Chapter Text
“I’d love to get drinks,” Richie says, already backing into the parking lot. “But I’m just. Exhausted.”
There’s a round of protests from the other Losers, but Richie, determined to chug a bottle of bourbon and pass out on his bed, gets out fast.
He’s wrapped up enough in his own brain that he doesn’t realise, until he gets to his car, that Eddie is following him.
“Jesus.” He doesn’t have to fake the mini heart-attack he gets when he spots him. “Stalked by a Keebler elf.”
“Ha fucking ha.” says Eddie. “I’m going with you, dipshit.”
“Eds,” Richie says. “I’m just not in the mood to celebrate.” Which is maybe more than he wanted to divulge, but he really, really just wants to go home.
“We don’t have to,” Eddie says. “I just don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“Well gee, Eds, that sounded fucking ominous. Listen, I pinky promise I’m not going to OD, or slit my-” Nope. Not thinking about him right now. “-whatever you think is going to happen. I’m fine. Seriously.”
“Jesus.” Eddie says loudly, that almost-yell he usually uses with Richie. “You know, sometimes people choose to hang out with each other, even if they’re not actively suicidal.”
“Huh,” Richie says. “Weird.”
“Are you really going to fight me on this?” Eddie asks, puffing out his chest a little, as if he’s preparing for an actual fight.
Richie, when he thinks about it, doesn’t actually have a problem with Eddie coming home with him.
“Nope.”
Eddie’s chest deflates a little. ‘Ok,” he says, and reaches for the car door handle.
Richie immediately locks it, just to see Eddie’s murder eyes turn on him.
He grins, and unlocks it again.
“It’s gonna be a long fucking night,” Eddie mutters, as Richie gets in next to him.
The nice thing about Stan was that he he’d tell Richie to shut up, and mean it. And Richie could stop performing, for a few minutes, stop trying to entertain everyone around him.
Eddie would tell Richie to shut up, and then, if he dared stay silent, start poking and prodding.
Or at least, that’s what he was like when they were kids.
But adult Eddie sits across from him, while Richie’s in the middle of telling a story about Steve, and says, “You know, you don’t have to talk all the time.”
There’s not a trace of jocundity in his voice, and Richie can’t explain it away like he could when Stan did it, knows that for Stan it wasn’t personal, it was just you’re all so fucking noisy and I need some goddamn quiet.
But Eddie is looking straight into his eyes. It feels personal.
He forces a laugh. “Well, gee, Eddie, don’t sugar-coat it.”
“I like hearing you talk,” Eddie says. “You just don’t have to.”
And oh, this is worse than personal. This is being operated on, Surgeon Kaspbrak pulling each of his organs out one-by-one, measuring up everything that goes into the carefully curated skin-deep Richie. It’s painful, and scary, and embarrassing, and thrilling, not least because it means, surely, that Eddie can also see his heart.
He really can’t think of a response, just swallows, and says, “I’m, um. I think I left the tap on,” and goes into the kitchen, where he sits on the floor against the counter island, a little overhang above his head. He remembers doing the same in middle school, giving his mother a little fright every time she noticed him.
Richie, she’d admonish. Do you have to hide in corners like a gremlin?
Richie did. Richie had only maintained his sanity through sleeping under heavy bedcovers and seeing his friends in a shelter and building up a thick exoskeleton of bullshit to surround him.
And now he’s chipped down half his defences, out of some misguided attempt to be genuine, and Eddie, it turns out, could see through them all along.
His eyes burn.
He hears Eddie come in. Probably should’ve come up with an excuse to leave that would take longer than 30 seconds.
His steps stutter as soon as he steps into the kitchen, eyes widening. “Rich, I really didn’t mean-”
“I know,” says Richie, wiping ineffectively at his eyes, everything’s normal, Eddie, go back to your tea, pay no attention to the man behind the counter.
“Is this about the show?” Eddie asks, hovering like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
He nods, because it isn’t entirely untrue. It’s probably a little bit about the show, and a little bit about the fact that he’s barely slept in weeks. A little bit about his best friend being dead, a little bit about hiding a part of himself for decades, a little bit about the fact that ripping one secret out hurt like hell and he still has a hundred inside, and a little bit about the fact that he had to fight a fucking demon clown before his balls dropped.
It’s a lot about Eddie.
“Are you worried about the reaction?” Eddie asks, sitting next to Richie, warm and steady.
“I guess,” Richie finds himself saying, looking off into the skewed view of the living room. Apparently he can talk about himself, just so long as he’s trying to divert attention from other parts of himself. “Mostly I just expected to feel relieved. But I think I feel more anxious than ever.”
“You’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it will, and you’ll see how people react. And, good or bad, you won’t have to wonder anymore.”
Eddie, who had been getting progressively more worked up, jabbing at the air with his hands, suddenly stills, hands resting in his lap. “I mean. That’s what I assume.”
Richie blinks at him. “Eddie. Will you be my therapist?”
“I literally cannot picture a career I’m less suited to.”
“Buddhist monk.”
Eddie rolls his eyes a little then counters with, “Sewer technician.”
Richie snorts, and Eddie preens a little.
“Maybe I’ll keep it up,” Richie says. “Reveal a secret a week. Keep the world on tenterhooks.”
He’s expecting Eddie to scoff at the idea that anyone’s waiting with baited breath.
But he just says, “Maybe I should try that.”
Richie looks at him, not sure if he’s waiting for something. But Eddie just stands up, and extends a hand.
Richie takes it, and pulls himself up.
As soon as he drops Eddie’s hand, Eddie steps forward, and wraps his arms around Richie’s middle.
It’s not like they haven’t hugged before. But it’s usually those factory line hugs everyone dishes out when they all meet up for dinner. 2 seconds, pat on the back, you’re done.
Sustained contact is new for them, at least as adults, and Eddie’s head pressed to his chest makes Richie’s blood run hot-cold alternately.
He curls his arms around Eddie’s back easily. He could probably fit 3 Eddies in his arms.
He could do a lot with 3 Eddies.