Work Text:
I got a feelin' wounds are healin', talkin' on the phone
I know everybody changes, but I hope that we don't
Carve our names into the car seat leather
u + me = <3 forever
-- -- --
Eddie’s stay at the hospital lasted almost a year. For the most part, it was the fault of the injuries. Turns out, when your entire midsection is impaled, it takes a while for doctors to fix it. But part of it, also, was the fact that they chose to keep him in Derry rather than transfer him to a bigger, more well-equipped facility. They had their reasoning for that. First, they didn’t want anyone outside of Derry to see the extent of Eddie’s wounds; they’d gotten lucky. It seems that, even if the monster itself is gone, the fog over the town still remains in some ways. Ways that make it unlikely that anyone questions things like this. Which leads to the second part of it–being in Derry increased his chances of survival exponentially. If they’d taken him somewhere else, they suspect he wouldn’t have made it off the table.
The other Losers popped in and out when they could make it work with their schedules. Beverly would’ve come by more often if it weren’t for the whole “getting divorced” thing, or the “splitting her and her ex-husband’s company up” thing. Ben only came when Bev did. Bill was a frequent visitor toward the end, once filming for his movie wrapped up finally. Mike came once or twice a week, made easy by the fact that he lived and worked just down the road.
And then there was Richie. Richie, who called his agent demanding that the rest of his shows be cancelled. Richie, whose social media pages had to be turned private due to the amount of confusion and backlash from fans and haters alike. Sometime during the first month, he was sleep-deprived and especially angry, so he tweeted out something along the lines of “I almost fucking died, give me a break”--which was almost instantly deleted by management. He didn’t care, not about any of it. Not about the backlash, or about how he was most definitely in violation of his contract. None of it mattered.
The day Eddie became conscious again was, in Richie’s eyes, akin to the second-coming of Jesus Christ himself. It was almost instantly ruined by Myra, who got the ping when Eddie’s phone turned back on, but it was a miracle nonetheless.
For months after, Myra squawked her head off. Most of it was semi-reasonable, kinda. When the nurses would be late with Eddie’s dinner, or something was off, or he looked uncomfortable (which is always), her complaints made sense. It was when she was complaining about Richie that things got out of hand. Once, she shouted for five straight minutes because Richie’s chair was closer to Eddie’s bed than hers. Eddie’s vocal cords were still fried from, well, everything, so he couldn’t tell either of them to shut the fuck up.
But now, he’s better. He’ll most definitely be in and out of hospitals for the rest of his life, but he’s better. He can go home, back to New York City. He can go back to pretending Derry doesn’t exist, just like the rest of the Losers Club has.
Richie has other plans, though.
“Where are we going?” Eddie asks grumpily, glaring out the passenger window. It’d taken half an hour to convince Myra to allow this, to allow them one last reckless adventure before ushering her husband back to the Big Apple. They’re set to meet her at the Inn after this. Richie’s flight to Chicago is set to leave that evening. The clock is ticking.
“Geez,” Richie utters in response, his hands tightening involuntarily on the steering wheel. “Ever heard of a surprise, Spagheds?”
“Fuck you.”
A pause. The air in the rental car thickens.
Eddie grunts. “Don’t surprise me too hard. I could die.”
Richie huffs a laugh, but it’s not funny. He’s seen Eddie almost-die enough times in the last few months to know that he isn’t joking.
He pulls onto the bridge, slowing the car to a stop. In the corner of his eye, he can see Eddie looking at him. It’s an expression he recognizes like no other, the “what the fuck are you doing, dumbass?” look. Outwardly, Richie doesn’t allow himself to react. He doesn’t want to work up his nerves. This is important. He has to do this. He pulls the key from the ignition.
Moments later, they’re standing against the fence, staring off at the woods surrounding the stream. Richie’s brought back to that day at the barrens. The day they first met Ben. The day this nonsense all started, really. Part of him still resents Bill for that. Stan’s dead. Eddie almost died, too. But the other part of him, the part he wishes would just be quiet, knows that this was unavoidable. That fucker would’ve come for them all anyway. They had to face it; they were prime targets, especially back then.
“So…” Richie says. “What’re you gonna do when you get home?”
“Go back to work,” Eddie replies flatly. Like it’s obvious. Like there’s no other choice. “I’m lucky they didn’t fire me.”
Richie’s brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Firing a top employee because he was in critical condition at the hospital is…” Eddie shrugs. His eyes remain locked on the terrain in front of them. “Bad optics, to say the least.”
“I mean, I guess. I just…assumed that the big, evil insurance company wouldn’t be so gracious.”
Eddie scoffs. “Okay, asshole. Were you wanting me to get fired, or what?”
“No.” Richie puts his hands up defensively. “That’s not what I’m saying. God, don’t jump me—”
“Why are we here?”
Again, they pause. Neither of them says a word. The birds chirp, for once. They can’t remember if they ever heard birds chirping in Derry before. The bubble’s finally popped. The town feels alive in a way it never did when they were kids.
“I just wanted to talk to you for a while,” Richie mutters, rubbing his elbows. He’s uncomfortable—or, no, uncomfortable is an understatement. What is he doing? Is he really about to out himself like this? His arms feel itchy. There’s a lump in his throat. He’s gonna throw up. No. He’s not. Wait, actually, yes—“You know…before we leave.”
Eddie, agitated now, shoves Richie in the side. Hard.
