Work Text:
The last time Richie truly remembers feeling safe, he is five years old.
He is balanced carefully on his father’s shoulders, gleefully shouting to the clear blue sky. His father is swinging him around and around and around until he’s dizzy with it, but the dizziness fades into an awe he cannot describe. It is an awe at the simplicity of life and the joy that he is around to see it. His mother is watching from beneath the shade of the oak tree, shaking her head at her boys. There is no clown, there is no fear, there is no pressure. It is him, and the people he loves, and the pure emotion of happiness.
If he’d have known then everything that he would come to lose, he might’ve dug his heels in a little more. Refused to let the hours fade. Basked in the glory of a childhood free from the dangers of Derry.
As it is, it’s incredibly fucking pathetic to know he hasn’t felt safe since he was five. Not to mention it’s dramatic as all fucking hell.
Really, he’s fine. His life is better now, in ways he never would’ve guessed and in ways he can’t deny even to himself. Who is he to be ungrateful? They fought an Eldritch horror clown from space, not once but twice, and they all lived to tell the tale. He’s got all of his Losers on speed dial, their group chat very legitimately constantly blowing up. He calls each of them at least once a week. And his career is going well! He’s writing his own material, slowly but surely. Steve keeps making approving noises with whatever it is he’s sent. He isn’t ready to come out, not to the entire world, not yet, but he’s getting there.
And he has Eddie now, the way his soul has yearned for since he was six years old. He has Eddie, recently divorced and still just as much of a spit-fire as ever. Eddie, who showed up on his doorstep months ago soaked to the bone and just grabbed his face and kissed him. Eddie, who held him close and curled his own body around him and spent hours like that, murmuring word after word about how much he loved him and how precious he was. Eddie, who lives with him now and who constantly tells him he’s loved.
Richie’s living the life he never would’ve even dreamt for himself when he was thirteen, full of the people he loves most in the world, and he’s so fucking selfish that he can’t even enjoy it.
Sometimes he wonders if the other Losers share that feeling. On one hand, he’s certain they do; you can’t go through the things that they did without scars. On the other, it’s not something they really talk about. Their shared trauma is a sore spot in all of their lives, to the point that Richie isn’t even sure if they still have nightmares about it or not. He knows Eddie does, because he’s the one that holds him through them, but beyond that, he’s got no clue. He could ask, sure, but…
He’s never been great at vulnerability, has he? He’s too used to hiding behind humor and confidence and hoping that his smoke and mirrors routine just reflects back whatever people want to see. Even with the Losers, the people who arguably know him better than he knows himself, it’s difficult to truly bring down his walls and open himself up.
He tries to never show his friends the terror and the anxiety and the uncertainty that lurks beneath his skin, and for the most part he does okay. Even when all he wants is to reach out, or break down, or mention the nightmares that keep him awake, he doesn’t.
That doesn’t mean he can always hide them when they happen in front of Eddie.
Normally, he’s pretty good at making sure Eddie doesn’t know. His nightmares are, perhaps ironically, the only part of him that do not always scream. Sometimes he thrashes, sometimes he whines, but most times he jerks awake into the black of their bedroom, lashes spiky and throat tight with tears while Eddie sleeps beside him, decidedly unaware of the turmoil inside of Richie’s head.
It’s not that he doesn’t trust Eddie. Fuck, he trusts Eddie with his entire life. But he’s so terrified of hurting Eddie or adding to the weight on Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie’s already struggling to keep his own head afloat through the aftermath of Derry, he doesn’t need Richie’s weight pulling him down as well. Especially not with the nature of Richie’s dreams.
Sometimes Richie dreams of the deadlights. Those are somehow the dreams that are easier to bear. Sometimes he feels the imprint of them inside of his skull and sees the horror and the carnage and the blood behind his eyelids. On those nights, he wakes and reaches to text Bev before he thinks better of it. She had mentioned, off-hand, that the deadlight nightmares had gone away; he doesn’t want to bring them back.
But most nights, Richie dreams of the horrible moment where the clown’s claw pierced through Eddie’s chest. He dreams of the sound Eddie made, or the way he was flung across the cavern, or the ash-white pallor to his face when he died in Richie’s arms.
How do you tell your boyfriend that night after night, you dream of his death? How do you look the love of your life in the eyes and say that sometimes you wake up so completely certain that he has died that his sleeping body beside you feels more like the clown come back to finish the job?
You can’t. Not without carving his heart out with it.
So Richie dreams, and he keeps his mouth shut, and he prays that it will be enough. He laughs with Eddie and he texts the Losers and he cracks all the jokes he can to disguise how he constantly looks over his shoulder, certain that the past will come to bite him.
