Chapter Text
As kids, Bill and Bev tended to keep their relationship private. A side effect of only having mutual friends, Richie assumed. But privacy is relative. And though no one said anything about it, a thick tension descended on the group whenever there was conflict.
And for some reason, Richie was sensitive to the idea that someone’s love life could upend the entire group.
As such, he tended to become even more talkative when times were tense. He wasn’t about to tell any of the Losers they were important to him, but he did make a deal with Bev that if neither of them were married by 40 they would move in together with the most fucked-up looking Sphynx cat they could find.
It didn’t hurt that Eddie looked on to these proceedings with an air of displeasure that Richie could hope was jealousy. But mostly, for two people who didn’t really believe in a white picket fence future for themselves, it was a nice consolation to play at domestic corner.
He brings up the deal 27 years later, while the two of them are sitting on rickety chairs in the hospital waiting room.
“I know Ben’s probably already given you a promise ring made of a sewer bottlecap or something, but if you wanna be a bachelorette for a little while, I have like. An obnoxiously large apartment.”
Bev smiles. “Will you buy me a promise Sphynx?”
Richie’s trying not to pin all his hopes on Eddie moving in with them. But he’s got a pull-out couch, just in case. Roses are red, you think germs are ew, but the couch pulls out, and I can too.
He’ll work on the pitch.
When Eddie wakes up, Grand Designs is on TV.
He watches Richie watch it for 2 minutes, cataloguing a few days of stubble growth, greasy hair, and some impressive eyebags. Then he turns and does a double-take, pretty fucking similar to the ones Eddie had seen him do on Netflix specials.
Richie stares for a long moment, then says, “I’m not changing the channel.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, not feeling up to much more, and lays back.
He swallows 3 times, until his throat felt a little less dry and says, “I don’t like hospitals.”
Richie’s face goes all drawn and sad, which was not meant to happen. “I know man, I’m sorry. It’s just for a little while.”
Eddie, still hazy, struggles with how to convince Richie to prison break him without making his eyes do that shiny thing they were doing.
“Do you. Do you know the rates of MRSA?”
Well, now Richie was grinning, which in a way was more concerning.
“Yeah, I think you might have told me about it two or three hundred times.”
And Eddie promptly falls asleep.
The next time Eddie wakes up, the man on the TV was walking through a house shaped like a beehive. Eddie wonders if Richie somehow hooked the TV up to stream Grand Designs on an endless loop.
“God.” He says. “Just suck Ben’s dick already.” He’s gonna blame the medication for his current lack of a filter.
A high-pitched, slightly hysterical laugh came out of Richie. “What do you think his minimalist sex dungeon looks like? A nice teak sex swing?”
Eddie wrinkles his nose, which-you brought it up, Eds. “He probably only has sex in like, a bed made of rose petals.”
“He gets out his dental dam organiser, asks which one the lady prefers-”
“Why would the lady have a preference?”
“Flavours.” Richie says. “Y’know, some women can taste through their-”
“Absolutely not.” says Eddie. “That is absolutely not true. Is this some fucking Goop bullshit? Do you take advice from Goop, Richie?”
“Ok,” Richie shrugs exaggeratedly. “Well, then I don’t know why Sonia wanted me to shove all those Twinkies in-”
“I’m gonna kill you,” Eddie says as Richie breaks off in laughter. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
Eddie jolts awake, the next time.
“Is everyone ok?”
“Jesus.” Richie has a hand to his chest. “You fucking scared me. Yeah, we. We got it. We got out.”
“Have they left?”
“Bev’s still here. The others-uh. You slept for a while. But- I was supposed to send photographic evidence of you awake and ranting, so, you know. Got any thoughts on declining vaccine uptake?”
Eddie flips him the bird and lets Richie snap a photo of it.
“Hey.” Eddie says. “Just. Give me the rundown of all the shit that’s wrong with me. I can handle it, I just wanna fucking know.”
Richie looks at him blankly for a second. “Uh, the doctors were using a lot of multisyllabic words, and you know I don’t do well with those.”
“Like multisyllabic?”
“I know one,” Richie says, looking sadly at his lap.
“Ok, look,” he adds, when Eddie sits in unimpressed silence. “I will get a nurse.”
The nurse explains that Eddie is surprisingly well, minus the scarring. His periods of consciousness were getting longer as they weaned him off the drugs they put him on. Slightly disappointing, as dawning clarity raised questions such as What the fuck do I tell my wife? And Do I still have a job? And What about Richie?
It’s convenient, then, that Richie seems to have some answers. Or at least, can let Eddie delay answering questions for a little while. He comes in on Sunday morning with a bag of Skittles he drops on Eddie’s bed, sits down and says abruptly, “Y’know after this, my apartment has a spare bed, if you want. A break.”
“Yes.” says Eddie. “Please.”
Richie blinks at him a few times before, “Cool, cool. Oh, um, Bev’ll be there too, so like. High school reunion.”
“Oh.” says Eddie, a little too delayed.
Richie searches his face for a minute. “…That ok?”
“Yeah.” Eddie says. “Yeah, obviously, that’s…awesome.” That may have been too much. He hasn’t said ‘awesome’ in 17 years.
“Awesome,” Richie repeats in a drawl straight outta Point Break.
Eddie rolls his eyes. “What, what fucking word do your fans use? ‘Cumworthy’?”
At which Richie bursts out laughing, so. He’s still got it.
On Eddie’s last day in the hospital, Bev and Richie come in together. Richie eats the jelly cup that Eddie doesn’t want.
“I think it’s time,” he says between spoonfulls, “for us to start thinking about adoption.”
Eddie gives him a long, expectant eyebrow raise.
“I’m thinking a pitbull,” he says, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
Eddie scoffs. “Oh, you wanna come home to find me and Bev submerged in our own blood a second time?”
Richie gets a little queasy. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
“What do you think then, Eddie?” Bev asks. She’s perched on the side of his bed, eating from a stupidly large Skittles bag that Richie brought.
Eddie pauses. “A dachshund.”
“Short king solidarity.” says Richie, holding up a fist, to which Eddie flips the bird. “But what about getting a pug with one of those cute little squashed noses-”
“Mouth-breather solidarity.” Eddie responds.
Richie grins. “For some reason I’m drawn to those big sad eyes, and the constant frown and forehead wrinkles-” He cocks his head, looking at Eddie, “Hey, wait a minute-”
“Fuck you,” Eddie says, disentangling his hand from the bedsheet so he can do his angry-point at Richie. “Fuck you, I’m not a pug.”
Bev lets out a suspicious cough, and Eddie looks to her with betrayal in his eyes.
“I’m not a pug.” He says despondently.
“No, honey, you’re a chihuahua.” says Bev, tucking a curl behind his ear.