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It’s almost Richie’s birthday. Again. The days of the year always seem to fly by so quickly, especially for two unemployed lay-abouts - but that doesn’t change the fact that the seasons have done what they have always done, and the swimsuit calendar pinned haphazardly to the kitchen wall reveals that it is, in fact, almost Richie’s birthday.
It’s different this year, after what Richie and Eddie have simply come to term “The Incident.” Well, that’s what Eddie has come to term it; Richie hasn’t said much since it happened. Probably too traumatized to even think about it, the poor sad git.
It seems to have scared Richie out of himself, and even Eddie can’t help but feel a little guilty, even if he drowns the guilt with pint after pint of Malibu, or beer, or bleach, or whatever vaguely alcoholic compound he can find. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that it was partially his fault. Depending on who you asked, but he’s not going to go into that at the moment, and bollocks to you for asking him.
Eddie has also had to come to terms with the fact that he very nearly lost his flatmate. He thinks that then he’d have to find some other idiot with a rich aunt to mooch off of, but he’s grown rather attached to this one, thank you very much. No, Richie is his idiot flatmate, his … friend, no matter how reluctant Eddie is to admit that even to himself, or how often he tries to fuck things up for him. Life just wouldn’t be the same without him. Richie was in the hospital for days, and while Eddie purposefully spared himself the gory details he knows it wasn’t good. Hospital stays rarely were, even for them. Even when it meant days of free food and pretty nurses fawning over them.
But that was then, and this is now, and now is almost Richie’s birthday. Eddie feels the urge to do something… nice, and the mere thought of doing something nice for Richie (or indeed, anyone) without any expectation of anything in return is enough to have him grinding his teeth with irritation. But ever since The Incident, Richie hasn’t been himself. He’s been quiet, which Eddie was thankful for at first - but after a while it just felt wrong, the house empty and lonely. There are no arguments, he’s meek and doesn’t even seem interested in going out to the pub to flirt with some birds when Eddie asks. He just sits on the couch all day, or in his room with the door shut, and Eddie has a feeling he’s not in there doing what he normally does.
It doesn’t feel right, and Eddie hopes doing something uncharacteristically kind for him on his birthday will help snap him out of his funk. So he tries. The night before Richie’s birthday, he attempts to bake a birthday cake, even though the cake ends up full of crunchy eggshell shards, has a mysteriously bite-shaped chunk taken out of one side, and contains salt instead of sugar. But it’s the thought that counts anyway, and in Eddie’s defence, the empty bottle of Malibu on the countertop might have had a little to do with that. He is even able to scrape together (literally, from under bus seat cushions and laundromat rugs) the funds to buy him what might even pass for a nice present.
Now it’s not just almost Richie’s birthday, it is Richie’s birthday, and the birthday boy in question is once more sitting on the couch, huddled in a soft pink blanket and looking absolutely miserable. He’s staring resolutely at the telly, with the sort of vacant expression that suggests he doesn’t particularly care what he’s watching, and is in fact just trying to find a way to pass the time. Eddie decides it’s time to go ahead with his plan. Operation Birthday is a go.
“What d’ya say, Rich, fancy a drink at the Lamb and Flag?”
Richie seems to momentarily jolt out of his daze, blinking owlishly before his gaze falls to the blanket-covered lumps that are his hands, doubtlessly fiddling with his fingers. “Oh, not at the moment Eddie, I think I’ll just stay here and…” - and then, just like every other time he has been asked this precise question, his eyes snap to the nearest inanimate object for an excuse - “- water my plants!” He gestures vaguely to the very dead plants that certainly won’t be revived by a little splash from the watering can.
Now he’s trying to ignore Eddie but is failing horribly, judging by how his watery blue eyes swing back and forth between the screen and Eddie every few seconds. Well, it was worth a shot. The sound of barking dogs and a hurried thump suggests the post has just arrived, so Eddie grins and points off towards the front door.
“I wonder if there’s anything in the post!” Richie doesn’t reply.
When he squats down to fetch the mail, Eddie pulls an envelope from his breast pocket and slides it inside the thick wad of bills and court summonses.
“How mysterious!” he calls as he goes back into the colouring-in room, growing sick of the phoney cheerful act but trying to keep it up just this little bit longer all the same. “A letter addressed to you, and it isn’t covered in blood! Maybe it’s not a threat this time!”
This gets Richie’s attention, and he looks back at Eddie over his shoulder, looking almost hopeful. Huh.
“Happie Brithdie,” Richie reads when he rips open the letter and sees the handmade card, and not for the first time Eddie wishes he were literate. Richie’s blue eyes turn to him, wide; the childish misspellings make it obvious who this card is from, and Eddie covers his embarrassment by instead reaching for the present, hidden beneath a tea cosy.
“Ah, well - Happy Birthday, Richie. Try to have a good one this year, eh?”
The present is hastily wrapped in what looks like a strip of the wallpaper from Eddie’s room, but Richie takes it with a little smile on his lips. It’s just a small smile, hesitant with a touch of suspicion (well-deserved, from years of miserable birthdays).
“Eddie…”
“Just open the bloody thing!” Eddie snaps, not wanting to see that lost puppy-dog look on Richie’s face anymore.
