Work Text:
“This is the worst Christmas ever.”
Richie mutters under his breath and pushes away what feels like his millionth botched drawing. Apparently, drawing a Christmas tree is an extremely tall order, much to Richie’s complete and utter shock.
A Christmas tree isn’t hard to draw, Richie thinks; it’s just a green triangle with a brown rectangle. He should be able to draw one for his Papa, Eddie, and give him the best Christmas card in the whole entire world. They don’t have a Christmas tree this year since they are traveling, so it’s the perfect design for Eddie’s Christmas card!
At least it would be if he could actually draw it.
His left hand’s grip around the green crayon tightens and tightens, until the poor crayon finally snaps. He flings the broken crayon away with a yelp.
Stupid left hand. That motherfucking metacarpus. Why does he even have it? It can’t draw anything; it’s useless!
Richie switches his glance over to his right hand. Oh, his lovely right hand, the hand that can actually draw competently. He shoves a crayon into it. The crayon immediately drops to the floor. Richie picks it up and tries to curl his fingers, but the crayon doesn’t even stick for a second. He practically growls as his brows furrow; this shouldn’t be hard. It’s easy to hold a crayon with a hand.
Then again, it’s hard to hold a crayon with a hand bound in a plaster cast.
Richie grumbles and slams his cast against the green crayon, turning it to waxy green dust. He looks around for another green crayon, but finds none. All of his green crayons have been snapped or smashed. Richie’s never seen a Christmas tree that isn’t green; he doubts one even exists. Just like his Papa’s perfect Christmas card.
Surrounded by crumpled papers and crayon carcasses, Richie can’t help but repeat his earlier gripe, “This is the worst Christmas ever!”
The words flow out of Richie’s mouth seamlessly, in a perfectly natural progression. They have been said many times, enough to make them familiar. In fact, throughout the past two weeks, this six word phrase has managed to become his most used, a major change from the near past.
For the longest time, Richie’s most-said six word phrase was “I had sex with your mother.” It should just be four words, but the television networks won’t let him say “fucked” on air. So the six word phrase became his trashmouth’s favorite to form. It’s a funny phrase, and Richie is a funny man. It fits quite nicely, in Richie’s humble opinion.
At least, it used to fit nicely. Now it fits as nicely as Richie’s new shoes did. Eddie told him to not purchase the size 13 shoes; it wouldn’t be sensible. Richie, however, did not care about being sensible. He really wants these specific shoes, the smallest size in stock is size 13, and it's only two sizes larger than his feet so Eddie should stop being such a nervous Nellie.
It took a skid of his large shoes and a fall onto an elbow for nervous Nellie to become a welcome presence. By then, though, it was too late. Richie could regret his choice to disregard Eddie all he wants; it won’t fix his fractured elbow. That’s the cast’s job. And the cast’s job won’t be done until Christmas is over.
This means putting a damper on his and Eddie’s Christmas vacation to Santa Monica Beach.
Which means no swimming in the ocean or going on the carnival rides.
Which means Eddie forgoing these activities as well.
Which means Richie has ruined Eddie’s Christmas.
Which therefore means this is the worst Christmas ever.
Richie snatches a fistfull of crayons and hurls them across the bohemian-styled living room of their rented beach house. He aims for the trashcan, but they end up scattered around the pair of worn-out sneakers he wished he’d worn two weeks ago. A piercing shriek slices through the lulls of A Charlie Brown Christmas, whose playthrough mocks him to no end. Charlie Brown had just decorated a beautiful Christmas tree. Meanwhile, Richie Tozier can’t even draw a recognizable Christmas tree. It’s not fair.
“Richie!” Eddie leaves the kitchen to rush into the living room. His rush prevents him from completely leaving the kitchen behind; a candy cane striped apron and a bowl of Christmas cookie dough make the trip with him. “What happened, Rich? Are you okay? Is it your elbow?”
It sure is his elbow. His dumb, fragile elbow, covered by a cast that restricts his every movement. Oh, that cast, how he hates that stupid cast. Everything would be so much better if he didn’t have to wear it!