They go to bed every night, curled tight around each other. Richie lays with his head on Eddie’s chest, cheek pressed into the thick scar tissue, and counts each heartbeat until sleep pulls him under.
He dreams, one night, in almost an exact play-by-play of the final fight.
His dreams are so vivid they feel real. He can feel the sodden clothing clinging to his skin, he can feel the pounding headache behind his eyes, he can feel the jagged rock beneath his back. The scent of blood is thick in his throat and Eddie’s face is all he can see, hazy with the remnants of the deadlights.
Eddie’s mouth moves, words spilling in the space between them, and through the cotton in his ears Richie can just barely hear I think I did it and I think I killed It! He realizes what will happen a beat too late. He cannot see this again.
The claw spears through Eddie’s chest. Blood gushes hot onto Richie’s face and hands and body. Eddie’s face goes slack, pain lining the edges, and in the terrible voice of the clown he whispers, “You didn’t save me.”
He’s thrown before Richie can move to touch him. He hits the wall and does not move again.
The dream warps around him. He is crouched at Eddie’s side where he lays crumpled at the side of the cavern. He is frozen staring up as Eddie is impaled again and again. He stands before a million Eddies as they bleed out, glaring at him with hatred in their eyes.
“You did this to us,” they say, spitting the words at him. “You were too slow. You’re always too slow. Pathetic Richie Tozier, always running away! You can’t run away from yourself!”
Richie sobs. He’s back at Eddie’s side. Eddie stares up at him and coughs. Blood spills down his chin, his hand twitching where it lays against his stomach. Richie grabs it, does his best to transfer strength through the force of his grip. He thinks he is saying something but he cannot hear the words, only knows that Eddie’s eyes are going blank and his face is going white. His chest heaves once before laying still.
Richie screams. He screams and screams and screams until his throat is raw and the walls begin to cave in and tumble down around him. The clown’s laughter rumbles in his ear.
I know your secret your dirty little secret your dirty little secret dirty secret dirty secret dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty—
“Richie, c’mon baby, open your eyes for me.”
Richie gasps himself awake, his eyes shooting open in the dim light of the bedroom. Panic tightens his lungs and claws up his throat, stealing his breath until black spots dance in his vision. There are tentacles around him, the clown’s horrible gloved hands wrapped around his wrists, and he gags, barely able to keep his stomach down as he does his best to wrench away.
His other senses are fuzzily coming back online, his hearing clicking into place just in time to catch Eddie’s voice chanting, “It’s me, Rich, it’s just me. Can you breathe for me, baby? C’mon, take a breath, you’re okay, you’re safe.”
The gloves melt into flesh. Eddie’s face swims into focus above him.
“Eddie?” he rasps, and before Eddie can say anything Richie throws himself at him, knocking them both back into the mattress.
Richie clings to him, burying himself in Eddie’s chest. His hands desperately slip under the soft shirt Eddie’s wearing to splay over his heart, sobbing when he feels the beats under his palm.
“You were dead,” he whimpers, tucking his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He’s half-convinced he’s still dreaming. “You were dead and I couldn’t—”
Eddie shushes him gently, one strong arm looping around his waist and the other cupping the back of his head. Richie drinks the touch in greedily, trying to get even closer. In the years without the Losers, in the years without Eddie, he had thought he hated touch, especially in moments of anxiety like this. He’d never realized how touch-starved he was until his memories were recovered and brought back images of wrestling, of laying in hammocks as close as possible, of chicken fights in the quarry. Now he’s remembered the best remedy for a panic attack is the feeling of Eddie’s skin against his.
He can’t stop shaking. Behind his eyelids play an endless loop of his dream, mingling with what he thinks is reality until he’s not certain which is which. Eddie’s face stays in the center the entire time; it is the face he made when he died, and the same face he made when they dragged him out of that house barely breathing.
Eddie’s mouth presses gentle onto his hairline, his thumb stroking over the skin behind Richie’s ear. “I’ve got you,” he breathes, pulling him closer. “I’ve got you, I’m here, you're okay.”
Slowly, slowly, Richie’s breathing begins to even out, the wild panic flushing out of his veins. In its absence floods exhaustion, making his brain sluggish and his body limp. He’s probably crushing Eddie with the full weight of his body but Eddie doesn’t complain at all, just pulls him closer and kisses his forehead again.
It’s silent for several long minutes. Now that Richie’s calmer, he can see that the bedside lamp is on and the sheets are in complete disarray. He didn’t think that he’d moved around enough to do that but maybe he had. He’s too tired to really think about it.
His throat also aches something fierce, fiery and jagged every time he swallows. It leaves his voice raspy and broken when he asks, quiet, “Was I screaming?”
It’s his biggest fear come to light. Eddie’s worried, he can tell, because his grip is tight and his heart beats just a hair faster than it should. But fast still means alive, fast still means it is beating at all, and Richie is so focused on that that he almost misses Eddie speaking.
