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"Sorry," Richie said roughly after pulling away. He didn't look that sorry. What he did look was debauched, and a little heart broken.
His hand, still cradling Eddie's jaw, should've felt rough and heavy. Instead it was soft and tender, and Eddie rubbed the unstabbed side of his face against it like a cat. Richie gasped, a near-inaudible thing, but stayed stock still: after five days in post-operative care, Eddie had stubble. It always left his cheeks with the feel of a particularly bristly short-hair dog, those yappy ones rich women carry in their purses. He wouldn't put it past Richie to draw a comparison between said dogs and Eddie if he mentioned this out loud. The thought made him smile, but it wasn’t just that. It felt good, to have Richie touch him. It felt good to touch back.
He could feel Richie's gaze stuck to the side of his face before he even opened his eyes again, and momentarily Richie looked goofy as shit—though really, when did he not? But his mouth had parted, like when he’d been hypnotized by the deadlights. That made Eddie sober up. His hand twitched on the bedspread, gripping at the rough sheets, Jesus, couldn’t they invest in higher quality cotton for recovering patients, and Richie snapped out of it. His hands were still on Eddie’s face, buzzing hot, static touch he felt in every fiber of his body. He blinked—a sharp breath in, a slower breath out, two, three...
Richie withdrew his hands. It looked like it'd taken some real effort. Eddie's face felt cold; his lips, too.
"Don’t be sorry."
The flimsy plastic chair squeaked, Richie leaning back like he’d just been slapped.
It took Eddie a second to realize, but his own mouth had been the one to say that. It should’ve shocked him, it really should’ve, except when he thought about it, he found that it was true. The feeling was glowing, intensifying in his chest with a clarity he'd never felt in twenty-seven goddamned years. The curse was fucking broken, and every thought and feeling wasn't hiding around a corner behind an old curtain anymore. At the forefront was this one: Eddie was married. Another one: Eddie was married, and he didn't give a shit. A final one: Eddie had been loving Richie in a way that was not at all platonic for years, and Richie had just kissed him—out of preemptive mourning, or out of life-long love and want and desperation—after spending five days by his bedside.
An addendum: They both wanted to do it again.
"Rich," he said, extending his hand—Richie immediately grabbed it. He ran his thumb over Eddie's knuckles in awe, a tender motion over and over as if he hadn't been doing it already whenever he thought Eddie was asleep. But Eddie understood. It was different to think you have to steal something than to be allowed to take it freely. "C'mon."
"Eds," Richie said, voice trembling.
Eddie snorted. He tugged Richie by the sleeve, reeled him in closer. Richie came easy—and with his hands back on Eddie's stubbly cheeks, he took everything Eddie wanted to give him.