Then he hands the bowl to Richie.
“Yum,” says Richie, slurping the milk. “Taste that delicious Kaspbrak backwash. Definite family resemblance, there.”
Richie can see the conflict play out on Eddie’s face. Attack Richie and spill milk everywhere? Or roll his eyes and let it go? Ok, maybe this is his favourite Eddie.
He settles for saying, “It’s not backwash you’re tasting. Your mother had some milk leftover. Since you only stopped breastfeeding at, what, age 12?
Richie narrowly avoids snorting milk all over the bed.
“You,” he says, patting Eddie’s back proudly, “are a sicko.”
He’s met with a bashful smile, and, Oh. That’s his favourite Eddie.
Richie’s leg heals enough for him to walk on it, so he’s back at school on Monday. He saves a seat for Eddie in maths class.
Just being helpful.
“Finally. Eds arrives.”
“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, but sits next to him.
“Please, Sir,” Richie says, doing his best Oliver Twist. “It’s my emotional support nickname.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but they catch on Richie’s face.
“How are you feeling? It looks like the bruising’s gone down.”
“Good, thanks to Nurse Ratchet.”
Richie reaches into his bag to pull out a Teen Titans comic. Rare, because of a misprint, but a good story too. He’s not sure if Eddie’s going to be remotely interested, but he is pretty sure this is the only thing in his bedroom of any value.
Judging from the fact that Eddie is leaning over to see the cover, he’s interested.
“Your retainer, my good man,” he says, putting it down on Eddie’s desk.
Eddie gapes. “What? You really don’t have to-”
“You spent your Friday night nursing someone you hate. When you could’ve been- I don’t know, what do you normally do on Fridays? Work shifts at the gentleman’s club?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but his mouth twists into something a little guilty.
“I don’t hate you.”
He backtracks as a smile spreads across Richie’s face.
‘You just annoy me to my very core.”
“Huh. You love me.”
“Shut up. I tolerate you, asshole.”
“You were probably worrying about me all weekend.”
“What happened to the moment of humility you were having?”
“You worship the ground I walk on.”
“Richie, I swear to God-”
“Sh,” Richie says, motioning to the front. “Some of us are trying to learn.”
From the corner of his eye, Richie can see Eddie gape, poised to smack him in the arm. And he feels certain that this is going to be a perfect year.