Archive of Our Own ^beta

First thing Richie notices once he blinks himself awake is that the world hasn't gone orange outside his window. Oddly enough, he's been expecting some autumnal foliage action for weeks, despite Chicago never really delivering in that way, but the vibe right now is seemingly of an endless summer. Arizona is weird like that.

It's late September, and the light is too bright for a little after six AM, hurting his eyes like little shards aiming for his brain and pointedly annihilating their target. The thought hits him that Richie from the night before left the drapes open precisely so in order to get present moment Richie's ass out of bed with his alarm. Past him is kind of an asshole, but Richie appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

Surprisingly enough, he has not been late or missed work in any way since starting, but he's finding it harder than ever to get going in the morning. He's been hoping the sunshine might help. It does and it doesn't. He drags himself out from between his sheets regardless, turning his alarm off with a distracted tap. He has a summer gig turned dead-end job to get to.

Groggy still, he gets his feet under him, oddly balanced before he gets his bearings. Early fall in Phoenix really does feel like the height of summer after Chicago, only a hundred times more humid. The air in the room is heading towards soupy, but the bare floor has a chill to it which the soles of Richie's feet can appreciate. Boxers and a short-sleeved tee and he still wakes up kind of sweaty and definitely gross, his chest and belly hair sticking uncomfortably to the front of his shirt. Adjusting himself absently, he yawns once, a good one, muscles untensing, eyes wide open.

The walk to his bathroom is uneventful; he doesn't have enough shit littering his one-bedroom to bump into yet. The small window above the tub manages to let enough light in that he doesn't need to flip the switch, and his reflection greets him with a frown.

In just a couple of years he went from optimistically shaving once a week to realistically needing it twice per day or sport a five o'clock shadow by noon. Where was this shit in college? Maybe then he could've gotten lucky before he gave up on that completely. Jerking it ain't all bad. That is, as long as he's had coffee first. He doesn't jerk off uncaffeinated in the shower anymore. Not since the last time and, uh. He just doesn't. His brain has been getting weird since summer started. Weirder.

He brushes his teeth and takes a piss mechanically, his brain still sort of on its way to booting up. He's got the cheapest coffee machine on the market, probably, but it makes him a decently strong cup with little to no supervision, so Richie can't complain. Showering is perfunctory. Breakfast is nonexistent, unless he intends to break open a six-pack of PBR, and he has yet to require alcohol to get through his workday.

Fridays should be the best. Richie just wants to crawl back to bed, and fuck you very much. He avoids the sight of his unmade bed and grabs his keys. It's going to be a long day, buddy.

Since the weather is what it is, he walks to work. Like, fuck the bus and sweating against hideous pile-covered seating.

He strolls past a neon-fronted shop situated two blocks from his building, XXX glowing back at him in rainbow colours from above its door where a man just then comes out, heading in the opposite direction. Richie walks on and doesn't spare it a second glance. He stares at the sidewalk challengingly and tries to think about nothing.

*

Halfway through training about mid-June, he figured this might be something which could be interesting after all, talking to people from throughout the entire country all day long, how could this be in any way boring, yadda yadda yadda, until he actually started taking calls. Because customer service ain't the least bit fun when some asshole's yelling at him from fucking Bumfuck, Nowhere. Shocker.

His supervisor's name is Tree, a pretty chill dude whose parents were obviously hippies a couple of decades or so ago, who lets Richie bum a smoke every break and never asks for one in return even on payday. The guy's also a total dog with anything even vaguely female-shaped, but Richie could give a shit as long as he lets them take their breaks whenever they want, provided they don't exceed their allotted time.

Because Richie's a model employee, he logs in at five minutes to. Impressive, even if he says so himself, especially since he stopped at the deli a block from work to pick himself up some breakfast. The first call of the day comes in at eight AM on the dot. By nine his head is pounding and he's checking the time in the corner of his screen almost obsessively.

The main problem, aside from complete technological ineptitude, is that the folks who call him up generally don't tend to listen. Just now, exhibit fucking A, the most entitled dude in the entire state of Indiana, probably. Richie mutes his headset's microphone purposefully. Stares down at his half-eaten sandwich sitting between his keyboard and the edge of his desk. Brings it up to his mouth. Takes a bite and then another bite. Chews slowly and swallows absently, counting down from sixty. Drops his sandwich back down in front of him. Mr Whatever is not done talking.

Richie unmutes for the sake of Quality Control and proceeds to hmm his way through another seven minutes of this, then guides this asshat to turn off and then back on his computer. To no one's surprise, it works on the first try. Problem solved. He gets hung up on regardless.

*

For the sake of maintaining what's left of his sanity, he plans his first break half an hour earlier than usual and manages to escape the floor with his trashmouth still firmly in check but needing a smoke and a half and a hearty piss. Which is as good of an excuse as any as to how he winds up barging into the bathroom unthinkingly and almost knocks some dude right over with the door.

Causing concussions is definitely not on his schedule for the day and his own head is vaguely ringing from having the headset continuously on for close to two hours, thus the near collision doesn't quite register for several long moments and Richie stops abruptly only to blink owlishly from behind his glasses at the shortish dude on the other side.

"Shit," the guy says, smiling sheepishly. He's wearing office casual clothes, a pressed button-down and a nice pair of slacks and a business tie, looking far too overdressed to fit in with the sort of Dorito-munching slackers Richie's proud to call his peers and coworkers. He steps back to allow Richie to open the door fully. "Sorry, man."

Richie's stomach drops oddly before he recovers and flashes his own awkwardly polite smile. He's pretty sure he should be the one apologising for nearly concussing the guy, but—whatever. Says, "Don't sweat it," as he steps inside and lets the guy slide past him and out the door. Their shoulders brush. The faint scent of sunscreen grows and is gone from one breath to the next.

Then Richie finds himself standing alone in the bathroom. It's unisex, because someone must have been watching too much Ally McBeal, and ginormous enough to fit everyone working on the floor in case of a potential, like, pooping emergency or whatever. Well, maybe not everyone, but close enough for government work. If he's being honest, Richie misses urinals. Peeing in a stall is trés weird.

By the time he returns to his desk, only a couple of minutes have gone by. He's still got a big chunk of his break left, but he's suddenly no longer feeling like he needs a smoke after all. He opts for heading downstairs from some fresh air. He doesn't run into anybody he knows.

*

In the hopes of Saturday being low-key uneventful work-wise, he agrees to overtime when Tree asks him later in the day.

Excruciatingly boring cannot quite describe his Saturday, but overtime pays very well on the whole, and it's not like Richie's got anything better to do on the weekend. He sleeps in on Sunday, watches shitty sitcom reruns, and falls asleep after downing an entire six-pack on his own.

