Archive of Our Own

Ok, let's get this straight from the start. There has to be something dire or at least really not great with your situation for you to take a job offer to be a nanny for a 40-something-year-old-

"He doesn't need a nanny," Stan scoffs as Eddie continues to treat the cut on his palm that makes you think he was catching knives with his bare hands for fun. Because, knowing Stan for more than three minutes, you just know it's the kind of psycho he is. 

 "Oh, please, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong," Eddie mumbles just to distract Stan from the fucking wreck he is trying to sew back together. But to be honest, the one in need of distraction is himself. "How the fuck can you just bear this without even hissing?" 

 He forgot to numb Stan's hand, he is that kind of professional now.

 "Self-control and too much pride for one body," Stan replies with a straight face. "Learned it from my wife. You should meet her."

 Eddie doesn't answer, mostly because he doesn't know how to not make it obvious he is terrified of the prospect.

 "Richie doesn't need a nanny," Stan continues as if Eddie actually asked for clarification and wasn't fucking sarcastic. "But he needs constant medical attention and wound care at least two times a week." 

 Eddie stops and looks up at Stan with a raised eyebrow. Stan doesn't seem to be perturbed.

 "And also he desperately needs a roommate to afford that awful thing he calls an apartment."

 "So," Eddie says, going back to stitching his neighbor's hand, "what is exactly he does that gets him such an intriguing introduction?"

 Stan sighs. "He's a-"

 "A private detective?" Eddie asks, and Richie Tozier jerks his shoulder.

 "Kinda."

 "Kinda a private detective?" Eddie repeats, and Richie looks up from his phone.

 "Yeah, what about it?" 

 Richie Tozier let him in with a yell of 'It's open!' and didn't care enough to offer him a seat. Eddie just let himself get comfortable on a couch, while Richie occupied an armchair and Eddie momentarily felt something stinging under his tongue. 

 "That's the shadiest get-to-know I've ever had." Eddie acknowledges, and Richie puts his phone down, grinning.

 "That bothers you?" 

 "Yes, actually." Richie makes a show of getting comfortable in his seat, spreading his legs slowly like that's fucking appropriate. He grins. "You're presumably having an interview with your potential roommate right now. You should have questions and concerns about a person you're going to share space with. Cohabitation policies, habits, schedules, personal preferences. Rent, for fuck's sake!"

 "This is," Richie hums, "a lot of words. You seem kinda tense."

 "No shit, Sherlock." Eddie takes a breath, and Richie actually laughs like that was a joke. "The only thing that keeps me from walking out right now, because you're obviously not to be trusted even with a pair of mittens... Is a question, like... are you really that desperate you will let a complete stranger move in to stab you in your sleep and pickle your eyeballs or something?"

 Sometimes you know what the most reasonable step would be at the moment. Eddie knows it is to close the door behind him and tell Stan he is insane (like he doesn't know already). But at the same moment, something makes you ignore the voice of reason.

 That's why Eddie stays. He waits for Richie to stop laughing and answer, concentrating perhaps too hard on looking at his face. 

 "That's so specific, love it," Richie smiles. He shifts again, leans forward, elbows on knees, scratching his stubble a little. "But the thing is, I already know enough about you, Eds."

 "And yet, you seem to flunk even my name-"

 "I know that you're a light sleeper and check the locks two times before going to bed. You believe in stupid shit without double-checking if it matches your worldview and get a little too obsessed with sports when your life lacks emotional attachment. You're a doctor, a good one, but you're not allowed to continue your practice after some kind of incident. That means that: a) you need money, b) you need to get out of the environment where everything constantly reminds about the incident and its consequences, and c) you're bored out of your mind." Eddie opens his mouth, but nothing gets out of it. Richie clicks his tongue, not saying bingo, which somehow makes it even worse. "You try to seem... fucking... aloof or something, but. But you are the one who came here, and you are the one who stayed, curious enough to continue talking. So I guess the question is... Are you desperate too?"

 "What the fuck," is all Eddie can say by the time he feels like he has to, and Richie laughs so hard his eyes can't stay open. "How did you-"

 He can't say 'Are you an actually qualified investigator?' so he mouths 'what the fuck' one more time, while Richie rubs his eyes under glasses. 

 "Is it-"

 "Nah, dude, Stan texted me," Richie wheezes showing his phone, and Eddie feels like chewing on his own kneecap all of a sudden. "But- but your face, man!"

 "Anyway," Richie says getting up from the armchair with a grunt. "You're welcome to move in. Your room would be the one to the left. By the way, the bathroom door doesn't have a lock, but I sing in the shower pretty much all the time, so you will know I'm there. Wifi password is written on the fridge, TV remote is in the freezer, spare keys are on the kitchen counter. I sleep until noon, don't wake me up unless you want to listen to my whining until you strangle me. Welcome home, I guess." Richie disappears in the doorway, and Eddie has to be a fucking lunatic to accept this offer. 

 But sometimes you really can't afford your place anymore and are dire enough to find excuses for deranged behavior.

 Eddie claims that spare room by the end of the week. He has no fucking idea who he is anymore.

  Richie is yelling, "If I don't come back by Sunday, I'm dead, don't wait up for me, honey!" the day Eddie shows up with his bags, and Eddie's brain has a hard time concentrating on a single fucking thing. He doesn't realize his existence until he's out of the door following Richie.

 "What is wrong with you?!" he screams, throwing his arms up, while Richie leads them through packed streets and alleyways. "Do you think this is funny?! I have fucking anxiety, you can't just-"

 They end up in a cafe. Richie sits in front of a window typing on his phone and eyeing the park across the road while Eddie's too busy being aimlessly angry and frustrated to question any of his own actions.

 Richie points to the bar behind him. "See that dude in a turtleneck? That's Bill. He's a dumbass, but a sweet one, and he lets me get whatever I want on the house, so. Be my guest."

 "What are we doing here?" Eddie looks at the bartender, their eyes meet, and Bill waves at him with a smile. Eddie feels strange to the point of thinking maybe this whole week has been a dream.

 "I'm doing my job, while you should have lunch, my friend," Richie says, still looking at his phone. He sends several texts before putting it face down on the table and smiling at Eddie. "So. Do you have a girlfriend?"

 "Wha-"

 "Or a boyfriend or whatever. That's fine too."

 "I know it's fine," Eddie says, suddenly defensive. Richie looks at him, somehow surprised.

 "Yeah, me too. So?"

 "So?"

 "Do you?"

 "How is this relevant?"

 "We just started talking, everything can be relevant," Richie says like that sentence had any sense. "Just trying to get this communication thing going, but if you don't wanna talk about it..."

 "Why is this the first question you ask?" Eddie tilts his head, eyeing him. The waiter brings them plastic menus, Richie gives her a smile.

 "Because last time I tried to do this kind of thing without asking it, I got a face full of their drink."

 "You seem like a type to deserve it," Richie laughs at that, flushing a little.

 "Thanks."

 And the next thing Eddie knows, Richie gets a text, and whatever it is, it makes him stand up and say, "Well, nice chat, but now it's time to run!" and fucking sprint out like his life depends on it.

 Eddie follows before he can think about it.

  Turns out, Richie is not that type of high-end independent investigator that figures out the unsolvable mysteries and solves the matters of national security. For the first three weeks that Eddie knows him, Richie follows a guy and gathers evidence of him cheating on his wife. 

 Richie actually talks about it in front of the man in question, stupid enough to say, "Yeah, I'm not really hungry, just looking at that motherfucker waiting for his date which he isn't married to," to a waiter while sitting two tables from the guy (he uses his outdoor voice, so everyone can hear). That was the day Eddie saw Richie being punched in the face and didn't do anything about it. 

 It was just weird and unusual, Eddie said to himself. Something new. That's why he followed Richie. Also, he is bored to death, that's it.

 "Wanna know how I figured it out?" Richie says smugly, stumbling into their apartment that evening, and Eddie has this realization.

 "What the hell, I'm not your Watson!" and Richie has the nerve to cackle. "No, the fuck I don't! Tell your stories to someone else!"

 Richie just lifts his hands in mock surrender and plops on the couch. Small cuts on his cheekbone bleed slowly, but he seems unbothered.

 Eddie is almost in his bed before his feet bring him back to the living room on their own.

 "You aren't gonna do anything about it?" Eddie asks before realizing Richie is probably already asleep. The man grunts and opens one eye.

 "About what?" Eddie just points at his own face instead of answering, and Richie huffs with a small smile. "Oh, my dear Eds, if this," he makes a circle around his face, "was salvageable you think-"

 "Not your face, idiot. You'll get a bruise the size of a fist by morning if you're lucky. The cuts can get infected, then it gets even worse and-"

 "Nah, don't feel like doing all that work," Richie waves his hand, eyes closing again. "Sleep. Now."

 Richie turns to the side, smearing blood across the throw pillow, and Eddie remembers his conversation with Stan. 

 I'm not a fucking-

 That night is the first one of many, filled with the dirty yellow lamplight, smell of alcohol wipes and bandaids, Richie's eyes on his face, Richie's hands on Richie's thighs, Richie's stubble - small needle pricks against the skin of Eddie's fingers. 

 Richie is oddly obedient once you use the right voice. He sits there hissing and whining while Eddie cleans his face, an experience so far from his work or the times when Stan needed his help but refused to acknowledge the problem.

 "Are you doing this on purpose?" Richie squeals, when Eddie finishes with another cut, and Eddie has to hold himself from applying excessive pressure.

 "Trying to prevent your face from inflating like a fucking balloon? My bad, ex-fucking-cuse me for trying to help."

 "Aw, Eds," Richie hums. Suddenly he moves his head to look up, and Eddie has to face the fact that Richie's eyes are overwhelmingly blue. He hasn't noticed it until now. "You really are my Watson. You care."

 Richie's face is almost strange that close. It seems like he's joking, but nothing in his expression can confirm it. Like staring at the picture from a short distance and, while noting the details, not being able to see it whole. The area under Richie's left eye is mosaic of red and white, his skin warm. Eddie's fingers tingle from the alcohol. 

