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Eddie quietly got up and out of bed and looked softly at Richie—who was out like a light, snoring, and blissfully unaware of what was going on around him. The larger man was wearing just his boxers—contrasting with Eddie, who was wearing Richie’s too-big tour shirt and his boxers—and his hair was ruffled while drool was on his mouth. Eddie just gave a soft sigh and smiled gently. Eddie had been living with Richie for 4 months now. Ever since his near-death and Richie’s confession, Eddie had been living life pretty good—actually, it had been great. That was until the nightmares became more frequent. Eddie had always had a sense that he shouldn’t be alive, but he was, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. Unless he… never mind. It’s not like he wants to die, right? It’s just an itching feeling. Eddie bit his lip and carefully made his way to the kitchen, which was also the dining area. It was dark, yet Eddie could make out the island and the stove. He took out his phone and turned the flashlight on, searching for the cabinet that had cups.
He was shutting cabinets left and right, trying not to be obnoxiously loud, and finally found the cups. He needed a drink—anything that could give him a distraction. He opened the fridge, searching through it, making a racket with every movement. Eddie really didn’t know how to be quiet; he always had to make a ruckus. Even when they were kids, Eddie was always the second loudest (Richie typically being first; even that was something Eddie tried competing with). Eddie poured himself some juice—yes, juice, because water was something that he didn’t seem to ever be in the mood for—and took some sleep aid. He faced away from the bedroom and set down the juice. Eddie just stood, shifting his stance on both feet. He really didn’t want to sleep, not again, but he knew he had to. Actually, that’s what Eddie had known his whole life—that he has to do things. He has to take his medication. He had to listen to his mom—who frankly was dead, but she still taunted him in his nightmares. He has to not freak out.
He is freaking out.
Eddie’s breathing was uneven, his heart was racing, and his legs were shaky. He slid down to the floor, making a loud thump. That definitely was going to wake up Richie if the ruckus from earlier didn’t. He pulled his knees close to his chest, his breathing heavier. Tears were forming in his eyes, and his chest felt tight. He was heaving and gagging as if he were going to throw up; he covered his mouth quickly. Something was wrong.
No—no, this wasn’t—
His chest tightened harder. Of course it is, Eddie’s brain snapped. Get it together. He shut his eyes tight and kept heaving. His chest was tight, the air felt suffocating, and worst of all—he heard footsteps. Heavy ones. Eddie began to cradle himself more, stuttering out breaths. He didn’t know why this was happening right now, out of all nights. He wished it would stop already, grasping tight to his hair like that would help.
“Eds?” a hoarse voice said. Light was illuminating Richie and his chubby body, making him look almost like an angel—a blurry one at that. Eddie didn’t dare look up; he couldn’t. His eyes were locked on the floor as he kept heaving and gagging, making all sorts of noises. Eddie felt a warm body sit next to him, shuffling on the cold kitchen floor. He was full-on sobbing now as it echoed through the silent apartment. Eddie was still shaking violently, and the crickets in the background reminded him that it was still night—reminding him that he was real.
“Eddie, hey,” Richie hesitated, sitting next to the smaller man, not risking touching him. Eddie stuttered out one more breath before looking up with his big doe eyes, fluttering his eyelashes, and leaning into Richie. “Are you—is this okay?” Richie hesitated again, hovering a hand over Eddie’s back. The smaller man just nodded, still hyperventilating.
Richie followed through, slowly rubbing Eddie’s back.
“‘S okay, Eds, it’s—it’s okay,” Richie murmured, voice low, a little rough with sleep. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Eddie shook his head immediately, breath catching halfway through, like it got stuck in his throat. His fingers curled tighter into Richie’s shirt, gripping hard. His body felt rigid and cold. Richie never turned the heater on during the night, so Eddie felt himself not only shaking because of the panic attack, but shivering due to the coldness.
“No—no, I can’t—” Eddie choked, the words breaking apart as another wave hit him. He gagged again, turning his head slightly, shoulders jerking. He was embarrassed enough as is, and even more so since Richie was having to see him like this. The only other person who had ever seen him panic this bad was his mother, who, not knowing what to do, had escalated the situation by screaming at him to calm down because she was panicking too. Eddie was just waiting for Richie to yell at him—to scream at him to stop and just calm down.