Somewhere around late afternoon he must order a pizza, because he wakes up Monday morning awkwardly sprawled on the couch with an empty pizza box as a pillow and feeling only hungover rather than hungover and monumentally starving. He counts his Sunday as a win.

*

Either mustard yellow or a washed-out orange, the new guy's polo is ridiculous regardless. Richie wouldn't even get the opportunity to be a dick about it if Tree didn't give the dude the desk by the window first thing that morning, incidentally right next to Richie's, before telling Richie to play nice. It's the same dude from the bathroom door accident on Friday. On the desk in front of him he's got two packs of wet wipes, a spray-on bottle of medicinal alcohol and seventy percent ethanol-based hand sanitiser in a seventeen-ounce pump bottle, and he's busy cleaning his mouse pad with some funky combination of all three.

From where Richie's sitting, which is pretty damn close, the scent is overwhelming. He tries holding his breath, but his mouth must be compensating for the lack of oxygen, because it fills up with spit he then has to swallow nervously before saying, "Make yourself at home, I guess," smiling around the words and playing the nicest. He's proud.

The guy laughs a little nervously, turning his face to the side, nose tipped downwards, and, the fuck, Richie thinks he sees a flush blooming along the top of his cheekbones like a sunburn. No a trick of the light or the floor's air conditioning malfunctioning and allowing the place to heat up, but rather hypnotisingly real. His fingers twitch.

Straight away Richie feels a much more miserable flush rise up his face and his skin breaking out in a desperate sweat. Because obviously what he needs right now is to transform into a moist tomato. It's not even eight in the morning. He's had coffee. Genuinely there is no reason to act like a freak.

Which makes it way weird how his eyes focus all of a sudden on the dude's face, neurons illuminating around something. There's a sense of familiarity he can't quite put his finger on, nothing so very starkly obvious that he believes it'll come to him later, but enough that he feels obliged to acknowledge it to himself. The thin scar on his palm itches faintly where his hand's resting on his leg.

The moment passes.

The guy smiles weakly, the corners of his mouth twitching. Says simply, "Eddie." He doesn't offer his hand to shake. Richie's somehow not surprised.

*

As expected, the entirety of Monday is very busy but mostly unexceptional. Tree hangs out a lot by their desks, showing Eddie the ropes, accompanying each click on the screen with some long-winded explanation Eddie nods along to, seemingly completely fascinated. Richie barely restrains himself from miming a blowjob behind Tree's back.

What he finds the most hilarious, however, is how, whenever their boss steps away, Eddie instantly wipes his mouse clean of invisible dirt or whatever before actually using it himself. He does that seventeen times before Richie stops counting. For the rest of the day he has to mute himself randomly to avoid giggling on calls, and Eddie frowns at him confusedly and then grumpily, realising he must in some way be the butt of the joke.

They clock out at the same time, but Eddie doesn't acknowledge his presence as they both head out. Richie snorts behind his back, though he suddenly finds that he needs a smoke or two for no reason.

He's already jittery crossing the street while lighting up the last of Tree's "borrowed" smokes, but he thinks why not, and stops for a coffee anyway. Mondays are stressful.

*

Coffee after work was a mistake. He doesn't sleep half the night and almost knocks over his alarm clock and the nightstand it resides on while endeavouring to turn it off the next morning. He rides the bus to work and thinks he nods off at one point. Either that, of his brain decides all on its own the old lady sitting next to him has the bestest ever shoulder fit for a five-minute nap. It can't be the most embarrassing display public transport has seen in this city, but Richie's pretty mortified anyway.

Clearly, it's not going to be a good day. He sasses the dude manning the reception desk to the point where the guy looks as if he's considering escorting him off the premises and then proceeds to spill water all over his own keyboard, and that's before even logging in. It's no surprise, then, that the first half of the day is basically a blur. A fast blur, like getting stuck in the eye of a tornado. Dorothy and all that shit. Richie's almost zen only a couple of hours in.

Which might be why he's unprepared for the fan to hit the shit, as they say. And with the new guy at its centre, no less.

It's during a short bout of available call time, nobody needing their emergency taken care of for once, that a couple of words finally penetrate Richie's skull. Specifically the word "asshole," clearly not directed at him. Because it seems Eddie is yelling it into his headset, followed by several F-bombs in quick succession and some other choice words.

Richie's first instinct is to search out the little red blinking light which would mean Eddie's headset is muted. He doesn't find it. Idly, he notices Eddie only gets less creative the more he's allowed to go go go uninterrupted. It's truly impressive how many times the man can say fuck you with complete and utter conviction. Like, Richie is definitely impressed here.

Then the situation catches up with him, and Richie has to stop a high, startled sound from escaping his mouth, but just barely, and in the process almost chokes on his own tongue. A call comes in just then, and he mutes himself out of self-defence. Honestly, it's kind of fascinating to watch. Highlight of his week, for sure. Too bad he has to take care of his own shit to fully immerse himself in the trainwreck occurring right beside him.

He loses track of how Eddie's call is going while he handles his. But at one point Tree shouts, "Eddie?" from across the floor, and Richie turns to see him motioning for Eddie to come over.

Not wanting to get involved when it's so obviously not his business, Richie politely stares at his screen. There's being kind of an asshole, and then there's turning into a jackass. He hears a deep intake of breath from his left, followed by a slow exhale, then a couple of clicks, Eddie's headset hitting the desk carelessly, and finally Eddie himself standing and heading over to check in after whatever the fuck that was.

*

It makes sense to take his break now. At the same time as Eddie.

He finds him in the space between buildings, theirs and the higher-end offices he's never seen anyone enter ever.

As previously observed, it is so totally not his business. At all. He doesn't even have an excuse to be here. But Eddie looks unsurprised to see him, just sort of resigned. Hands in pockets, Richie ambles over and stops right in front of him at a respectable distance. As in, close enough for this to stay private and far away enough he could easily dodge a swing. His trashmouth has gotten him worse.

"Tough caller?" he starts.

Eyes narrowed, Eddie says, "Fuck you, man."

He can't help the quick burst of laughter, he just can't. Says, "Dude, you need to, like, chill," through a giggle. Wiggles his eyebrows. Prepares to jump backwards just in case.

"Don't tell me to chill, asshole. I'm perfectly relaxed." He looks the opposite of relaxed by about a hundred miles, but pointing that out might reasonably get him punched in the jaw, so he keeps it to himself and wishes for a cigarette. Eddie doesn't seem like he smokes. His hands are shaking already, so Richie figures that's for the best.

He rolls his eyes before saying, "Uh huh. Totally looks like it." Eddie seems to want to butt in just then, so Richie takes a different tack. "Listen, dude, if you wanna keep this gig you gotta not be yelling at every asshole who calls in. The mute button is your friend," he explains patiently, though it comes off as if he's talking to a particularly dim child because, like, who doesn't use their mute button, Jesus Christ.