 He lies.

 "Bullshit."

There are shoes in their freezer. Eddie picks up one, walking with it to Richie's bedroom.

 "What is it?" he asks. Richie's lying on the floor in front of what seems to be a reconstruction of their neighborhood made out of empty shampoo bottles. He looks up, all his face transforms into that You've done your best, I'm so proud of you even though you're a failure look that Eddie's seen on his mother several times and tolerated before he grew a fucking analytical gyrus in his brain.

 "Aw, Eds," he coos. "You were supposed to ask 'What are those?'" Eddie's eye twitches involuntarily. Richie rolls lazily to the side, ends up on his back, looking up at Eddie kind of upside-down. "Small experiment. These are crocs."

 It feels like he's waiting for Eddie to say something. The only thing Eddie can think about is smashing a window with this piece of frozen crap. It takes conscious effort not to do just that.

 "Why?" he sighs at last.

 "To see if they'll crack," Richie smiles. Rubber in Eddie's hand starts properly thawing. Small drops tap against the floor.

 "I hate you," Eddie whispers.

 "Sure you do," Richie whispers back.

Sometimes Richie has to talk to people, and it's... something.

 "They left these keys behind," the woman says, getting a ring with two keys out of her purse. It's the third month of Eddie's stay in the apartment, they still haven't talked about rent once, and Richie is so delighted whenever Eddie shows signs of curiosity towards his work. Eddie makes coffee in the kitchen, eyeing two people in their living room.

 "Ok," Richie picks up the keys with a pencil and stares at them for a minute. "Did your sister eat coins when you were younger?" 

 "What?" the woman asks at the same time that Eddie sighs a quiet Richie and comes into the room to fix that conversation into something productive.

 Sometimes Richie is just like this. His thoughts are quick and unpredictable, going at the speed that even he doesn't fully follow. And as a result, he ends up in a place that doesn't make sense to anyone but him. Eddie has seen how this kind of logic solved two cases while not leaving the room in the past month. 

 Eddie's hands are still shaking.

 He looks in the mirror of the small bathroom with the lock on the door that he installed himself in the second week of living with Richie and has to consciously control his breathing.

 The scar is not half as bad as the memories that wake up from its sight. Eddie knows he's healing. He runs after Richie down the streets, runs so fast and so far. It takes some time for his lung to start acting up, he can run for five minutes before remembering this is the only thing he should not do.

 He can't touch it really, too scared the tissue will break and start bleeding down his torso, pulsing, hot, suffocating...

 His hands tremble all the time since the day his prescription expired and he didn't get a new one. He can't work like that, can't convince anyone that he’s still competent, that he doesn't need a fucking break, that he's fine, that-

 Those lies are so fucking pathetic even Eddie can't believe in them.

 His hands still shake when he puts on a t-shirt and walks out of the bathroom, but it isn't as infuriating as the first weeks.

 There is a woman in the kitchen when Eddie gets there. He freezes in the doorway, and she looks up. She seems as surprised to see him as he is to encounter her here at 7 am...

 "Hello?" Eddie says, and the woman smiles.

 "Good morning," she replies, Eddie steps into his kitchen. The woman is stunning. She looks fresh and alert, but graceful in a way not every person can in the early hours. She sits there like she owns the place, but her presence is warm enough to not seem encroaching.

 Well, it's hardly the first time Eddie found strangers in his house.

 "Can I help you?" Eddie asks, and the woman taps her fingers on the countertop.

 "Not really. I'm here to see Richie?" Eddie nods in response. It feels kind of awkward, not because he doesn't know this person, but more because he feels like she's living here instead of him. Which is factually not right. 

 Eddie nods and swings the kitchen door to make a loud sound as it bangs against the wall and yells at the far door. "Richie! Get up! You have a guest!" There's a grunt somewhere down the hall, Eddie turns to the woman. "He'll be here in a minute."

 She smiles but doesn't say anything.

 Every time he tries to start a conversation, she politely shuts it down. It's irritating, mainly because Eddie feels like she controls the room, and not trying to say something again feels like giving up.

 "I'm Eddie," he says finally. "And you?"

  "Oh," she blinks. "Beverly. I'm-" she seems flustered by such a simple question. "I'm not- It's." She brings her hand up in the air, showing a ring. She blinks again and takes a breath. "Oh my god. I mean, I'm married. Not to Richie. Just a friend." 

 Eddie lifts his brows, and the woman shifts in her seat, a quiet laugh escapes her lips. 

 "I just realized how it must have looked. Sorry, I'm. Not a threat."

 A threat?

"Nice to meet you, Beverly," Eddie says. "Do you-"

 "Bevvy! My shining sun!" Richie's voice shatters all the glass walls, making both of them jump. "How! Is! My! Favorite! Person! Doing!"

 He looks like a mess. Rumpled and yawning, he pushed his bedhead away from his eyes with his glasses. Richie scratches an imprint of a pillow crease on his cheek as he stomps into the kitchen to lean on the counter in front of Beverly. She pushes a stray hair behind his ear, and Richie smiles.

 "Ben's great, thanks," Beverly says. "Went away for a month, should return by Saturday. You should come to visit."

 Richie rubs at his ear.

 "God, I miss him so much. Tell him I said hi," she smiles. And then Richie smacks his hand on the counter like he just remembered something. "Eds!" He turns. "Have you met Bev before?"

 Eddie shakes his head silently, smiling as Richie shines with his whole body.

 "You guys will love each other!" Richie says, shifting his gaze from one to the other, and it's hard not to notice skepticism in Beverly's expression. Interesting.

 "We'll see," Eddie says and turns to the stove. "But first breakfast. Beverly, do you want anything?"

 She declines. Richie pouts and yawns again, before straightening up. "Ok, so. What is it?"

 Bev looks at Eddie like she's waiting for something from him. Eddie's waiting for the microwave to finish its cycle. He looks back at her.

 "Aren't you..." she tilts her head, "going somewhere?"

 "Me?" Eddie asks right when Richie lets out a frightening cough.

 "Bev! No!" he cries out. "Eddie lives here. He's cool." 

 "Oh," Bev says, looking between them before nodding. "Well, excuse me for having eyes and a brain. I thought- nevermind."

 The folder lands on the counter with a sound, and Richie gets visibly excited. The microwave beeps before Eddie can explore the depths of this bizarre interaction.

 "My new case," Bev says as Eddie puts a small bowl of oatmeal and a banana in front of Richie.

 Richie nods and tells him, "Bev's an attorney. A legend." Beverly slides her card to Eddie across the counter. Richie scowls at the banana. "You know how many things I-"

 "I don't want to hear any of them right now. Eat your banana, Richie," Eddie presses, and Richie obeys unusually quickly. Beverly looks at them, and Eddie feels intensely observed.

 "Crime scene is still fresh, I don't want you there," Beverly continues after a beat of silence, Richie listens with his mouth full. Eddie looks at the pictures, notes, and a map without deep interest, just intrigued by the novelty of an episode. "I'm representing one of the two suspects, and I need you to find witnesses for me. There had to be more than one at 2 pm on the fucking crossroad."

 "Sounds spectacular," Richie says with a straight face, and Bev smiles.

 "Your pay will be." 

 "Hey, Eds! Wanna go look for dudes with eyes with me?" Richie asks when Eddie emerges from his room changed. Beverly's still here, looking.

 "No, thank you," Eddie answers without interest. He spends the longest time looking for his phone in the living room before going to take his keys. "I have an interview today. But you guys have fun."

 "Break them legs!" Richie screams as Eddie closes the door behind himself and hears Bev shouting something at him. Eddie has to take a deep breath to stop from laughing.

 To try and get a job, he has to be cleared after his last check-up in four months.

 He doesn't pass it. Again.

 Eddie comes home and finds Richie on the couch eating potato chips out of a bag with chopsticks because he really believes in things people say on the internet or is just trying to annoy Eddie to the point where his brain will bash his skull open from the inside.

  "How'd that interview go?" Richie asks, and Eddie throws his keys at the wall. "Gotcha. Wanna watch this documentary with me?"

 "Can't you at least get a bowl like a civilized person?" Eddie grumbles, approaching the couch, and Richie huffs with a smile, that says 'C'mon man have you met me?' 

 "Made any money today?" Eddie says instead of how’s your day 'cause he's an asshole. Richie hums, crushing a chip with his grip.

 "You ever thought about how crabs are just sideways lobsters?"

Eddie groans. 

 "This is literally the dumbest thing you've ever said to me."

 "I knew you just pretend to listen all the time," Richie smiles and looks back at the screen. Eddie sighs in resignation. He knows by now there can be options much worse than spending an evening listening to a voice mumbling a bunch of dubious facts about seafood.

 Maybe it's okay. Perhaps, he needs a little more time. It's just-

 He is used to structure, alright? Life was so much easier when Eddie had it sorted or could pretend that he reached some sort of balance that will keep him stable till the rest of the time. When you're that used to thinking in bullet points and codes, the smallest bit of shift will cause stress.

 And Eddie's life basically flew from the bridge inside a flaming bus that exploded before hitting the water. It felt like dying (which he kinda did? but that's not something he has any strength to process in several upcoming years), and Eddie starts to think that maybe he had sort of a normal reaction in his circumstances.

 Right now, any mention of a plan sounds like a joke, and a structure is something that Richie calls a made-up word. Eddie didn't pass his evaluation, but walls around him didn't crumble the moment he heard the result. He still came home, and Richie's still here.

 "I failed," Eddie says after a while. "They won't let me come back, not for another month. Then I'll have to go again."

 "Okay," Richie says quietly.

 Maybe it's really okay. It's just hard to come to terms with. Eddie's not a particularly flexible type. Has never been one.

 "I'm sorry," he says. His voice is hoarse for some reason, and he can't look up. He feels Richie looking, shifting against his shoulder.

 Shit, Eddie's so cold.

 "You have nothing to be sorry for, man," Richie says. Everything but his voice kind of fades. Blurred living room, the distant hum of the tv. "That's your health Eds what the fuck."