“Hey—hey… look at me,” Richie said softly, blinking hard, not forcing it, just there. “Eds, c’mon… just—just try, okay?”
Eddie’s eyes flickered up for half a second before dropping again, unfocused, glassy. He was crying more, and that startled Richie, causing him to flinch slightly.
“Okay—okay, that’s fine,” Richie adjusted quickly, voice a little uneven as he woke up more. “You don’t gotta look at me. That’s… that’s okay. Just—uh…”
He swallowed, dragging a hand briefly over his face. Eddie just heaved more, letting out deep, shaky breaths and gagging every so often.
“Just breathe with me, yeah?”
Eddie’s breathing hitched again, uneven, too fast.
Richie shifted a little closer, his hand still moving in slow circles on Eddie’s back.
“In… slow,” Richie demonstrated quietly, his own breath a little shaky at first. “Like—like this. You hear it?”
Eddie tried—he really did—but it came out broken, sharp, not enough air.
“I can’t—” Eddie whispered, panicked, shaking his head harder. “Richie, I can’t—”
Richie was really trying his best to calm him down—he really was—but he was also tired, very cold, and missed the bed. Not in a selfish way, of course not. Richie’s first objective was to calm down Eddie more than anything. He hooked his left hand underneath Eddie’s two scrawny legs and laid them on his lap, still demonstrating the breathing technique.
“Yes, you can,” Richie cut in gently, words slightly slurred together. “You—you already are, okay? You’re breathin’ right now. Just… slower. We’ll slow it down.”
Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, trying again. His chest still felt tight, like it wouldn’t open all the way, but he followed Richie’s voice as best as he could.
“In,” Richie repeated, softer now, his voice evening out as he focused. “There you go… that’s it. I’ve got you.”
Eddie’s breath stuttered, then caught, then came out shaky—but it was there.
Richie didn’t stop. He kept encouraging Eddie as his breaths became more settled and calm.
“That’s good, Eds… that’s really good. Just like that.”
His hand never left Eddie’s back, steady, grounding, like a rhythm Eddie could latch onto.
“Nothin’s gonna hurt you, okay?” Richie added quietly, words still a little blurred at the edges. “You’re not there. You’re—you’re here. You’re with me.”
Eddie let out a shaky exhale, fingers still clenched tight in Richie’s shirt.
“…with you,” Eddie repeated faintly, like he needed to hear it out loud to believe it.
“Yeah,” Richie said, softer, sleep still lingering in his voice. “Yeah… with me.” Richie yawned, bringing Eddie closer to him and fully cradling the smaller man in his lap. Eddie just snorted out a small laugh, then sighed deeply into the comfort. “It’s really cold on the floor,” Richie muttered. Eddie just let out a shaky breath.
Eddie’s breathing still hitched, uneven, but it wasn’t as sharp anymore. It came in pieces instead of all at once, like his body was finally starting to remember how to do it right.
“…hurts,” Eddie mumbled, voice small, almost embarrassed, like he didn’t want to admit it. He rubbed his throat and looked down, huddling more into Richie’s body, making himself seem smaller.
“I know,” Richie said quietly, no hesitation. “I know, Eds.”
Eddie glared at Richie when he said the nickname, and the larger man just gave a quiet laugh. “What?” Richie asked, playing dumb. “You… know what,” Eddie strained out, catching his breath. Both just looked at each other—Richie grinning, Eddie glaring intensely while still taking stuttered breaths. “Why were you up?” Richie asked, slightly cringing at how quick he was to ask that.
“I… didn’t wanna—” Eddie started, then stopped, breath catching again, though not as bad this time. “Didn’t wanna sleep.”
Richie’s hand paused for half a second, then resumed, slower.
“Yeah,” he said, softer. “I figured.”
Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t empty—just filled with Eddie’s uneven breathing, the faint sound of crickets outside, and Richie’s hand moving, steady and grounding. Eddie shuddered and moved closer into Richie, who was shivering himself.
