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Just, you know, for the record, Eddie did not want to be here, in Derry's sewer system. Again. The first time, sure, he'd been willing enough, even if it was literal hell on his nervous system. He'd managed to keep everything but his shoes and socks dry, and leave those out in the sun until he got home. It was for Bill— for Georgie, and he refused to be left behind while his best friends did what they could to look for him, even if Stan probably would have stayed with him.
The second time, at Bill's insistence, he sucked up his own worries and trotted through all that disgusting grey water again. Every step had Eddie's imagination swarming with all the microbes he knew laid in the water, invisible to his naked eye. Every time his palm so much as brushed another part of his body, his brain subconsciously catalogued it, saving it as a now dirty area he'd have to go back and sanitize later.
But now these trips were getting ridiculous. It was the third time they'd all come down to the sewer system, and Eddie felt bad for even thinking it, he really did, but it was clear Georgie wasn't fucking going to be there. They'd already found that girl's shoe, and if there was anything of Georgie's here, well, they would have found it already. Sue him, okay! He wanted the kid to be okay, he really did. He'd search up and down the woods and hang up fliers every week if it meant returning Bill's younger brother to the Denbrough family, but if they were going to find something down here, between the festering diseases and larvae breeding grounds, they would have days ago.
It wasn't safe, dammit, and nobody seemed to care. Hardly anyone even listened to him when he listed all the bacteria probably present, all the symptoms they could wrack up wading through water like this. Anyone but Richie, of course. Richie, who took Eddie's statistics and turned them into stand-up, who poked and prodded at the stiff bundle of nerves that was Eddie Kaspbrack until he was ready to explode, his original fears melting away into a much more familiar, more comfortable feeling: exasperated irritation for his bespectacled friend.
And really, though Eddie would rather subject himself to Tozier-level mom jokes for the rest of eternity than admit it, Richie's teasing helped. It was distracting, it was grounding, and the banter gave him a way to let out all the nervous energy that would otherwise simmer and bubble just under his skin the whole time they were there. Yelling at Richie let him blow off all of those unwanted emotions that left Eddie feeling prickly and unclean, and he knew the other boy rarely ever took it to heart. Rather, he just shot whatever Eddie threw right back at him, or said nothing but a barking laugh. It was a welcome release for his pent-up emotions, misdirected as they were. Having Richie around was… nice. It was, okay? So Eddie actually liked having his friend around, sue him.
The only problem was, everyone had already left, and that included Richie. To his credit, he had tried to stay, had tried to walk Eddie home, but Eddie couldn't go home because this time, he had tripped and he was covered in grey water, fucking soaked. Eddie was grossed out, he was tired, he was dirty, but worst of all he'd snapped at Bill for bringing them down here and he'd snapped at Richie for trying to help, and he hated himself for how he treated them when he was overwhelmed, biting their heads off for for no good fucking reason. He was also, he was pretty sure, having a panic attack now. He moved to stand in the creek that fed the sewers, assessing the situation and counting his symptoms off in a mental checklist: tight chest, tingling in his extremities, shallow breaths, heart palpitations.
He forced himself to even his breathing and eventually continued his observations: blurred vision, wet socks and shorts that were ruined, coated in brown muck that made him gag, scraped palms where he'd caught himself on an old, rusted metal scrap. Great. He was probably going to get tetanus. Tetanus from the scrape and possibly even influenza from the chill that had long since seeped into his bones. He could even contract gastroenteritis, or— or norovirus. He could have fucking parasites, for Christ sakes! Fuck, shit, now his breathing was uneven again. Jesus, Eddie, just in and out, it's okay.
He needed his inhaler, but felt too shaky to even try to reach for it. If he grabbed it and dropped it in the water… Shaking his head to dispel the idea and the spiral that would surely accompany it, Eddie tried to compose himself with a different method.
He just needed to breathe. If he didn't regulate his oxygen intake, he would get dizzy, and then… oh. He was already dizzy. Really dizzy, actually. Not even alert enough to care about the moss and algae around him, Eddie lowered himself onto a damp rock as he gripped his knees until they hurt.
The thing was, he should be able to go home and shower, change into nice clothes, and go to bed. He wanted to go home and shower, to have his mom scoff like Mrs. Denbrough, or roll her eyes fondly with a mutter of "Oh, boys," like Mrs. To— like Maggie would. For her to grin after insisting he take his shoes off and "clean up right away, mister," like Mrs. Hanlon might.