 "I just," cold hand presses to his face, rubs his eyes. It takes several seconds to recognize it as his own. "I have no idea what to do anymore." He takes a hand away, brings it forward. His fingers shake, no matter how hard he tries to stop it.

 "I have a thing in my chest," Eddie says. It's hard to form those words, he knows they won't sound full now. But for some reason, he wants to get them out today. Like that will help somehow. "After a... An accident. Took some damage to my spine, messed up one lung, but the worst is somehow..."

 Richie looks at his hand, in constant motion, micro pulses and shakes.

 "This is unbearable. I can't be a goddamn surgeon without my fucking hands. And these are completely useless now."

 It takes a beat for the room to regain it's shape again. Eddie feels his focus shifting, his lungs stinging, and then Richie moves slowly.

 "Well," he says, a big breath and warm weight against Eddie's side. "It's a good thing I guess, that they seem just fine for me. May I?"

 Eddie nods without thinking before his hand is covered with Richie's palm. He presses their hands to Eddie's thigh, and for a moment, everything stops.

 Richie's skin is a little darker than Eddie's, covered in uneven tan lines and scratches, one nail shorter than others, the one Richie chews on when he tries to concentrate (and fails almost every time). Dark hairs travel down his forearm, reaching the back of the hand. It's warm and dry and covers Eddie's palm completely. He doesn't feel shaking as usual, but there's something about not seeing it this way, that...

 "Those babes saved my face and my ass enough times for me to start thinking about proposing. I haven't needed antibiotic shot in weeks, dude, that's nothing less than a fucking miracle."

 "You're a mental case," Eddie takes a breath, his head hurts now. "I'm sorry I can't pay for another month. I'll give it all back as soon as I can."

 "No biggie, my friend," Richie smiles and yawns before moving again. He tips sideways and ends up lying across Eddie's thighs. He looks at him one more time, returns his attention to the tv. "We'll just dial back on lobsters, get crabs."

 "Oh my God-"

 "The same thing anyway, less money spent. See? I figured it out." Richie uses Eddie's hand as a pillow, tucking it under his cheek. The other hovers until Eddie stops caring and puts it on Richie's shoulder.

 "You're a financial genius," he smiles, too tired all of a sudden. Richie shivers slightly. He doesn't know what they watch anymore, but the colors are pleasant to the eye. It got much darker since Eddie came home, and the only source of light is the screen in front of them. 

 Richie is kind of heavy, but not in an unpleasant way. He pressed his lower back to the back of the couch, shoulders leaning on Eddie's stomach and side. He can feel them both breathing, which is strangely calming.

 He's not that cold anymore.

 "Hey, Rich," the man hums, his voice quieter, on the verge of sleep. "This morning, when Beverly... She thought I was-?"

 "Yeah," Richie cuts him off. He straightens his legs and folds them in a new way, getting even more comfortable like he doesn't plan on getting up anytime soon. "She does that."

 "What?"

 "Assumes a lot of things about me and my love life that are way cooler than reality."

 "Oh, so I've also been assuming wrong?" Eddie jokes. "No men sneaking out your window in the morning?"

 "Love how you think someone would climb four floors for me," Richie mumbles. 

 "So you admit your Casanova act is all talk?"

 "Trust me, dear, I'm a wild animal in bed," Richie yawns again and burrows his face in their hands. "Much more scared of you than you are of me."

 A surprised laugh escapes Eddie's lips as he stares at the head on his lap and tries to think of a single reason to get up and get out. It's so difficult all of a sudden, like why would he even think of giving up something so comfortable? Instead, he sighs, letting warmth spread through his body and puts a hand on Richie's head. Richie mumbles something, almost asleep by now. Wool throw blanket hugs Richie's shoulders, spilling on Eddie's knees and covering his legs, pillows soft under his back.

 As Eddie falls asleep like that, setting himself up for a day full of suffering tomorrow, he thinks, huh, that's nice. 

 Why didn't we do this before?

  "Why investigator, though?"

 "I like puzzles," Richie shrugs. Eddie stops and looks at him.

 "Really? Are you good at them?"

 "Not even a little," Richie smiles. His hair is a mess, and he makes it even worse, scratching behind his ear and shaking head from side to side. It's ten minutes before the client's visit, and he's still in his sleeping t-shirt, peppered with holes and stains. "But they feel nice. They make my brain sorta sizzle and, like, crinkle, y'know?"

 "No, I really don't," a smile tugs on corners of his mouth despite his unwillingness to seem encouraging.

 Richie looks instantly encouraged. He slams his leg against the corner in his excitement, his hands fly up and start showing figures like he's holding something. 

 "Have you ever held, like, dunno, like a packaged soap? Still in plastic?" Eddie stares at his hands then at his eyes. God, this face does need some soap. And a razor. Something tiny and vicious inside Eddie's head whisper screams lick across his stubble, see what happens, and that's not normal, is it? "Anyway, you hold this soap, and when you squeeze it, plastic makes this small crinkling sound, yeah?" His fingers make the tiniest movement, a shiver runs up Eddie's nape. "It's like, the sound of plastic is annoying as fuck, usually, but this one is small and quiet, and for some reason satisfying, and that's how I feel about puzzles."

 "O... kay?" he looks up to see Richie's nose right before his eyes and has to tell himself don't you dare bite it. Richie stares at his hands for couple seconds, as if listens to the end of his own thought and brings his eyes up. They stare at each other, Richie's hands in between them. His bloodshot eyes, toothpaste on the collar, Eddie's phone buzzing somewhere. Since when this mess has become synonymous to home in his head?

 "Um," hungry eyes bore into Richie's face to find a blush up there, a spark of 'aha' in between Eddie's temples, something close to passion with which you pull a lever on a slot machine. He tilts his head slightly, and Richie's eyes follow automatically. He almost smirks when Richie gulps, Eddie can swear two more movements would be enough for-

 "Yeah, so," Richie blurts suddenly, inappropriately loud, and takes a step back. One hand comes to rub the back of his head, while the other pats his thigh, trying to find a pocket there - pointless search since this goof walks around in underwear. Richie, it seems, remembers this fact and blushes even further. "Yeah, and when, like, someone's watch is stolen, and there are seven people with motive, it's the same. A big-ass puzzle, only my fingers are not too fat to slip off the pieces. And eyes, y'know," he adjusts his glasses before nodding to himself. "They hurt like hell if I stare at screens for too long."

 Eddie's already familiar enough with Richie's way of talking to know, that he answers a question Eddie even haven't thought of asking yet. He leans his hip on the table, arms crossed on chest.

 "And also there are people's lives at stake. Among other differences."

 Richie cocks his head to the side at this, looking almost surprised.

 "Hm. Haven't thought about that one," he says, and Eddie can't help a laugh he feels bubbling inside. 

  Some days Richie isn't very picky with his cases. 

 Eddie finds him by an ugly building on his way to the store (walking is good for you when you have a medical condition and too much fucking time in the day). Richie is crouching on the ground when Eddie shouts his name across the street.

 Something dark shoots up from the grass and quickly jumps up the nearby tree to the fire escape. Richie looks up. Then looks at him. "Hey," he says with the sweetest smile you'll ever see on a man. "Thanks, asshole!" Eddie shudders.

 "What are you-"

 "Daddy's tryna make some money. Would you be so kind not-"

 "What the fuck happened to your face?" Eddie interrupts. Clearly, Richie drew whiskers on himself with a sharpie, but Eddie just wants to hear him saying it without realizing what an idiot he is.

 They're in the middle of the street. People pass them, they look at the giant man in a t-shirt that says 'Sometimes I Use Words I Don't Understand So I Can Sound More Photosynthesis' with sharpie-whiskers which are not even straight or symmetrical, and for some reason, Eddie is still standing there, risk of being associated with this disaster of a human increasing with each passing second.

 "Look, I don't question your methods, do I?"

 "What-"

 "Wanna help?" Richie beams at the thought. "Oh, I know what we're gonna do! I brought tools!"

 Eddie does a full one-eighty before even reacting with his face. He power walks away, saying nothing, while Richie laughs behind him.

 "Where are you going, Eds? C'mon, honey! Don't leave me, babe!" He shouts louder with every sentence as Eddie increases his speed. "Come back, I'll forgive everything!"

 Their flat is not the same when Eddie returns with their groceries. Something in the air is wrong when he walks in. 

 He finds Richie in the kitchen, covered in scratches, dumb whiskers smudged, something close to surrender in his eyes.

 A hissing ball of pure darkness is lying on one of their cupboards just under the ceiling. 

 "This is May," Richie says, pointing at it with his glass, and this thing makes a sound that instantly activates fight-or-flight response in Eddie's muscles. "Short for Mayhem, that is."

 One tile on the floor is cracked, Richie's blood is smeared across several surfaces, their entire kitchen is covered in black fur. There's a puddle of milk on the floor. 

 "I see," is all Eddie can reply. He steps into the kitchen, gently puts bags in the corner, takes a seat beside Richie. He picks up Richie's glass and takes a bitter sip, while they both keep their eyes on a fluffy black hole. This isn't how he planned to spend an afternoon today.

 "Someone's coming to get... it?" Eddie mumbles. Richie nods, and even this small movement provokes a disgusting rattling sound out of the beast.

 "Yeah. Her owner will be here sometime from fifteen minutes to four hours from now."

 "Great."

 "What's with this attitude? I think she's lovely," he smiles, and Eddie smiles back just because of the absurdity of... how at ease he feels in the middle of this mess. 

 "Need help?"

 The good thing is, Eddie actually enjoys cleaning. He puts all his focus into scrubbing every surface till the last molecule of this kitchen can't be associated with that nightmarish creature. He is scrubbing the upper side of the cupboard when Richie appears beside him.

 Eddie is standing on a chair, and the moment he realizes he doesn't really need to look that far down to meet Richie's eyes, his brain just- takes a break for a minute.