Richie slams the chunky plaster against the hardwood floor, “Off!”
Eddie shoves the bowl of dough onto a cluttered side table before dropping down to his knees and grabbing Richie’s arm, “No, Richie!” Richie wrestles his casted arm up and down, but Eddie’s grip remains firm, “You’re gonna hurt yourself!”
“Off!” Richie screeches, He pulls his arm towards the ground to hit it again, desperate to crack this cast, “Want off!”
“Shhhhh,” Eddie hisses, lifting Richie’s arm as far away from the ground as possible without straining it, “We do not scream, Baby. Screaming is scary. You scared Papa so bad while he was cooking. I almost dropped the cookie dough!”
Richie curls his toes and kicks his heels against the ground. His face turns bright red as he howls at the top of his lungs, “Want off! Want off! Want off!”
“Richie. Stop. Screaming.” Eddie sounds out every syllable, his voice as firm as it gets, “Screaming mouths don’t get to eat Christmas cookies.”
The threat is enough to stiffen Richie’s entire body, from red-flushed head to curled-in toe. “N-No Christmas cookies…” he squeaks, astounded by the mere existence of such a cruel possible fate.
Eddie nods in confirmation, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, “Indeed. If your mouth is full of screams, there’ll be no room for cookies. So, Papa will have to eat them all alone, with no help from Baby.”
“Baby help!” Richie shrieks, then clamps a hand over his mouth, “Sorry Papa, no mo’ screams.” He groans, “Still want off…”
Eddie clicks his tongue, but offers Richie a small smile. “We can’t take it off Baby Boy, it needs to stay on.”
“No it don’t.” Richie insists. He crosses his arms with a pout, “It don’t.”
“Yes it does,” Eddie sighs, “Do you remember why you got it on? Or does Papa have to remind you?”
Richie runs his fingers across the length of the cast. Of course he remembers why he got it on; how could he forget? He sighs heavily before responding.
“Fractured funny.”
Eddie raises his brow and cocks his head to the side, “Fractured what?”
Richie lets out a huff, “Fractured funny! My funny bone!” He frantically taps his plaster-covered right elbow.
“Oh!” Eddie’s eyes widen in realization. A soft chuckle slips through his lips. He clamps a hand over his mouth before any more can escape, covering a growing smirk, “That can’t be possible, RIch!”
One look into Eddie’s wide eyes offer a perfect view of the gears turning in his head. Until finally, he can deliver his magnum opus of zingers, “You don’t have a single funny bone in your body!”
By now, the snickers and giggles have grown too strong for the barrier of Eddie’s hand. The dam breaks and the water rushes out, threatening to soak Richie’s cheeks. Richie takes a deep breath and holds it in his cheeks.
He will not cry, he just won’t.
He shouldn’t be crying. The regressed man is quite used to being laughed at. Hell, he makes his whole living out of this! After all, Richie is a funny man. A funny man who says funny phrases. “I had sex with your mother,” right?
Nope.
He did not have sex with your mother. He wanted to have sex with your father instead. But he didn’t. He just kept himself locked in a pitch black closet with only one candle, lit by humor. This one candle still lights the way for Richie, and gives its light to others. Its okay if he makes stupid choices, its okay if he breaks his elbow, its okay if he throws tantrums, its even okay if he ruins Christmas. The light from his candle makes up for all of it.
But this light never helped Eddie, now, did it? Did Eddie ever laugh once at “I had sex with your mother?” Richie can’t recall. Probably not; Eddie never found him funny. He has proof of this now. Richie Tozier isn’t funny anymore, if he ever was. If he’s not funny, then what is he?
A fractured funny.
The light of his candle has been doused by water, which now gushes down his red-cheeked, snot-nosed face.
Eddie’s laughs are suddenly cut off by a gasp. “Richie! Oh, Sweetie!” Eddie cups Richie’s cheeks. He wipes away each of Richie’s tears before they make it to his cheeks. Through scattered breaths, he tries to force out, “I had no idea that would upset you! I’m so sorry!”
