Work Text:
The sky has morphed from a picturesque cerulean to a deep orange-pink by the time they stumble out of the theater, among the cluster of strangers they just shared an hour and a half of their lives with. All Richie can smell is the artificial, buttery scent of popcorn that clings to his clothes and fingers.
Him and Eddie devoured the tub of popcorn within the first half hour of the movie, but Eddie had refused to let either of them leave to get more. “You’re gonna miss something important!” he’d hissed into Richie’s ear, leaning across the plastic armrest dividing their seats. Eddie’s shoulder had been a warm, solid weight against Richie’s own and Richie had repressed a shiver at the breath hitting his ear. It was almost intoxicating, the feeling another person in his space, entering it without being asked to. Like Eddie had wanted to be close to him.
Richie can’t be overthinking this. Stan had said it’d be a bad idea to tell Eddie about his capital-F-Feelings (trademarked by Richie Tozier in the year of our Lord 2017). He knows Stan has a mile-long stick up his ass about most things, but Stan was right. Richie knows nothing good will happen, that his confession will be met with Eddie immediately withdrawing with an awkward, half-hearted smile and an “Oh, well…” It was a tried and true formula in his dating life.
Except Richie and Eddie’s elbows keep bumping as they walk along the sidewalk, following the path back to where Richie’s car is parked. And Eddie’s smile is so achingly easy, loose and almost blindingly bright. His infuriating, doe-like eyes blaze like a fire crackling in a hearth and every little, escaping ember makes Richie’s skin jump.
Eddie glances over his shoulder and Richie follows the movement. He studies the line of Eddie’s jaw, follows it as it slopes down his neck and to his shoulder. It’s… nice, Richie decides through the radio static overwhelming his brain. Eddie hasn’t taken off his shirt during their trips to the beach, and part of Richie prays that he never does because he’ll be smited on the spot.
“Okay, they’re gone,” Eddie whispers, low and conspiratory. He looks back at Richie with a quirked brow.
“Is the FBI finally here to drag you into an unmarked van?” Richie jokes, hoping to mask the want aching inside him.
“No,” Eddie retorts with an exasperated look. “The people behind us wouldn’t stop gasping at every fucking scary thing that happened. I fucking hate them.”
“It was an intense movie, Eds!”
Eddie points a furious finger at him. “Don’t call me that.”
An uncontrollable grin works its way across Richie’s face. He points at himself. “ Me? Calling you Eds? As if I haven’t a million times?”
“I tell you not to every time!” Eddie shrieks. “But you’re distracting me from what I’m saying!”
“You chose to get offended.”
Eddie’s mouth twitches. There he is. “I was saying,” he continues, gesturing wildly. “Like, you know you’re in a theater full of other people! We don’t need a play-by-play, we can see what’s happening!”
“That’s how you know it’s a good movie!”
“We weren’t watching some shitty horror movie―”
Richie’s posture straightens and he twirls his invisible moustache. “Because we only watch real films,” he mocks in a deep, raspy, British accent. “Not something like Annabelle.”
Eddie laughs. The space between Richie’s ribs flickers with heat, like that same fire inside Eddie has been set ablaze. “What’s your deal with that movie?!”
“It’s a fucking doll!” Richie shouts. They turn a corner and he sees his car, innocently parked between a red Prius and a black truck. Subconsciously, Richie’s pace slows. Eddie notices and his own footsteps slow, too.
“So?!” Eddie counters. He hasn’t looked away from Richie for, oh, the past thirty seconds. It’s agonizing. “Dolls are, like, one of the most popular haunted objects.”
“I wouldn’t let myself be fucked with by Malibu Barbie,” Richie answers before patting his pockets. Their movie tickets crinkle in his left pocket. Richie had been quick to take them from the usher inside the theater before Eddie could notice. What can he say, he’s sentimental.
That’s one word for it.
Eddie snorts, but watches Richie’s hands as he pulls out his car keys. The orange-pink horizon fades more and more by the minute, the street lights flickering on as the night creeps in. But it’s Friday night, and in the surrounding blocks of downtown Los Angeles Richie can hear the droves of people heading out to bars or to dinner, footsteps against the pavement and laughter in the air. The night could just be getting started for them.