 Richie's tall like that. His eyes end up on the same level with Eddie's scar when he steps closer, and Eddie's automatic reaction is to take a step back. Suddenly the air is sharp against his skin, walls laugh as he falls back, kicking the chair.

 Richie shouts a scared "Whoa!" and jumps forward. He stops the chair with a knee, hissing and flailing, his hands end up around Eddie, pull him up before he ends up on the floor. Eddie claws at Richie's shoulders.

 They stand there for several seconds, Eddie still on the fucking chair, glued to another man like a koala. Soap is dripping down the wall, splashed in an artistic sway.

 "So... No help?" Richie asks at last.

 "I dunno, man," he says from a safe distance. "Would you believe I feel, like, kinda guilty?"

 Richie stares at the wallpaper where soapy water soaked it in ugly wrinkled stains. Eddie wipes down the remains of foam.

 Eddie scoffs. "You know no guilt," he says seriously. "As well as no shame, honor, and floss even if you get hanged on it."

 Richie laughs. He eyes Eddie as he steps on the chair again. "You sure you don't wanna me do it?"

 "What's with you today! I'm okay!"

 "Well, I'm sorry for trying to be considerate."

  "What do you," Eddie turns to see Richie caught on his own words like he said something he didn't want to. "You little shit, are you implying I can't do shit 'cause of my-"

 "I don't know!" Richie squeals throwing his hands in the air. "I thought it might be tough to lift your arms! I don't know! Honestly have no idea how this works!"

 "You literally lifted a couch to get a donut under it while having a fractured collarbone!" Eddie shouts.

 "Yeah, but I'm dumb and have no concept of consequences of my actions, and also I don't have nerves... thing! I don't know how it goes with nerves and bones and... everything."

 "Exactly how it sounds, asshole! Unfair and painful as fuck but liveable! Pneumothorax's a bitch, but I'm bitchier! I can clean my own fucking apartment like a goddamn adult!"

 Richie howls so loudly Eddie almost tips again. He needs a break.

 "Is it about Beverly's case?"

 Richie stops and looks up, surprised. "What?"

 Eddie shrugs. 

 Sometimes you find yourself lying in bed without sleep filled with several clusters of unidentifiable feelings long after midnight and you just. Think. Is it because the day he woke up from a sound of Richie falling on the floor off his lap was the day he felt truly rested for the first time since who knows when? Is it because Eddie's fucked up body temperature regulation allowed itself to be tamed only under Richie's palms? Or was it inevitable? Is it something that has always been to happen? You don't know, and you start looking closer.

 Eddie sees Richie almost every day. But now he's looking too. He observes Richie, notices things about him now. Sometimes Eddie would look at his hands and try to predict if Richie took his hand right now would it be enough to satisfy him this time? Would it be okay if Eddie sat next to him? Would Richie's hair look even dumber if he let Eddie brush it properly?

 What would it take for Richie to look back?

 The way Richie's head works isn't quite conventional-

 (Eddie knows it from the day when this one woman wanted to hire Richie to investigate a robbery separately from the police. Eddie was there, bored down to his toes, sat in the chair, and pretended to be engulfed in an article on his laptop. Richie talked with the woman, asked her all kinds of questions, appropriate and not quite. 

 He says, "She did it," as soon as she steps out the door. Eddie looks up.

 "How do you know?"

 Richie smirks.

 "She hates her son-in-law. I can smell it."

 And he was fucking right. She hated the guy enough to stage a fucking break-in as part of a full-scale conspiracy. Richie cracked it by the fourth minute. Eddie still doesn't know if he was joking about this creepy I can smell it, but.

 That's how he knows Richie is terrifyingly smart, an unpredictable kind of mind.)

 - and Richie's methods of living with his own head are quite distinct. Eddie sees it in a way Richie can't sit still and for the love of God can't keep quiet for two and a half minutes.

 He starts talking to himself, plays full conversations inside his head, reenacting every reaction and gesture with his whole body. He bites his nails, taps fingers against his ankles, jerks his knee. Richie runs away from his head, from whatever is in there.

 "Usually you jump headfirst into cases," Eddie throws the rag into the sink and takes a seat in front of Richie, who blushes. "You distract yourself from real life with them. But now you, for some reason, wait for me to distract you from one thing you actually love."

 Richie's eyes widen. Eddie puts elbows on the table and lets his head drop into his palm.

 "I," Richie gulps. "Love, yeah- I-"

 "Something's wrong?"

 "I- it's," Richie grips the edge of his chair between his thighs and takes a breath. Light glints on his glasses, softens his hair to the eye. His shoulders fall softly with an exhale, and Eddie understands how stiff Richie's back was all this time. "I guess it's... Kinda spooky, how well you know me."

 Eddie lets a small smile. Richie looks up, something shy about him.

 "You're not that intricate, y'know," Eddie murmurs, tired from the long day, and that's such a shameless lie. Richie huffs with a smile. "Something wrong with the case? You can tell me, you know that, right? I say I don't want to hear your stories, but that's not-" Eddie sighs, no idea how to finish this mess of an explanation why is he such a dick to Richie all the time. Fuck, is he really an awful friend like that? "What I wanted to say, I’m here if you need me."

 "This is so corny, I'm boutta cry and snot sugar syrup, man," Richie laughs gently, and Eddie finds his leg on the second attempt, hitting him in the shin.

 "Richie. I'm serious."

 "Yeah, ouch." He rubs two fingers under his glasses. "It's nothing. Just- It's not a real investigation, yeah?"

 Eddie yawns and blinks slowly at him. "What d'you mean?"

 Richie shrugs.

 "They don't want me to find out what happened. Won't let me see the crime scene, which is seventy percent of the charm, right? I just have to find witnesses, this job sucks. Plus, how am I supposed to find them?" Eddie blinks again. Richie scratches behind his ear and folds hands on the table, leans forward a little. "You need resources like... Like surveillance footage and other witnesses' statements, those don't fall from the fucking sky."

 Richie groans and puts his head in his palms, covering ears, and all Eddie can look at is his chest. 

  "If you want that footage, you need to get permission by an authorized... person guy. Which means I have to get hold of the cop who is assigned this thing, and for that, I have to go to the precinct and talk to Jeff and every time I convince myself it wouldn't be as bad as last time and actually do that I want to stand in the corner and punch myself in the genitals 'till I become smarter than that."

 "Why'd you agree then?" Eddie asks, voice low, all the energy lost somehow. Richie looks up again. "If it's such a pain in the ass, why?"

 "'Cause Bev is cool, and I like making her happy," Richie says as if it's more obvious than the color of the sky. "I whine a lot, but it isn't like, like... I like working with her, she's a blast in court. It's just this first phase is always a fucking nightmare."

 Eddie hums, something in Richie's smile when he talks about Beverly makes him feel warm from his throat to his toes.

 "Want me to come?"

 "What?" Richie asks, bewildered.

 "I can come with you... to the precinct? So it's not so... awful?" He thinks about it for a second. "I'll probably make it worse. I'm not great with- anyone, to be honest."

 Richie laughs.

 "I'm sure you'd make it the best day of my fucking life, Eds," he says sincerely, and Eddie instantly believes him. "Thanks, but I'm a big boy, I'll figure it out."

 "Okay," says Eddie and yawns again.

 "Okay," Richie whispers back.

  Richie disappears the next morning, with no news for several days. But his socks still end up on the floor in the bathroom, under the fridge, and in the kitchen sink, that's how Eddie knows he still comes home to get something and stuff his face with cereal in the middle of the night.

 It's like a code. It should be fucking disgusting, but Eddie sort of feels reassured, almost special. Is it weird? It's definitely not normal.

 He comes home and doesn't bat an eye when the door turns out to be open. There are times when Eddie from the past resurfaces and throws a tantrum inside his head, screaming how he basically pleads to die. His self-preservation instinct atrophied after about two months of living with Richie Tozier.

 After he woke up with a knife to his throat and somehow ended up completely fine, making coffee, while Richie talked about Dutch politics with their assailant. They still text from time to time, Richie shares news about his work visa status at late dinner, and Eddie has fully stopped finding that alarming.

 And after a time when Bill Denbrough climbed through his bedroom window at 3.47 am pleading for shelter. Eddie still doesn't know what the whole deal with Bill is.

 And also that one time when the police literally broke down their door and searched every corner of their apartment for drugs while Richie laughed his ass off.

 So yeah, present Eddie walks into his apartment and welcomes the Possibility of Death like it's another stranger with a knife Richie is about to befriend.

 Beverly Marsh is on their carpet with a bucket of ice cream at her elbow, Eddie's laptop in front of her. He doesn't even ask what's she doing here. At this point, he knows they all explain it without prompt by the third minute. 

 "Who let you take this?" he says, annoyed. He doesn't ask how she guessed his high-level 19-character almost fucking random password again. Bev licks her spoon, scrolling through a page.

 "I've got the job of my dreams," she hums. "I look stunning, have a gorgeous husband who makes less than me, and is not annoyed by it. Also an excellent lover and a fucking delight. I finally figured out how to get my fourth bonsai tree to not die." Eddie rolls his eyes while she still talks with his laptop like every single thing she mentions is somehow tragic.

 "Oh please, tell me more about your awful life so I feel better about mine," he drawls. Bev flashes a quick look at him before sitting up. 

 "You're an interesting man, Eddie," she says. Eddie snorts in return. He moves to the kitchen and can feel her eyes on him.

 You don't even know me.

  "What makes you say that?"

 Beverly taps a finger against her chin.

 "I look you up and don't recognize the person I see there. That guy is-"

 "Rich and sane, yes, I know," Eddie says, picking up yet another sock from the counter. This one wasn't here this morning.

 "And also a prick," Bev says. That. Is not untrue. Eddie doesn't say anything. "And yet, here you are. Stan Uris refuses to spill the dirt on you, which is so fucking suspicious my gums itch. All the info I find seems to be irrelevant now, since you're here, being alive around Richie Tozier."

 "That's not so hard to achieve," Eddie replies, and Bev scoffs. Yeah, okay. Debatable, but still.