“You were yelling my name,” he whispers, his breath brushing into Richie’s hair. His arm tightens around Richie’s waist. “And you were thrashing around. I almost couldn’t wake you up.” He pauses, for just a beat, before he says, “I didn’t know your nightmares came back.”
Maybe it’s because Richie is so exhausted, maybe it’s because there is still a remnant of fear licking at his heart, or maybe he’s just tired of pretending to be stronger than he is. Either way, he’s not really thinking when he mumbles, “Never left.”
Eddie goes still. Richie has just enough time to wonder if he’s fucked everything up when Eddie makes a wounded noise, shifting to curve his body around Richie’s like he could protect him from the rest of the world. He holds Richie to his chest and shudders out something that sounds like it could be Richie’s name.
Richie can’t say anything without crying so he just lets himself be held, relishing in how strong Eddie’s arms are around him. His hands are still under Eddie’s shirt, curled into fists over his sternum, and he lets out a shaky breath at the feeling of Eddie’s scar under the heel of his palm.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he says, barely more than a whisper, resolutely closing his eyes so he can’t see what Eddie’s expression looks like.
Eddie tenses. The hand on the back of Richie’s head slides around to cup his cheek, tilting his face up to touch their foreheads together. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice gentle, “I could not give less of a shit about being woken up. Are they—are they always that bad?”
Richie swallows. He thinks about making a joke or even just outright lying, but Eddie’s got a sixth sense for whenever Richie’s bullshitting him. “I don’t usually scream.”
He opens his eyes to see Eddie’s face do something complicated, equal parts devastated and horrified. He’s always been good at reading the things Richie leaves between the lines and it’s clear he realizes exactly what it is that Richie means.
“Baby,” he breathes, soft and damp and broken, “why didn’t you tell me?”
A whimper claws out of Richie’s throat, sliding into the air between them before he can stop it. “Didn’t want to worry you,” he grits out through the tears blurring his vision.
Eddie shakes his head immediately, brushing his thumb under Richie’s eye to catch the tears falling down his cheek. “I’m always going to worry about you, Rich, you know that.”
Richie shrugs, biting hard at the inside of his cheek to hold back the sob that desperately wants to escape. His skin is prickling, his chest raw and cracked open with how vulnerable he feels. “I can handle it,” he says, so small it hurts.
And he can, he swears he can. He never shuts up but he can keep his mouth closed when it’s important, and keeping Eddie happy and unharmed is the most important thing in the world. He can take his terror and his unease and shove them deep inside of himself, lock them tight behind his ribcage and never ever let them out, solely to never burden Eddie.
If it’s possible, Eddie’s face crumples further. “You shouldn’t have to.” His voice is fierce. “That’s what I’m here for. I love you, asshole, you aren’t alone anymore.”
“Just didn’t wanna worry you,” Richie mumbles again, softer now. He’s exhausted, physically and mentally and spiritually and all of the in-betweens. He slides his hands out of Eddie's shirt to wrap his arms around Eddie's waist. His vision is blurry from more than just not wearing his glasses.
Eddie makes a noise in the back of his throat, as equally soothing as it is hurt. He gathers Richie back under his chin, stroking his palm up and down Richie’s spine. “It’s okay, angel, I promise. I’ve got you, okay? I’m not letting go. You’re safe now, Rich.”
Richie shakes his head. The warmth of Eddie’s body and the steady movement of his hand are pulling Richie somewhere close to sleep, just relaxed enough that the world feels hazy around him. He doesn’t really have control of his thoughts or his mouth anymore, so he doesn’t fight in when he slurs, “Not safe. Never safe.”
Eddie’s hand goes still. Richie makes a noise at the loss of the comfort, wiggling around until Eddie starts it back up again. He’s nearly dozing off under the motion, his forehead pressed tight against Eddie’s collarbone.
And then Eddie says, his voice carefully unreadable, “Do you—do you not feel safe? Here? With me?”
Richie is awake in an instant. Cold dread trickles through his chest, his heart freezing solid and dropping into the pit of his stomach. He pulls back to see Eddie’s face is fucking anguished, raw pain pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“Eds,” he chokes out, alarmed. He reaches up to cup Eddie’s face in both of his hands, swiping his thumbs over his cheeks. “No, no, it’s not you, I promise.”
Eddie whines, one hand splaying over Richie’s ribs and the other holding Richie’s to his face. “What does that even fucking mean, Rich? That it’s not me?”
Richie sighs, pushing forward to lean their foreheads together. Eddie’s breathing brushes his nose, a little too quick. “I love you,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. He feels the way Eddie tenses but barrels on before he can say anything. “I love you so fucking much, Eddie. I know you would never hurt me.”