No, Eddie's Ma would reel back as if electrocuted by the sight of him, then rush forward, smothering him instantly, reminding him of every one of his fears, blaming his messy state on his friends and pelting him with questions.
She'd probably put him under house arrest after taking him to their family doctor, Dr. Jacob, whom he visited often enough to be on a first name basis with. She would do all that and more and Eddie would let her, because he was a coward, because he was weak, because he hated how cold she got with him when he refused to listen to her. Eddie would let her because a small part of him would think what if she's right even when he knew it was all just bullshit, and that torturous phrase would stick and wheedle its way into his brain like the very parasites he'd spent all afternoon trying to avoid.
So instead of going home, Eddie sat there, wet, dirty, scared, and now hyperventilating. He was mad at himself, and wished for a shower, for a safe space to just be clean and, childish though it made him feel, for someone to be there with him. To listen, force his hand from his knee, place their own, gentler pressure on him. He wished for Richie.
As if summoned by his thinking alone, suddenly a loud, high-pitched voice broke Eddie out of his trance-like worry, and the creek around him snapped into focus almost painfully quickly. A rush of salty, cold air filled his lungs as plastic settled on his lips and he gripped the inhaler around someone else's hands desperately. Was the sun setting already? And who was so close to him, Jesus, couldn't they just— oh. Oh, it was Richie.
Richie who'd come back looking for him, who had both of Eddie's hands in one of his own so his tender, red kneecaps could catch a break. Richie whose glasses were inches from pressing into Eddie's face.
"— And everyone went home hours ago; you're here still sewer'ed up! I thought you would have cleaned up immediately dude, even I showered and you know I only usually do that on full moons. Eds? Eddie, oh thank god you're coming back. Lost you there for a minute, man."
Eddie's eyes, which he was pretty sure had a glazed, absent look to them, sharpened as he moved to shove Richie a few inches back, giving himself room to breathe. What he didn't do was move his hands out from his friends grip. Instead, Eddie held on like Richie was a lifeline. Because he kind of was one, right now. Always had been, where Eddie was concerned.
"Jesus Christ, don't call me that. Are you going to let me answer even one of those comments or keep pestering me 'till I air dry?" Eddie snapped. As he made his retort he realized he had mostly air dried, and what was left of the contaminated water had clung in a film, sticky and greyish brown, to his pale skin. Great. His clothes were ruined and he was filthy, and he couldn't just fucking shower and—
"Hey, Spaghetti, it's okay, it's okay," Richie reassured him, and Eddie realized his breathing had become shallow again. He swallowed shakily and forced his lungs to capacity slowly, exhaling through his nose until his pulse slowed to something more manageable. Richie's hand was still on him, now loosely gripping his wrists, so his heartbeat wasn't completely back to normal, but that was nobody's business but Eddie's.
"I'm sorry," Richie started, like he wasn't a literal angel in the eyes of Eddie Kaspbrack right now. The setting sun left an orange glow on his silhouette, his shower-damp curls framing his round, worried face, and Eddie thought he was beautiful.
"Beep beep, Richie," his friend laughed nervously, adjusting his glasses. "You're clearly freaking the fuck out, I didn't mean to like, I dunno, make it worse or anything. I just kind of panicked seeing you panicked, so… uh, yeah. Sorry, Spageds. Eddie," he rambled. He placed the inhaler in one of Eddie's still captive hands, his own now free to run it through his hair, but as soon as he lowered it, Eddie reached for him, shifting so he now had a hand on each of Richie's wrists, tugging at him gently to get his attention, inhaler balanced awkwardly in his grip.
"Shut up," Eddie snapped. "Shut up, I'm being a dick right now and I was a huge dick earlier and I should be apologizing right now, not you, so shut your mouth."
Richie just blinked at him for a moment, face almost owlish with his head tilted slightly as he listened. His skin was flushed, probably from running over here, and tinged orange in the sunset. He went stock-still, then shrugged.
"It's all cool, man," he said, and then added, because of course he did, "If you wanna see an actual big dick, you know—"
"Oh my god. I'm trying to apologize and you're yammering about your wang. Wow."