 "But the most baffling thing, astonishingly, is Richie. Fucking Richie Tozier waking up before 2 pm and eating breakfast."

 Eddie smiles to himself and opens a drawer. 

 "You made him eat a banana," Bev whisper screams like the simple idea almost horrifies her. Pride surges like a wave in Eddie's chest, and that's such a pathetic thing to be proud of. He's become soft, Jesus. 

 "It was not as difficult as it looks," he mumbles, almost afraid to talk about how much power he feels whenever Richie listens to him and not because he's a professional or an authoritative figure. Why would he do anything Eddie wants otherwise? That's such a stupid thought, but it keeps hitting Eddie one time after the other. However, Bev doesn't need to know that. She's having her own kind of crisis, it seems. She finishes her thought with a gasp. 

 "But he did it silently! Not a fucking word!" And that makes Eddie laugh finally.

 "Yes, it required some training, but he can do that now."

 "Can I ask you a question, Eddie?"

 "You certainly can try."

 "What exactly is your deal?" Beverly asks, her voice amused and open, so unlike their first exchange. Eddie grabs a spoon and returns to the living room, rolling up his sleeves.

 "Do you want a long version or a digest?" He plops down in front of Beverly and sticks his spoon in the ice cream bucket. She smiles.

 "I've got plenty of time."

 "What's yours?" Eddie asks, lying down beside Bev after hours of changing topics and half a bottle of wine. She hums and pats her stomach with a couple quiet claps.

 "Ever feel like you got your life through some kind of fraud? Like everyone likes you, 'cause you tricked them into it, but you don't remember how? Like you're too... You're not enough to deserve it?"

 Eddie takes a breath. "I don't know. I don't let myself feel that much," he says, and Bev snorts.

 "Yeah, okay," she smiles, clearly not convinced. To be honest, Eddie just doesn't let himself think about it too much. 

 He was too busy to think before the accident, and after... At first, he thought that he'd got what he deserves. Like it's some kind of punishment for whatever he'd done. But he doesn't think in those terms anymore. It's a dead habit now, like checking locks before going to bed.

 Now life is just life, not a string of scenes and events meant to reward or punish you for something you do. It's more complicated and unbelievably simple at the same time.

 "Anyway," Bev sighs. "This is kind of my... safe place, I think? Richie lets me have my meltdown on his floor when I feel like doing something stupid, not in a fun way."

 "It helps?" Eddie asks the ceiling, and Bev shrugs like they use this ugly ancient chandelier for a messenger.

 "Sometimes it does. Richie has his way of reminding you that you're a human when it gets intense."

 "Yeah," Eddie breathes. "He's great at it."

 "Yeah."

  When Richie walks in and sees them, he's frozen for a second.

 "Oh, you guys," he says dumbly, and Eddie just wants to bury his face into Richie's chest and scream, listening how it reverberates inside him like a neverending cave. 

 Bev lifts herself up on her elbows and smiles at him with a tipsy 'Hey handsome!'. Eddie doesn't have that kind of energy in him anymore. He just turns his head and looks at Richie.

 "Hi," Richie says, and Eddie feels an aggressive pull of need. Need to hit him in the shins, so he doesn't look, doesn't stand. He wants Richie to fall and crush him. Thank god his body doesn't have any resources to act on impulse.

 "Hi," he breathes, and Richie still looks at his face, like that's the most extraordinary thing in this place.

 "I was..." He gestures to the door behind him. "Work... And stuff."

 "Yes, I gathered that," Eddie says. "As well as your shit all over the flat, you're so gross," he continues, his voice has nothing in common with the words it carries. He feels warm and slow, and he sounds like that: all the words lack even usual bite. Richie's shoulders rise just a fraction, his glasses a little fogged from temperature contrast. He smiles shyly.

 "Sorry," his voice tiny, but no remorse. Bev whistles playfully beside Eddie.

 "Not to kill the mood, boys," she smirks, making Eddie roll his eyes again. Her leg brushes against his thigh as she adjusts her position, and Eddie hasn't felt so at ease around other people since... He doesn't even remember. "But why I don't have my files yet? I thought you procrastinate as always, which I totally can understand, but if you work for someone instead of me, that feels like a betrayal honestly." She talks, not letting Richie say anything, which is a spectacular picture. Eddie can see her being ruthless in court. "Richie, you know I will cry, and you'll be fully responsible."

 "But," Richie finally gets a word in, seeming confused. "But you do? Have your files? I sent them, like, hours ago."

 Bev pauses for a second before scrambling up and reaching for her phone. Eddie looks at the clock, surprised they really spent hours just talking like this. Beverly opens her messages and practically moans reading through what Richie's sent. 

  "My god, Richard, you sure know how to please a woman," she says, and Richie fully cackles.

 Bev stays in Richie's room, while Richie takes the couch. It looks uncomfortable, how he has to fold himself not only to fit on the thing but also to cover himself with a throw blanket too small for his obnoxiously tall and broad self.

 Eddie can't fall asleep when there are dirty dishes in his sink, so he rinses wine glasses and spoons, couple plates, and a small steel pot left there since breakfast. He wipes down the counter and finally feels okay to go to bed. It's almost 4 am displayed on the clock when he passes it. 

 Richie yawns on the couch, obviously exhausted. He forgot to turn the lights off and doesn't seem bothered. He does this sometimes, turns turbo on work, and doesn't let himself stop unless he solves the case. He barrels through without much sleep and food, and Eddie is so annoyed by this but has learned he can't really do anything about it. Richie disappears if he tries to stop him, so.

 There's a spare blanket in their linen closet, but of course, Richie doesn't even know what those words mean, 'cause his head is like a smart data storage but reversed. It'll keep everything irrelevant, but God forbid remember something that you might actually need in everyday life. 

 Eddie takes the blanket out and throws it, covering Richie completely except the head. Richie hums and mumbles something.

 "You're sure you don't want me to go get a camp-cot?" Their neighbor has two, and they owe Eddie about 216 favors by now, so. Richie scrunches his nose.

 "Nah," he murmurs. "Don't bother. S'good."

 Eddie nods, not really tired. He's kind of wine-sleepy, but not enough to rush to his room. Richie pushed his glasses up and forgot they're there to take them off. Eddie picks them up from his head and puts on the coffee table within arm's reach. Richie makes an effort to blink and yawns again.

 "Hey, Eds?"

 Eddie sighs but doesn't correct him. Richie smiles a little with his eyes shut.

 "Yes, Richie?"

  "D'you like puzzles?"

 "I... guess?" He hasn't given this much thought, ever. Richie shuffles under a blanket a little before producing a small box out.

 "Brought this for you," he mutters as Eddie sits down in front of him to look closer. He takes a box out of Richie's fingers, which curl relaxed at once. Eddie opens the thing to see a classic version of the 15-puzzle. Small plastic pieces in a dark frame, old from the look of it. Digits are pressed, not painted, lines rounded in an out-of-fashion way that lets you tell an actual authentic thing from 'vintage' imitation.

 "Had to hang out in this old shop for hours," Richie says slowly, 'hours' in his language meaning any amount of time longer than four minutes, obviously. "Figured you're not a Rubik's guy. Had a similar one in school."

 "Yeah," Eddie says, running his fingers over small pieces. One of them shifts with a soft click. "Everyone had one of those, but me. I wanted one so badly when they were popular."

 Richie draws his knees up, and Eddie sits with his back pressing to the couch. He lets his head fall back to lay on Richie's legs.

 "Thank you, Richie." Richie murmurs something in response. They are silent for several minutes as Eddie plays with the puzzle lazily, quiet clicks soothing and somehow familiar. 

 He gives up after number 8. The lid covers the box perfectly for such an old thing. Eddie puts it aside and listens to Richie's breathing for some time.

 "Wanna know how I found those guys?" Richie says suddenly, and Eddie blinks. He was sure the man's long asleep. He sounds tired but still excited to have solved something, and Eddie lets the same kind of lazy wonder flow through him as he closes his eyes and presses his head against the warmth of a blanket and Richie's legs.

 "Yeah. Tell me."

  There's a frog in a box of spinach that Eddie just knows wasn't there when he bought groceries. He closes the fridge, opens again. Frog is still there.

 "Goddammit," Eddie mutters. It looks at him. Eddie looks at it.

 He closes the door again, closes his eyes, and screams "RICHIE!" at the top of his lungs.

 For the first time since moving in, Eddie hears the sound of their doorbell. It's been eight months.

 "Hello," there's a woman waiting when he opens the front door and stares at her incredulously. "I'm here to get Richie? I have to drive him to court in," she checks her watch, "forty minutes. He's up yet?"

 Eddie stares at her.

 "I'm Patty Uris, by the way," she smiles when he still hasn't moved. She extends her small hand and patiently waits for him to take it.

 "Patty," he repeats, gaining a proud nod.

 "Yes, and you're Eddie," she continues, not a question though it should be. Eddie still nods. Patty smiles and squeezes his hand gently. "Nice to meet you finally."

 O God, Eddie thinks, I was a fucking awful neighbor. 

 "You're normal," he blurts without thought and winces. "Fuck. I mean, no, I just- I meant, you too." She laughs while Eddie silently pleads skies to fall.

 "Thanks, it takes great effort."

 She doesn't make any attempt to step inside as Eddie calls for Richie. Something about her is so unusual, her quiet but unrelenting confidence, the air of gentle certainty unbothered by any external factor. Patty seems to be in full harmony with herself to the point where it becomes power obvious to the people around her.

 Eddie feels like a toy soldier missing a leg before her, trying to keep composure and not crumble to the ground.

 "Can't believe we haven't met until now," he mutters before catching himself and trying to be a normal human for once. He lost that ability long ago. "How's your... everything? How's Stan?"

 "Oh, he's great," Patty grins. "They sold your house last week. New neighbors threw a housewarming party and invited us. They seem nice."

 "Oh," Eddie tilts his head, trying to feel something powerful like anger or jealousy. It's still a little sore: not every day you have to urgently sell your house to an estate agent to pay your debts and cover what your insurance couldn't. He's still a little salty about it, but not as much as he expected. For some reason, Eddie feels... okay.