“Thought I was back there,” Eddie admitted after a moment, words muffled.
Richie’s jaw tightened, just slightly. It was already bad enough that Richie was having those nightmares too—not that Eddie needed to know that—but that Eddie was too? That was not on Richie’s bingo card for tonight.
“You’re not,” he said gently, a little firmer this time. “You’re here. Kitchen floor, shitty apartment, middle of the night. Real glamorous stuff.”
Eddie huffed weakly at that, something that almost resembled a laugh, though it came out shaky.
“…shut up, asshole,” he muttered, giving Richie a small punch to the chest. The larger man made a small noise in response.
“Yeah, yeah,” Richie murmured, a faint smile in his voice. “That’s more like it.”
Eddie’s breathing evened out more with each passing second. Not perfect, still shaky at the edges, but steady enough. His grip loosened further, fingers just bunching the fabric of Richie’s shirt instead of clutching it. Eddie yawned—it was already really late at night, probably around two.
“You don’t have to,” he replied, just as quietly.
Eddie shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes were still glassy, lashes damp, but clearer now.
“…yeah?”
“Yeah,” Richie nodded. “We don’t gotta do anything you don’t wanna do. We can just… sit here. Or—uh—couch. Floor’s kinda gross.”
Eddie glanced down like he was only just realizing where they were.
“…oh.”
“Yeah. Real romantic,” Richie added softly, trying to lighten the mood.
That earned him another small, breathy huff. Eddie was reverting back to himself quicker than Richie imagined, but that’s Eddie for you.
Richie carefully adjusted his grip, not rushing it, like he was handling something fragile.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s get you up.
Eddie hesitated, but nodded, letting Richie help him to his feet. His legs wobbled a little, and Richie immediately steadied him, his hand firm at his side.
“I got you,” Richie said, quieter now, more certain.
They made their way to the couch slowly, Eddie staying close—almost glued—to Richie’s side. Once they sat down, Eddie didn’t really let go, just curled in again, his head dropping against Richie’s shoulder like it belonged there.
Richie didn’t comment n it. He just adjusted so Eddie was comfortable, pulling a throw blanket over him with one hand while the other kept that same slow, absent-minded motion against his back.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Eddie’s breathing continued to settle, evening out little by little, until it was finally something close to normal. Not perfect—but okay.
“…Richie?” Eddie mumbled after a bit.
“Mm?” Richie hummed.
“…you can go back to sleep.”
Richie didn’t answer right away.
His hand never stopped moving.
“Yeah,” he said eventually, voice soft, almost thoughtful.
He didn’t move.
Eddie shifted slightly, like he noticed, but didn’t push it.
“…you should,” Eddie added, quieter now.
“Probably,” Richie agreed.
Still didn’t move.
Eddie let out a slow breath, his eyes already starting to drift shut despite himself. The exhaustion was catching up now that the panic had burned through him.
“…sorry,” he mumbled.
Richie frowned a little at that, barely visible in the dim light.
“Don’t,” he said simply.
Eddie didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy to.
A few minutes passed. Maybe more.
Eddie’s breathing grew softer. Slower. Even.
Richie noticed the exact moment it changed.
He always did.
His hand stilled for a second—just to check—before resuming, lighter now, more absent than intentional.
Eddie was asleep.
Really asleep.
Richie leaned his head back against the couch, eyes open, staring somewhere unfocused across the room. The apartment was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft rhythm of Eddie breathing against him.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Richie listened, wanting to accept the fact that this was real—that Eddie was real.
He shifted slightly so Eddie wouldn’t slip, adjusting the blanket again, tucking it closer around him without waking him.
“…yeah,” Richie murmured under his breath, barely audible.
He didn’t go back to bed.
Didn’t even try.
Instead, he stayed exactly where he was—awake, still, listening to every breath like it mattered.
Like it counted.
Like if he stopped paying attention, something might go wrong. As if Eddie could just disappear from him, that none of this would be real, that Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier would be left alone all over again, before Derry.
So he didn’t stop paying attention.
He just stayed.
All night. Watching. Looking.