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Eddie didn’t know why his body moved without his permission. Well, that was a lie. Eddie knew, from the moment he set foot back in Derry and started getting his memories back, that he was in love with Richie Tozier. Seeing him in the Chinese restaurant only confirmed that he still did. Oh, how when Richie had drunkenly suggested they take their shirts off and kiss did Eddie want him to be serious. But when was Richie ever serious?
Desperately, hopelessly, Eddie wanted nothing more than Richie to love him back. He planned on them talking about it, about settling this once and for all, before he found himself staring at Richie, immobilized by the Dead Lights.
So he did know, really, why he threw that makeshift spear. Why he rushed to protect Richie. And when he saw the light return to Richie’s eyes, they smiled at each other, and Eddie felt his heart flutter with possibility.
Then he felt pain. Unimaginable, searing pain in his chest. Eddie looked down and found himself impaled, and he let out a choked sob at the sight of it.
He was going to die, and he was going to die never knowing what that look Richie had given him really meant for them.
The Losers dragged him around, trying desperately to escape with him before Pennywise could catch on. Eddie was delirious with shock and blood loss, and he found himself almost confessing right then and there. But he couldn’t possibly leave Richie alone on this Earth with the knowledge that Eddie had loved him, so instead he spouted some bullshit about fucking Richie’s mom. Because if Richie had been the one dying in Eddie’s arms, he would have wanted to have the last laugh.
Richie was saying something, holding his hand, stroking his hair, but he was fading. The world was black at the edges, and that darkness was creeping in. The last thing Eddie saw before passing out was Richie, tears streaming down his face, joining the rest of the Losers in making Pennywise small. It could have been just the blood loss, but Eddie could swear he felt the wound in his chest growing smaller and smaller with every shout of “Clown!”
Someone was holding his hand. Eddie couldn’t see, his world still black, but he could hear someone screaming. It sounded distant, but it was coming closer.
It was Richie.
“We can’t leave him!” Richie demanded, still crying. Eddie wanted to comfort him, wanted to tell him it was okay, he could leave Eddie here, that he should go on and live for them both, but his muscles weren’t quite responding yet. His vision slowly returned to him, and he found Richie wasn’t the only one crying over him.
“Richie, honey,” Bev started, and Richie looked at her with such ferocity he must have known what she was going to say. Eddie knew. He knew that there was no way he was going to survive with a massive hole in his chest. “We were too late, he’s...wait.” Bev was suddenly right next to Richie, two fingers at Eddie’s pulse, which he was sure was weak. He looked over at Richie, his eyes red, clothes and glasses covered in blood. Eddie’s blood. That wasn’t very sanitary. “He’s alive!”
Eddie was just as surprised as the rest of them. He looked down at his chest, expecting to see gore and viscera, but finding instead a small slit. As if he’d only been stabbed and not impaled. He tried to speak but only managed a weak wheeze.
“Not for long if we don’t hurry,” Mike announces, pushing past Bev and Richie and picking Eddie up with a similar ease as when he had heafted tiny Eddie into his bike’s basket, careful of his broken arm. He slung Eddie over his shoulder, and led the Losers out of the caves.
He couldn’t see Richie, but he could hear the heavy clunks of his foot steps, hear his voice as they rushed for safety. Then the world went dark again.
Eddie can tell he’s being propped up on something in the street, because he has a great view of the house that had always terrified him collapsing. Good, he thought. That place was a death trap, with or without the killer clown.
He realized that he was propped up in someone’s lap, and he assumed it was Bev. He could hear her talking, and she’d always been the most nurturing of the group. Her and Mike, really. But he could see Mike looking at him, hand covering his mouth, though his brows were knitted together with concern. She’s petting his hair and has a hand on his chest, applying pressure to the wound, and he feels himself relax into the touches.
Then Bev steps into view, talking on the phone. Eddie presumes with the hospital. Eddie manages to look up, and what he sees strikes him. It’s Richie, still crying, even as he looks down at Eddie with shock.
“Hey,” Eddie says, and his voice is hoarse.
“Hey,” Richie sobs. “We’re gonna get you some help. You’re gonna be okay.”
Eddie smiles weakly. He’s not so sure. He assesses risks for a living, and he knows his chances. “Yeah, you are.” He reaches up and grabs the hand petting his hair, knowing the one on his chest is the only thing keeping him from bleeding out. “Richie?”
“Yeah, Eds?”
“You were always such an ass ,” Eddie says, feeling bold. Richie laughs and nods through his tears. “But I think that’s what I always liked best about you.”
Richie looks struck for a second, then smiles sadly down at him. “‘Like’ best, Eds, present tense.”