The guy breathes in and out, stares to the side, jaw working, then visibly deflates. Finally looks Richie straight in the eye to say, "Yeah, you're right. Shit. Sorry, man, I just moved here and I guess I don't deal well with change or some shit. This job ain't half bad otherwise and the job market sucks right now."

Richie ignores the last part to ask, "Yeah? Where from?"

He must not have expected Richie to be interested, because he blinks dazedly a couple of times. Finally, "Manhattan."

"No shit. Why'd you ever leave? That sounds much better than this place, whatever you were doing in the city."

For a moment, Eddie looks vaguely squeamish. "Uh, professional limo driver for shitty public figures and wealthy douchebags. It kind of... got to me, I guess. Needed something else. A change of pace. This might just be temporary," he adds.

"Yeah, right. That's what we all say. This is my fourth month here, and I went into the interview thinking I'd be gone a week into training. Joke's on me. Uh. I'm new, too. You know, just moved here. Chicago." He doesn't know why he offers that bit of totally irrelevant information, but it's out of his mouth before he can really think the words through.

"No shit? Huh. At least we're not alone, right?" What does that mean, exactly, Richie doesn't quite get.

"Right. Uh." He doesn't know how or why he thinks this is a good idea, but. "Listen, the rest of the week's only gonna get worse. Trust me. I've got a six-pack in the fridge and a pretty nice couch if you wanna take a load off and chill."

Eddie's eyes widen almost comically. For some reason, Richie's heart rate picks up. He can feel it in his throat. He was already sweating through his shirt, but now he feels it on his brow, his palms, the back of his neck.

Finally, Eddie says, "Not— I can't, uh, today. Tomorrow, though. After work. If the offer still stands."

Blinking stupidly, Richie nods. Clears his throat to say, "Yeah, sure, anytime." Wants to smack himself a little right afterwards. Wants to smack himself while saying it.

But Eddie smiles, a little calmer-looking, the dimple in his left cheek showing for the very first time. Richie's palm itches.

*

The rest of the day doesn't feel like they've entered a Hell dimension, at least, however much Richie's starting to believe it's unavoidable at this point. Eddie makes liberal use of the mute button, not that Richie's keeping track or anything, and generally seems less likely to smash his screen with his keyboard.

Their breaks don't coincide after that. Richie tells himself there's no reason they should. Once their shift is over, he actually leaves ahead of Eddie, but then stops just outside the building to light up. He watches Eddie exit the doors through a plume of smoke. He watches as he spots him and heads over on an inhale. He ashes his cigarette against the outside wall by the time Eddie's standing in front of him.

"What's up?" he asks. And Eddie chews his lip for several minutes before replying, "Long day. Obviously," his smile self-deprecating and exhausted. "You?"

"Just heading off, old boy,” Richie drawls lazily, eyeing the street leading in the general direction of his apartment building.

Eddie stares and his eyebrows get lost in his hairline somewhere. Trying not to laugh but barely holding it together, Richie watches him spit out, "Excuse you?" Just like a frazzled tomcat.

"Aww, you're no fun, Eds. That's one of my best."

"My name is Eddie, and no, it's not. I refuse to believe that's not completely awful in any scenario. Or universe. Or that someone has ever thought otherwise."

Palm to his chest, as if covering up a bullet hole, Richie announces, "You're hurting my feelings, Eddie-kins."

"Doubtful," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "I meant, like, the bus stop's the other way." He's got a messenger bag slung across his chest. He keeps fingering the strap while they talk, thumb and forefinger circling it loosely on the downstroke.

Throat clearing, staring off over Eddie's shoulder, Richie sighs out, "Yeah, no, public transportation depresses the fuck out of me, dude."

"So you just walk?"

Richie shrugs. "It's a half an hour at most."

Pensive isn't the reaction that statement should receive, but Eddie stares off and chews on his lip for several quiet moments until he visibly seems to come to a decision of some sort. "It's on my way." Richie might be losing his mind, but he thinks he sees the start of a faint blush. "I usually carpool," Eddie explains. He doesn't add anything else after that. It's a weird fucking conversation Richie's having, he realises. He wants to ask who Eddie carpools with, but that would be invasive and weird in a non-fun, stalkery sort of way.

They companionably walk themselves home. Together. Turns out that Eddie's apartment complex is just two blocks away from his, similarly shithole-ish and lacking a pool. And totally within walking distance of Richie's even in non-summer-y weather. Huh.

*

It's only the next morning that Richie realises he never asked Eddie if he always carpools and, if not, whether he'd be down to, like, whatever, go to work together, either walk there or try for the bus, just for the company, just because they're heading the same way anyway, you know. But, as he's having his coffee standing at his kitchen counter, his brain wakes up and admonishes him for that particular pre-caffeine line of thinking. That very inane line of thinking. As if he's in kindergarten or something, making a new buddy. Jesus, Tozier.

It bothers him all throughout his shower and getting dressed. He forgets to jerk it, so wrapped up is he in where that idea even came from, and by the time he clocks in he's already a little twitchy. Some asshole is going to get it.

But by the time he goes to get himself something from the vending machine much later in the day, he has yet to even raise his voice. He finds he's more out of it than actually pissed.

Tree, once again, needs a couple of folks from his team to come in to do some overtime over the weekend. The fact that it pays well can't quite overcome the horror of six early mornings in a row once again. The very thought saps him of the last of his willpower needed to stay focused, and he lets himself zone out as much as possible without getting called out on it. He tells himself he can always change his mind by Friday afternoon if overtime two weekends in a row starts sounding good.

Next thing he knows, it's already time to log out. Idly, he considers how the entire day felt more like a Friday than the middle of the week. He doesn't know whether that means he's burning out even earlier than expected, but that's a problem for future Richie.

While he and Eddie aren't actively ignoring each other—or, at least, Richie isn't—they didn't say much more than a vague good morning after coming in and left it at that for the rest of the day. So it's natural that Richie should wonder whether they're still on to hang out. At Richie's place. Alone. With beer.

Richie contemplates hiding in the bathroom for only a wild and brief moment before he remembers he's an adult.

Luckily, just then Eddie looks up from packing away his stuff, mostly hygiene-related items, in his bag and asks, "I'm coming over, right?"

Richie thinks he nods. Like, probably. Eddie follows him out and they walk themselves to Richie's building and up the stairs, so he must have—something. The details are blurry.

They hang out. It should be awkward to have some guy from work over on his couch, drinking his beer, only. It's sort of not. Eddie gives as good as he gets. Richie can't stop staring at his floppy hair bouncing around as his entire body coils and uncoils with each new little argument Eddie just has to set straight, as if he needs to make sure Richie isn't operating under any false information about the world and stuff, whether it's the asbestos in talcum powder, or the relationship between cell phones and insomnia, or—Richie only half-listens after the phone thing.