Richie doesn’t want their night to end.
And when he looks up from the thumb hesitating to unlock his car, maybe Eddie doesn’t want it to, either.
Eddie watches him, head cocked to the side. His brow isn’t furrowed in confusion, but instead softly creased, pensive. The smile on his face is lopsided and his eyes twinkle in the streetlights. Like he knows Richie’s mind is racing right alongside his heartbeat.
The air is already humid, but it gets even harder to breathe. Richie has watched enough movies to know that this moment means something. It’s the standing-in-the-pouring-rain moment, the walking-your-date-to-their-front-door moment. Stan’s voice rings through his head, telling him to make friends with his dark passenger. Richie shakes it off.
“Um,” Richie starts, shifting his weight back and forth. His hands reflexively stuff themselves in his jacket pocket, next to his phone and the tickets. A lump in his throat forms and he struggles to swallow.
“Yes?” Eddie asks. It’s soft. Richie feels the strong urge to run into the closet alley and vomit, like that’s the only way he could ever get the words out.
On the road behind them, a long line of cars pass. Richie takes a deep breath.
“Eddie,” he starts. “You know, I-”
Muffled, from inside a back pocket, Eddie’s phone rings.
The moment shatters in Richie’s hands, falling between his fingers and scattering across the ground. It’s like glass around Richie’s feet that he’s too shocked to try to pick up.
Eddie flinches. “Jesus,” he mutters, blinking wildly. “That’s probably Bill, hold on.”
Richie nods, numb. Maybe Stan was right.
Eddie reaches back and pulls out his phone. He glances at it, frowning. Then his thumb hovers right above the screen and Richie watches as his expression shifts. It’s like watching ice suddenly crack. Eddie’s face pales. Richie sees his shoulders seize up. Richie’s throat closes up for an entirely different reason.
“Who is it?” he manages.
Eddie doesn’t answer him, but the call instead. He’s staring into the space behind Richie. “Yes?” It’s careful and devoid of any life.
Richie can’t hear the person on the other side of the call, not even a muffled voice. He can only watch as Eddie’s grip tightens on the phone and his body grows more rigid.
“That’s me, yes,” Eddie croaks.
Richie can feel the presence of people walking past them, but it’s only a distant realization. He focuses on the arm that barricades itself across Eddie’s chest. Richie feels his weight teeter back, like he wants to step away from this moment. He definitely shouldn’t be witnessing this. But he really, really doesn’t want to leave because Eddie visibly gulps and his jaw locks.
“Okay. I… Yes. Thank you. I… I appreciate it.”
Bile rises in the back of Richie’s throat, acidic and burning. He forces it back down.
“Bye,” Eddie finally says, hardly above a whisper. He hasn’t looked away from the patch of sidewalk he locked his gaze onto, even as he puts his phone back in his pocket. His movements are stiff, robotic.
Life hasn’t stopped around them, cars honking and somewhere in the distance, a deep bass rumbles from inside a club.
Eddie’s other arm wraps itself across his torso and he begins to shake. Something forces itself into Richie’s chest and twists at his insides the moment Eddie’s eyes squeeze shut.
“Fuck,” Eddie gasps out, like it’s torn itself from his vocal chords and past his lips.
Richie’s hand twitches in his pocket. It burns with the desire to reach out towards the person across from him, but Richie tries his best to suppress it. Richie doesn’t know how to comfort Eddie and he doesn’t want to mess this up. Does Eddie even want to talk about it? Would he want me to ignore it? Does he want to be alone? Would he want a hug instead? What if ―
“Eddie?” Richie asks instead.
Eddie’s eyes open and he looks back up at Richie like he forgot Richie was even there. A small fraction of his guarded expression crumbles.
“I―” Eddie starts. “My― my mom died. Half an hour ago. Back in― uh, Maine.”
Fuck.
It apparently hits Eddie the same time it hits Richie. His chin quivers and he’s quick to duck his head down. Richie’s chest aches so deeply he struggles to take another breath.