Richie closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look into Eddie’s. Of course Eddie had no idea that his quip would upset him; teasing is pretty much their love language. Now, Eddie is upset for no good reason. On Christmas Eve.
“‘M sorry…” Richie sobs. He slumps down to bury his head in his Papa’s lanky chest, “‘M sorry Papa! ‘M sorry, ‘m sorry, m’ sorry!”
“What! Oh, Baby, no!” Eddie wraps his arms around his baby boy. “You don’t have to say sorry! You didn’t do anything wrong!”
Richie shakes his head against Eddie’s chest, “Did lots wrong! Got hurt...so no swimming, or carnival...an’ I tried makin’ you a card but it got messed up...so...so...so...ruined Papa’s Christmas!”
He lets out a whimper before delivering his six word phrase.
“This is the worst Christmas ever!”
Eddie immediately responds with a simple one word phrase.
“No!”
A one word phrase is much shorter than a six word phrase. But Eddie’s one word phrase did not need a single extra word to make Richie finally dart his head up.
“You didn’t ruin Christmas for me, I promise! I don’t care about swimming or carnival rides, that’s not what Christmas is all about! Remember Charlie Brown?” Eddie gestures to the TV, “Why was Charlie Brown’s Christmas so amazing?”
“Cause of the tree?” Richie guesses, glancing over at the crumpled up drawings.
“No! It’s because he spent it with the people he loved!”
“The people he loved…” Richie repeats.
“That’s right!” Eddie beams, “The people he loved! Lucy, Linus, Violet, Sally, Pig-Pen…”
“Wait, what?” Richie blurts out, raising an eyebrow, “But...they was mean…”
Eddie’s grin is wiped right off his face, “That’s not the point, Rich. The point is that Christmas-”
“They was mean!” Richie insists, “Made fun of da lil’ tree! An’ Charlie Brown!”
Eddie sighs heavily, “Fine, they were mean at first. But then they became nice. Charlie Brown’s friends are nice.”
Richie vigorously shakes his head with a pout. He refuses to accept such a preposterous claim, and on behalf Charlie Brown and his lame Christmas Tree, he will make this refusal known.
“Charlie Brown’s friends are fake-ass bitches.”
Not even a second after Richie’s counterclaim, Eddie is already laughing. This laugh is so much harder, so much louder, than his one from earlier. This one turns Eddie’s cheeks red and has him banging a fist on the ground between wheezes.
And Richie can’t help but laugh right along.
“Oh my God, Richie, I swear! You’re too funny!”
Just like that, Richie feels like he could cry all over again.
Before he can, however, Eddie manages to compose himself. “Okay, okay, I relent, you’re right! But forgetting about Charlie Brown, do you understand what I was trying to say?”
“Nope!”
Eddie laughs again, then explains, “I was trying to say that Christmas is all about spending time with the people you love. And I love you so, so much. I’d trade a million swims in the ocean and carnival rides and cards for a Christmas with my baby boy. My baby boy and all his funny bones, because you’re all made up of funny bones, so…” he pats Richie’s cast, “...it doesn’t even matter if one breaks.”
Richie’s eyes twinkle brighter than any Christmas tree lights would’ve. He tenderly gazes into Eddie’s eyes, into his Papa’s eyes.
His Papa, who lit enough bright candles to guide Richie out of the dark closet.
His Papa, who eliminated the need for candles, acting as Richie’s shining light.
His Papa, who will always be Richie’s shining light, even if Richie can’t shine.
His precious, gorgeous, courageous Papa, who shines bright enough for the both of them.
Richie could tell him this. Perhaps he should tell him this.
But instead, he goes with, “Yeah, got lots of funny bones! Used ‘em fo’ sex with yo’ mother!”
This time, Eddie doesn’t laugh. Instead, he gasps and covers Richie’s mouth, “No, no, no, you little trashmouth! I let your earlier comment slide, but not anymore! No more potty words, that is if you want Christmas cookies!”