"Funny you thought of mine, I hadn't even gotten to that part yet," he snarked, and then, tone not softening, exactly, but taking a more serious lilt, "Eds, it's really okay. You fucking fell over into that nasty shit, I get it. I'm sure Bill does too."
God, was Eddie grateful for his friends. He couldn't think of a group of people that knew him better, the few adults in his life included.
"I just— I hated falling into that mess, and then I took it out on you guys. Or whatever. It wasn't cool."
"No," Richie agreed, way too chill about the whole situation, kinder than Eddie deserved, "It wasn't. It's been established, you apologized, we're all good. I hope that's not why you're still out here?" He gracefully didn't mention Eddie's panic attack, or the tears Eddie could feel drying on his face. When had he been crying?
"No, asswipe. I can't—" Eddie sighed, embarrassed. He wanted to swipe at his face but his hands were too dirty to be anywhere near his eyes or mouth. "I can't go home, okay! My Ma's gonna fucking kill me if she sees me looking like this, are you kidding me? I just, I didn't know where to go," he admitted, voice quieting on the final sentence, defeated and ashamed, though what for, he couldn't quite say.
Richie looked at him like he was holding back about a thousand different words, which was a feat in itself. His mouth opened, then closed again, rather aggressively. His lips scrunched as he pressed them together, and Eddie wanted to kiss them until they smoothed out.
The thought took him by surprise, even though it shouldn't have; it was a far cry from new. Still, it made him aware enough to drop Richie's hands, freeing his friend as Richie said, "Dumbass, just shower at mine."
Right. Like that was the logical conclusion Eddie should have come to. Like, of course, Eds, Mi—
"Mi casa, su casa, S'ghetti. You know that," Richie said with another infuriating shrug. His hand, which he had waved around while making his point, landed almost thoughtlessly on Eddie's knee, and suddenly his heart rate was up again and he could feel his face flushing, which was embarrassing because Richie had said that in his southern Voice, and his Texan drawl was horrible, really, so he shouldn't feel as charmed as he did. But it was Richie, who unfortunately charmed Eddie just by breathing, that fucking shit stain.
Huffing what even he knew was a completely unnecessary sigh, Eddie pushed himself off the rock, offering his hand down to Richie to help pull him up. He unzipped his fanny pack, moving to return his inhaler to its spot— and saw it already sitting there, neatly tucked in beside his afternoon pills. What the hell?
Eddie was too busy holding out the inhaler and squinting at it to notice Richie's bright red flush when he explained, "It's not yours, uh, it's a spare. You left it at my place once and I… well, I keep it around in case."
Too floored to respond, taken aback by how thoughtful Richie was, Eddie didn't answer. Clearly taking the silence the wrong way, Richie immediately jumped into another Voice, this one British. "Well, it's downright creepy, aint it? I sure hope you don't think so lad, no, because it worked in a pinch today, eh?"
Eddie rolled his eyes as he reassured his friend. "It's not creepy," he promised, an odd pang in his chest as he returned the inhaler to Richie. Somehow, it felt like giving away a part of himself, and he found that he didn't mind the idea of that as much as he thought he might, not when it was Richie he was giving himself over to."Thanks, Rich."
"Sure thing old chap, sure thing. Tally-ho, then, lets get you cleaned," Richie answered, face splitting into a grin as he ran ahead. Eddie cursed him out, jogging to keep up.
Richie Tozier was going to be the death of him.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Maggie Tozier had, just as Eddie had suspected, rolled her eyes fondly when she saw Richie slam open his door, whistling out of tune with a very obviously bedraggled Eddie behind him. Instead of rounding on him, though, she turned to her son.
"Really, Richie, why is your friend still dirty? Let him all alone to tidy yourself up, did you?"
One of the many, many wonderful things about Richie's mom was that she knew exactly what Sonia was like and didn't coddle Eddie because of it, nor did she ask uncomfortable questions like, Eddie, dear, is your mom not home yet? Not that we're not happy to have you, of course. Just making sure everything's alright, don't you want to clean up in your own bathroom? No, Maggie already knew exactly the kind of shitstorm of trouble Eddie would be in if he came home looking like he did, which was why she stood in her living room berating her own son for not inviting him over sooner.