He orders them pizza, which is when he finds out Eddie ostensibly has a million and one allergies. Yet when their two very distinct orders arrive, Eddie somehow ends up having about a third of Richie's, munching on it almost absently while another Turner Classic plays in the background.

Surprisingly enough, Richie drinks less with company than he does on his own. Or maybe not so surprising. Whatever. His mouth is too busy having an actual conversation about something other than dial-up, thank fuck, to worry too much about it. He forgot that's a thing normal people can do.

In the end, they do circle around to work stuff, but Richie finds he doesn't really mind. In fact, he's the one who brings up overtime, how he's considering it, but speeds over that part in favour of asking Eddie whether he'd go for it himself, specifically this weekend. Richie did go for it his first week taking actual calls. He mentions that part offhandedly.

Eddie frowns. "I just moved out here, you know? Like, obviously you know." His teeth bite into the middle of his bottom lip, and he laughs nervously around it. Richie stares, a little lost. "Thinking about taking him up on it just for the extra cash while I set up my place. That's never a bad incentive."

"Me, too. Just that. I mean. I told you, it's been four months and I already feel stuck. I'm beat by the end of the week, and I'm talking a Friday. Couldn't get me to come in this Saturday for a million dollars."

"Uh, no big plans?"

Now that's the most hilarious thing Richie's ever heard, but he feels it might come off as rude if he burst out laughing and never stop, so he bites on his own tongue before replying, "Very much no."

Asking that back would be the type of acceptable small talk expected in this conversation. Instead:

"How 'bout you? No plans with the girlfriend or something? Overtime tends to put a damper on things, dude."

Richie doesn't know why in the actual fuck he would ever ask that like that, but he does. Watches frozen as Eddie processes the question.

"Um, no," Eddie finally says. "That's, like. Uh, overrated. You know..." he trails off.

The tips of Richie's ears burn, and he feels it travelling down the sides of his face. Swallowing heavily, he asks, "Is it?" Needs to know if Eddie's being for real right now.

Peers at him until he gets his answer, which turns out to be: "Planning out these big whatever weekends, like, I don't know." Eddie sighs. "Not my thing."

"Oh," is the best Richie can come up with to say back.

Eddie adds, half a timbre lower, "No girlfriend to make any big plans with anyway."

Richie blinks, "Oh." Then, "Right." Stops. "Sorry."

Eddie frowns, probably because Richie just apologised to him for Eddie not having a girlfriend, as if it were somehow Richie's fault. Which it could never, ever be; that's stupid.

Dispelling the weird tension that's steadily growing is easy when Richie brings up, completely out of the blue, how he used to be a comedian back in Chicago. Well, trying to, at least. He's only mildly offended in the face of the laughing fit Eddie tries and fails to snap out of for ten minutes straight. Failing comedian does sound kind of hilarious.

They finish the six-pack. Once there's no excuse to drag this out for longer, they both stand, feet shuffling, then Richie walks him to the door. It's dark out already, and obviously they both have work in the morning. Richie leans against the wood, door handle digging into the small of his back, while Eddie straddles the threshold, hands in pockets, shoulders by his ears.

Eddie offers to pay him back for their pizza, actually goes as far as to reach for his wallet, but Richie brushes it off. "You can get it next time." The words are out before he can give them even half a thought, but Eddie nods, untroubled, and waves briefly before walking out Richie's front door.

*

At some point the evening before they must have decided to carpool without an actual car. As in, Richie recalls saying he'd wait for Eddie downstairs to walk themselves to work together. For the company and to save Eddie's part of the gas money for his actual carpool. He can't remember what time they agreed on exactly, so he gets downstairs way too early and ends up shuffling his feet for close on ten minutes, failing the entire time to figure out who brought it up first and how likely it is that it was Richie himself.

Predictably, he gets bored waiting about thirty seconds in.

He doesn't have any cigarettes of his own, and his hands are shaking for one right now. The need dissipates when he catches sight of Eddie walking over, a block away from where Richie is standing leaning against his building.

He straightens up. Thinks about quitting in an idle sort of way.

Eddie's shirt today is a pink polo. He looks like a nerd.

Or laying off the coffee multiple times per day. That's also an idea to consider.

On their walk to work, Richie finds out Eddie doesn't drink the stuff anymore, what with his anxiety and general twitchy personality he's got going for himself. Richie doesn't know a lot about the former, but, soon enough, Eddie moves on to droning next to him about something else, words a mile a minute, and Richie's shoulders relax without his conscious doing. Must be the fresh morning air.

*

As befits a Friday, Richie sleeps through his alarm the next morning, but his body wakes itself up just in time for him to throw yesterday's clothes on distractedly and run out the door. He catches the bus and makes it to work on time, relieved he and Eddie didn't agree to meet up that morning, too. Tree lends him some spray-on deodorant, looking unsurprised.

Barely an hour into taking calls for the day, he calls for a break, too early by half, but coffee and some sort of snack product are necessary if he doesn't want his Friday to turn into Trashmouth Puts His Foot in His Mouth Day.

Not having the time to shower and actually running around in that state for part of his morning is very obviously not doing him any favours. The humidity and heat are not helping him in the least. He can have his shirt off once back in the confines of his apartment, fucking shower besides, but feels self-conscious the entire day. People generally seem to leave him alone, probably detecting his foul mood, which suits him just fine. He helps the avoidance thing along by taking his second break relatively early as well, out of sync with the rest of the team.

Tree doesn't blink twice about lending him a smoke, and Richie is glad for the lack of offer to join. He'd rather not have to deal with anyone right now. When a pair of footsteps sound behind him where he's standing off to the side puffing away, however, Richie instantly knows who it is. He turns to watch Eddie coming closer.

"Tough day?"

"Slept through my alarm."

"Sucks, man."

Richie can only agree.

As he's ashing his smoke, Eddie fingers the hem of his shirt, right at the nape of his neck. Richie freezes. "Your tag's sticking out," Eddie points out. Richie sighs. Figures he's a mess all around.

"Thanks, man," he says back, and Eddie nods once.

After that, Richie starts getting the sneaking suspicion that Eddie is scheduling his breaks to match with Richie's. It could be pure coincidence. They do sit next to each other, after all. It could just be Eddie's figuring he might as well follow Richie's lead and space them out throughout the day, even though today Richie's doing the exact opposite. But it could be any number of things.

Their last break finds them leaning shoulder to shoulder in a shaded part of the sidewalk. Richie's pretty sure he must reek by now, his glasses slipping down his nose from the thin layer of sweat he's grown tired of wiping away, but Eddie hasn't mentioned it. Eddie hasn't mentioned much of anything. The silence is oddly companionable, and Richie finds his mood is less sour for it.