Eddie shakes his head, their noses brushing. “That’s not the same thing as feeling safe.”
It‘s not. But they are intrinsically intertwined for Richie. The things that terrify him are the things that have hurt and clawed and scarred him, leaving him a shell of who he thinks he should be. Eddie has only ever held him with the gentlest hands, even when he’s yelling. That’s always been how Eddie is: sharp exterior and soft interior, sweet beneath the sour.
“I haven’t felt safe in a long time,” Richie tells him, raw and honest. It is a confession scraped from deep inside of his chest; he feels hollow without it.
Eddie blinks at him, his dark eyes sad. The hand on Richie’s ribs slides to press over his chest, right above his heart. “Why?”
Richie shrugs. It hurts to talk about this but he cracks himself open anyways, offers his heart mangled and bleeding to rest in Eddie’s hands. He would do anything if it was for Eddie. “We didn’t exactly have a good childhood, Eds,” he says quietly. “Derry tried to kill us every fucking day. It wasn’t even just Bowers or the fucking clown, it was just Derry. I think I’ve just lived my life constantly looking over my shoulder.”
Eddie pushes himself up on one elbow, leaning over until Richie’s fallen onto his back and Eddie is braced above him. There, Eddie cups his jaw in one hand, the other burying in his hair. He is close enough to be completely in focus, even without Richie’s glasses.
“It’s all gone,” Eddie reminds him, softly. His thumb strokes gentle over Richie’s cheekbone. “Bowers, the clown, Derry. None of it’s ever coming back.”
Richie gives him a sad smile. “Guess old habits die hard, huh?”
It just makes Eddie look more troubled. He curves his chest over Richie’s like his body could be a shield from the outside world. “What about now?” he whispers. “Do you feel safe now?”
Richie swallows. His throat still fucking hurts. “Mostly,” he whispers back. “But I have a lot more to lose now.”
Eddie’s chest presses into him when he gasps, quick and startled. He makes a whimpering noise. “You’re never going to lose us.” He pauses, says even quieter, “You’re never going to lose me.”
Without breaking their gaze, Richie lays one hand over Eddie's chest, right over that starburst scar. The scar is jagged even through the material of Eddie's shirt. “I already almost did.” His voice shakes.
Eddie shakes his head, somehow curling even closer. The hand on Richie’s face comes to cradle the one he has on Eddie’s chest, his palm searing hot and gentle. “That wasn’t your fault.”
Richie’s mouth screws into a grimace, his eyes prickling and filling with tears. “But it was, Eds. I was the stupid one that got caught in the deadlights and you—”
“Richie,” Eddie says, firm and quick and a little broken. “It wasn’t your fault.” His tone holds no room for arguing.
Richie deflates. The tears pooling in his eyes slide down his temples to soak into his hair, a sob building in his throat. Eddie makes a soothing noise, pulling Richie into his chest and shifting them both onto their sides again. He holds Richie as he falls apart, withering away as he cries into Eddie’s collarbone. It is all of the emotion that he has hidden away for months, all of the fear and insecurity he locked inside of himself. It pours out of him, soaks the bed and floods the room and he feels like he’s drowning but Eddie is right there. Eddie has a life jacket. Eddie has him.
He just holds him until Richie’s all cried out, exhausted and eyes sore. He feels strangely empty, caved in now that it’s all out in the open.
“I love you, asshole,” Eddie murmurs into his hair. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me now.”
Richie huffs a watery laugh, dragging his nose up Eddie’s throat. “I think I can live with that.”
He tilts his face up at the same time Eddie tilts his chin down. Their lips meet in the middle in the softest kiss Richie thinks he’s ever gotten, simple and sweet and a little bit sad. It doesn’t go any farther than the press of their lips together. This quiet closeness is enough.
“I love you too,” Richie breathes when they pull away. Eddie’s smile is dazzling.
“Do you think you can sleep again?” Eddie asks, sweeping one palm up the ridges of Richie’s spine.
Richie nods. He’s exhausted, his eyes struggling to stay open, and now he wants nothing more than to fall asleep in Eddie’s arms. Eddie coos at him, kissing him again before he leans away to turn the bedside lamp off. The room is bathed in darkness but for once, it doesn’t feel alive.
Eddie gathers Richie close, curling their bodies together as tight as he comfortably can. Richie’s head settles into the curve of Eddie’s shoulder, his hand finding its familiar place over Eddie’s heart.
Sleep is pulling on him insistently, but he fights it long enough to mumble, “Always feel safe with you.”
Eddie goes still. His arm anchors around Richie’s waist, holding him close by small of his back. “I’m glad,” he murmurs, kissing Richie’s forehead. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’m here.”
Richie does. He doesn’t dream.