Eddie kind of wanted to cry, but he felt sort of hollowed out and had the impression that he had, at some point earlier today without realizing it, used up his quota of tears for the day. Right. Maggie was fussing over Richie instantly, cupping his cheek while he stuck out his tongue and pretended to swat her away. It all looked a bit surreal to Eddie, like a photo with it's exposure way too high. No matter how many times he saw Richie with his mom, it always struck Eddie as something that couldn't possibly be real, a relationship straight from a cheesy film.
The thought was pushed away by an insistent Richie who started shoving him upstairs, a kiss from Maggie still warming his cheek.
"—And I'll grab you some clothes, you actually left your pants at the last sleepover, I can't believe your mom didn't notice you went home in pajamas. But I'll give you one of my shirts, incredibly generous of me, I know. I— er, I'll grab you some boxers too, clean ones. If that's okay, I mean, you probably don't want to wear your old ones after you change, so… " He continued on with some joke or another. Eddie wasn't really listening; it fell on deaf ears. He blinked, realizing they were already in the hallway. They'd stopped between the two doors leading to Richie's room and the bathroom respectively.
"Hey, Rich," Eddie said, internally cringing when it came out hardly above a whisper.
"Yeah, Eddie?" Richie had his hand on the doorknob, half turned to his friend while he spoke, but he froze at the quiet way Eddie said his name, arm dropping as he turned to face the shorter boy.
"Just… thank you. For looking 'round for me even though I pissed you guys off, and also, you know—" Eddie made an aborted, jerky motion with his hand to the bathroom door.
Richie smiled, adjusting his glasses even though they were actually straight before, leaving them now laying slightly crooked on his round, high cheeks. "Sure thing, Eds. No man left behind and allat, isn't that right?" He turned and headed into his room before Eddie got the chance to reply, before he could so much as protest the nickname. But he was back as soon as he'd left, Eddie's pants neatly folded with a soft, light blue shirt balled on top. It was clear which item had been folded by Maggie, and which was "folded" by Richie.
He held the clothes out to Eddie, and when Eddie reached out to grab them, he was painfully aware of where their fingers brushed. He had expected Richie to pull away, to move, anything, but he didn't. Instead, he shook his head, then said, "I wasn't pissed off, by the way. Sure, it annoyed me for like, two seconds that you yelled, but it was pretty easy to see why, obviously. Besides," he added with a wink that did absolutely nothing to Eddie's chest, thank you very much, "You know I love it when you yell at me, Eddie my love."
It was that stupid fucking nickname. Eddie hated it, he wanted to hear it everyday. He wanted it to mean something outside of a dumb joke.
Saying none of that, he just rolled his eyes, shoving Richie back using the pile of clothes. "dickwad," he shot back. "You total asswipe."
"Asswipes are in there, buck-o," Richie replied with a smirk, pointing to the bathroom door. Eddie walked backwards into the room, flipping Richie off the whole way there. The gesture was returned with delight, and it was all Eddie could do to keep the grin off his face.
Eddie Kaspbrack hated using showers that weren't his own. Hell, he hated using bathrooms that weren't the one in his living or across from his bedroom, and tried to avoid peeing at school whenever possible. The Tozier bathroom though, had, over time, become an extension of his own. He had his own drawer, on the bottom left of the sink, where he kept a small, bright red toothbrush with a matching sanity cap. He had his own toothpaste— because sharing toothpaste is so unsanitary, Richie, there's no way you need me to explain that to you, your toothbrush touches it everyday— and his own spray deodorant. The Losers crashed at Richie's often, with Bill and Mike's places being their other hotspots for a sleepover. Eddie and Bev's houses were out for obvious reasons, and Mrs. Hanscom was kind but her house didn't have much room, and she needed quiet pretty early at night. So, Eddie had demanded he keep his things at Richie's, because it was just easier that way. Most of the sleepovers were at the Tozier household, and Richie was the only one willing to give him the space, and sometimes, when he'd had a really shit week, or when they'd stayed up way too late the day before and Eddie was already exhausted, he'd stay over, just the two of them. It was totally normal, okay? A perfectly normal reason, so fuck you for even asking about it, actually.
All of that to say, Eddie felt at home as he finally, finally turned on the hot water and prepared to wipe all the shame and dirt from the day, letting it swirl down the drain in a grainy brown haze. He let the water scald his skin, allowing the heat to neutralize any bacteria that might have settled there, and soaked his hair thoroughly before washing it with Richie's shampoo. He tried to ignore the comforting scent that filled the small room as he moved on to the conditioner, almost subconsciously relaxing as the scent of wood and coconut permeated the steam surrounding him, loosening his tense muscles. Once he was satisfied with his hair, he worked furiously scrubbing himself.