“Fucking Christ, dude,” he practically growls. “You dragged me all the way out here so that we can talk? We could’ve talked in the parking lot, asshole! Do you even know how much pain I’m in right now? How much it hurts to stand?” He bangs a hand against the fence. “You suck, man.”
Richie tries not to take it to heart. “Sorry.”
“Sorry? Yeah, I’d sure hope that you’re sorry.” A beat. “I can’t even…what made you think this was a good idea? I could get an infection out here!”
“You’re not gonna get an infection, Spaghetti—”
“Don’t fucking call me that!” Eddie snaps. “I told you that I don’t like when you call me that—”
“I need to show you something.”
The words surprise them both, even Richie, despite the fact that he’s the one who said them. It feels like there’s a frog ribbiting in his stomach. He fiddles with his fingers.
Eddie takes a breath. His posture eases. He grimaces; he must’ve pulled on the wound somehow.
“What?” He asks calmly.
Another beat. Another bird’s cry. A deer runs through the trees, rustling the leaves and bushes. Richie slowly leads Eddie to the end of the bridge, to where the carving is. It’s a bit difficult to make out now, but clear if you know what you’re looking for.
R + E
Eddie stares down at the wood. Richie doesn’t; his gaze is focused everywhere else. His heart is about to beat right out of his chest. It’s a surprisingly chilly day, but he’s sweating through his zip-up jacket.
“What the fuck is that.”
It isn’t a question, because Eddie isn’t stupid enough to not know what this is. But there’s a block between what his eyes are seeing and what it actually means cognitively.
“I, uh…” Richie flexes his fingers. “I did that.”
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Why?”
Richie doesn’t reply. He can’t. He’s choking on the words. His face is hot. His eyes burn, and he’s struggling to keep them open. There’s a white-hot pain in his palms from where his overgrown fingernails are digging through his skin. He’s bleeding. He’s fucking bleeding over this. How stupid is that?
And then, without Richie needing to say a word—
“Ah. Okay.” Eddie sighs. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…”
Nothing happens after that.
They get back into the car and drive back toward the motel, where Myra is waiting impatiently. Richie tries his best not to bash his head in with the steering wheel. Eddie sits with his arms crossed, his head against the window.
Finally, the motel comes into view. Richie pulls into a parking space crookedly. He doesn’t look at Eddie. He just waits for the other man to get out of the car so he can start his journey of forgetting this ever happened.
Eddie opens the door, the shitty old hinges squeaking. He lifts one leg out.
Then he puts it back in. The door shuts.
He clicks his tongue.
Richie turns his head. “What?”
“So, uh…” Eddie asks, “When exactly did you do that?”
A beat.
“That summer everything happened,” Richie answers. His voice is quiet, but sure. “After we all split up. I, uh…I dunno. It’s fucking stupid. Who cares? I don’t even know why I bothered showing you that. You’ve got enough going on.”
Eddie doesn’t react outwardly. “So all the rumors…the things people said…”
“All true.” Richie shrugs. “I told you. I don’t write my own material. I’m not really a—”
“Total ladies man?” Eddie finishes for him.
“Yeah. That.”
Even more time passes. It sounds like there’s a clock ticking, but there’s no clock around, so Richie knows it has to be his own ears fucking with him.
“I don’t…” Eddie shakes his head. His fingers tug at his hospital-issue sweatpants. “I don’t think I can go back after this. I feel claustrophobic just fucking thinking about it.”
“Wh…what do you mean?”
“My life, man!” He snaps. “My—everything! Myra, my job, my stupid goddamn apartment, I…”
The phantom clock returns.
Eddie sighs. “I need something…different.”
Richie swallows the lump in his throat, giving a slight nod in reply. “That’s big for you to admit.”
“Yeah, well,” Eddie laughs, “almost dying will do that.”
Suddenly, it’s like they’re back in that cave. It’s like the light in Eddie’s eyes is starting to dim again, and the other Losers are tugging at Richie’s shirt collar as he screams for them to stop. To not leave Eddie there. That he isn’t gone yet. It’s like he’s leaping out of their grip again, tearing one of Ben’s fingernails. Like he’s feeling that adrenaline rush again, throwing Eddie’s too-heavy, too-limp body over his shoulder. He can still see the looks in Bev and Bill’s eyes, the ones that say they know there’s nothing they can do.
Richie’s bottom lip quivers. “God.” He buries his face in his hands. “God, Eds, I…”
Eddie says nothing. He just listens.
“They couldn’t pull me away,” Richie mutters. “If I couldn’t leave with you, I…I wouldn’t have left at all. I would’ve sat there if I had to.”
“…Why?” Eddie asks, but he already knows.
Richie’s laugh is nothing short of uncomfortable. “C’mon, dickhead. I’ve embarrassed myself enough. Don’t make me say it out loud.”
Eddie backs off, thankfully.
He says instead, “I’m probably gonna divorce Myra.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s fine, but…” He shakes his head. “I don’t think she’s good for me. Especially not after…all of this…”
Richie hums. They aren’t looking at each other, just looking out their respective windows. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel for what feels like the thousandth time before asking, “And then what’re you gonna do?”
“I’ll, uh…”
Eddie pulls at the door handle. The click of it popping open fills the space.
“I’ll give you a call.”
He leaves.
Richie doesn’t celebrate until he’s halfway back to Chicago.