“I… Eddie, I’m― I’m so sorry,” he manages.
“I-It’s fine," Eddie answers immediately, voice breaking at the end. “We weren’t even close.”
The word still falters on Richie’s tongue. Eddie lets out a shuddering breath and suddenly, he’s crying. Arms wrapped around himself, face hidden like he’s embarrassed, and nose sniffling. The ache inside Richie grows.
Richie finds his hands leaving his jacket pockets, working on auto-pilot. The desire to reach out, to touch and just let Eddie know he’s not alone in this is almost overwhelming. Fuck, Richie thinks, I have no fucking clue what he feels like right now.
His left hand falls back to his side. He doesn’t know what Eddie wants. But Eddie lets out another shuddering breath that makes his whole body shake and Richie decides fuck it.
“Eddie,” he starts. “C-Can I… do you need a hug?”
Eddie looks up at that. Richie’s heart shatters at the almost confused expression on his face, like he isn’t used to someone comforting him. Richie decides that that’s going to change right this second.
Eddie nods, and Richie’s body surges forward. Eddie is a warm weight against Richie’s chest, his head just centimeters below Richie’s chin. Richie tucks it there and his arms settle around Eddie’s waist, squeezing. Two arms slowly work around Richie’s own torso, fingers digging into the worn leather material of his jacket.
This is what it feels like to hug Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie distantly realizes. It feels nice.
Well, as nice as it can be when Eddie is shaking in his arms, face burrowed into Richie’s chest as he cries freely now. Because dammit, Richie, this isn’t for you.
Eddie presses closer and Richie wishes it wasn’t happening like this.
The few people that have passed them have obviously noticed the scene, their stares prickling the back of Richie’s neck. He wants to tell them to fuck off, my friend’s mom just died, asshole.
God, death really has perfect timing. It makes Richie rub his palm in soft, gentle circles against the space between Eddie’s shoulder blades. They stand there for a moment, the tension spooling out from Eddie’s body and his breath evening out.
Finally Eddie pulls away. His cheeks are blotchy and his eyes are already puffing up, making them look even more soulful. It reminds Richie of a lost deer as Eddie blinks blearily and Richie almost wants to hug him again.
“Sorry,” Eddie mutters, wiping his nose with his shirt sleeve. It’s disgusting, but somehow still charming.
“Don’t be,” Richie immediately replies. “Seriously, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
Eddie doesn’t look at him. He keeps blinking hard, trying to keep the tears at bay and his arms bracket across his chest like a shield.
“Do you…” Richie starts. “Do you want me to take you to your car?”
Eddie does look up at that. His nose crinkles when he sniffles again. “I,” he begins, voice hoarse. “I don’t really want to be alone right now, I guess.”
Richie ignores his heart skipping a beat at that. “Okay. My apartment?”
Eddie nods.
With that, Richie unlocks his car and they both climb in. Out the corner of his eye he sees Eddie on his phone again, typing something. He remembers the rest of their friends, who have no fucking clue that Eddie’s world just crumbled apart five minutes ago. They still think they’re celebrating the end of the season. And they should be― Eddie should be, not sitting in Richie’s passenger seat still fighting back tears and looking deflated.
Richie suddenly really, really hates Eddie’s mom, even though he’s never met the woman. The way Eddie talks about her―in the rare instances that he does― gives Richie the impression that she wasn’t pleasant.
He sits back in his seat for a moment. Eddie’s staring out the window. His hands are clenched in his lap.
Richie reaches over across the console before he can think twice. Eddie’s knee is warm under his palm as Richie grasps it, a part of his mind desperately etching the feeling of it into his mind because he doesn’t know if he’ll get to do this again.
Eddie looks over at him, eyes wide. His eyes flicker down to Richie’s hand then back to Richie’s face.
Richie swallows carefully then says, “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”
He gets a weak smile in response. It’s enough. Richie pulls away, mustering a smile back, and puts his keys in the ignition. The car around them shudders to life, and Richie gives Eddie one more glance before his foot presses down on the gas.