By the time it was over, he'd spent about ten minutes with the water running and had bright red skin, but he'd never felt better. Cheeks flushed, and heart racing for reasons that weren't inescapable and ever-crushing terror, Eddie was finally clean. He had meticulously dried his hair with Richie's pitifully ignored hair dyer, and it was all poofy in that way he secretly loved but his mother called unkempt. He could breathe, could exist without wanting to tear his skin off, and he could wear clean clothes.
He smelled undoubtedly like Richie, a fact that wasn't lost on him as he slipped on the baby blue shirt. He refused to think about the fact that he was wearing his best friends boxers. Nope, he wasn't even going there. Instead, Eddie focused on how soft the material on his chest was, the way he knew Richie had worn it just last week, driving Eddie mad in their shared algebra class. He thought about "forgetting" to return it and never, ever giving it back. From the shy smile Richie had given him as he passed the clothes over, Eddie wondered if he'd truly mind…
It wasn't his fault he had a possessive streak, really. And besides, he really missed his friends whenever he was under another Sonia-induced house arrest. Richie's secret visits helped, though, they always did. Eddie already knew his tee shirt would have to be an acceptable substitute when he wasn't there. It was those secret visits, and now what he knew about Richie carrying his inhaler, and a thousand other tiny almost-maybe-could-it-be aspects of their friendship that always left Eddie with the one thing he knew was the most dangerous for a boy like him to have: hope.
The thing was, he really did. He hoped on late afternoons with just them at the arcade, or early mornings sleeping on Richie's floor, his best friend beside him because they were both too stubborn to take the mattress. Whether it was when they both squeezed into that hammock of Ben's and pretended Richie's hand hadn't found purchase on Eddie's ankle or whenever Richie made sure he was comfortable and accommodated while simultaneously teasing him about his hypochondriac— careful and aware, Eddie preferred to call it, but whatever— nature, Eddie found himself hoping. Hoping that he could live a fulfilling, real life that way, safe and loved and clean. Not dirty, not perverted, because Richie felt the same way.
Well, he'd see about that. For now, though, he'd made it through the day. Tomorrow, he'd apologize to Bill for being a dickwad, and tonight he'd sleep on Richie's floor, in Richie's shirt. He was finally clean, and breathing was a lot easier now compared to whatever stilted exercise he had been doing before his shower, and Went had been kind enough to call his Ma and tell her he was staying with them tonight, so Eddie didn't even have to speak to her. He felt a stab of guilt at the wave of relief that washed over him from that.
"Hey," Richie called when Eddie walked in, placing his folded towel in the laundry hamper that vaguely indicated where one might find the spreading beast of Richie's dirty clothes. His best friend snorted.
"I can't believe you folded that just to put it in a laundry hamper. There's no way you can make it make sense," Richie teased, rolling over from where he'd been laying on his back, comic hovering over his face. He set it aside as he moved to his stomach, his shirt bunching up by his waist in the process. Eddie didn't stare, if you were wondering. He hardly noticed it at all, in fact, just happened to see it as he moved to steal one of the many peppermints Richie always had by his bed. "Hey!" Richie protested, but he made no move to stop Eddie, who just stook his already stained red tongue out in a very elegant fuck you.
"It wouldn't kill you to fold something, Richie, just once." Eddie jabbed back like he usually would, but it wasn't directed at Richie, rather at the wall behind him, something that had, once again, absolutely nothing to do with the exposed skin of Richie's lower back, the small rolls and dusted freckles there making themselves all too present. So preoccupied was he with all his "not noticing," Eddie didn't see the almost hungry way Richie had raked his eyes over Eddie's fluffy mop of hair, nor did he see the appreciative way Richie admired his flushed skin.
Then suddenly, Eddie was under a Tozier-attack, Richie's arm around his neck, pulling him around in a wide half-arc while ruffling his hair. "Finally giving up the ol' hair gel, eh? And the crowd goes crazy! Wild with shock! That's right folks," he went on in his sports commentator Voice, "You heard it here first, Eddie Spaghetti Kaspbrack is letting loose! Running wild! Staying untamed, and let me tell you, ladies and gents, he is a beast—" Eddie cut him off with a retaliatory shove and Richie howled with laughter as it threw them both off-balance, causing them to tumble into a pile on his bed.