It’s just a new shirt, not particularly expensive nor fancy; but it’s clean, and it doesn’t have any holes in it, and it’ll give Richie something new to wear. It’s dark blue, and even has a chance of fitting him properly rather than being horribly oversized. Richie lifts it from its wrapping, and then he’s looking at Eddie again, just staring with those huge blue eyes. Eddie’s stomach twists, and it’s certainly not because he wants his friend to actually be happy for once in his pathetic little life.
“See? Now you won’t smell so bad, you can actually change out of that original Van Heusen and give it a wash every now and then! And you never know, maybe with a new shirt you’ll have better luck with the birds!” He laughs awkwardly.
“Oh, Eddie!” Richie seems to cheer up instantly, the excited shimmer returning to his eyes as he almost bounces in his seat. Letting the blanket fall to the filthy floor, he wipes his nose on the back of his hand, his sniffle long and wet and disgusting. “You do care!”
Eddie takes an automatic step back, deterred by the sight of dangerously mushy emotion.
“Let’s not go that far, matey. Just can’t stand the sight of you all doe-eyed, moping around the place like someone’s just pulled your plug out!”
But, after all these years, Richie is remarkably adept at translating Eddie-speak, and so he only frowns for a moment before the genuinely happy look is back on his face. He leaps up from his seat and advances on Eddie with arms spread, and even Eddie can tell he’s looking for a hug rather than violence.
Eddie thinks he would prefer the violence.
He puts his hand out in a halting motion when Richie is within striking distance, because there’s no way he’s letting the greasy bastard hug him. That’s where he draws the line. But then he sees how Richie’s little rabid chihuahua face falls at that, all pouty and looking dangerously close to a conniption, and he gives in.
He sighs, and rolls his eyes, and makes all kinds of noises that he hopes effectively portray how much of an inconvenience this is for him, but Eddie finally lets Richie tug him forward into an awkward hug. His shoulders are stiff and he’s leaning away, making Richie lean farther forwards to wrap his arms around him, but it’s really not all that bad. Warm, and awfully sweaty, but no worse. Almost even nice, if Eddie were the sort of person who likes hugs. (He isn’t. He’s never had reason to in the past, because very few people ever wanted to hug him in the first place. Violence was easier anyway.)
Thankfully the grease monster releases him quickly, and when he does Eddie takes another automatic step back. Well, that was part one of the surprise, complete with an unexpected pause for unwanted emotional business - time for part two, then. Eddie hopes Richie appreciates just how much effort he went to, A) finding the right pawn shop he’d flipped off the chess pieces to in the first place, and B) nicking the pieces right out from under the shop owner’s nose.
“Tell you what, Richie. Why don’t we play a game of chess?”
For his part, Richie just stares at him in confusion. Eddie could swear he’s even tilting his head slightly to the side, like a dog that vaguely recognizes the word “walk” even while in the act of pissing all over the rug. Richie frowns as if he can hear Eddie’s thoughts, but then glances towards the “study area.” Blue eyes float back over to Eddie.
“Come on Eddie, you know we haven’t got any pieces! Well, aside from your Spiderman figurine, but I think that sausage bishop’s gone green by now…”
“Yeah, well, why don’t you go on over and take a look?”
Richie gives him a strange look, but humours him. And again, he quickly brightens at the sight of the chess set, all present and correct and looking none the worse for wear.
“Great-Aunt Dorothy’s ivory chess set - it’s all here! Eddie! How on Earth did you manage it!”
Eddie shrugs. “I guess they just sort of… reappeared? Maybe it really was the cleaning lady that we haven’t got.” He feigns innocence, because he’s beginning to realise that even if he gets credit for getting the pieces back, that means admitting to pawning them off in the first place. Bollocks.
But Richie might be in possession of their shared brain cell today, because he seems to understand.
“... Thanks, Eddie.” He says it like it’s something venomous, and then a moment later follows it up with: “This feels weird, doesn’t it? It does.”
It does feel weird, but nobody has ever really thanked Eddie before, and he thinks it makes for a nice change. It’s about time he started getting some credit.
“Come on, Rich. Are we playing or what?”
Richie nods as he pulls out the chess board and tucks it under one arm, holding the box with the pieces in the other hand. Even his little prancing walk is back as he swishes over to the kitchen table and sweeps off enough of the debris to place the board down flat.
“This chess set was -”
“At Waterloo, yeah, you’ve said.”
This chess game doesn’t end in violence like the last; Eddie is even able to explain the rules another 26 times without losing his temper. Of course, Richie still doesn’t quite get the hang of it, and once again makes a request for music (by mixing up Beethoven with Beckett), and the game ends when he starts making the bishops ride the knights, but overall it almost passes for entertaining. Maybe even shockingly pleasant, even if Eddie does have to restrain himself from chucking an unruly pawn at Richie a few times.
It’s dark outside when they retire the chess set, to be forgotten until the next episode of mind-numbing, telly-less boredom. They stare towards the darkened telly, then towards the kitchen as their stomachs rumble in unison. Then, when Richie opens the fridge, sees the homemade cake (which is now slightly droopy and leaning to the right) and lights up with a new wave of rare joy, maybe just a little of that happiness spreads back to Eddie.
Happy Birthday, Richie, he thinks to himself as he takes a bite of the cake (and immediately grimaces as he cracks down on a bit of eggshell). Maybe it was a better one this year. The sad old wanker deserves it, just this once.