"Want to order some pizza later? My treat this time," Eddie says, sudden like a crack in the asphalt during an earthquake, and Richie doesn't even think about it.

"Can't." What he needs is to be not gross around Eddie, or anyone for that matter, and that involves a shower the moment he gets his ass home, which means he can't.

Eddie blinks. "Oh." And Richie quickly adds, "But—tomorrow. I can do tomorrow." And Eddie sort of stares and nods and mutters, "Oh, yeah. I can do tomorrow. No plans," he adds. And then blushes. Richie feels dizzy for a moment there.

After that, their break is unceremoniously over. Richie isn't sure what just happened, but he does buy extra beer on his way home.

*

Richie's place is, technically speaking, not a dump as such. He keeps it relatively clean. Can't help that the rest of the apartment complex has seen better days. At least the walls are clean of graffiti and the stairs don't smell like a public toilet. Richie might be messy, but that sort of thing tends to remain confined to his bedroom. A place no one has gotten to see since he's been living there. Which is the slow build-up to his wondering to himself why, exactly, he's changing his bed sheets on a Saturday morning.

But the wondering doesn't last long. He cleans his kitchen and living area next, stares at the insides of his fridge for far too long, and unclogs the toilet for something to do between now and when Eddie's supposed to arrive. The doorbell ringing jolts him out of a vague line of thinking he has no interest in pursuing once he reaches the door to let Eddie in, something about having a second, completely pointless shower. Nonsense.

As settled Friday afternoon on their walk back home, Eddie's there at four PM sharp, smile small but relaxed-looking on his faintly flushed face. The six-pack he hands over is quickly set aside. Richie retrieves a cold one for each of them by default, though he suddenly finds himself dropping out of any sort of drinking mood, his stomach feeling queasy and hollowed out. Nothing for it now but to see it through. And it's not like he's going to do anything insane, like kick Eddie out. They make themselves comfortable on the couch, TV tuned to reruns, nothing in the least unusual about the scene.

His lungs protesting against the stifling air reminds him he should have left a window open, his place not accustomed to dealing with two breathing human beings. Richie sips his beer once and ignores the twist in his gut, holds the can between his knees for several minutes afterwards, relishing the cold dampness even through the fabric barrier, before setting it down on the coffee table in front of the couch.

The lack of a coaster has Eddie immediately frowning disapprovingly and instantly starting in on a lecture about proper furniture care which has Richie barely able to contain his laughter.

"You'll remember this when the finish rots away," Eddie snarks. Richie sincerely doubts that, but watches him fondly as he riles himself even more at Richie's obvious amusement.

Reruns turn into watching a noir oldie together, the screen filling with vertical shadows and cool operators, both beers abandoned and coaster-less and barely touched. There's the faint sound of music playing somewhere in the building, probably the neighbours' kids. Richie turns the sound on the TV slightly louder to cover it up. After a while it all blends together with the beating of Richie's heart inside his chest.

Paying attention to the movie isn't even an option after a while. The music from upstairs gets louder still. It should be a distraction from his own neurons firing in strange directions, but Richie is exceedingly hyper-focused and aware, heartbeat pounding in his own ears. He wishes he could blame the booze for what happens next, or the unventilated air of his shitty apartment, but he's more sober than he's ever been, and his breath might catch on every other breath but that's all on him.

In the end, he can only blame the closeness, jeans-clad thighs an inch from touching, elbows softly bumping on every couple of exhales, which is maybe not fair, but at least it's more accurate. Honest, which is a new one for him.

It happens sort of in slow motion, Eddie turning to him, a funny little smile playing on his lips, maybe having sensed Richie's stare on the side of his face. Richie slides his hands along his own legs to his knees to press the heels of his palms down into the bone through the layer of fabric. It doesn't stop the trembling in his fingertips.

Eddie is looking up at him bright-eyed. There's a long pause where neither says anything. And once more Richie gets that feeling, a zing and a spark somewhere around his midsection, which this time around prompts him to say, "May I?" When is he ever this polite?

All the spit in his mouth dries up instantly. He wants to smile encouragingly down at Eddie instead of feeling breathless and stretched thin and scared to his very marrow.

And Eddie does tilt his head, but Richie recognises it as something other than invitation, closer to bemusement. A question mark. He doesn't ignore it, but he's asked with words and now he asks again by leaning in, just a couple of inches, again in that way which feels like slow motion, time dilating to fill the room and bust out the windows, even as he's once more asking, "Eddie, can I?" the words sounding different than before to his own ears, never letting Eddie's mouth out of his sight the entire time, deathly afraid he might catch his eye and lose his nerve. Gets to watch him lick his lips and breathe out hesitantly out his mouth for long, trembling moments.

And then the crushing disappointment of watching him pulling himself away from the middle of the couch where they have been growing closer together since they first sat themselves down.

For a moment there, he wants to believe how saying the words would kind of shrink what he said to the point where it wouldn't matter, where it would be just another meaningless thing Eddie wouldn't think twice about. He's wrong. He's so wrong, and the realisation sits heavy in every muscle and every bone, freezing the blood inside him.

Idly, Richie wonders what he was even thinking. It's been, like, not that fucking long since they even fucking met. Barely counts as last week. They sort of first really talked on Monday. It's now Saturday afternoon, which is probably way too soon for anything, ever. Apparently, his life is now a Barenaked Ladies song. If he had the time, he's sure he could find the irony there.

In an alternate universe, he might even find it funny. Right here, right now, it's the very opposite. The hysterical thing bubbling up in Richie's sternum has nothing to do with funny, fuck.

Eddie's eyebrows are furrowed, gaze uncertain. He's not saying anything either. His silence is much more telling.

Panic. Unmistakable. Richie knows this. A cold sweat down his back and at his temples and sticking to his armpits. Richie's seen it on his own face before, knows what it looks like reflected back at him in the stillness of the night in his own bathroom mirror. Too many times to count, the shadows underneath his eyes on his pale face were little more than a vivid massacre. This time a misfire, and more than. He almost gags on the dread and the shame. This is bad. Something he should have considered more seriously. Why didn't he? You're too good of a liar, the voice inside his own head replies. He might be going into shock.

Waiting for something, anything, is sheer torture. His insides are a stretched-taut rubber band waiting to deploy. Eddie's face is a sickly yellowish colour for far too long, until finally his eyes focus and his shoulders shift beneath his shirt, and Richie can finally breathe again.

He watches him silently stand and circle the coffee table, and then the couch into the centre of the room.

Then Eddie paces for what feels like hours. It's terrifying to watch.

Without quite knowing what he's about to do or say next, Richie gets himself up, weary. Huddling into his couch isn't going to help any, but his legs can barely hold him, his body too close to shaking itself apart from the inside. Apparently, the sight of Richie following his lead puts an end to the pacing, him standing here awkwardly in his own living room a momentary stopgap, literally stopping Eddie in his tracks. But only for the blink of an eye. Then he huffs and paces some more, his circuit taking him the way of Richie's bedroom. Because he can, because Richie left the door open earlier. Just fucking great.