Eddie's hair was all in Richie's mouth, something Richie made imminently obvious with a loud spluttering noise. His hand had tightened around Eddie's shoulders during the fall. Eddie's heart raced even as he shoved himself off of Richie, causing the poor boy to groan uncomfortably while Eddie used his full body weight as leverage to free himself.
"You wound me, Eds," Richie cried out, hunched in on himself but somehow still sporting a floppy smile.
"Not my—"
"Not your name, I know, I know," Richie dismissed him with a wave, just as Maggie's voice carried upstairs.
"Boys! Dinner!" She cried out, and suddenly they were scrambling like their lives depended on it, Eddie's shoulder burning where it knocked into Richie's, only for the other boy to immediately shove him back. They were practically glued together as they half wrestled, half ran downstairs.
"Now, now, boys, you know what the rules are on running in this house," Went said with what he was clearly trying to pass as a stern face. The facade dropped immediately as he leaned over his newspaper, whispering conspiratorially and giving them a wink, "Not when your mother's home."
"Went!" Maggie scolded him, slapping him lightly with the backside of her hand. Richie's dad just grinned up at her, grabbing the palm that had just playfully disciplined him and kissing it, loud and wet with an exaggerated smack, while apologizing profusely. Maggie just rolled her eyes, nodding her head to the boys to indicate they should help bring the dishes out to the table. Richie was bright red with the sort of embarrassment Eddie had learned only parents could summon.
He'd never felt more at home than he did at the Tozier's, staying for dinner, knowing his pills were lined in a neat row on Richie's desk for the morning, his best friend beside him, kicking him not at all discreetly under the table while he giggled and Eddie pretended to scowl. If he had his way, he'd never leave.
As it was, Maggie was kind enough to have him over whenever he could get away with it, and a couple of times when he couldn't, so Eddie couldn't really complain.
He and Richie scarfed their food down like boys who'd long been starved, and Richie spent half of dinner talking animatedly with his mouth full, while Eddie swallowed far too quickly to swipe his hands menacingly in his direction with a "God, Richie, that's disgusting. Close your mouth, seriously."
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Finally back in Richie's room, Eddie shuffled his pillow he'd dragged onto the floor, punching it until it laid in the perfect shape. When he moved to grab Richie's sheets, though, his friend was standing there, still as a statue instead of moving to help like he usually would.
"Come on, dickwad, are you gonna help me or what?" Eddie asked, trying to ignore the awkward, stilted air the room had suddenly been filled with.
"Er, yeah," Richie started, but he stayed in place, and eventually Eddie dropped his blankets back onto the bed, sighing dramatically as he looked across the mattress.
"Just spit it out man."
"Well, my mom said we might be getting a little old to sleep on the floor…" Richie said, and Eddie felt his heart drop a million miles to his ass. Of course she'd said that, it was only natural. They were getting older; they couldn't afford to be so close to each other, not without it meaning… something it didn't mean.
It made sense they shouldn't want to sleep on the floor anymore. They were both growing up afterall, becoming men, or trying to anyway. They shouldn't want to be so close— Eddie shouldn't want to be so close. He should have known better. At the realization, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"Sure, yeah okay, I can move to, uh—"
"Iwasthinkingwecouldsharemybed," Richie spat out, loud and rushed, like the words were knocking into each other on their way out of his mouth.
"What?" Eddie asked, blinking in confusion.
"I just— my mom suggested sharing. We can like, do that head to foot thing we do in the hammock or whatever, you know. And that way neither of us have to sleep on the floor, and the bed doesn't go to waste. It's fine if you're not— if you don't want to." Eddie felt himself practically sag with relief internally, but rather than let that show, he just rolled his eyes.
"No, I want to sleep on the floor. Obviously I want to," Eddie said, picking up his pillow and throwing it at Richie, climbing into the bed while he was still doubled over. "I'm sleeping normally by the way, your ass is going upside down."
If Richie looked as relived as Eddie felt, and it really wasn't Eddie's imagination, well, neither of them were keen to bring that up anytime soon. But they both knew it well enough. And tonight, that was enough. It had to be.