Eddie hums in agreement, but he can feel himself blacking out. Distantly, He hears Richie calling for him, begging him to stay awake, but they both know that isn’t possible.
The next time he wakes, it’s to a commotion. He can’t look around or move, which causes initial panic, until he flicks his eyes around to what’s above him and realizes he’s in an ambulance. For the first time since he was stabbed, he thinks maybe he’ll live. Then he realizes that amongst the voices he doesn’t recognize, there’s Richie. He’s fighting the EMT’s, trying to get in the ambulance from the sound of it.
“He can stay,” Eddie says weakly, but only Richie seems to notice.
“Eddie!” Richie must have forced his way in, because he’s standing next to Eddie and holding his hand. He kisses it, despite the chorus of EMTs (and Eddie) telling him not to, it’s unsanitary.
“He can stay,” Eddie says again, louder. He can feel the world spinning, but he still manages to speak. “And don’t...don’t contact my wife.”
“Stan?” Eddie says, his voice cracking. He’s standing in a void of nothingness, the only other anything in sight is an adult man smiling at him. He recognizes it’s Stan though, the way he could recognize all the other Losers.
“Hey, Eddie,” Stan waved, and Eddie could see that his wrists were without even a scratch.
“Am I...am I dead?”
Stan made a non-committal noise and an iffy motion with his hand. “Not really? You’re just kind of on the cusp.”
“Oh, alright,” Eddie sniffs as though he understood. He adds, sincerely, “We miss you.”
Stan touches his shoulder, and he doesn’t really feel the pressure of it, but he does feel warmth. “I know. I miss you guys, too.”
Eddie smiles at him, and he smiles back. Then, suddenly, the world starts filling with color. It doesn’t fade in, it kind of rushes up to meet him from the edges. “Do you see that?” Eddie asks, because Stan isn’t reacting to the sudden influx of color.
“Sorry, Eddie, times up,” Stan says solemnly, like he’s going to miss having Eddie around.
“Wait,” He can feel a tugging at his chest, and then a heartbeat.
“This is gonna hurt,” Stan warns, pushing Eddie back. “Tell Richie I say ‘hi’ and that he’s a pussy.”
“Wait!” Eddie says, feeling himself plummet into the vast colors of the universe.
Eddie bolts upright in his hospital bed with a gasp, and, yup, okay, Stan was right that hurt like a bitch. The only sounds Eddie can hear are the beeping of his heart rate monitor and his own ragged breathing, and he jumps a little at a loud snore interrupting the otherwise very quiet room.
In the chair next to him is Richie. He’s cleaner now than when Eddie last saw him, but right now he looks the furthest thing from comfort, curled up in a little ball against the back of the chair that had been here since the 70’s by the looks of it. Though he’d turned it to face to bed, so it didn’t really recline much. Eddie could tell because the spot next to the head of the bed had a chair-shaped shape of pure white floor.
His glasses were skewed on his face and he was drooling a little, but he’s holding Eddie’s hand, as if he never stopped. Eddie felt his face soften with endearment looking at him.
“Richie,” Eddie calls softly, squeezing Richie’s hand. He just lets out another snore.
“Hey, dipshit,” Eddie says louder, reaching over with his free hand to flick Richie’s nose.
Richie jumps awake, looking bewildered at Eddie, and then he’s crowding into Eddie’s space, all but climbing onto the hospital bed. “Eds! Eddie, thank fuck you’re awake!”
“Stan says ‘hi’,” Eddie smiles at him, and Richie pales some. “Oh, and also that you’re a pussy.”
Richie’s brows furrow. “He’s dead, he doesn’t get to judge me.” As if a light turns on in his head, Richie snaps to attention. “Oh, shit, I should get the doctor. And call the Losers. I’ve got to--”
“Stay here a minute,” Eddie commands gently, leaning back against the elevated head of the bed. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
“Is it that I’m an ass or that you fucked my mom? Because you already said that.”
“No. Shut up, I’m trying to be sentimental.”
Richie opens his mouth again to undoubtedly say something stupid, like he always does, to diffuse the tension, but Eddie intterupts him.
“I love you, Richie Tozier.”
Richie starts crying again, not full blown sobbing, but a silent stream of tears roll down his cheeks. Eddie reaches up and wipes away some of the wetness. “I think I’ve always loved you.”
“Oh my god,” Richie chokes. “Stan was right, I am a pussy.”
Before Eddie can make a comment, Richie, still crying, grabs him by the face and kisses him like a man starved.
“God, fuck, I’ve wanted to do that since I was like twelve,” Richie laughs, pressing his forehead against Eddie’s. “I love you, too.”