Following him is a no-brainer, but fuck if Richie knows what he's meant to say to make things better. Although it's possible such words don't exist. Turns out, Eddie's done with the silent treatment.

The instant he sees Richie entering his own bedroom, his eyes narrow in on him and his mouth opens right up. He stands his ground.

"This is ridiculous." Richie couldn't agree more, but feels like this is some sort of trap. "You're ridiculous," he then scoffs, hip cocked obnoxiously, arms folded over his chest, a tremor visibly going down his body, as if he's tamping down on excess energy. Around the eyes he looks oddly sad.

Richie's done, too, with the uncharacteristic silence. This, sniping and bitching, he knows how to do. Firm ground. Eddie giving him an out, even. "I am?! Dude, like, so very much no."

Without quite intending to, he looks Eddie up and down then, which he obviously catches, because he frowns and snaps, "And what's this supposed to mean, dipshit?"

"Look, I'm not—" Distantly, he's fully aware that he should not be speaking, should shut his trashmouth right up, right fucking now. But he's never been good at doing what's best for himself, and so he lets the words out anyway. "Whatever, like you have a leg to stand on. You're, like, tiny." The actual word he wants to say is on the tip of his tongue, but he figures he's digging himself a pretty deep hole already with the way his mouth has started running.

Dead-eyed, Eddie evenly says, "Excuse you?" A thin layer of ice comes to mind.

A shiver skitters up Richie's spine. His temples are pounding around the beginning of a headache. "You know you are. You're such a type, and you pretend like you don't even know it."

Eddie's mouth puckers into something ugly, only because Richie can easily see the disappointment beneath it. "If you're done being a douchebag, then I'll see myself out." He turns, shoulders by his ears, back retreating out of Richie's bedroom.

Fine. Fucking fine then.

It's not quite a yell which bursts out of him, "Wait," but it halts Eddie in his tracks and has him turning around by the open door. The bittersweet satisfaction of poor life decisions never does last long.

"What?" The consonants snap like soldiers to attention, rifles cocked.

Ears burning, shivering right down to his toes, Richie swallows around a dry, sour mouth to say, "That was stupid. I don't know why I said that." Then, "I'm sorry. You don't owe me anything. I shouldn't be a dick about it," and he means it.

Eddie squints. "I'm listening." His shoulders lower themselves, but his eyes remain shuttered.

"I mean, you totally are, like, a twink, or whatever," Richie starts. Because he's a moron.

"Dude, don't think I won't punch you if you keep running your mouth."

"I'm sorry, but you so totally are." And now a small smile cracks his mouth just a little, and Eddie's maybe smiling back, lips twitching, tension leaving the room momentarily. "I shouldn't have... assumed. I'm sorry. I was stupid."

"Yes, you were. You are. You're an idiot." Eddis says this all rapid-fire and plainly factual. After pausing for long enough that Richie feels sweat start rolling down his spine in cold rivulets, Eddie timidly asks, "What did you assume?"

The stink of fear must be wafting off him in waves. There's a knot coiling around itself somewhere inside him, threatening to crush his vocal chords and leave him a trembling, stuttering mess. "You know what," he croaks out.

Something akin to calculating passes across Eddie's brow. "Humour me."

"I can tell a mean knock-knock joke."

"Not helping your case here, Tozier," Eddie scowls.

"Right. Just. I thought, for a little while, that I wasn't the only one looking."

This is hard, like hitting a brick wall at top speed. Like toppling off his bike, knees against his mouth, scraped raw and bloody. The fearful trembling all over almost clogs his throat right up, but he says what he has to say, utters the words. They have no chance of making this any better, but Eddie isn't running away or inflicting violence, and Richie might be sweating through his shirt, but he maybe owes him an explanation before he gets to go hide under his bed like a lost rolling marble.

"It didn't start that way, honest. I liked hanging out with you. I'd still do. Except I'm thinking you won't be that into it now that you know about— Anyway. I assumed you were—as well—whatever. I shouldn't have, I really shouldn't have. But I didn't know how else— Fuck. Fuck it. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for being a dick just now. Guess I don't take rejection well." Which is ironic seeing as he should be used to it by now, but this part he doesn't say. There's only so much pathetic he can put out, directly or indirectly, before he self-combusts.

"Huh."

"And, like, you have the right to turn me down in whichever way you want," he continues, now on a roll. "I sprung this on you completely out of the blue. Telling me to fuck off would not be undeserved right now." He means this, too. In fact, he braces himself for it.

"You aren't," Eddie mumbles, Richie barely catching the words.

Copper on his tongue from where he's biting it, he manages a, "Aren't what?" before he passes out from the sudden headrush of whatever Eddie might be saying.

"Wrong? Fuck, I don't know. I don't know what the fuck I'm even doing here."

He stumbles over the words in his haste to get them out. "What did you want to do? What do you wanna do? Just hang out? We can totally still do that, man."

"I don't know, except. I wanted—" Eddie stops abruptly to make a frustrated noise, looking Richie in the eyes, something manic behind them. "You were always looking. Just like you said, whenever we'd hang out, here or at work, always just looking and sucking on your lips like you didn't even know you were doing it. Like right now." He walks back into the centre of the room to stop in front of Richie. "And you never even tried anything, just kept being nice. A dick, but nice. Asking me to hang out, asking me about my shit and listening like you cared, and then you were so fucking close all of a sudden, just now. I freaked out. I don't know what I even want. I've never—"

"Never?"

"Not... never. Or. Not really. I don't know for sure, which is batshit. I should know what's in my head, but if I'm thinking about it back at my place, it's always too blurry, too abstract, like it's happening to someone else, whatever it is I think I'm feeling, but the moment we're both in the same room, it's like I can't stop staring back."

Hesitantly, he fingers the hem of Richie's shirt. Which means he's close enough now for Richie to breathe the same air as him. It's wild. He can barely arrange his thoughts around this new turn of events. He swallows heavily, and he can taste his own stale sweat and the faint sunscreen smell Eddie always carries around with him, sweet and sour. Eddie's eyes track the movement of his throat working around his own spit, and Richie wants to scream. His face is flushed, feels as if it's on fire, like there's never going to be enough air in the room for it to cool back down. He doesn't know if he's embarrassed or turned on or going a little off the deep end with how much whiplash he's been subjected to in the last however many minutes. He can't even blame Eddie because it's obvious he's just trying to figure out his shit just as much as Richie is. This shit ain't easy, and Richie should know.