They did not, as you know damn well, sleep on opposite sides of the bed. Instead, Richie crawled up to the right side of the bed, and they both sat cross legged until they fell asleep leaning against the headboard. When they woke up the next morning, Eddie had hardly moved, and Richie was contorted in his middle, half folded into himself, head just shy of Eddie's lap. His hair was a tangled mess, and Eddie wanted for nothing more than to finger-comb out each knot, running his hands through the softest curls he thought he'd ever seen. This idiot, he thought fondly, is going to have a crink everywhere when he wakes up.
Lo and behold, it only took another twenty minutes for the pretzel that was Richie Tozier to get up, wincing and complaining loudly as he rubbed the muscles in his neck and shoulders back to life.
"Eds, remind me why we slept like maniacs last night," he called out desperately.
"One: that's not my name," Eddie said as he walked back into the bedroom, returning from brushing his teeth. "Two: I slept perfectly normally, considering how we fell asleep. You're the one that somehow managed to sprawl out and curl into yourself at the same time."
"Oh Spaghetti," Richie said around a horribly unflattering yawn, "It's all semantics." What he did next was so terribly inconsiderate, so tantalizingly awful, that Eddie nearly tripped on his way back to the bed. Richie stretched, raising his hands high over his head and moving them all the way to his right, then his left. Even with the beautiful sight that was a sleep rumpled Richie, the hem of his sleep shirt just grazing his waist in a way that had Eddie mesmerized, he still managed to wince at the loud crack! that reverberated through the room with the movement.
Eddie must have been visibly flustered, or something, because Richie gave him a look when he lowered his arms, and Eddie wasn't quite sure what it all meant. They locked eyes, neither willing to be the first to look away, the air electric between them, until Richie sneezed, effectively shattering the moment. Was that smirk he wore… knowing? Or was Eddie overthinking it all?
When Richie recovered from his bodily attack, he shot Eddie a quick glance, and of course this idiot managed to look smug and shy at the same time time. Eddie hated him. He was adorable.
"Well, Eds, either way it's better than the floor. We'll just have to lie down properly next time, eh?"
Eddie tried not to flush at the casual way he'd said next time, though there no reason for them not to share. It was, as Richie had said, easier this way. He also refrained from denying Richie the stupid nickname that made his heart race every time he used it. He'd never admit it, but he liked that it was only Richie that called him Eds, that it was something only they shared, even if he pretended otherwise.
"Sure, if you quit yammering all night so we don't fall asleep mid-conversation," Eddie retorted. Richie just snorted, patting around the bed for his glasses. Eddie, who had already dressed and showered, had folded them on Richie's bedside table, and he walked around silently to the right side of the bed, holding them out to him.
"Why thank ye kindly, young chap, thank ye kindly," came the British reply.
"You're a mess, Trashmouth."
"Not as much 'ova mess as you yesterday, I seem to remember being a knight in shining armor then."
"Oh fuck off," Eddie said, shoving his friend just as he tried to get out of bed. Richie fell back with an oomph! and let out a delighted cackle.
"Such strength for a damsel."
"Oh, I'll show you a fucking damsel, ass face."
Richie had sprung up again, and he turned around, hips swaying teasingly to shake his behind as he called over his shoulder, "Well if we're doing show and tell and you're so focused on my ass, Eddie my lo— Ow!"
Eddie reached out with a book he'd found, slapping Richie from behind. He ran around grabbing his ass as if he'd been burned, yowling like a street cat. "Such betrayal! Oh, but does Eddie get off a good one! I'll be nursing a purple bum for weeks, I tell you! Weeks! It's domestic violence, that's what it is, husband beating their wives!"
Eddie had to dodge a swing back, Richie's fist flying wildly but loosely in his general direction as he snapped back, "You're insane! Beep beep, Richie." But he was laughing, and Richie was too, and soon they were both lying on their backs on top of the unmade sheets — something that would never fly this late in the morning in the Kaspbrack household, mind you— feet skimming the floor below, half dangling off while they laughed and laughed until Eddie's cheeks hurt and he knew he'd be rubbing them later, massaging out any potential kinks. But here, with Richie, he didn't let himself worry about any of that; this morning, he could let go of his anxiety just for a few hours.
"Thank you," Eddie said suddenly, for what felt like the umpteenth time in the past 24 hours. Richie paused mid-laughter, head tilting like a puppy's as his eyebrows scrunched inquiringly.