 It's like Patty can see it in his eyes.

 "And also they try to talk to us across the driveway. They wish us a good morning almost every day. Their kids made cards for us."

 "Wow, they're nothing like me as neighbors," Eddie mutters, and Patty giggles.

 "Yes. Stan hates them," she whispers, delighted, and a realization finally hits Eddie. He absolutely adores Patty.

 Richie comes up behind him with a cheery whistle.

 "Two of my favorite people on my doorstep! What a day!" Richie's hand appears on Eddie's back as he starts chatting with Patty, and a small but fierce voice inside him tells him to fall, and his knees nearly buckle. Just fucking try it. You know he'll catch you. 

 "Should I come?" Eddie asks before they head out, and Richie's eyes widen in surprise. 

 "I dunno, it's murderously boring, man," he says, smiling shyly at the pun. Eddie, inexplicably, finds it hilarious but bites his cheek. Richie won't distract him. "You must have something better to do, really. It's so dull I will sleep through like half of it."

 "You sure?"

 "Totally," Richie nods and follows Patty, both waving their hands at him like two children, and Eddie's chest swells for a second.

 "Have fun!" he says at last and closes the door.

 The thing is, Eddie wants to go with them. Not because there will be Bev, and it's the case she and Richie had been working on together for an impressive amount of time. Not because he's curious, he doesn't really care about a trial.

 He just doesn't want to be alone in this place anymore. Eddie walks into his room, opens his laptop, and for several minutes lets himself be swallowed by the desperate want to staple himself onto Richie's back, following him wherever just to be there while Richie does something dumb beside him. 

 That's why the very next time he has a chance, Eddie follows him out of the door. Richie doesn't question it for long, falling into his moves even faster than Eddie expected.

 "How about a podcast?" Richie asks while they wait for a train, and Eddie frowns.

 "No."

 "Come on, man!" Richie whines at the full volume and still by far isn't the loudest thing around them. This city is a miracle, Eddie thinks, sneering. "You gotta work with me here! I'm gonna run out of ideas sooner or later."

 "Good," Eddie says, looking around. "It's not funny anyway."

 Richie sputters. "First of all, that's a fucking lie. Second of all, I'm serious. It's a shame you still ignore it."

 Eddie steps into the carriage, some part of him hoping to hide, but another one, much bigger, fucking ecstatic when Richie follows him and presses close to Eddie, going on and on as doors slide closed and they start to move.

 "At the very start, it was what, a diary?" Richie chatters. "Then letters, a blog - which was funny, you gotta admit. So you either repurpose your twitter account or start a podcast with me."

 "For the last time, I'm not a fucking Watson!" Eddie hisses even though yes, he fucking is. Richie smiles with his whole body, leaning down, and Eddie suddenly needs to swallow a couple glasses of gasoline.

 "I haven't once mentioned that you were," Richie grins. Asshole.

 They walk up the stairs, Eddie aggressively pretending he knows where to go.

 "Let's do it, Eds! I dare you to do it!" Richie laughs. "It will be fun! And I'm actually not a pretentious prick, I'll be your frequent guest! We'll have fun, cash on those wild stories."

 "Yeah, those where you hunt down lost pets and get afternoon drunk after one phonecall because you hate Jeff." Eddie rolls his eyes and stops on the crossroads 'cause he has no fucking idea where they are and where they should be. He looks up stubbornly at Richie. "Or the one about a time when you chipped your tooth on the car door? Or this one when you got kicked out of the courtroom for snoring?"

 Richie's eyes gleam while he just looks, making Eddie's skin itch. 

 "God, you know me so well," is all he says in a voice that has no reason to be so viscously sweet and yep, this was a bad idea.

 Eddie does a sharp one-eighty and starts walking forward just to get moving. His cheeks uncomfortably warm, Richie's giggle sparkling on his auricles.

 "Wait, does it mean you'll consider?"

 "I'll think about considering when something remotely interesting happens with your career. Which I'm pretty sure is fucking never."

  That same day they end up chased through a cemetery by a deranged maniac trying to kill them with a shovel. 

 Because sometimes Richie's cases take unexpected turns, about which he doesn't really talk, and the universe loves irony.

 "What do you mean it's not the first time?!" Eddie yells while they run jumping over tombstones and low fences. 

 "Exactly that, Eds, keep up!" Richie exclaims, tugging him by an elbow when he stumbles.

 "Why do I find out only now?!"

 "You aren't usually interested in my mindblowing stories! Sorry for that, I guess!"

 "Oh, so it's my fault now?!"

 "When the fuck did I say that!"

 This psycho throws the goddamn shovel like a spear, and of course, it gets Richie by the shin. He cries out and plummets to the ground.

 "Motherfucker!" Eddie lands on knees by him, confirms that yes, that's a lot of blood, definitely not good. Eddie hears squelch of approaching footsteps, and all he sees is red and black.

 There's a blade in his hand when he steps in front of Richie and feels nothing but all-consuming rage. The figure stops in front of him. 

 Eddie knows, he is certain Richie would say something like 'Let's dance' or similar stupid shit that would distract him more than his opponent 'cause he's like that. Eddie's not.

 His hand is steady while he's aiming the blade with precision embedded in his bones. They've missed a nice scenery. Sun has set, gray light still remaining. Eddie waits. He doesn't need to make a sound, every line of his body saying I dare you to take a step closer. The fucker raises his hands.

 "Holy shit, Eds!" Richie wheezes, shaking on the ground like he has any word in this. "Have you heard of de-escalation, nah?"

 "Shut up," Eddie snaps, and that's enough distraction for that idiot to make a move.

 It's not his fault he has a decent reaction. It takes a second for a knife to fly and pierce through the foot, collective screams of the lamest villain ever and Richie scaring birds away.

 "What the fuck Eds!" Richie screeches as the guy falls to the ground.

 "What!" Eddie yells back, tearing a stripe off Richie's shirt and tying it around his leg. Richie's still shrieking while he's trying to help him up.

  "That's not what I meant when I said you could come with me!"

 "That's not what I meant when I asked either!"

 "You're not supposed to harm other people!"

 "You're not supposed to let them slaughter you!"

 "I know! Stop mimicking my phrases! It feels like I'm having a stroke!"

 Eddie stops half-step. "That reminds me. Don't go anywhere." 

 "Very funny!" Richie sputters as Eddie leans him on a tombstone. He takes a steadying breath and returns to the still howling guy on the ground.

 "Seriously," Eddie mutters, kneeling beside him. "It's sharp. Richie got a fucking blunt shovel in the shin, and he's not mewling like you. Grow some balls, dude."

 "F-fuck you," the man says before Eddie grips the handle and takes a knife out in one motion. His ears ring from the scream.

 "Eddie, what the hell!" Richie yells as he returns to him and drapes Richie's arm around his shoulder.

 "What! It's a good knife! And a gift!"

 "Since when you receive knives for gifts!"

 "Since I started living with you, dumbass!"

 "Fair, but fuck!"

 "I know!"

 "I'm bleeding my brains out!" Richie yells, and by now it's obvious he simply babbles in hysterics. Eddie's just fucking furious at the whole situation.

 "Technically impossible, but I know!"

 "I'm dying!"

 "Shut up, you're not!"

 "But, Eds!"

 "No!"

 Richie cries at full volume giving up on words, and still, for some fucking reason, Eddie doesn't drop him.

 That evening Eddie stitches his leg back while Richie chews on a pillow. It's a bad thing, will leave an ugly scar, but he'll live.

 Eddie's never tortured himself with a question Am I a good person? 'cause he didn't give a damn. And he kind of doesn't now. He's too old for the idea of pure conscience and honor. But there's this uncertainty in him that quivers with every sound Richie makes while he cleans the wound. 

 "Should I move out?" he asks when Richie's on the couch, wound dressed, vodka chugged. Eddie puts a pillow under his knee, ready for Richie to pass out on him. Instead, Richie yelps too loud, "What?" and jerks up, almost hitting Eddie with his head.

 "Easy," Eddie orders, leading him back with a press to the shoulder. Richie obeys, lying down with eyes blown wide almost to the point of concern.

 "Why?" he croaks, almost betrayed. Eddie frowns, pursing his lips. 

 "Because of what happened today, obviously."

 "What? Saving my life?" Richie replies, genuinely confused. Eddie groans.

 "Richie, you're so dumb. And probably delirious. And possibly have some fucked up variation of Stockholm syndrome if you think what I've done was okay."

 "No, the fuck! I didn't say that!" Richie says as Eddie straightens the pillow under his leg carefully. "That was fucking bonkers! Like, legit sick and not in a cool way!" He pauses for a second, considering. "Why no, scratch that, it was also definitely the hottest thing someone's done for me. So. Cool. Like, a little." 

 That gets a tiny laugh out of Eddie this time. He huffs quietly and meets Richie's eyes that shine with something so familiar and welcoming. He sits near Richie's healthy knee, moving it slightly.

 "Yeah?"

 "Yes, but still." Richie looks at the wall behind him for a second, lost in his thoughts, before resurfacing with a nod to himself. "It wasn't okay, but why would I want you to move out? It was literally, like, extreme circumstances, and you're not trained for that kind of stress."

 "And you are?" Eddie challenges. Richie scoffs.

 "No, but we're talking about you, 'cause it's you who stabbed a suspect."

 "Judging by his behavior, I wouldn't call him a suspect anymore," Eddie says, running his hand down Richie's good leg. "This fucker almost chopped us into ragout. Do innocent citizens do this often to you?"

 Richie laughs, red stains crawling though his face as he comes down from adrenaline rush. He blinks slowly, still giggling when reaching up.

 "God, I like you so much," he mumbles before taking Eddie's hand and squeezing it weakly. "Please, don't leave."

 A galaxy turns inside out in Eddie's chest under Richie's trusting eyes. He squeezes back.

 "Okay," he whispers.

 "Good," Richie smiles. And passes out.

