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Eddie was always one to notice things. Especially about Richie. He noticed the beautiful things about his boyfriend. Like how his caramel freckles became more prominent under the summer sun, and how they faded in the winter, replaced by rosy cheeks. Or how his hands always seemed a little too cold - a perfect excuse to hold them (“It’s just to warm you up, dipshit, I don’t want you getting hypothermia”). Or how, even though Richie was slightly taller than him, he still let Eddie wrap his arms around the back of his neck when they hugged (Eddie had to stand on his tip toes even when Richie crouched down).
But he also noticed the less beautiful things about him.
Like how there were periods of time when he would hardly eat anything and was reluctant to hug Eddie lest he feel how much his ribcage stuck out. Or how some nights, when it was really bad, Richie would crawl through Eddie’s window and just cry, not mentioning the incident anytime after. Or how some days it was impossible to hide the bruises on his wrists and face.
Richie knew that Eddie noticed things. And although he hated keeping secrets from his boyfriend, sometimes he couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t worth the worry that came with telling the truth. (Eddie has enough on his plate with his horrible mom, Richie would tell himself. What’s one beating compared to Sonia?)
So he showed up to school in long jeans and a turtleneck sweater underneath a hoodie. If Eddie saw the marks, Richie would have to explain what had happened the night before. And he couldn’t stomach the thought of the events, let alone speak them aloud.
He was grateful that the excessive layers of clothing weren’t extremely suspicious due to the abnormally cold November Derry was experiencing that year. But someone was bound to notice at some point.
Lunch had just ended. Eddie had given him half of his own lunch when he learned that Richie hadn’t even brought food. And with every under-the-table handhold and every loving kiss on the cheek, his father’s words from the night before would begin to scream at him.
They were walking to their shared fifth period class, English. His hand was itching to clasp Eddie’s, but he knew he couldn’t. People suspected enough as it was, and if anyone found out... if his dad found out...
Richie felt a sharp shoulder slam into his and he stumbled a little. A rough hand grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt and his blood ran cold.
“Watch your step, flamer,” Henry Bowers snapped, his grip on Richie’s shirt tightening. He heard Eddie’s breathing quicken behind him.
“Fuck off, I didn’t do anything,” Richie retorted, pushing Bowers’s hands away from him.
“Shut up, Rich,” Eddie whispered. He felt his boyfriend pull at his sleeve, as if begging him to just walk away. He complied (not without shooting Bowers a dirty look), too tired to get his ass kicked again. But the universe decided it was too late to back out because the next thing he knew Henry’s hand gripped his wrist tightly.
Richie involuntarily let a yelp slip from his throat at the contact, his wrist still sore and the bruises still black.
And Eddie wasn’t the only one to notice.
Bowers furrowed his eyebrows and kept a viselike hold on Richie’s arm as he roughly pulled up the sleeves of his hoodie. By then, a few passersby had stopped to see what was happening. And Richie wanted to cry, or run, or punch something, but for the second time within 24 hours, he was frozen in fear.
Henry let out a startlingly loud laugh and Richie watched the rest of his gang join in. He couldn’t bear to look at Eddie, but he had heard his gasp.
Richie’s arms were littered with fresh bruises, reminders of the night before. He felt Bowers shove him against the wall, a feeling he knew all too well. And then he sneered,
“You’re so fucking-”
[“Pathetic.” Richie couldn’t smell anything but the alcohol reeking from the man pinning his arms to the wall. He tried. He tried so hard to stay in his room, to cooperate with his dad, to shut his trap.
But Went had a way of pushing his son’s buttons. It was almost like he wanted to start a fight.
“I don’t like that Kaspbrak boy,” he had said earlier, his sixth beer of the day held lazily in his calloused hand. Richie had just said goodbye to Eddie at his porch after a “playdate” - if you counted secret, desperate make out sessions as playdates.
“Well you don’t have to like him,” Richie had muttered. He turned on his heel to go back to his room when the tension was pierced with a,
“HEY!” The raven haired boy felt chills rush up his spine as he stopped in his tracks. He heard angry, sluggish footsteps approach him and he turned around. “Look at me, kid.” Richie complied, hiding how scared he felt. “You know that boy is sick. And so are you. Who knows what you faggots do in your room all day.”
He blinked back unshed tears. He considered denying it, just like he’d done his whole life. But hearing his dad talk about his boyfriend like that fueled enough rage to do stupid shit. And stupid shit he did.
“Fuck you,” Richie said shakily. His dad’s eyes radiated a dangerous amount of anger. “He’s not sick. And neither am I. You’re the one who’s fucking sick, getting wasted every day! No wonder mom fucking left. Maybe if you actually-”
Went’s rough hand collided with Richie’s cheek and the impact sent the latter to the floor. His big glasses were sent tumbling across the hardwood. It wasn’t the hardest he’d slapped him but it was painful nonetheless. The teenage boy felt the familiar stinging on the side of his face and did everything he could not to let a tear slip out from him.
The drunken man yanked his son from the floor and slammed him against the wall. Richie fought back, kneeing his father in the stomach and making a run for it.
Went grabbed harshly at Richie’s arms and refused to let go despite his son’s desperate and almost begging cries.
“Dad, please-” There was no stopping the tears anymore. He could almost hear the blood vessels in his forearms being damaged. “Please stop, I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t mean it I’m sorry just stop-”
He let go of his arms but Richie’s relief was short lived. A punch in the gut. Two punches. Three. He refrained from gagging and throwing up. Distantly, he wondered what he could throw up after two days of not eating. Maybe water.
His thoughts were ripped out of his mind when he felt his arms being restrained and his back pressing the wall once more. It barely registered to him that he was crying.
“You’re so pathetic,” Went spat. He let go of Richie and pushed the sobbing mess towards the stairs. “Get out of my sight. I can’t even look at you.”]
Richie couldn’t remember what happened in the hallway with Bowers. He didn’t know that Eddie had tackled Henry, giving the older boy a black eye. He didn’t know how many students had seen the evidence on his body. He didn’t know how he got to where he was at the moment - on the roof of Building B, sprawled out on Eddie’s lap while nimble fingers combed his hair.
It was like he was in a trance, and he suddenly snapped out of it.
“Eds?” Richie muttered, shielding his eyes from the sun. He peeked through his fingers to see his boyfriend looking down at him lovingly.
“Hey,” he replied. “You’re okay now.”