"Whatever for, Eds?"
"Don't call me that," Eddie mumbled, more out of habit than anything. "But I dunno, for everything. Don't make me get mushy about it!"
Richie barked a sharp laugh at that, trying— and failing, thank you very much, due to Eddie's excellent ducking skills— to ruffle Eddie's hair as he replied, "I wouldn't dream of it! Real maidens say thank you with a kiss, you know."
Now, Eddie couldn't say exactly what exactly overcame him in that moment. Well, okay, he knew damn well what overcame him, it was that same feeling that always simmered inside him around Richie, now boiled over like water left in a pot for far too long, or with the heat up far too high. But that's not important. No, what's important is that Eddie, already leaned into Richie's space from when he squirmed backwards to avoid the hair ruffling just moments before, had, so quickly and impulsively that he hardly had the chance to even think about retreating, had planted a small kiss on Richie's cheek. It was as over as soon as it'd begun, so fast he almost wasn't sure it had happened at all, aside from Richie's face, which confirmed instantly that it most certainly had.
He was bright red under his big, brown glasses, and his eyes were wide as dinner plates, but he didn't, Eddie noticed, look disgusted, or upset. Just surprised, like he hadn't thought Eddie would actually go through with his suggestion. To be perfectly fair, Eddie hadn't been expecting it either, so. There was that. A silence spread between them, and then Richie laughed.
"Well, I—" But Eddie didn't want to hear it, couldn't stand to. He didn't want to know what joke Richie would twist this into, so he just snapped, "What did you say that for?"
Richie blinked again. "What did I say that for? Eds, you're the one that—"
"I know I did! I just— I don't know why I did that, okay? You just said it, and I was like, well time to prove this dickwad wrong, I guess, I don't know!"
Richie was still laughing, but he stopped suddenly, peering into Eddie's brown eyes, which were wide open, adrenaline and fear coursing through him with the strength of a white water rapid. He needed to get away, to count his heartbeat. He didn't think it was healthy for his heart to race this quickly. He could feel his pulse in his ears, behind his eyes, even in his finger tips. And then Richie's torso contorted, twisting to face Eddie, and he wrapped each of his big hands around the sides of Eddie's jaw, tilting him to plant a big, exaggerated peck on his cheek with a loud mwah!
He grinned as he held Eddie, smile practically splitting his face in half when he said, "There, now we're even. No biggie." His hands fell to his lap, and Eddie's jaw was, he was pretty sure, somewhere on the floor. He opened his mouth, then closed it, failing for a moment to produce any kind of intelligible sound.
"That's not how that works, dumbass!"
"Pretty sure it is," Richie said with another one of those infuriating shrugs. "Just did, so."
"You're so stupid!" Eddie shot back, but Richie didn't take it to heart. He never did.
"Says the guy that—"
Eddie quickly put his hand over Richie's mouth, silencing him, or trying to, though a muffled "keesched muheeeee" made its way between his clammy fingers. Suddenly, something wet pressed against him, and Eddie recoiled as he realized that Richie had fucking licked him!
"You- You fucking shit! You ass wipe, oh my god. That is so gross. you have no idea how unsanitary that is, actually. I'm going to wash my hand right now. No, you're coming you have to clean your trash mouth. You need to brush your teeth anyway," he started, cutting Richie off, who had opened said mouth to try and speak between peals of laughter, already knowing what was to come, "No, brushing them once a week isn't enough, you absolute animal."
Richie huffed and rolled his eyes, but he let Eddie wipe his hand on his shirt and then use it to drag him to the bathroom, the space small but the boys in it smaller— enough so that they managed to make it work. They always fit together in tight spaces, Eddie and Richie. Both of them bumping into each other, pressed together and grumbling about it the whole time, each shove or passing brush of skin like an electric current through him. And with the way Richie hadn't stopped smiling since their shared kisses, small enough they were played off as some kind of joke, the flimsy excuse thin enough both of knew it was anything but, Eddie had started to really believe that maybe Richie felt that current, too.
Years from now, in a much different bathroom but pressed together in much the same way, Eddie would look back on this moment with an aching, nostalgic fondness, pressing a kiss to his boyfriends cheek in a way that had long-since become familiar between them. Now though, they had shared their first one, and though the germs that they undeniably had shared would usually bother Eddie to no end, today he felt clean regardless.