Eddie smiles softly, and lifts his hand up to kiss Richie’s lips. Richie doesn’t have to say anything else, Eddie knows. Just like how Eddie doesn’t have to laugh for Richie to know he finds him funny.
“Speaking of Christmas cookies, I’ve gotta let the dough chill in the fridge. In the meanwhile, how about we have some Santa Monica fun? I have some activities that you can totally do with one arm!”
Richie has a hard time believing that, but he accepts Eddie’s offer anyways. After letting Eddie retreat to refrigerate the cookie dough, the two make their way down to Santa Monica Beach. The entire time, all Richie can do is ask about the red and green bag Eddie has tucked under his arm. He’s never seen this bag before, Eddie just acquired it before leaving the house, so there must be something special inside! But no matter how many times he asks, pleads, whines, and pesters, Eddie gives him the exact same answer, “You’ll see.”
Eventually, Eddie’s response shifts to just “See?” He gestures up to the sky.
Richie follows Eddie’s gaze, and his jaw immediately drops. The sky is painted with a gorgeous ombre of pink, orange, yellow, red, and purple. His crayons could never create a scene this beautiful. Especially as the sun, a bright orange orb, gently descends behind the glistening green ocean.
“Woah…”
“Woah is right! And you can watch that sunset, even without your right arm!” Eddie smiles, “Right?”
Richie nods, returning Eddie’s smile, “Right!” He stays planted in place, leaning against his papa, until the sun is finally gone.
As the sky darkens, Eddie speaks up, “You know what else you can do with one arm?”
“What? What!” Richie bouncing up and down, making small storms of sand by his feet.
“Seashell hunting! C’mon, before it gets fully dark!”
And seashell hunting they do. Eddie is right; seashell hunting can definitely be done with one arm. He doesn’t need two arms to find beautiful seashells and stuff them in his pocket. He doesn’t even need two arms to discover a pink and white conch shell the size of his thumb.
“Papa! Papa look!”
“Hmm?” Eddie turns around.
“I got a gift!” Richie presents the conch shell to Eddie, “Merry Christmas, Papa!”
Sure, it isn’t a swim in the ocean or a carnival ride or a Christmas card. But it makes Eddie smile wider than any of those three probably would have. “Thank you so much, Baby! How did you find a pink conch shell?”
“Dunno!” Richie broadens his shoulders and smirks with pride, “‘S your favorite color, yeah?”
“Yeah! I can’t wait to put it on my desk at work!” Eddie clutches the conch shell against his chest, then holds out his bag-toting arm, “I got you a gift too! Consider it your early Christmas present.”
“Present!” Richie squeals. He yanks the bag off Eddie’s arm and digs through the tissue paper. Finally, he pulls out a stuffed animal. It’s a white goose, donning a blue shirt, purple bowtie, and wizard’s hat. He immediately giggles, getting the reference.
“It’s a Silly Goose!”
“Mhm! A Silly Goose for my Silly Goose!”
Eddie’s Silly Goose hugs the plush to his chest, “I love it! ‘S my new best friend!”
“I’m glad! Do you have a name for your goose?”
Richie hums, then answers, “Ty!” He kisses the goose on its beak, “Ty’s my new best friend, Papa!”
“Alright then, Ty it is! Do you wanna know why I picked it?”
“Silly Goose!”
Eddie chuckles softly, “Yes, that, but for another reason too.” He holds his hands out, “Can I see Ty for a second?”
Richie nods and hands Ty over to his Papa. Eddie takes the stuffed animal, then places it in the crook of Richie’s left arm, “He’s the perfect size to hold in one arm!”
With another squeal, Richie squeezes Ty in his arm. Eddie coos softly and wraps his arms around Richie. There’s another thing he can do with a cast on, Richie thinks, get hugged by his Papa. And perhaps this is the best thing of them all. Richie looks at his Papa, then at Ty, then at the shining stars. None of which shine brighter than his own shining light, who will always make sure he never feels like a fractured funny.
Squeezing Ty and leaning into his Papa, Richie utters a brand new six word phrase.
“This is the best Christmas ever.”