Eddie's fingers tug at the hem once before releasing it, then he raises his hand and places his palm in the centre of Richie's chest, lightly, barely any pressure at all, only Richie feels as if he's being branded, iron-hot, even through his shirt, even though they're not skin on skin just yet. But he wants to be. Wants to figure out if this is what he's wanted all along after all, even though right now, with Eddie so fucking close, close enough to touch, there's no doubt in his mind this is it, this has always been it.

Staring at Eddie's eyelashes shadowing the thin skin beneath his eyes, his hands spasm weakly by his sides with the need to touch. He wants to kiss him. Lick into him. It's overwhelming to even think about, to consider, much less to ask Eddie if he'd be into it, down to try it. He probably wouldn't be. He'd probably think Richie's a gross dude, he'd be disgusted. He'd pull himself back just like before and he'd never want to be near Richie again, because the sort of things Richie wants to do aren't the sort of things anyone should want.

Despite this, the feel of Eddie's palm clenching into the fabric of his shirt, crumpling it in swirls, the eye of a tornado his own fingers, is too much like hope. But hope requires courage to see it through. Somehow, he thinks his courage might slip through his hands, if he's not careful, and shatter against the ground, rain around their feet in pieces.

Eddie's eyes close briefly and blink themselves wide open again. He licks his lips and his eyes travel across Richie's face, mostly focusing on his eyes and his mouth, shifting from one to the other, absently, as if he's gradually searching out his face for something but also like he can't help himself from staring. The distance between them is getting smaller somehow. Eddie is going up on his toes. Richie can't move away. He can't look away, either, though it's already been established he's shit at that anyway.

"Do you wanna—" But Richie doesn't get to finish his thought, or his sentence, or whatever, because Eddie's mouth is already on his, he's pulled Richie by his shirt the rest of the distance between them and is now kissing him, pressing their lips together and attempting to lick his way inside Richie's mouth. With a loud moan, Richie lets him.

Fuck, he'd let him do anything to him, fucking anything he wants. It's instinct to grab at Eddie, to palm at the small of his back with greedy hands. He doesn't know where it comes from, because he sure as fuck never had this impulse realised before, not from what he can recall of the few people he's had the chance to make out with. And they are making out. Richie's a little lightheaded with the knowledge of it, and of how into it Eddie seems to be given he's plastering himself to Richie's front. That's how Richie wants Eddie to be, the curve of his spine aching from the sole pleasure of Richie pushing against him and making out with him.

From there it's nauseatingly easy to swirl them around in place and then back Eddie further into his bedroom, the bottom of Richie's bed hitting at the backs of his knees. Eddie stops them abruptly, body stilling altogether, and Richie panics, he can't help it. He takes his hands off Eddie so quickly he wonders he doesn't smack himself on accident. It's whiplash once more to watch Eddie chucking his shirt off and carelessly drop it by the foot of the bed before snaking his arms around Richie and finding his mouth, this time less impulsively, Richie knowing it's about to happen, though no less shocking for it.

He gets only a few moments to think about freckles and faint tan lines where short sleeves should be and dusky, peaked nipples, before Eddie lets them fall and Richie's mattress catches them, but it feels like maybe how jumping out of an airplane would, breath catching in his throat and lungs burning.

Eddie shoulders his way farther up the bed without quite letting Richie out of the kiss, fingers latching on to his upper arms, and Richie has no choice but to follow and curl his own body around his, lick his back teeth and suck on his bottom lip and burrow his way between Eddie's knees like he's always been meant to exist in that warm, tender space. It's the most he's ever done with anybody, and he should be panicking still, for a very different reason, but he finds it's a more productive use of his time to let Eddie suck on his tongue.

His hands wander. He's allowed. Eddie is allowing this. His hands find his ribcage, the skin there smooth over the bones, his thumbs digging into the hollows between them, leaning into him. The kiss turns sloppy, sloppier, a mess of heavy breaths and wet tongues and bitten lips.

Hands working independently of any line of thought, they move from Eddie's chest to his waist. In no time at all, Richie is popping the button on his jeans with careful fingers. Eddie bites then at Richie's bottom lip in what he thinks might be reproach for a second there, but licks it better the next moment and lifts his hips up for Richie to unzip him, before hauling his jeans off by his belt loops. Eddie kicks then off, and nearly kicks Richie in the side of his head with one socked foot in the process, but Richie barely notices, too busy appreciating the sight of Eddie's dick in his tighty-whities, not quite stretching them out at the front just yet. He swallows heavily, but can't help cracking, "What are you, twelve?"

He thinks Eddie actually tries then to kick him in the head on purpose, but Richie ducks down to nuzzle at him through his briefs and—he freezes. Completely motionless. In fact, they both freeze, equally shocked probably, Richie with his face nestled into Eddie's balls through his underwear and Eddie above him, hands hovering in the air around Richie's head. The frames of his glasses dig into his face painfully, but fuck if Richie's going to take them off now, rob himself of the rest of this, wherever it takes them, even if this is the end of the line after all.

If Eddie's changed his mind, Richie would still rather not see it. But he can't live his entire life in the space between Eddie's legs, however much he would want to. However, his hands never make contact with Richie's head, either to push him away or pull him closer, which means it's on Richie to make the first move here.

With wary eyes, he lifts himself completely off Eddie's body to crouch over him and watch his chest falling with each exhale. Backs himself away to give the both of them space.

Staring at each other doesn't go a very long way towards progressing things. More out of the need to fill the awkward silence than anything else, he finds himself saying, "Uh." Definitely not Richie's best line. The bed sheets between his knees are suddenly utterly fascinating.

He's about to offer to stop, get them out of his bedroom, maybe even his apartment. It's all so very confusing, and it's been a roller coaster of an afternoon, so stopping now, even for just a breather, would save them both from the immediate awkwardness creeping at their heels, the wrong sort of tension. Would save Richie from the look of utter disdain his lack of any viable experience is likely to receive.

Before he can say any of that, however, Eddie's socked foot curls around his left shoulder and prods at his back until he gets the hint and crawls closer to hover over him, not daring to lower himself to cover Eddie's body with his. There's something like resolve on Eddie's face when Richie glances at his face, though.

Next thing he knows, he's reaching for his underwear, and in two quick motions they're off. Everything is off. Richie's painfully aware he's fully dressed, a sweaty mess, while Eddie is lying back, waiting.

He licks his lips and stares. Idly, it occurs to him Eddie is smaller than Richie would've assumed when soft. Or half-hard, seemingly. Makes it less intimidating when considering initiating any future endeavours, though as he watches Eddie cup himself with one delicate-boned hand, he realises Eddie's a grower. Fascinated, he stares at how his cock gets fat and pretty when he's fully hard in his own palm. The back of Richie's throat contracts around nothing at the thought of getting Eddie down.

He doesn't know where that particular thought comes from, but it both terrifies and turns him on in equal measure. Between flight and fight, he settles for staring unabashedly. Figures he owes it to his brain to look his fill now that he's given the opportunity.