  Richie wakes up with a wail somewhere near 5 am. Eddie looks up from his laptop.

 "Shit, dude, why?" Richie groans.

 "That's what you get for running slowly," Eddie replies. This earns him a pained grin.

 "I'm on the ground as it is, man. No need to kick me like that."

 "You're literally on the couch."

 "Physically," Richie notes, pointing a finger up. "Spiritually and emotionally, I'm strapped to the car like a hood ornament, driving through a sand storm Fury Road style." His head snaps sideways sooner than the last word escaping his lips. "What's the smell? You making something?"

 Eddie suppresses a yawn, sight of Richie up and talking instead of the unconscious body he's been for the last couple hours makes him relax. He blinks heavily.

 "Well, I'm glad you have the energy for those metaphors," he says. "That means you'll have enough strength in the morning. You should get more sleep."

 "Strength for what?" Richie squints. His glasses are on the coffee table again, he isn't visibly concerned about them. Eddie sighs.

 "We'll go and report everything to the police when-"

 "Cops don't do shit," Richie says, not letting Eddie finish, a mantra he says every time anyone has a question concerning his job. Eddie should've made a pause for it, really. 

 "And still, I want it to be written and filed," he finishes. "We'll do this and then go to the hospital where you'll get your tetanus shot."

 "That's not necessary. I've had one," Richie mumbles, waving him off. Eddie raises an eyebrow.

 "You've had one?"

 "Yeah, like, in middle school. I think that was it? So, problem solved. We stay at home."

 "No, we don't," Eddie rubs his eyes, standing up. "And I'm making soup." He lets Richie groan loudly before continuing. "You'll eat it."

 "Do I look like someone who consumes liquids without a fight?"

 "You look like someone who has no other choice."

 Turns out, it's easy like that. Completely invading Richie Tozier's personal and professional life, that is. Simple to the point of being annoying.

 It takes several google searches, two online forms, five minutes to make Richie eat, and ten more to wait till he stops whining and gets dressed. It takes one text saying You knew it would end up like this, you bastard to Stan and twice the usual time to get to the train station.

 He fights a grandma for a seat and lets Richie lean on his shoulders when they get to the precinct. 

 "So," says the desk-guy, after Richie reluctantly recites those marvelous events of yesterday while leaning on Eddie's back almost with his whole weight. "You've been trapped in an abandoned house, then chased, attacked with a shovel, and then your friend here stabbed him in the foot, right?"

 Eddie has to plant his feet into the floor with force and stubbornness that allows him to stand upright the whole time and also sets off some kind of aggressive territorial instinct in him. He doesn't feel like moving anytime soon and he'll bite the head off anyone who thinks of approaching. 

 Richie chews on his candy above Eddie's ear. "Yeah. I think that's it. Can we go now?" he asks, tapping at Eddie's shoulder with a finger.

 The desk-guy shrugs and clicks his mouse several times under Eddie's stare.

 "I think someone will want to talk to you about it in upcoming weeks, but don't, like, wait too much. And you'll have to come the day our IT guy comes and repairs the damn facial composite software, but before that... Sorry, don't think we can do anything."

"Nice," Richie grins like he hasn't anticipated anything else.

 It doesn't take much to affect Richie's usual flow of events. Right then and there one plastic bag with a pocket knife that you haven't cleaned since last night is enough, if wide eyes of the desk-guy, Richie, and couple men around are any indication.

 "This has his blood," Eddie says. "You're looking for this one, and I'll be waiting for a phone call until next week. Is that clear?"

 "You know that you'll have to go through an investigation, 'cause you literally just threw evidence of harming a man in my face, do you?" is all he gets in a startled voice, and Eddie considers it a victory.

 "Tell me all about it when you find him," Eddie says and moves, masterfully handling Richie's weight as he turns and steps to the exit. "And now we go. We have a doctor's appointment to attend."

 Richie mouths something exaggerated at the room behind them, but that's not his deal right now.

 "Hey, Eds," Richie murmurs on their way out.

 "No."

 "The deaf woman didn't show up to her court case last week."

 "What-"

 "She lost her hearing."

 "I will make sure they put you down."

So easy, it's almost scary. It takes two hours of waiting at the hospital, they fly by unnoticed. It takes an answering message from Stan saying only Yes, I did.

 It takes one particularly long day for Richie's head to end up on Eddie's shoulder on the ride home by the end of it. One deep breath in and a calm thought of Oh, I'll never smell anything more lovely than this (this being sweat, unwashed hair, and powdery smell of gauze), and an absolute absence of surprise or fear at that thought.

 Richie manages to fall asleep as if he can feel safe like this. Eddie finds out he wants Richie to be and feel safe all the time.

 "So," Richie drawls lying on the couch after almost twenty minutes of talking nonsense to himself while throwing a tennis ball at the wall.

 Eddie's going to lose his mind.

 Richie throws the ball again, applying slightly more force than necessary, and it bounces towards the desk. Eddie catches it and puts it aside. Silence feels like a tsunami crashing living room windows inwards.

 Richie eyes the ball, seems like the sight of it staying still makes him twitchy. Eddie takes a breath.

 "So?" he prods, snapping Richie out of it. 

 "Podcast. Made up your mind?" Eddie looks at him for couple seconds, then returns his gaze to the laptop. "C'mon! We have a story now! You're already two thirds in!"

 "None of this bullshit makes sense," Eddie mutters, ignoring him. He's going through Richie's notes and half-finished reports of his cases. "Have you ever read anything you've written?"

 "It's all about that chaos, my man," Richie grins, taking out his phone. "The only way to find a solution is to give up. Chaos will think you're its bitch, its alpha instincts spike up, and it does the job for you."

 "No, it's not! It's the opposite of productive, asshole! How are you still in the business, no one should trust you with their shit!" Richie shrugs. His silence is sprinkled with a sequence of keyboard clicks from his phone. Eddie lets his eyes go through a pile of info-garbage that's Richie's cloud. One photo catches his attention.

 "Remember that pearl case? With a bracelet?"

 "Yeah, the Gone Girl one?"

 "For the last time, not everything is a movie plot-"

 "Gone Girl is based on the real family, and this one is so clear. It's obvious she's alive and hates her family," Richie says, and Eddie wants to bash his head against the table. 

 "It's not closed. Have you abandoned it because it's too obvious for you?"

 "Nah, dude, I'm working on it," Richie mumbles into his phone. "I'm on the finish line, like, one step away."

 "Right," Eddie sighs. He returns to the screen. His left hand lands on the ball and starts rolling it in small circles.

 Something's not right. It's somewhere right under his nose, and Eddie hates things he doesn't control or understand.

 He copies all the files into his own folder and takes a pen. Time passes like this. Richie plays on his phone, his tongue showing between his teeth. Eddie's sorting all the data he can find on the pearl case (he gives them names now, it's one step from too late) (but if he doesn't, Richie will name everything with movie references).

 Chains of events and pieces, tangled with each other, looping around the necks of six people. Richie has their statements, photos of every place mentioned. He has camera footage from the last place where the daughter was seen, pearls on her chest and around her wrist. There are notes, scattered thoughts of a person with a drunkards walk of an attention span, impossible to understand until seventh reread. Why wouldn't Richie use it all?

 Just a little rearrangement and a fresh look. 

 After forty-eight minutes Eddie gasps.

 "Hey, Rich," he croaks, still looking at the word document he made, several lists ending in one place. "Have you thought about the museum thing?"

 Because after all those dead ends, only one place makes sense.

 "Do you remember this guy saying about a woman visiting Room 2 for a week straight? The dates are the same as the funeral, the father's statement says he's seen her in the city on the fourteenth. But that's impossible, because she's dead, it's confirmed. But what has made him think his dead daughter passed him on the street? Her hand with a bracelet, which this woman had on her. Shit! Have you thought about this?" He turns to see Richie staring at his phone, unseeing. Holy shit, Eddie thinks. He may have solved it. Fuck.

 It all makes sense. The girl mentioned in her blog, the one she slept with on several occasions. And this woman from the museum. The same person. The one who killed the daughter.

 Their doorbell rings, makes Eddie jump.

 "I have, actually," Richie says, looking at the door. He nods at it when Eddie doesn't take his eyes off him. "Please, Eds, don't make a wounded man get up. I'll die if I move."

 Behind their door is a green sweater. Eddie has to raise his head to see the rest of a man. A friendly face with a smile that could keep you warm in winter.

 "Hello, Eddie, I'm Mike," the man says.

 "Hi, I'm," Eddie, but the man- Mike already knows this. He said his name. Wait, what? "Hi."

 "Mikey!" Richie yells from the couch. "Did you get it!"

 "Excuse me," Mike says before leaning above Eddie to look at Richie, not crossing the threshold. "Yes, Richie, you were right."

 "Then what are you waiting for!" Richie launches himself up, sits up abruptly, and wails when his body reacts to the movement. He extends one hand, making a grabbing motion so eagerly it almost makes a slapping sound. "Gimme! Gimme!"

 "May I?" Mike asks, and Eddie remembers he has a body, steps away, and closes the door behind them.

 "You talked to her?" Richie asks, watching Mike as the man approaches him and reaches into his pocket.

 "Yes. It was difficult to make her believe me, but we had a nice chat in the end." He produces a pack of cigarettes out, and Richie grabs it as soon as his eyes land on it.

 "What, no! Richie, you won't smoke in here!" Eddie starts right as Richie turns the pack upside down. Pearls spill on their coffee table, clatter against the glass surface like frozen rain.

 "You're right, Eds, I won't," Richie says, a grin splitting his face. "But I'll get so drunk tonight, fuck!"

 "Wha-" Eddie looks at pearls falling on their carpet, at Richie's face, then turns to Mike. "What does it-"

 "Dear Eds," Richie starts in his posh voice, basically pleading to get kicked. "This is Mike. Mike knows everyone in this city."

 "This is a slight exaggeration, but," Mike nods with a smile. Richie shrugs.

 "And I, as you've already figured out, know everything."

 "Fuck you," Eddie snaps. "What's going on?"

 "We've found the girl," Richie says. "Mike talked to her, passed her my message."

 "Precise and clear," Mike nods again.

 "And it seems that she doesn't want to be found by me," Richie continues, his fingers catch a pearl. "And if she doesn't, I understand. But I get to tell you I was right. She's alive." He smirks. 

 Eddie looks between him and Mike. Mike shrugs.

 "It was her, I know. As Richie said, I know almost everyone, and she's definitely on a plane to Prague right now. She'd been waiting for her new documents until this Wednesday."

 "Which means I am once again a winner!" Richie yelps, and when Eddie turns to look at him again, he's sitting with his arms triumphantly in the air, two pearls shoved up his nostrils.

  Something makes Eddie shiver.

 "What the hell, Richie," he hisses, and something in his face makes Richie snort. Pearls go up his nose, and suddenly he looks far from gleeful.

 "Fuck," he gasps, and Mike laughs. Eddie can only stare at the man he for some stupid reason likes so awfully much.

 "You fucking idiot."

  After one and a half hours of sitting in plastic chairs under white hospital lights in the waiting room, Richie says, "Eds? Pssst, Eds."

 Eddie rolls his eyes, but they sting after so long. He groans. Richie somehow takes it as an answer.

 "What room a ghost doesn't need in his apartment?"

 "I'll tell you what room you'll need right now if you don't shut up, fucking emerg-"

 "Living room," Richie finishes, looking at the ceiling, and the pure exasperation gives him second breath when Eddie throws his arms up and starts screaming out loud, his voice traveling down the hallway.

 "Do you think this is funny?! Who the fuck do you take me for?! How the hell you survived till your age with that tiny shriveled brain of yours, it's like you're thinking with a raisin I bet it hurts like a bitch that's why you do it on such rare occasion! This is not a thing to do! You can get fucking nosebleeds, damage mucous membrane, you can inhale it and block airflow, or even better, you are fully capable of swallowing them, so they get stuck in your fucking esophagus, or you get a motherfucking infection, or-"

 "Eds," there's a hand on his shoulder, Richie's tone even more nasal than usual, pacifying like he's trying to talk down a wild animal. "It's okay, breathe."

 "No! You fucking breathe!" Eddie yells, turning to him in his seat. "And through your goddamn mouth, make it useful once in your life! You unbelievable infantile fuckface what is your-" he pauses when he sees Richie's face. "Why the fuck are you smiling?"

 Richie looks like he's won the lottery seventeen times in a row. He shrugs.

 "I have no fucking idea, honestly," he mutters, still beaming like an idiot, and it's simple like that. No idea why, but he does it.

 Eddie kisses him.

 It's so stupid, and annoying, and Eddie has to be a complete lunatic for those things to turn him on, but they do. Richie awakens this in him, and he's so angry.

 Richie squeals, but the next moment there's a hand on Eddie's neck, and everything in him roars, his skin catching fire. Closed eyes, awkward mouths, a dumb armrest digging into Eddie's stomach. Richie's squeezing his shoulder, but he doesn't push away, and Eddie opens his mouth. Richie gives a full-body shudder, making him smirk, but before he can explore that Richie pulls back wheezing.

 "Time out!" He squeals, takes a big gulp of air and gestures at his face. "Can't! Can't breathe through the nose. Shit!"

 "Hurts, doesn't it?" Eddie deadpans, eyebrows raised. "That's what you get for being a moron."

 "Wait, one sec," Richie breathes with his tongue out like a dog, which is so unattractive it makes Eddie flush.

 "There has to be something wrong with my head if I like you." He mutters. Richie's jaw drops even more.

 "Do you?"

 "What," Eddie blinks. "Did you snort those into your brain? We just kissed?"

 "Yeah, 'cause you get horny when you're angry, and I put a lot of effort into-"

 "You put effort?!" Eddie raises his voice again. Someone shushes at him, and he shushes back aggressively, not even looking. Richie stumbles on his breath like inhaling through his mouth is too much work for his brain.

 "Yes, I did! What do you think all this was?"

 "You being a four-year-old for no reason."

 "Me getting your attention away from Mike, 'cause god's not real, but even he knows how many nice guys he's unknowingly stolen from under my nose!"

 "What the fuck."

 "But let's go back to the part where you like me."

 "No, we'll stay here, where you injure yourself to get attention-"

 "It's not an injury! We're not even in the emergency department!"

 "Are you seriously making it your first argument?"

 "That's not an argument! This is an active defense!"

 "You're a shitty lawyer."

 "Thank you for your input! What would I do without it! What would I do withou-"

 Eddie growls into the second kiss like a hungry animal, shutting Richie up on a gasp. Richie kisses like he holds something back. Like water lapping at your fingers in shy waves on the hottest day of summer when you just wanna drown. Hesitance, stiffness of his shoulders, shy hands, everything's making Eddie furious. This is the first thing ever that you choose to think too much about? Eddie plants one foot into the floor for leverage and pushes himself up, getting more control in one motion. 

 "My lord, Eddie," Richie mumbles, gulping one extra breath. "We're in public."

 "Shut." Eddie hisses, and Richie opens so quickly and eagerly his neck cracks, and suddenly they're both giggling.

 "Breath-break, breath-break," Richie rasps inhaling sharply. 

 "Fucking public," Eddie sighs, falling back to his chair, Richie's thumb still behind his ear. He nestles his cheek against the dry palm. "One time you decide to be aware of your surroundings is to spoil the moment."

 "Oh, this was a good moment?" Richie beams. "Shit, Eds, you really do have awful standards."

 Eddie grunts against his palm, closing his eyes for a second. It's not the most comfortable position for Richie, and he doesn't give a damn.

 "Is it hospitals?" Richie whispers after several moments.

 "What?"

 "Are you... Y'know. Excited to be on familiar ground?"

 "What kind of malfun-"

 "'Cause, y'know, if that's what it takes to-"

 "For the last time, Rich, with you and self-injuring!"

 "Not that! Just thinking what reaction would I get if I took you to the morgue with me."

 "You sick fuck," Eddie snorts. When he opens his eyes, the light cuts them again, Richie's face blurry for a couple seconds. "Have you ever done something just because you wanted?"

 Richie stares.

 "I mean," he points a finger towards his nose, indicating an example. "I have, and I regret so much of it."

 "Well. I don't," Eddie says, Richie points at his nose again, and Eddie shakes his head. "Though you tempt me to say otherwise. You really want me to, do you?"

 Richie grins, his mouth opens on the verge of saying something dumb and ambiguous and adorable, and that's when his name is shouted across the hall. Eddie kind of misses him the second Richie smiles politely at someone who isn't him.

 "Wait, that's why you were weird," Richie says smugly, as they pass a streetlight.

 Sunset pushes gently against the planes of the city, hoping this time it will put the earth to sleep. Spills warm colors across the sky, mulls the evening air like sweet wine, seducing with silence and blurred lines.

 The city pushes back. Electric lights and movement. The cheerful voice of a hive, stubborn child, neverending rebel in the dark. 

 They pass a bus stop and a couple of shops, the pace slow. Richie still limps a little, his hand on Eddie's shoulder, since he once again forgot his cane (left it behind on purpose) somewhere between home and the subway station.

 "Fuck off, I wasn't," Eddie grumbles.

 "Dude, you were nice to me, like, seven times out of ten last week." Richie continues. "I thought you got bodysnatched or, I dunno, started therapy."

 "Oh, so me not being a total jerk is abnormal now."

 "Yeah, exactly my point. Shit, I have to reevaluate every time I thought you were sick when you actually thought I was too hot to scold."

 "I hate you."

 Richie laughs. "Ain't gonna fly no more, buddy."

 "How come you're not weird at all?" Saying those words itself feels savagely ironic. Richie smirks.

 "Oh, honey, I've been weird since day one."

 "Yeah, right."

 "I'm serious! You were so intense, competent, and hot, I found a case in a good part of town within two hours just to impress you."

 "Oh, yeah," Eddie muses. "Nothing more impressive than coughing out your lungs and almost getting hit by a taxi in the middle of a fancy neighborhood."

 "I know. I'm such a slut for a guy who knows how to fold laundry," Richie says dreamily as they turn a corner. "For real, though. Look what you've made of me. I do the dishes now."

 "I do those too, bitch!" Eddie yells suddenly, and Richie jumps. "You're not special!"

 "Yeah, but you're normal," Richie tries to reason, and that punches the loudest snort out of Eddie. He has to physically stop in his tracks to catch his breath.

 "You hit your head when I wasn't looking?"

 "You know shit like taxes, and you're, like, adjusted."

 "That's called pretending, dumbass."

 "Well, fuck me for trying to make a compliment like a civilized human!"

 "Being civilized human isn't a good look on you."

  "You're a horrible influence," Richie laughs. "I like you so much." 

 Unfamiliar feeling surges from within, squeezing his chest, and Eddie stumbles on his breath. Eddie's not one to feel a broad range of emotions. At least he likes to believe so. Eddie Kaspbrak isn't fucking shy, his body shouldn't react like this, especially to words, goddammit. An unusual rush of sheepishness catalyzes a flash of confusion and a burst of anger as a logical result. It manifests in the form of microaggressive impulse leading to Eddie biting a wrist of Richie's hand, draped across his shoulders. Richie yelps.

 "Why would you do that?!"

 Because I can is all Eddie can think of, too close to triumphant. 

 The car almost hits a pedestrian right before their eyes, the guy starts smashing the windshield with a brick. They stare for several seconds before realizing the smasher is their upstairs neighbor. 

 "Dinner?" Richie asks with a nod at a small restaurant across the street. Eddie can't contain a groan.

 "I'm starving."

 "Yeah, I could tell. I'll need to get another shot." Eddie doesn't even open his mouth, and Richie's already yelling. "Just a joke! Please have mercy!"

 Eddie laughs, startled. "I thought it was too dramatic before, but you actually make my blood boil sometimes, you know. Not in a good way."

 "And you make my brain crinkle, honey," Richie muses. "In the best way possible."