It's Eddie's careful, "Rich?" which snaps him out of it. His eyes flicker to his.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he gets out.

Eddie trembles his thighs further apart and licks his lips absently, fingers curling tighter. "Me neither. I've never— At all." His face gets a stubborn expression. "People are gross."

Richie bursts out a lightning-quick laugh. "Sorry."

Eddie scowls. "Not you, idiot."

Richie would be lying if he said his insides didn't warm at that. He figures it's as much of an invitation as he's getting.

Eddie's chest, turns out, is unusually smooth given how hairy he turns out to be below the waist, so much of it there for Richie to discover, keeping his dick and balls snug. Eddie clearly doesn't groom. He's obsessed with hygiene to a fault, but obviously not for aesthetic reasons. Not that he needs to. His right thigh shifts to the side to give Richie a better view of him fisting his dick, and that alone is more than enough, the clearer sight it gives him of his balls moving from the speed at which he's stroking himself has Richie going from half-hard to leaking in his underwear in two seconds flat.

Which might be just what he needed to stop staring and start doing something, anything.

He asks, "Can I?" and it's from the corner of his eye that he sees Eddie nodding distractedly and letting himself go, because he can't quite look away for long enough to face him lest he lose his nerve, go chickenshit. Reaches out to touch on instinct before his brain can sabotage him and groans when his fingers encircle Eddie's cock, wrapping around him snugly, thumb going to the spot right beneath his cockhead, Eddie's sharp intake of breath almost instantaneous.

It feels the same as if he were fisting his own, only without the added sensation of getting touched. Saliva gets caught at the corners of his mouth next time he licks his lips. He's getting sloppy all on his own, which is less hot when Eddie's not involved, but finds he doesn't much care. Fuck it, sex should presumably be sloppy, and having it with Eddie is kind of everything he could want, no need to ruin it with Richie's regular dose of self-disgust. He pumps his hand a few times through Eddie's pre-come, gets it to turn a little tacky from the friction, and the little groaning sigh Eddie gives is oddly gratifying. His own dick is stupidly hard in his pants and his shirt is sticking to him everywhere.

Tipping his head to the side, he runs his other hand up Eddie's stomach, leaning a bit into it, testing how solid his tight little body can be. It's not so much for the sake of leverage as it is comforting, oddly enough. Grounding.

On complete impulse, heart hammering in his chest, he ducks down to pop the head into his mouth, and then goes further down another inch, past where his thumb rests. His hand then shifts to cup the base and his balls, and he feels Eddie's thighs straining, as if wanting to close around him. Fuck, but he'd love nothing more than to get caught and smothered between them some time in the near future. To get choked by Eddie's dick down his throat, stuck between his legs, nothing left but to suck and lick and make him feel good. Richie really wants to make him feel good.

The bitter taste is an afterthought once he's got Eddie's cock in his mouth. Being careful of his teeth doesn't allow for much finesse or detouring from slow though steady sucking. Soon enough Eddie's dick fills his entire mouth, poking at the soft inside of Richie's cheek, Eddie keening and vaguely spasming beneath Richie's hands and tongue. He steadies him with the palm he's got at the base and pushes his other down on his stomach. Tricks seem like a bad idea, and Eddie's hips are already rolling tentatively upwards with each hard suck, so Richie figures his best bet is to get his face fucked rather than attempting any fancy blowjob somersaults.

He lifts his hand off Eddie's abs precisely to allow him to fuck up and into Richie's waiting throat, and he does once before pressing his thighs tightly to the mattress and letting Richie do whatever without further motion from his end. With his other hand now gripping at the back of his thigh, Richie can easily feel the muscles straining, the abortive thrusts snuffed instantly. With a frown, he lifts up, and Eddie's cock slips out to knock wetly against his own stomach.

"You can, you know," he says before he chickens out completely.

He hadn't expected Eddie's eyes to be closed tightly, but maybe it should have crossed his mind how it would be overwhelming for him as well, more so being on the receiving end, and not necessarily in a good way. The straining muscles of Eddie's stomach are a distraction, but he manages to focus enough to say, "Is it, like, not doing it for you, or...?" He trails off out of whatever's left of his dignity.

It occurs to him shutting the fuck up is also an option for him. He gets right on that while waiting for Eddie's eyes to open and focus on him. He feels like an idiot laying on his stomach, dick hard and straining against the zipper on his pants and the unyielding mattress underneath, no doubt leaking a puddle of pre into his boxers at how hot he thinks this all is, as he waits for whatever's coming.

Which is a confused-looking Eddie blinking several times before lowering one arm from where both were resting above his head and palming at the side of Richie's head. Licking his lips, he mumbles, "Richie," then, even softer, "please," and Richie doesn't know what to do with this.

But he's being stupid, a thousand percent an idiot, because Eddie swallows several times, almost compulsively, and croaks out, "Make me come. Please. It's good, so good." He stumbles on the vowels towards the end, but Richie's already cramming his cock back into his mouth, further down than before, cockhead stretching the opening of his throat to make room for itself, so it doesn't much matter. Even less so when this finally gets Eddie moaning and trembling and fisting his fingers into Richie's curls.

Yeah, he's going to make Eddie fucking come. Straight down his throat.

He knows when it's coming by way of Eddie's long, drawn-out ah ah ah sounds and the gentle quivering racking his body top to bottom. He gags only a little and manages to catch everything with his mouth. He swallows unthinkingly, until his mouth only holds Eddie's softening cock, his come already making its way down into Richie's stomach. The aftershocks are sweet, Eddie's hips twitching gently beneath his palms. It's easy to catch the last spurts on his tongue and hold the taste there before gulping the dregs down, Eddie's cock slipping from his mouth finally.

He feels his own cock blurts out a mess of pre-come between his legs. The thought that he's being disgusting kicks around inside his skull until he feels hands pulling at him and Eddie dragging him to lay down between his legs. He doesn't kiss him then, probably because of where Richie's mouth has just been, but he does nimbly unzip him to fit his palm into the front of Richie's jeans to wrap a hand around his cock. He gives it a squeeze and a tug, has Richie a little bit out of his mind with so very little, his face burying itself in the crook of Eddie's neck, the smell here familiar already.

It's embarrassingly quick, but leaves Richie shuddering in Eddie's arms, unable to muster up enough vocal coordination to apologise about it.

*

Sundays are typically the best. Richie finds out they're even better when waking up with Eddie snuggled against his back.

*

Sixteen years later, and they get a call on Richie's cell from some Mike person, caller ID from Maine. Richie picks up around hugging their toilet in their downtown San Fran loft, while in the kitchen Eddie must drop something because there's a loud bang and a muffled swear.

Then some shit—a lot of shit, actually—starts making a lot more sense. Huh.